[The tone is what registers first, when Mettaton speaks- and like his body, it's something that captivates Emet-Selch entirely, something for his consciousness and his concentration to hold onto, just the sound of him. Like his cock, like the rest of his body in any of his forms, like his love and fury and every other emotion- they all were his. This was incontrovertible.
So he's reassured and soothed by his voice itself, before the comprehension of language catches up to him, making it clear that his lover expected more detail from him, more descriptions forced from a damaged throat. Mettaton's words may have been softer, a balm of mercy, yet remained crystal clear in just how easily the puca would dip ever further into frustrated aggression, if the Ascian failed to continue giving him his spoken adoration. Saying this much hadn't quite earned him a reprieve (how could it, as brief as he'd had to be), but at least he hadn't been a complete disappointment either. A maintenance of potential terror at best- or the addition of softness layered over razors; Mettaton's sharpness remained.
And for all that Emet-Selch needs to spare his throat he can't keep from emitting low noises regardless, when Mettaton holds him closer, takes him yet harder, his cock providing him a continuous rub he had no hope of defending against. A hard stuffing of his body that made coherent thoughts that much harder to collect, and even more so now that his own erection was beginning to form. A stiffness clear to them both, it was the most blatant sign of his adoration and attraction to him, in how starved his body was for Mettaton's cock, how much it yearned for its size and shape, its curve and rigidity. And on receiving it, how could Emet-Selch do anything but stiffen in reply, aroused by being fucked without relent? In this much, at least, the Ascian's body could gradually overcome exhaustion and use (that, and time being the most important component in recovery) when faced with overwhelming stimulation.
But he tries to gather his voice, his breath, his thoughts- all to have them scattered again completely when Mettaton drives his teeth into a place close to his neck- a place already rubbed raw on the inside, clawed and bruised on the outside, and now facing a piercing bite near enough that the pain seemed to join it. Merge with it. His cry would be loud, but it's rendered into only air- an attempt that hurts him nonetheless, his non-cry choking itself down into a wheezing noise of pain. The Ascian's head jerks automatically at the hold, though he knows he can't get away from it- and doesn't want to regardless.
Was it a penalty for his lack of speech? Or an inevitability that he would have faced regardless of how satisfactory he'd been? But he's soothed a little in turn by Mettaton's own blood-soaked mollification. It didn't replace speech, it didn't even make it easier to think, but he felt slightly better for it all the same, that he could give this much to his lover.
That it was a dangerous place to sink into doesn't occur to Emet-Selch either, aware of only the pain of it- and as the seconds pass, and as Mettaton drinks from the wound, lapping at it with firm swipes of his tongue, closing his lips around it to suck more blood from him- pleasure gradually begins to join the discomfort. Whether it was due to Mettaton's own reaction to taking on more of his blood filtering through the Bond, or his own growing predilection of correlating pain with arousal, but the sheer intensity of it all renders him temporarily stricken once more, trembling against his body.
He would worship him. Press his lips to every part of his body, devote himself to his pleasure, and how endless he would make that pleasure be if it would make him happy. His heart ached from the want for it, to bury himself in attending to Mettaton and not... not have to think about anything else. Not his despair, not his failures in affairs unrelated to providing Mettaton with sufficient praise. That was all Emet-Selch would ask of him in return: to command his devotion to the exclusion of all else. If only for a while... he wouldn't have to feel anything more.]
Mettaton....
[He begins with his name. Soft and wispy, but more easily discerned this time, not an accident of breath and gasp.]
I would- live for you... alone.
[The quality of his voice is atrocious. It's agonizing to speak at all, especially with the new dripping wound in his neck. Every word costs, and is worse than the next.]
For your pleasure. Your- body, your touch, I would- lose myself entirely with- without you.
[Swallowing; he tastes blood. A hollowed-out version of a whine is all else that escapes his throat. His legs tighten.]
no subject
So he's reassured and soothed by his voice itself, before the comprehension of language catches up to him, making it clear that his lover expected more detail from him, more descriptions forced from a damaged throat. Mettaton's words may have been softer, a balm of mercy, yet remained crystal clear in just how easily the puca would dip ever further into frustrated aggression, if the Ascian failed to continue giving him his spoken adoration. Saying this much hadn't quite earned him a reprieve (how could it, as brief as he'd had to be), but at least he hadn't been a complete disappointment either. A maintenance of potential terror at best- or the addition of softness layered over razors; Mettaton's sharpness remained.
And for all that Emet-Selch needs to spare his throat he can't keep from emitting low noises regardless, when Mettaton holds him closer, takes him yet harder, his cock providing him a continuous rub he had no hope of defending against. A hard stuffing of his body that made coherent thoughts that much harder to collect, and even more so now that his own erection was beginning to form. A stiffness clear to them both, it was the most blatant sign of his adoration and attraction to him, in how starved his body was for Mettaton's cock, how much it yearned for its size and shape, its curve and rigidity. And on receiving it, how could Emet-Selch do anything but stiffen in reply, aroused by being fucked without relent? In this much, at least, the Ascian's body could gradually overcome exhaustion and use (that, and time being the most important component in recovery) when faced with overwhelming stimulation.
But he tries to gather his voice, his breath, his thoughts- all to have them scattered again completely when Mettaton drives his teeth into a place close to his neck- a place already rubbed raw on the inside, clawed and bruised on the outside, and now facing a piercing bite near enough that the pain seemed to join it. Merge with it. His cry would be loud, but it's rendered into only air- an attempt that hurts him nonetheless, his non-cry choking itself down into a wheezing noise of pain. The Ascian's head jerks automatically at the hold, though he knows he can't get away from it- and doesn't want to regardless.
Was it a penalty for his lack of speech? Or an inevitability that he would have faced regardless of how satisfactory he'd been? But he's soothed a little in turn by Mettaton's own blood-soaked mollification. It didn't replace speech, it didn't even make it easier to think, but he felt slightly better for it all the same, that he could give this much to his lover.
That it was a dangerous place to sink into doesn't occur to Emet-Selch either, aware of only the pain of it- and as the seconds pass, and as Mettaton drinks from the wound, lapping at it with firm swipes of his tongue, closing his lips around it to suck more blood from him- pleasure gradually begins to join the discomfort. Whether it was due to Mettaton's own reaction to taking on more of his blood filtering through the Bond, or his own growing predilection of correlating pain with arousal, but the sheer intensity of it all renders him temporarily stricken once more, trembling against his body.
He would worship him. Press his lips to every part of his body, devote himself to his pleasure, and how endless he would make that pleasure be if it would make him happy. His heart ached from the want for it, to bury himself in attending to Mettaton and not... not have to think about anything else. Not his despair, not his failures in affairs unrelated to providing Mettaton with sufficient praise. That was all Emet-Selch would ask of him in return: to command his devotion to the exclusion of all else. If only for a while... he wouldn't have to feel anything more.]
Mettaton....
[He begins with his name. Soft and wispy, but more easily discerned this time, not an accident of breath and gasp.]
I would- live for you... alone.
[The quality of his voice is atrocious. It's agonizing to speak at all, especially with the new dripping wound in his neck. Every word costs, and is worse than the next.]
For your pleasure. Your- body, your touch, I would- lose myself entirely with- without you.
[Swallowing; he tastes blood. A hollowed-out version of a whine is all else that escapes his throat. His legs tighten.]