[Anything that didn't end up on his thighs would drip to Mettaton's erection, and it's a thought to leave him both weak and rigid, well able to imagine the way it must look. How his own body must look, spread apart, heavy white fluid spread between them both, past orgasms revisited, taking their place in encouraging this one. Every instance had been delectable in its own right, profound in depth and feeling, enough to leave him shaken to the core and more secure for it. And they also provided the groundwork for this, giving him enough of his lover's ejaculate to let it drip steadily along them both, along with an arousal that felt like it combined all the ones of the past.
Nearly leaning in to kiss him, Emet-Selch pauses when Mettaton lets go of his hip with one hand, pressing it to his cheek instead, framing his face with dark claws, and darker attention. Giving him praise and words that heat him, his shivered exhalation seems to indicate his assent. He would lick all of it back up if asked, take it back inside and keep him, coat his lips and throat with come already once given. No matter where it was on his body it was being used- whether left to decorate his skin, or lapped up with rapturous intent, he would have to agree that it wouldn't be wasted.
But Mettaton's hand was against his face, and Emet-Selch tilts his own into it, nuzzling against his palm with lips still marked with come, eyes closing in this moment, expression and manner showing nothing but utmost adoration for him. A willing devotion, both gentle and black enough to drown in, to love him more for every stain he left, to mark him and take him and leave him feeling grateful for the chance to lap up any excess, because it would please him. And seeing Mettaton pleased only aroused him, was the greatest cause of his own satisfaction.
And how full he could be made, and more than once Emet-Selch has to hold back the impulse to reach between his legs again not only for another smear of come, but for his lover's thick erection instead, to hold him in place and finish shoving his hips back downward (truly making this attempt at going anywhere even less successful than the last, but he's completely distracted from that now). To squeeze around a cock made ever slicker from his own past releases, to grind downward until his ass is flush to his hips once more, until he's taken it all back, until Mettaton had added more to the mess he had made of him.
Mettaton's voice forces his attention to refocus. And his eyes open again when Mettaton's hand leaves his face, looking back to his- and then to his lover's own hand as it lowers, his breath made to hiss at the brief tease to his cock, before continuing on to his thighs. Continuing on to touch at those slow rivulets, stroking up to his ass, feeling for himself how slick he was, how blatantly he had been used. Evidence of how he did want his body, and how he continued wanting him more for every release, that even temporary satiation only led to this increasing desperation for him, to have him and stroke him and taste him and love him--
His gaze alights then on the fingers held out before him, claw-adorned and with Mettaton's own milky come slowly trailing down two of the digits. Come that he'd already given to the Ascian once, and was now offering back. A thought to make it that much more explicit, in comparison to fluid that had only been ejaculated directly against his hand.
Moving in slowly, he kisses the top of one claw, eyes scanning upward towards Mettaton's face as he does so, before closing again as he settles in to his task. As with his own fingers, he tries to start slowly, licking along his claw, letting his tongue stroke gradually down a single digit bit by bit, feeling the way come collected against his tongue on each pass. Sometimes he swallowed it immediately, other times he allowed it to linger there as he flicked out for another taste. Tilting his head, his lips press and his tongue licks over every part of him. From one finger to the next he moves, with thorough lapping that becomes steadily wetter, and steadily involving more sucking, more nipping. Demanding more, no matter how much he swallowed. Unconsciously, his hand moves to Mettaton's wrist, lightly settling there as though to steady it, or to ensure that he didn't pull away from him before he'd gotten it all.
He ends up with both of his fingers in his mouth eventually, never minding the claws that brushed the back of his throat, or the mix of saliva and come that gathered in his mouth, irregularly swallowed back whenever it's on the verge of spilling past his lips instead. Sucking around them he moans, reluctant to give them up, even when he'd surely swallowed every trace of it.
And this pain of anticipation- an aching heaviness that heats his blood, and gathers in his abdomen, and continues causing his cock to harden- it was worth exacting as much as possible from every instant. Just as he wanted to wring every drop of come from Mettaton's body to either swallow or take, he'd lave every part of him with the most dedicated attention.]
no subject
Nearly leaning in to kiss him, Emet-Selch pauses when Mettaton lets go of his hip with one hand, pressing it to his cheek instead, framing his face with dark claws, and darker attention. Giving him praise and words that heat him, his shivered exhalation seems to indicate his assent. He would lick all of it back up if asked, take it back inside and keep him, coat his lips and throat with come already once given. No matter where it was on his body it was being used- whether left to decorate his skin, or lapped up with rapturous intent, he would have to agree that it wouldn't be wasted.
But Mettaton's hand was against his face, and Emet-Selch tilts his own into it, nuzzling against his palm with lips still marked with come, eyes closing in this moment, expression and manner showing nothing but utmost adoration for him. A willing devotion, both gentle and black enough to drown in, to love him more for every stain he left, to mark him and take him and leave him feeling grateful for the chance to lap up any excess, because it would please him. And seeing Mettaton pleased only aroused him, was the greatest cause of his own satisfaction.
And how full he could be made, and more than once Emet-Selch has to hold back the impulse to reach between his legs again not only for another smear of come, but for his lover's thick erection instead, to hold him in place and finish shoving his hips back downward (truly making this attempt at going anywhere even less successful than the last, but he's completely distracted from that now). To squeeze around a cock made ever slicker from his own past releases, to grind downward until his ass is flush to his hips once more, until he's taken it all back, until Mettaton had added more to the mess he had made of him.
Mettaton's voice forces his attention to refocus. And his eyes open again when Mettaton's hand leaves his face, looking back to his- and then to his lover's own hand as it lowers, his breath made to hiss at the brief tease to his cock, before continuing on to his thighs. Continuing on to touch at those slow rivulets, stroking up to his ass, feeling for himself how slick he was, how blatantly he had been used. Evidence of how he did want his body, and how he continued wanting him more for every release, that even temporary satiation only led to this increasing desperation for him, to have him and stroke him and taste him and love him--
His gaze alights then on the fingers held out before him, claw-adorned and with Mettaton's own milky come slowly trailing down two of the digits. Come that he'd already given to the Ascian once, and was now offering back. A thought to make it that much more explicit, in comparison to fluid that had only been ejaculated directly against his hand.
Moving in slowly, he kisses the top of one claw, eyes scanning upward towards Mettaton's face as he does so, before closing again as he settles in to his task. As with his own fingers, he tries to start slowly, licking along his claw, letting his tongue stroke gradually down a single digit bit by bit, feeling the way come collected against his tongue on each pass. Sometimes he swallowed it immediately, other times he allowed it to linger there as he flicked out for another taste. Tilting his head, his lips press and his tongue licks over every part of him. From one finger to the next he moves, with thorough lapping that becomes steadily wetter, and steadily involving more sucking, more nipping. Demanding more, no matter how much he swallowed. Unconsciously, his hand moves to Mettaton's wrist, lightly settling there as though to steady it, or to ensure that he didn't pull away from him before he'd gotten it all.
He ends up with both of his fingers in his mouth eventually, never minding the claws that brushed the back of his throat, or the mix of saliva and come that gathered in his mouth, irregularly swallowed back whenever it's on the verge of spilling past his lips instead. Sucking around them he moans, reluctant to give them up, even when he'd surely swallowed every trace of it.
And this pain of anticipation- an aching heaviness that heats his blood, and gathers in his abdomen, and continues causing his cock to harden- it was worth exacting as much as possible from every instant. Just as he wanted to wring every drop of come from Mettaton's body to either swallow or take, he'd lave every part of him with the most dedicated attention.]