[They were both raw in different ways, he would've thought had he the space for stray considerations like that. Mettaton's cock was being rubbed and rubbed again, stroked and gripped repeatedly by the tight confines of his body. No matter how slick, it was still friction, it was still use- but what was sensitivity to someone who so loved sensation, who loved being overwhelmed by it? Even if Emet-Selch would have to bear the lingering results of their indulgence, it was worth every instant, of being able to attend to his lover to this degree. So long as he had consciousness and any degree of muscle control on his part- he would continue taking him, wringing from Mettaton his essence, replacing blood with come.
It's not that thought, but that feeling that has him continue, massaging Mettaton's cock as he thrusts in irregular bursts of tension, struggling to push up every time he's shoved down, though the efforts of the rest of his body get progressively weaker. All he could do was tighten around his length, coherency scattering in the wake of this perfect plunge into his body, this hot rigidity stretching him open and claiming him, filling him so thoroughly that he might never be free. Nor would he ever want to be.
When Mettaton seems to have found a place of particular perfection, every part of the Ascian fixates on his response to it, on the thick, heavy rubs his glans was inflicting on his body- a sensation in itself that leaves his knees weak. But even if he'd had voice left to lose, he would've been struck into silence regardless, at the sound Mettaton made. Breathing stilled, body taut, Emet-Selch held on and listened to him and shivered very quietly as his body was yet fucked into the bed, held apart and taken. A deafening of senses that continues when the puca sinks his teeth into him again, into a place already raw, already bearing the marks of his jaws- widening the bite, and stealing more of his blood.
But did it count as stealing when it was Mettaton's blood to start with? The Ascian jerks underneath his hold, against his teeth, his body, his cock- reacting only to the sharpness of it all, his lips parted as he cries out in turn- though all that emerges is static, a rasping noise that trails off into silence. Eyes closed, Emet-Selch presses his head against his, breathing resuming as he pants, unable to whine or plead or cry out at all. Only to breathe quickly and dig his fingers into his back, tighten his legs around Mettaton's body, as though he could find some sort of purchase there in the face of his lover's increasing rapture- feelings washing over him in endless surges. His throat hurt and his shoulder hurt, and those were only two places among many that were sore beyond measure- but he didn't care. When Mettaton was feeling like this, when his body was wracked with such pleasure, how could anything register as pain?
A renewal of blood-smell enters his senses, reminding him further of its part in the scent of sex and their bodies otherwise together. As primal as that of come itself, and if he tries, Emet-Selch can imagine the taste of both at his lips. Something he wanted both of, but particularly his lover's come, to feel its thickness against his lips and tongue, a rich texture that lingered in his mouth, that he could share with Mettaton and spread between them. It doesn't surprise him at all that Mettaton would want to taste it on him- why wouldn't he, this warm, wet proof not only of his possession, but of his love of it, his willingness to lick up and swallow every trace of his ejaculate that he was offered, starved for it and him.
Mettaton's voice refocuses him, makes him clamp down on his cock with more stubbornness, no matter how badly he trembled, or how much he ached or how tired he was. He could feel his closeness, could practically taste it, and he squeezes his girth, feels the soft give of the head pushing and rubbing and kneading him- all until that heat is joined by greater heat. A rush of wetness adds to what his body already held and Emet-Selch nearly chokes on a breath, body going rigid, tightening in that moment as hard as he could. Clutching his cock and his body with as much of himself as he could manage, losing himself in the particular rapture of having a flood of come pouring from the tip of his lover's cock into his awaiting body.
Emet-Selch could no longer recall how much he'd taken, how much he'd held, either thrust into his ass or swallowed down his throat. But it was his now, and he wanted every part of it- just as dearly as he wanted Mettaton's pleasure in itself, nuzzling and stroking and petting his body any way he could. It didn't matter that Emet-Selch was shaking and spent- even if he hadn't been the one indulging in another orgasm- the affection was necessary. Required. He loved him too far, needed him too fiercely- feelings that kept his heart racing and his thoughts scattered. He loved this man and he would do anything for him. He knew this.
He knew this, and nothing else mattered, as damp lips press kisses to the side of his face, adoring and soothing and warm. His throat was in agony from feelings he didn't know what to do with or how to express- there were too many, and he loved him all the same.]
no subject
It's not that thought, but that feeling that has him continue, massaging Mettaton's cock as he thrusts in irregular bursts of tension, struggling to push up every time he's shoved down, though the efforts of the rest of his body get progressively weaker. All he could do was tighten around his length, coherency scattering in the wake of this perfect plunge into his body, this hot rigidity stretching him open and claiming him, filling him so thoroughly that he might never be free. Nor would he ever want to be.
When Mettaton seems to have found a place of particular perfection, every part of the Ascian fixates on his response to it, on the thick, heavy rubs his glans was inflicting on his body- a sensation in itself that leaves his knees weak. But even if he'd had voice left to lose, he would've been struck into silence regardless, at the sound Mettaton made. Breathing stilled, body taut, Emet-Selch held on and listened to him and shivered very quietly as his body was yet fucked into the bed, held apart and taken. A deafening of senses that continues when the puca sinks his teeth into him again, into a place already raw, already bearing the marks of his jaws- widening the bite, and stealing more of his blood.
But did it count as stealing when it was Mettaton's blood to start with? The Ascian jerks underneath his hold, against his teeth, his body, his cock- reacting only to the sharpness of it all, his lips parted as he cries out in turn- though all that emerges is static, a rasping noise that trails off into silence. Eyes closed, Emet-Selch presses his head against his, breathing resuming as he pants, unable to whine or plead or cry out at all. Only to breathe quickly and dig his fingers into his back, tighten his legs around Mettaton's body, as though he could find some sort of purchase there in the face of his lover's increasing rapture- feelings washing over him in endless surges. His throat hurt and his shoulder hurt, and those were only two places among many that were sore beyond measure- but he didn't care. When Mettaton was feeling like this, when his body was wracked with such pleasure, how could anything register as pain?
A renewal of blood-smell enters his senses, reminding him further of its part in the scent of sex and their bodies otherwise together. As primal as that of come itself, and if he tries, Emet-Selch can imagine the taste of both at his lips. Something he wanted both of, but particularly his lover's come, to feel its thickness against his lips and tongue, a rich texture that lingered in his mouth, that he could share with Mettaton and spread between them. It doesn't surprise him at all that Mettaton would want to taste it on him- why wouldn't he, this warm, wet proof not only of his possession, but of his love of it, his willingness to lick up and swallow every trace of his ejaculate that he was offered, starved for it and him.
Mettaton's voice refocuses him, makes him clamp down on his cock with more stubbornness, no matter how badly he trembled, or how much he ached or how tired he was. He could feel his closeness, could practically taste it, and he squeezes his girth, feels the soft give of the head pushing and rubbing and kneading him- all until that heat is joined by greater heat. A rush of wetness adds to what his body already held and Emet-Selch nearly chokes on a breath, body going rigid, tightening in that moment as hard as he could. Clutching his cock and his body with as much of himself as he could manage, losing himself in the particular rapture of having a flood of come pouring from the tip of his lover's cock into his awaiting body.
Emet-Selch could no longer recall how much he'd taken, how much he'd held, either thrust into his ass or swallowed down his throat. But it was his now, and he wanted every part of it- just as dearly as he wanted Mettaton's pleasure in itself, nuzzling and stroking and petting his body any way he could. It didn't matter that Emet-Selch was shaking and spent- even if he hadn't been the one indulging in another orgasm- the affection was necessary. Required. He loved him too far, needed him too fiercely- feelings that kept his heart racing and his thoughts scattered. He loved this man and he would do anything for him. He knew this.
He knew this, and nothing else mattered, as damp lips press kisses to the side of his face, adoring and soothing and warm. His throat was in agony from feelings he didn't know what to do with or how to express- there were too many, and he loved him all the same.]