[It can't be helped that Mettaton pays so much attention not only to his own body and what he can do and feel with it, but the way Emet-Selch responds to his every movement. Hearing his breathing stutter, his body appeal for deeper thrusts, the frequent tension around the whole of his cock, and the trembling of his muscle and tightening of his legs could only bring him to searing levels of enjoyment. Emet-Selch's body does so much for him: it's for his pleasure, his indulgence, his inspiration, and at the heart of the matter, it's what bears the soul he loves.
While nearly the whole of Mettaton is savage - the tear of teeth, the plunge of his cock, the force of his muscle, the frenzy of his kisses - his fingers can only softly curl against skin. He spares a moment to nuzzle Emet-Selch softly. The bend of his shoulders is slight, and his arms try to hold him gently. Actions easily swallowed up in passion, but ones that precede orgasm, that carry some of the burden of emotional expression. Mettaton will capitalize on everything he has to express his feelings to the truest degree, after all.
And his fervor remains, especially when Emet-Selch succumbs to orgasm. His voice doesn't carry the same immediate descent into sorrow, and Mettaton feels lit aflame in his craving for it. A life set before him for him to consume in his release, and his thrusts grow deeper, shorter, the head of his cock rubbing into his lover so intimately, a new constant. Reluctant to pull from him, but wanting to be deeper with him. The Ascian's body tightens around him in turn, a mutual claim, a mutual consumption.
Mettaton's dazed, enchanted, drawn to all he sees and hears and feels. And in this pre-orgasmic stage, he senses everything with such vivid, heightened awareness, all of it enough to take him under and do him in. The rub of his lover's cock against his abdomen, come ejaculated not only upon his front but Emet-Selch's as well, the absolute relief of his body right down to the tremble of muscle, and the way he clings to him despite his loss of sense. And, of course, the way his body feels so belonging to him, and his in turn. Mettaton sucks in a breath, the texture of his thrusts different with the increasing squeeze of his Bonded's body around his erection — a form of marking him, of taking him while he takes back.
When he cries out, it's on a voice smooth and unbroken in his climax, lagging just behind his lover. And he's thankful for it, that ability to drink in the feeling of him in release and to feed off of his pleasure.
If Emet-Selch clings to Mettaton, the force of his release has him taking Emet-Selch's body into his arms with a ferocity, all of his softness and love converted into starvation and claim. His nails dig into skin and he curls further upon his Bonded, bringing his head back down to his neck as he tucks his chin there. Every muscle tenses, closing in on the other man as he pulls him into himself and, in turn, shoves his length so deeply into his Bonded that he's made to almost lift his body onto himself with each curl of his hips. His feelings veer so quickly toward an impossible, eternal claim, the want for Emet-Selch to belong to him and to crave him always, beyond sense and beyond anyone else. He could never be sated enough, and the feeling of Emet-Selch's grip upon his back has Mettaton all but lifting his Bonded enough to slide his own arms around him, squeezing him in his arms.
All while he pounds away at him, the pleasure of his strokes compounded upon by the tightness of his Bonded's body. Raw though it may be, Mettaton uses all of his lover's body for what it gives and rubs his cock against his heat, pleasing himself on him. More moans, more cries of pleasure, come thick and hot and breathing harsh. The crush of his body is for want of more, for a never-ending session of pleasure that only Emet-Selch could bring him, and the wish for this pleasure to never end. He loves him so, and he smiles.
But it does end, and the first indication of it is a softer voice carried on Emet-Selch's name. His muscles slacken, his world spins, energy robbed from him and spent on his lover. Taken completely, just as Emet-Selch hoped. His hips gradually still, and Mettaton gasps and pants, collapsing upon his Bonded even while his arms cling to him in an embrace.]
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While nearly the whole of Mettaton is savage - the tear of teeth, the plunge of his cock, the force of his muscle, the frenzy of his kisses - his fingers can only softly curl against skin. He spares a moment to nuzzle Emet-Selch softly. The bend of his shoulders is slight, and his arms try to hold him gently. Actions easily swallowed up in passion, but ones that precede orgasm, that carry some of the burden of emotional expression. Mettaton will capitalize on everything he has to express his feelings to the truest degree, after all.
And his fervor remains, especially when Emet-Selch succumbs to orgasm. His voice doesn't carry the same immediate descent into sorrow, and Mettaton feels lit aflame in his craving for it. A life set before him for him to consume in his release, and his thrusts grow deeper, shorter, the head of his cock rubbing into his lover so intimately, a new constant. Reluctant to pull from him, but wanting to be deeper with him. The Ascian's body tightens around him in turn, a mutual claim, a mutual consumption.
Mettaton's dazed, enchanted, drawn to all he sees and hears and feels. And in this pre-orgasmic stage, he senses everything with such vivid, heightened awareness, all of it enough to take him under and do him in. The rub of his lover's cock against his abdomen, come ejaculated not only upon his front but Emet-Selch's as well, the absolute relief of his body right down to the tremble of muscle, and the way he clings to him despite his loss of sense. And, of course, the way his body feels so belonging to him, and his in turn. Mettaton sucks in a breath, the texture of his thrusts different with the increasing squeeze of his Bonded's body around his erection — a form of marking him, of taking him while he takes back.
When he cries out, it's on a voice smooth and unbroken in his climax, lagging just behind his lover. And he's thankful for it, that ability to drink in the feeling of him in release and to feed off of his pleasure.
If Emet-Selch clings to Mettaton, the force of his release has him taking Emet-Selch's body into his arms with a ferocity, all of his softness and love converted into starvation and claim. His nails dig into skin and he curls further upon his Bonded, bringing his head back down to his neck as he tucks his chin there. Every muscle tenses, closing in on the other man as he pulls him into himself and, in turn, shoves his length so deeply into his Bonded that he's made to almost lift his body onto himself with each curl of his hips. His feelings veer so quickly toward an impossible, eternal claim, the want for Emet-Selch to belong to him and to crave him always, beyond sense and beyond anyone else. He could never be sated enough, and the feeling of Emet-Selch's grip upon his back has Mettaton all but lifting his Bonded enough to slide his own arms around him, squeezing him in his arms.
All while he pounds away at him, the pleasure of his strokes compounded upon by the tightness of his Bonded's body. Raw though it may be, Mettaton uses all of his lover's body for what it gives and rubs his cock against his heat, pleasing himself on him. More moans, more cries of pleasure, come thick and hot and breathing harsh. The crush of his body is for want of more, for a never-ending session of pleasure that only Emet-Selch could bring him, and the wish for this pleasure to never end. He loves him so, and he smiles.
But it does end, and the first indication of it is a softer voice carried on Emet-Selch's name. His muscles slacken, his world spins, energy robbed from him and spent on his lover. Taken completely, just as Emet-Selch hoped. His hips gradually still, and Mettaton gasps and pants, collapsing upon his Bonded even while his arms cling to him in an embrace.]