[Continuing with his rhythmic rise and fall upon his lap, Mettaton arcs his back into the very sensation that brings him such exceptional pleasure, another breathless moan escaping from his throat when he feels this new sublime way that his cock massages his insides. Each bounce of his body is guaranteed by its fall, Emet-Selch's cock disappearing into Mettaton's body with every collapse unto his hips.
Mettaton is absolutely beside himself with the pleasure of it. One unique kind of pleasure, one that parallels how good it feels to pound into his lover. Another way to lay claim to his Bonded, and by virtue, leaving himself so prone. Everything is a rhythm now, all of it playing together to absolutely overwhelm his senses — and he gets the distinct sense that he's not the only one, Emet-Selch's pleasure his constant company all the way through. A presence undeniable in his very body, always tangible as he sits before him, taking his cock, feeling his soul in his body and wanting nothing more than to take that beloved spirit of his and keep it with him forever.
(The haunts of some event that isn't now are on the periphery of his thoughts, but Mettaton pushes it away. Focuses on now. It's easy to do.)
The idol can't hear himself when he says Emet-Selch's name over and over on gasping breaths, repeating his name like an enchantment. His Bonded curls into his body and speaks on a voice of fragile desperation, and Mettaton tries, on reflex, to wind metal arms around his person. He cannot, but that's just as well. His voice, regardless of its broken quality, possesses his name: he can hardly take the delight of it. His very human arms are flung around his body, where he grips down on him like a vice. His hand is pressed to the back of Emet-Selch's head, securing him in place, demanding that he nuzzle him and stay at his neck, even as Mettaton leans forward for himself to take a hearty bite of Emet-Selch's shoulder, teeth puncturing skin again for a final sort of claim, a final sort of pleasure. Thirsty for his blood in a way he's never been in his whole life, he laps at his fresh source of his lover's blood like it's ambrosia.
His entire being is something worth cherishing, for all he brings to Mettaton, and for all who he is. Company he's craved and didn't even realize it, proof to himself how nice it is to have somebody pulled aside like a secret. Somebody who knows.
The taste of his blood and the sound of his panting, so close to his ear, coupled with his body warm and secure against his own, fingers still wrapped around his cock even as he swallows up his arousal's lover, blinds him absolutely. Mettaton's voice is clear and loud, crying out without reserve, body rhythmically squeezing around the girth of Emet-Selch's cock in his climb to orgasm.
Mettaton nuzzles back into his neck in return, the only method of communication he has left to reassure his Bonded that he'll remain. He wants to remain. He wants Emet-Selch to stay with him, too. Kisses follow, peppered all over his neck and shoulder, painting Mettaton's lips a lovely crimson and leaving impressions of his fervor. His rhythmic thrusting continues, both into the Ascian's grip around his cock, and down upon the erection he takes into his feverishly hot body.
His abdomen spasms as Mettaton's climax hits him hard, a deeply pleasured moan coupling the eruption of come, all over Emet-Selch's huddled form.]
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Mettaton is absolutely beside himself with the pleasure of it. One unique kind of pleasure, one that parallels how good it feels to pound into his lover. Another way to lay claim to his Bonded, and by virtue, leaving himself so prone. Everything is a rhythm now, all of it playing together to absolutely overwhelm his senses — and he gets the distinct sense that he's not the only one, Emet-Selch's pleasure his constant company all the way through. A presence undeniable in his very body, always tangible as he sits before him, taking his cock, feeling his soul in his body and wanting nothing more than to take that beloved spirit of his and keep it with him forever.
(The haunts of some event that isn't now are on the periphery of his thoughts, but Mettaton pushes it away. Focuses on now. It's easy to do.)
The idol can't hear himself when he says Emet-Selch's name over and over on gasping breaths, repeating his name like an enchantment. His Bonded curls into his body and speaks on a voice of fragile desperation, and Mettaton tries, on reflex, to wind metal arms around his person. He cannot, but that's just as well. His voice, regardless of its broken quality, possesses his name: he can hardly take the delight of it. His very human arms are flung around his body, where he grips down on him like a vice. His hand is pressed to the back of Emet-Selch's head, securing him in place, demanding that he nuzzle him and stay at his neck, even as Mettaton leans forward for himself to take a hearty bite of Emet-Selch's shoulder, teeth puncturing skin again for a final sort of claim, a final sort of pleasure. Thirsty for his blood in a way he's never been in his whole life, he laps at his fresh source of his lover's blood like it's ambrosia.
His entire being is something worth cherishing, for all he brings to Mettaton, and for all who he is. Company he's craved and didn't even realize it, proof to himself how nice it is to have somebody pulled aside like a secret. Somebody who knows.
The taste of his blood and the sound of his panting, so close to his ear, coupled with his body warm and secure against his own, fingers still wrapped around his cock even as he swallows up his arousal's lover, blinds him absolutely. Mettaton's voice is clear and loud, crying out without reserve, body rhythmically squeezing around the girth of Emet-Selch's cock in his climb to orgasm.
Mettaton nuzzles back into his neck in return, the only method of communication he has left to reassure his Bonded that he'll remain. He wants to remain. He wants Emet-Selch to stay with him, too. Kisses follow, peppered all over his neck and shoulder, painting Mettaton's lips a lovely crimson and leaving impressions of his fervor. His rhythmic thrusting continues, both into the Ascian's grip around his cock, and down upon the erection he takes into his feverishly hot body.
His abdomen spasms as Mettaton's climax hits him hard, a deeply pleasured moan coupling the eruption of come, all over Emet-Selch's huddled form.]