[Free arm wrapping around Mettaton's back, face pressed and held against his neck, Emet-Selch digs into him for purchase, or for safety- even though his Bonded is the source of all these intense feelings and excessive desires. And there was no calm at the eye of this storm, feeling himself only further battered by it. He could feel the efforts of Mettaton's body with each rise and fall, each time hips impacted his thighs, each time the full length of his cock was taken- and he could only hold on, press up, do anything he could to press deeper. To take him as thoroughly as he was being taken, to feel him completely.
The sound of his name in such a tone is something that the Ascian doubts he could ever forget, a reminder of identity that never failed to reassure. At least, not when hearing it from Mettaton. And how naturally it fell from his lips, that he had a hard time remembering what it was like to hear anything else from him. Nothing else would sound right. And it's only occasionally that his own voice even registers, noises that mingle with that of his lover's, combining in the same way as their bodies. A strange kind of harmony, his own tone still broken, half-muffled, half-gasping against the robot's neck, sometimes managing his name, sometimes only sounds, ecstatic and pleading.
Mettaton's throat is damp from his breaths right against it, wet kisses that were little more than a press of lips. But it felt like nothing compared to the piercing damp that blossomed from his own shoulder, the welling of blood and lapping of tongue causing him to jerk suddenly in response to the pain. His muscles spasmed, breath a sharp, quick inhale, tension and a quickened pulse causing the blood to flow that bit more freely against the other's mouth. But the pain was there for barely a flash before being converted back into pleasure, into intensity and gratification, that Mettaton was taking another part of him. The bloody kisses that followed over the area also struck him with deep fondness, able to imagine the smears left in his wake, the various degrees of mess that Mettaton was leaving him in.
And then there was another sense of wetness against his lower body, warm and thick and unmistakable as anything but his lover's ejaculate. The Ascian's hand slows as the orgasm passes through him, but doesn't stop immediately, grip even tightening, as though to wrest every drop of come from him. But his own cock was being equally squeezed, surrounded by heat and the clenching shudders of Mettaton's body, need fevered and desperate. So his own climax is squeezed from him moments after, moan nearly lost against Mettaton's throat, the sharp, pitched breaths that follow more noticeable, gasps for air that were choked by emotion more than anything else.
But the satisfaction was immense. To fill Mettaton with his come, to mark him like this- they were feelings that kept him huddled close, his hold around him tight. As much as his muscles wanted to give out, to collapse, holding onto him was more important. Covering Mettaton's shoulder and neck and jaw with kisses was more important. And though it finally relaxes, his other hand remains curled around his lover's cock for a few moments more, his stroke of it so slow it practically qualified as affectionate.]
no subject
The sound of his name in such a tone is something that the Ascian doubts he could ever forget, a reminder of identity that never failed to reassure. At least, not when hearing it from Mettaton. And how naturally it fell from his lips, that he had a hard time remembering what it was like to hear anything else from him. Nothing else would sound right. And it's only occasionally that his own voice even registers, noises that mingle with that of his lover's, combining in the same way as their bodies. A strange kind of harmony, his own tone still broken, half-muffled, half-gasping against the robot's neck, sometimes managing his name, sometimes only sounds, ecstatic and pleading.
Mettaton's throat is damp from his breaths right against it, wet kisses that were little more than a press of lips. But it felt like nothing compared to the piercing damp that blossomed from his own shoulder, the welling of blood and lapping of tongue causing him to jerk suddenly in response to the pain. His muscles spasmed, breath a sharp, quick inhale, tension and a quickened pulse causing the blood to flow that bit more freely against the other's mouth. But the pain was there for barely a flash before being converted back into pleasure, into intensity and gratification, that Mettaton was taking another part of him. The bloody kisses that followed over the area also struck him with deep fondness, able to imagine the smears left in his wake, the various degrees of mess that Mettaton was leaving him in.
And then there was another sense of wetness against his lower body, warm and thick and unmistakable as anything but his lover's ejaculate. The Ascian's hand slows as the orgasm passes through him, but doesn't stop immediately, grip even tightening, as though to wrest every drop of come from him. But his own cock was being equally squeezed, surrounded by heat and the clenching shudders of Mettaton's body, need fevered and desperate. So his own climax is squeezed from him moments after, moan nearly lost against Mettaton's throat, the sharp, pitched breaths that follow more noticeable, gasps for air that were choked by emotion more than anything else.
But the satisfaction was immense. To fill Mettaton with his come, to mark him like this- they were feelings that kept him huddled close, his hold around him tight. As much as his muscles wanted to give out, to collapse, holding onto him was more important. Covering Mettaton's shoulder and neck and jaw with kisses was more important. And though it finally relaxes, his other hand remains curled around his lover's cock for a few moments more, his stroke of it so slow it practically qualified as affectionate.]