[Though his gaze was often drawn to his Bonded, in times like now it would've been unthinkable to look away. Able to watch as his skin was bitten into color, points of soreness and heat appearing underneath Mettaton's lips, and with how attractive he was to start with, framed by the thighs he was decorating- Emet-Selch adored him like this. It would be an impossibility to not be aroused by either the sight or the thought of these reddish-purple patches, one piece of imagery leading to another, from impassioned kissing, the scrape of claws and teeth, to the thought of Mettaton's cock in his mouth, pushing all the way into his throat, filling him with his come, while the Ascian's own would rest spattered across his own abdomen.
Were he not in the condition of irrational wantings, Emet-Selch would know that his desire to track Mettaton down at any and all time of day, regardless of what the other man was doing, or where he was- in order to have him, in expectation of his lover satisfying all of this arousal he'd cruelly inspired in him- was only an inconvenient fantasy. But it was an appealing thought. To press himself to his body without warning, regardless of company, to drag his covered erection against him in a demand for attention, to take his hand and have him feel the hardness he'd inflicted him with, to stroke his hair and drag his head between his legs, in anticipation of relief.
For that matter, the idea of Mettaton interrupting his day at any time in order to shove him against whatever surface was available, be it wall or floor or table or bed, in order to have him- was only an arousing one, rather than disruptive and impractical (but still arousing). Already shapeshifted, his desires would be explicit, and the Ascian's response immediate. They would ravish each other endlessly, fixated on the other's satisfaction- the surest way of obtaining their own. They were dangerously matched.
At the moment, though, he doesn't see why not. The world was an arena for their affairs; passion like this was never meant to be contained.
Though he squirms slightly in place when Mettaton finally departs his thighs, it is with the feeling of him left behind there. The cooling slickness wherever his mouth had been, the deepening impressions of sucking kisses. The memory of his fingers prodding each of the marks left behind, and Emet-Selch aches from the feeling of it altogether, his cock hot, and made fully erect once more. A hardness in further testimony to the effect Mettaton had on him, how he reveled in every bite or suck or glance in his direction. And eventually he'd be able to come again, and add more to the mess at his abdomen, to drip back down his cock....
His voice is tense with arousal, slightly rough still, low.]
Of course it wouldn't fix anything. That... would imply something being wrong.
[In pleased expectation at the imagery his thoughts are taken with, he sighs, pressing into the brief kiss, a brief cleaning and claiming of blood, before Mettaton pulls back once more. But it's not without a purpose in mind, and Emet-Selch willingly shifts himself as directed, pulse leaping as his back is guided again to the bed, with his head resting against the edge of it. His breath contains the essence of a moan as he automatically stretches his neck out, coaxed further to remain that way by the drag of a finger.]
Enough...? No. [How could there be enough of Mettaton to fantasize over? His eyes half close as he feels his lover's shaft dragged across his lips, nearly distracted from speech entirely at the renewed satisfaction at finally having him at his mouth again.] But it's more, it's an... addition.
[More than that, and Emet-Selch moans audibly while he still can, mouthing immediately over the tip of his cock, lapping up at him with broad swipes of his tongue, swollen, bitten lips pressing heated kisses to him. The taste of his own come on him pulls a shiver through his body and nearly another moan. And he's conscious of how... needy he is for him, spread across the bed like this, fully exposed to him, with fresh bruises decorating both shoulders and thighs, legs slightly spayed, erection arching up, rigid. And that the focal point of that pleasure is the attention he's providing to Mettaton's own cock, pressed against lips, his throat in position to be fucked.
There's a plea in each kiss, each breath, each bit of contact he's providing his length. He was so hard, so desperate for him, and the only relief he could think of was the slipping of his lover's cock down his throat, filling him, depriving him.]
no subject
Were he not in the condition of irrational wantings, Emet-Selch would know that his desire to track Mettaton down at any and all time of day, regardless of what the other man was doing, or where he was- in order to have him, in expectation of his lover satisfying all of this arousal he'd cruelly inspired in him- was only an inconvenient fantasy. But it was an appealing thought. To press himself to his body without warning, regardless of company, to drag his covered erection against him in a demand for attention, to take his hand and have him feel the hardness he'd inflicted him with, to stroke his hair and drag his head between his legs, in anticipation of relief.
For that matter, the idea of Mettaton interrupting his day at any time in order to shove him against whatever surface was available, be it wall or floor or table or bed, in order to have him- was only an arousing one, rather than disruptive and impractical (but still arousing). Already shapeshifted, his desires would be explicit, and the Ascian's response immediate. They would ravish each other endlessly, fixated on the other's satisfaction- the surest way of obtaining their own. They were dangerously matched.
At the moment, though, he doesn't see why not. The world was an arena for their affairs; passion like this was never meant to be contained.
Though he squirms slightly in place when Mettaton finally departs his thighs, it is with the feeling of him left behind there. The cooling slickness wherever his mouth had been, the deepening impressions of sucking kisses. The memory of his fingers prodding each of the marks left behind, and Emet-Selch aches from the feeling of it altogether, his cock hot, and made fully erect once more. A hardness in further testimony to the effect Mettaton had on him, how he reveled in every bite or suck or glance in his direction. And eventually he'd be able to come again, and add more to the mess at his abdomen, to drip back down his cock....
His voice is tense with arousal, slightly rough still, low.]
Of course it wouldn't fix anything. That... would imply something being wrong.
[In pleased expectation at the imagery his thoughts are taken with, he sighs, pressing into the brief kiss, a brief cleaning and claiming of blood, before Mettaton pulls back once more. But it's not without a purpose in mind, and Emet-Selch willingly shifts himself as directed, pulse leaping as his back is guided again to the bed, with his head resting against the edge of it. His breath contains the essence of a moan as he automatically stretches his neck out, coaxed further to remain that way by the drag of a finger.]
Enough...? No. [How could there be enough of Mettaton to fantasize over? His eyes half close as he feels his lover's shaft dragged across his lips, nearly distracted from speech entirely at the renewed satisfaction at finally having him at his mouth again.] But it's more, it's an... addition.
[More than that, and Emet-Selch moans audibly while he still can, mouthing immediately over the tip of his cock, lapping up at him with broad swipes of his tongue, swollen, bitten lips pressing heated kisses to him. The taste of his own come on him pulls a shiver through his body and nearly another moan. And he's conscious of how... needy he is for him, spread across the bed like this, fully exposed to him, with fresh bruises decorating both shoulders and thighs, legs slightly spayed, erection arching up, rigid. And that the focal point of that pleasure is the attention he's providing to Mettaton's own cock, pressed against lips, his throat in position to be fucked.
There's a plea in each kiss, each breath, each bit of contact he's providing his length. He was so hard, so desperate for him, and the only relief he could think of was the slipping of his lover's cock down his throat, filling him, depriving him.]