[Mettaton's arm remains contorted so that his hand is still laced with his lover's, but his other arm is wrapped around Emet-Selch's skull in a strange, upside-down embrace as he pulls himself together. He clutches him close to his bejeweled chest, loving and demanding and appreciating the Ascian.
Even here, no longer lodged in his lover's throat, he feels the pronounced lack of tightness, of tongue and teeth and lips and most of all, throat. Still lost in the orgasm part even if he's separate from the release, he moans some more in response to Emet-Selch's sounds, plays the sensation of his lover drinking down his cock and his come with zeal back to himself, the way he felt as though he might be content forever sucking with such rapture on his aching arousal. Mettaton here and now feels he'd be content providing Emet-Selch with a thick cock to suck on for as long as his Bonded wished it, and he'd give him just as much come, as long as he'd endlessly swallow around his length in such a way that makes it feel as though he's having the come sucked right out of him. He yearns all over again for that heat and the sensation of swallowing he felt at his release, a sensation so strong that he can scarcely stand it, much less return to his feet in a more literal sense. All he can do is moan some more.
Emet-Selch managed to overwhelm the robot, but it's the kind of overwhelming they did to each other. He relishes it, nuzzles his lover's bloodied, bruised throat as he strokes the back of Emet-Selch's head with his hand, holding him flush to his torso — eye against dial, face against chest plate, and all of it separated by a layer of diamonds. His claws only softly scrape against Emet-Selch's scalp, his moon-swayed mind keeping lust well and alive without any effort on Mettaton's part. He knows what he wants, and it's just a matter of getting his legs to cooperate... He doesn't feel he just wants more attention, he needs it.
Cursed jewelry and full moon pendants aside, their wedding would be an affair painted by an underlying level of lust, the chance of giving in around every corner. Mettaton would find Emet-Selch so well-dressed, surely, that he'd demand the right to strip him for himself; it's what the most attractive clothes are for, on his Bonded. It would be a thought to nag him and grow in size, progressively getting worse until he couldn't stand it.
But there would still be this. Even in Mettaton's frenzied heat, he wants to hold Emet-Selch. There was room, perhaps, for enough decency that he could content himself with simply gazing into his lover's eyes, set out before everyone to bear witness to their closeness and their love. Their possession.
And their impossibly sized need of each other. Mettaton is reassured by Emet-Selch's coughs, knowing he's conscious and well, but also that he's preparing himself for another round by clearing himself up. Mettaton nearly growls with his lust flaring to life, managing to part from Emet-Selch with kisses to his clavicle and neck. A beautiful neck, he thought, beholding it more closely in its stretched out brilliance: bruised, kissed, saliva-covered, bloodied with marks of teeth and claws... And having just been pulled over an erection girthy enough to remove his chance for air. And Emet-Selch loved it.
He stands to his feet and climbs back upon the bed, trembling and still reclaiming his ability for speech amidst animal instinct and need as he winds both arms around Emet-Selch's shoulders, bringing him to an upright position. He half-drags, half-coaxes his beautifully stripped lover to join him as he reclines against the head of the bed, in his throne of pillows. Spreading his legs and demanding that Emet-Selch lay between them, Mettaton pushes his Bonded against his waist, cheek flush to the heart container there while his (already reviving) half-erection remains prodding Emet-Selch's chest.
Mettaton sighs, a more contented sound. He knows what he craves on a more carnal level, but there's still a part of him that yearns for affectionate contact. He strokes his Bonded's head where he's maneuvered him.]
How are you...? [Mollified by this long-enduring "compliment" of loving his cock, and still within his mental faculties save for the libidinous appetite compounded upon by the sway of the pendants, Mettaton is still Mettaton, and he wants to know about his lover's status. He cares about him, even through his conceit and madness.] You're so wonderful, you know... Can you talk after all of that, Hades-darling? Tell me- how much you loved that.
[To suggest what he means, the Puca strokes gently at Emet-Selch's throat. Both to refer to his potential loss of speech, and all there is to like about what just took place.
... That darkness in him suggests that if he should hear his lover's voice, he really needs to be fucked again. Needs to be impaled upon his cock, made to suck and swallow around him all over again until his throat was made so hoarse that only the whisper of speech was left. Mettaton nearly moans again at the thought, squirming: he's not very good at disguising his already-reviving arousal. He's possessed by a feral desire stoked by the influence of the moons, fantasizing about having his erection sucked some more.
This is not uncommon for Mettaton on the full moons. The Puca's spikes of energy in this moment may feel easily comparable to what Emet-Selch feels of him during the full moons through Bond. A content, safely-Bonded Mettaton is one with that streak of darkness and mischievousness, vindictive and fierce, but one who can be subdued or placated and distracted with earthly and erotic indulgence both.]
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Even here, no longer lodged in his lover's throat, he feels the pronounced lack of tightness, of tongue and teeth and lips and most of all, throat. Still lost in the orgasm part even if he's separate from the release, he moans some more in response to Emet-Selch's sounds, plays the sensation of his lover drinking down his cock and his come with zeal back to himself, the way he felt as though he might be content forever sucking with such rapture on his aching arousal. Mettaton here and now feels he'd be content providing Emet-Selch with a thick cock to suck on for as long as his Bonded wished it, and he'd give him just as much come, as long as he'd endlessly swallow around his length in such a way that makes it feel as though he's having the come sucked right out of him. He yearns all over again for that heat and the sensation of swallowing he felt at his release, a sensation so strong that he can scarcely stand it, much less return to his feet in a more literal sense. All he can do is moan some more.
Emet-Selch managed to overwhelm the robot, but it's the kind of overwhelming they did to each other. He relishes it, nuzzles his lover's bloodied, bruised throat as he strokes the back of Emet-Selch's head with his hand, holding him flush to his torso — eye against dial, face against chest plate, and all of it separated by a layer of diamonds. His claws only softly scrape against Emet-Selch's scalp, his moon-swayed mind keeping lust well and alive without any effort on Mettaton's part. He knows what he wants, and it's just a matter of getting his legs to cooperate... He doesn't feel he just wants more attention, he needs it.
Cursed jewelry and full moon pendants aside, their wedding would be an affair painted by an underlying level of lust, the chance of giving in around every corner. Mettaton would find Emet-Selch so well-dressed, surely, that he'd demand the right to strip him for himself; it's what the most attractive clothes are for, on his Bonded. It would be a thought to nag him and grow in size, progressively getting worse until he couldn't stand it.
But there would still be this. Even in Mettaton's frenzied heat, he wants to hold Emet-Selch. There was room, perhaps, for enough decency that he could content himself with simply gazing into his lover's eyes, set out before everyone to bear witness to their closeness and their love. Their possession.
And their impossibly sized need of each other. Mettaton is reassured by Emet-Selch's coughs, knowing he's conscious and well, but also that he's preparing himself for another round by clearing himself up. Mettaton nearly growls with his lust flaring to life, managing to part from Emet-Selch with kisses to his clavicle and neck. A beautiful neck, he thought, beholding it more closely in its stretched out brilliance: bruised, kissed, saliva-covered, bloodied with marks of teeth and claws... And having just been pulled over an erection girthy enough to remove his chance for air. And Emet-Selch loved it.
He stands to his feet and climbs back upon the bed, trembling and still reclaiming his ability for speech amidst animal instinct and need as he winds both arms around Emet-Selch's shoulders, bringing him to an upright position. He half-drags, half-coaxes his beautifully stripped lover to join him as he reclines against the head of the bed, in his throne of pillows. Spreading his legs and demanding that Emet-Selch lay between them, Mettaton pushes his Bonded against his waist, cheek flush to the heart container there while his (already reviving) half-erection remains prodding Emet-Selch's chest.
Mettaton sighs, a more contented sound. He knows what he craves on a more carnal level, but there's still a part of him that yearns for affectionate contact. He strokes his Bonded's head where he's maneuvered him.]
How are you...? [Mollified by this long-enduring "compliment" of loving his cock, and still within his mental faculties save for the libidinous appetite compounded upon by the sway of the pendants, Mettaton is still Mettaton, and he wants to know about his lover's status. He cares about him, even through his conceit and madness.] You're so wonderful, you know... Can you talk after all of that, Hades-darling? Tell me- how much you loved that.
[To suggest what he means, the Puca strokes gently at Emet-Selch's throat. Both to refer to his potential loss of speech, and all there is to like about what just took place.
... That darkness in him suggests that if he should hear his lover's voice, he really needs to be fucked again. Needs to be impaled upon his cock, made to suck and swallow around him all over again until his throat was made so hoarse that only the whisper of speech was left. Mettaton nearly moans again at the thought, squirming: he's not very good at disguising his already-reviving arousal. He's possessed by a feral desire stoked by the influence of the moons, fantasizing about having his erection sucked some more.
This is not uncommon for Mettaton on the full moons. The Puca's spikes of energy in this moment may feel easily comparable to what Emet-Selch feels of him during the full moons through Bond. A content, safely-Bonded Mettaton is one with that streak of darkness and mischievousness, vindictive and fierce, but one who can be subdued or placated and distracted with earthly and erotic indulgence both.]