[Both mouth and throat felt so strange to not have an erection blocking them, for breathing to come so relatively straightforwardly. What was he meant to do with so much air? Moan again, apparently, as he shivers in his place between Mettaton's legs, feeling both the heavy afterglow of his own orgasm, alongside his various stinging aches, and the more simple pleasure of fingers trailing through his hair, rubbing at his scalp. There was physical discomfort, sure, but it couldn't match the temporary kind of contentment that it brought him. If anything it helped, every twinge just diverting his thoughts back to how he attained it- whether it was from the rake of claws or pierce of teeth, or the repeated drag of an erection down his throat.
An erection which... remained by his face, used but undaunted, slick and hard still. A tempting sensation to have so close, and one he nuzzles his face against automatically, the gesture uncoordinated, affectionate, breathless. Mettaton was insatiable in body as well as mind... it was flattering to be the recipient of his attention. And something he'd feel smug about if he were a bit more together; instead Emet-Selch only loves him for his responsiveness. Puca and Mettaton-energy combined were... a force to be reckoned with, but the Ascian was undaunted to match it, even if his mortal body inevitably lagged behind him.
An embrace of thighs becomes an embrace of arms, as Emet-Selch feels himself hauled upwards, away from his lover's cock and against his chest instead. But it's a movement he labors to assist in, pressing himself against him, not caring if it was a surface of metal and jewelry and fur (so, unyielding, and only slightly softened, and with more rough bits than usual). His own arms can't wrap around him like this, but he makes an attempt regardless, nestling his face against Mettaton's neck with a sigh. Both his words and the kisses bestown to his head get a quiet, approving sound from him, as he shifts and stretches in his arms.]
Was it that obvious...?
[But his amusement is clear, even with the softness and hoarseness of his voice. Emet-Selch would certainly not be speaking easily or often in the days to come. Possibly refusing to speak at all, communicating only in various expressions of irritation and disapproval, once he was away from the immediate throes of arousal and sex. But for now, it was a positive condition only, and even at his most disgruntled, he'll consider it worthwhile, worth repeating, and terribly arousing if he thought too closely about it.]
It's unpleasant to speak. I imagine it shall be.... [Mild as it is, it's hard to even qualify that much as chiding. Especially when it's spoken in a tone that is best described as a shade above a whisper.] And yet you've made the process enjoyable.
[Emet-Selch couldn't imagine tolerating this kind of treatment from anyone else- much less actually approving of it, encouraging it, aroused by it to the point of climaxing solely from the experience of it.
And so long as Mettaton remained in contact with him, he qualified as comfortable. Heat still ran through his blood, blood still ran over his skin (drying or clotted mostly), any soreness was acceptable, his lover's erection remained nudging enticingly against him. Eventually the exposed back side of his body would chill and he would shiver from cold as well as pleasure, but Emet-Selch wasn't thinking that far ahead at all. Not when he could kiss Mettaton's throat now, and even tilt his head to spread his affection to the underside of his jaw. The one downside to being shoved against his crotch was being unable to do things like this- but then, the downside of kissing his face, was not being able to suck his cock, so really, the lesson to learn was that there was a time for everything.
And this was... absurdly, unbelievably nice, to have both his body painted in reds and purples, to be scratched and scented, his throat rubbed raw, the taste of his come still strong in his mouth- along with this incredible fondness. It was surreal, almost, to be made so vulnerable in both form and emotion, and to not feel uneasy about it. To care for someone this much, and to trust him....]
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An erection which... remained by his face, used but undaunted, slick and hard still. A tempting sensation to have so close, and one he nuzzles his face against automatically, the gesture uncoordinated, affectionate, breathless. Mettaton was insatiable in body as well as mind... it was flattering to be the recipient of his attention. And something he'd feel smug about if he were a bit more together; instead Emet-Selch only loves him for his responsiveness. Puca and Mettaton-energy combined were... a force to be reckoned with, but the Ascian was undaunted to match it, even if his mortal body inevitably lagged behind him.
An embrace of thighs becomes an embrace of arms, as Emet-Selch feels himself hauled upwards, away from his lover's cock and against his chest instead. But it's a movement he labors to assist in, pressing himself against him, not caring if it was a surface of metal and jewelry and fur (so, unyielding, and only slightly softened, and with more rough bits than usual). His own arms can't wrap around him like this, but he makes an attempt regardless, nestling his face against Mettaton's neck with a sigh. Both his words and the kisses bestown to his head get a quiet, approving sound from him, as he shifts and stretches in his arms.]
Was it that obvious...?
[But his amusement is clear, even with the softness and hoarseness of his voice. Emet-Selch would certainly not be speaking easily or often in the days to come. Possibly refusing to speak at all, communicating only in various expressions of irritation and disapproval, once he was away from the immediate throes of arousal and sex. But for now, it was a positive condition only, and even at his most disgruntled, he'll consider it worthwhile, worth repeating, and terribly arousing if he thought too closely about it.]
It's unpleasant to speak. I imagine it shall be.... [Mild as it is, it's hard to even qualify that much as chiding. Especially when it's spoken in a tone that is best described as a shade above a whisper.] And yet you've made the process enjoyable.
[Emet-Selch couldn't imagine tolerating this kind of treatment from anyone else- much less actually approving of it, encouraging it, aroused by it to the point of climaxing solely from the experience of it.
And so long as Mettaton remained in contact with him, he qualified as comfortable. Heat still ran through his blood, blood still ran over his skin (drying or clotted mostly), any soreness was acceptable, his lover's erection remained nudging enticingly against him. Eventually the exposed back side of his body would chill and he would shiver from cold as well as pleasure, but Emet-Selch wasn't thinking that far ahead at all. Not when he could kiss Mettaton's throat now, and even tilt his head to spread his affection to the underside of his jaw. The one downside to being shoved against his crotch was being unable to do things like this- but then, the downside of kissing his face, was not being able to suck his cock, so really, the lesson to learn was that there was a time for everything.
And this was... absurdly, unbelievably nice, to have both his body painted in reds and purples, to be scratched and scented, his throat rubbed raw, the taste of his come still strong in his mouth- along with this incredible fondness. It was surreal, almost, to be made so vulnerable in both form and emotion, and to not feel uneasy about it. To care for someone this much, and to trust him....]