[For all that he would not only permit, but encourage- even enjoy- being shoved over and fucked with immediacy, Emet-Selch could also appreciate this show of Mettaton's restraint and consideration for him. Permitting this physical body of his some segment of time to recover, before taking fully to him once more. His kisses to him slow slightly, gentle more, a contact borne more of affection than passion, wondering at the effort it took to override or otherwise control the influence of instinct- particularly when it was instinct neither of them were exactly opposed to.
As even though he could only feel the effect of it secondhand, through Bond, in combination with their already considerable attraction to one another, he knew how very easy it would be to slip back into ever fiercer passions. Kissings of increasing heats, whispered compliments turned to moans, embraces turned hard and demanding, in a desire to give everything to one another....
He has to take a steadying breath himself, and he's not even the one currently hard.
So he focuses instead on Mettaton's voice, his reply, the scarcely conceivable truth that no one else had thought to praise either him or his choice of decorations. But Emet-Selch's tastes are extremely refined, sophisticated, and regal. He's been an emperor at least once and likely more than that, and he has a better soul than anyone else on his world, and likely most worlds (barring the other remaining unbroken Ascian). That meant his opinion mattered more (if it even counted as something as subjective as opinion). He liked the way Mettaton looked, and who else's judgement should even register? Only theirs. He can believe this as though it's some fundamental truth, and he doesn't even need a piece of cursed jewelry to do so.
Pressing back against both hand and lips, he does have to consider that Mettaton seemed unusually insistent on praise, and unusually offended at not receiving it. When Emet-Selch thinks back to the beginning of their encounter, and adds to it those strange spikes of fury preceding it- it was a bit different than the robot's normal condition. And if he added that together with the pendants' effects....
He would hum thoughtfully if he could. Instead he nuzzles thoughtfully at his lover's mouth when he catches him in a kiss, lips parting for an easier taste of him. And then his thoughts are disrupted once more by the combination of the grind of Mettaton's cock against him, a reminder of his persistent arousal, and by his words, a reminder of the taste of his come, a heady claim upon his mouth. Not that Emet-Selch had had any opportunity to forget either, but with the tension (or rather, the robotic equivalent of it) in Mettaton's body, and the smooth way his lover's tongue had slipped past his lips, getting a proper sample of himself, it was hard to consider anything else. Even the treatment of his torn lip was gentle, and the Ascian settles with greater ease against him, not relaxing per se, but accepting this slower burn of intensity.
The necklace was also cursed: yes, that was the thought he'd been having. But it was a curse that could be handled, though a part of him is amused at the coincidence that Mettaton would find his way under multiple curses that worked so effectively together. They were definitely pieces that were worth holding onto....]
Mm... it certainly adds to the effect.
[Of being possessed, marked, designated as being something of Mettaton's. It's a reply given against his lips as well, holding back a faint sigh as he rubs back against his cock, in idle appreciation of his continued want. In less-idle imaginings of taking it inside him again.]
Not that I would ever be allowed to forget your claim of me.
no subject
As even though he could only feel the effect of it secondhand, through Bond, in combination with their already considerable attraction to one another, he knew how very easy it would be to slip back into ever fiercer passions. Kissings of increasing heats, whispered compliments turned to moans, embraces turned hard and demanding, in a desire to give everything to one another....
He has to take a steadying breath himself, and he's not even the one currently hard.
So he focuses instead on Mettaton's voice, his reply, the scarcely conceivable truth that no one else had thought to praise either him or his choice of decorations. But Emet-Selch's tastes are extremely refined, sophisticated, and regal. He's been an emperor at least once and likely more than that, and he has a better soul than anyone else on his world, and likely most worlds (barring the other remaining unbroken Ascian). That meant his opinion mattered more (if it even counted as something as subjective as opinion). He liked the way Mettaton looked, and who else's judgement should even register? Only theirs. He can believe this as though it's some fundamental truth, and he doesn't even need a piece of cursed jewelry to do so.
Pressing back against both hand and lips, he does have to consider that Mettaton seemed unusually insistent on praise, and unusually offended at not receiving it. When Emet-Selch thinks back to the beginning of their encounter, and adds to it those strange spikes of fury preceding it- it was a bit different than the robot's normal condition. And if he added that together with the pendants' effects....
He would hum thoughtfully if he could. Instead he nuzzles thoughtfully at his lover's mouth when he catches him in a kiss, lips parting for an easier taste of him. And then his thoughts are disrupted once more by the combination of the grind of Mettaton's cock against him, a reminder of his persistent arousal, and by his words, a reminder of the taste of his come, a heady claim upon his mouth. Not that Emet-Selch had had any opportunity to forget either, but with the tension (or rather, the robotic equivalent of it) in Mettaton's body, and the smooth way his lover's tongue had slipped past his lips, getting a proper sample of himself, it was hard to consider anything else. Even the treatment of his torn lip was gentle, and the Ascian settles with greater ease against him, not relaxing per se, but accepting this slower burn of intensity.
The necklace was also cursed: yes, that was the thought he'd been having. But it was a curse that could be handled, though a part of him is amused at the coincidence that Mettaton would find his way under multiple curses that worked so effectively together. They were definitely pieces that were worth holding onto....]
Mm... it certainly adds to the effect.
[Of being possessed, marked, designated as being something of Mettaton's. It's a reply given against his lips as well, holding back a faint sigh as he rubs back against his cock, in idle appreciation of his continued want. In less-idle imaginings of taking it inside him again.]
Not that I would ever be allowed to forget your claim of me.