[But how rapturous Emet-Selch feels when he's being fucked. Energy and love and pleasure well up in him and in them both, and it would be hard to tell if it originated from one of them or not. Did it matter? They loved each other, and they belonged to one another. Their pain would be shared, and their happiness, too, could be shared. Pleasure and bliss and sorrow alike, the both of them felt strongly enough to make up for the other in spades. But moreover, they could overwhelm one another to their heart's content: Mettaton couldn't drown, and Emet-Selch enjoyed suffocating.
His voice is always a pleasure to hear, but in a state like this, Mettaton's sure he'll remember it. Practically a whisper of its former self, it's the evidence of their engagement with one another. And even though it lacks the full depth of its sound, Mettaton can practically hear what sorts of noises the Asican means to make when he shudders, breathes, rasps desperately as he feels Mettaton pounding into him, the sight of his fingers balled into the bedspread a delectable one. Mettaton can only imagine that his poor lover's made to brace himself for unpredictability, for handing over control to Mettaton and being met with such erratic drags of his cock, pleasure he can't begin to anticipate layered on top of the searing of pain.
Intensity enough to lose his mind. Mettaton can scarcely think himself, only capable in the afterglow of wanting more and more. He's insatiable, after all, and the breathing of his lover first tells him that he hasn't yet come. He feels Emet-Selch's body tightening around his length, pulling and squeezing from him everything he has to give, and he's made to bite his lip and moan. He has commentary for it, but it all dies before he could think to verbalize it, focusing all of his energy instead on thrusting.
When Emet-Selch comes, it feels like a bolt of pleasure, an indulgence, felt through their connection to one another. He squeezes his shaft still, rubbing over the head of his cock as he thrusts into the bed and then back into Mettaton's hips, as though stroking himself on his cock for beats more of arousal. But Emet-Selch's body is taught, Mettaton practically able to taste the imaginings of his abdomen made taut. Just thinking about how tense his body gets for the sake of pleasure, for the jerking of his hips and the full-bodied orgasm, makes him want to lick and kiss the whole of him some more. Mettaton moans all over again, a note of relief decorating his exhalation as he lets go of his shoulder and buries his face in his neck instead, blood and all.
Though he remains semi-stiff, as soon as Emet-Selch goes weak, Mettaton stills his hips to the best of his ability. The echoes of their movement still rub into Emet-Selch, but Mettaton presses damp, open-mouthed kisses to Emet-Selch's neck, licking at blood and skin both and relishing the taste of him, loving him and the way he could tell he wore Emet-Selch raw in all ways.
Emotions, especially, were spent. Drained and made into their most core feelings, no resistance or contrariness left between them. ...Except for Mettaton's cursed jewelry, which demands appeasement still. Emet-Selch's obvious enjoyment of him is enough for the moment, still reflecting on the push of his ass into his hips.
He listens to his rapid, raspy gasps, satisfied that he's worn Emet-Selch down so thoroughly. The robot hums low next to his neck, impassioned kisses taking on a sucking quality.
Mouth feeling numb, Mettaton tries for words as he lowers his body down to press against his lover more firmly. His fingers loosen in their grip, releasing their puncturing hold in his flesh. ...Emet-Selch is bloodied severely, wounds appearing more vast than they really are with all of this spatter, and Mettaton is suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to clean him. He moves down his shoulder, laving him with tongue and lapping at the smears of fresh blood with a sort of gentleness to accompany the afterglow of sex.
Applying a kiss against his wound, Mettaton licks gently there, too.]
Oh, H... Hades. You're... [He's a bloody mess, but he's beautiful. Exhausted, stroked to pleasure, even he's come four times over with a body like his. Mettaton smiles at him fondly, finding it flattering and terribly erotic that he'd be so receptive to him.] I love you. Was that to... your liking? How are you, my dear?
[Bloody or not, saliva-covered or not, Mettaton rests his cheek against his upper back even as he cleans, nuzzling him some more — an idle gesture, one of fondness, further making sure that he's bitten, scarred, marked, bruised, scented, and Mettaton's.]
no subject
His voice is always a pleasure to hear, but in a state like this, Mettaton's sure he'll remember it. Practically a whisper of its former self, it's the evidence of their engagement with one another. And even though it lacks the full depth of its sound, Mettaton can practically hear what sorts of noises the Asican means to make when he shudders, breathes, rasps desperately as he feels Mettaton pounding into him, the sight of his fingers balled into the bedspread a delectable one. Mettaton can only imagine that his poor lover's made to brace himself for unpredictability, for handing over control to Mettaton and being met with such erratic drags of his cock, pleasure he can't begin to anticipate layered on top of the searing of pain.
Intensity enough to lose his mind. Mettaton can scarcely think himself, only capable in the afterglow of wanting more and more. He's insatiable, after all, and the breathing of his lover first tells him that he hasn't yet come. He feels Emet-Selch's body tightening around his length, pulling and squeezing from him everything he has to give, and he's made to bite his lip and moan. He has commentary for it, but it all dies before he could think to verbalize it, focusing all of his energy instead on thrusting.
When Emet-Selch comes, it feels like a bolt of pleasure, an indulgence, felt through their connection to one another. He squeezes his shaft still, rubbing over the head of his cock as he thrusts into the bed and then back into Mettaton's hips, as though stroking himself on his cock for beats more of arousal. But Emet-Selch's body is taught, Mettaton practically able to taste the imaginings of his abdomen made taut. Just thinking about how tense his body gets for the sake of pleasure, for the jerking of his hips and the full-bodied orgasm, makes him want to lick and kiss the whole of him some more. Mettaton moans all over again, a note of relief decorating his exhalation as he lets go of his shoulder and buries his face in his neck instead, blood and all.
Though he remains semi-stiff, as soon as Emet-Selch goes weak, Mettaton stills his hips to the best of his ability. The echoes of their movement still rub into Emet-Selch, but Mettaton presses damp, open-mouthed kisses to Emet-Selch's neck, licking at blood and skin both and relishing the taste of him, loving him and the way he could tell he wore Emet-Selch raw in all ways.
Emotions, especially, were spent. Drained and made into their most core feelings, no resistance or contrariness left between them. ...Except for Mettaton's cursed jewelry, which demands appeasement still. Emet-Selch's obvious enjoyment of him is enough for the moment, still reflecting on the push of his ass into his hips.
He listens to his rapid, raspy gasps, satisfied that he's worn Emet-Selch down so thoroughly. The robot hums low next to his neck, impassioned kisses taking on a sucking quality.
Mouth feeling numb, Mettaton tries for words as he lowers his body down to press against his lover more firmly. His fingers loosen in their grip, releasing their puncturing hold in his flesh. ...Emet-Selch is bloodied severely, wounds appearing more vast than they really are with all of this spatter, and Mettaton is suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to clean him. He moves down his shoulder, laving him with tongue and lapping at the smears of fresh blood with a sort of gentleness to accompany the afterglow of sex.
Applying a kiss against his wound, Mettaton licks gently there, too.]
Oh, H... Hades. You're... [He's a bloody mess, but he's beautiful. Exhausted, stroked to pleasure, even he's come four times over with a body like his. Mettaton smiles at him fondly, finding it flattering and terribly erotic that he'd be so receptive to him.] I love you. Was that to... your liking? How are you, my dear?
[Bloody or not, saliva-covered or not, Mettaton rests his cheek against his upper back even as he cleans, nuzzling him some more — an idle gesture, one of fondness, further making sure that he's bitten, scarred, marked, bruised, scented, and Mettaton's.]