[Distantly, Emet-Selch notices the thoughtful slowing of Mettaton's hips, avoiding too much additional stimulation when he was already overcome and given in, sensitive in more ways than he could count.
It's all he can do to breathe (uncomfortably) and only barely begin to take stock of the status of his body, and the position he was in with any detail (underneath Mettaton, legs spread, was about all he knew, but it probably covered the important parts). Mettaton was providing him both affection and love, a combination which results in him slackening even further into the bed, as though he could melt into it. There were no pretenses to keep in regards to his own condition, and there was a subtle relief to that.
Mettaton's voice was another small pleasure, and the Ascian's only regret is that hearing it also meant that he'd have to produce words of his own, through a throat that was not quite up to the task.]
I love you.
[...Definitely worse off than before, in both quality of sound and level of soreness. But Emet-Selch manages this part first, the most important part, in case he found himself too raw to continue. In case only rasp emerged.
Neverminding that he was already raw in every other sense as well, from that of scratched or punctured skin, to the vigorous thrusting in his ass, to the sense of being emotionally scraped clean. It felt like he didn't have the energy left to be stubborn or disruptive, or to do anything other than appreciate all that had occurred. All that rested on top of him and inside him, gently cleaning his wounds that he'd less-gently inflicted. But no less lovingly.
Emet-Selch would nuzzle back at him if he could, or at least make some sound to indicate his liking of Mettaton's gestures of affection, the soft rubs of his face at his back, the attempts to sooth or clean his injuries. But a sound like that was beyond him; he can only tremble a little underneath his Bonded's form, with a shiver too faint to even be called that. Emet-Selch ached terribly but he was... content. Four orgasms without much of a break between them would do that, but the comfort of being in contact with his lover's body afterward accounted for just as much of it.
Even Mettaton still being inside him was fine, and he wondered if the man would ever be less than somewhat hard. Like many thoughts, it would be an arousing one if he weren't so drained, so spent.
It's with effort that he drags his thoughts back to Mettaton's usual show of concern over his condition, rather than drift in a vague haze of calm soreness, basking in his lover's presence and their shared afterglow.]
--And I- loved that. [Quiet, and not only because it was uncomfortable to speak, causing him to choose his words with more care, and considering how difficult it was to gather his thoughts in the first place, it takes him some moments. But it feels like something of an admittance, for all that his pleasure hadn't exactly been hidden. But to recognize an enjoyment of being used like that, mounted and fucked- it was another thing he hadn't expected to discover about himself.
He'd sigh if it wouldn't hurt.] I feel- better for it, I think.
[A strange outlet for some of his impulses that wouldn't work with anyone else. To come out of it only feeling more tender towards Mettaton, softened entirely... it causes his throat to tighten, which hurts.]
How-- [A swallow that he immediately regrets.] You are. Are you. [One of those. Asking how Mettaton is, it seems, but he's not going to use more words just for the sake of coherency. He'd huff against the bed if it wouldn't also hurt.]
no subject
It's all he can do to breathe (uncomfortably) and only barely begin to take stock of the status of his body, and the position he was in with any detail (underneath Mettaton, legs spread, was about all he knew, but it probably covered the important parts). Mettaton was providing him both affection and love, a combination which results in him slackening even further into the bed, as though he could melt into it. There were no pretenses to keep in regards to his own condition, and there was a subtle relief to that.
Mettaton's voice was another small pleasure, and the Ascian's only regret is that hearing it also meant that he'd have to produce words of his own, through a throat that was not quite up to the task.]
I love you.
[...Definitely worse off than before, in both quality of sound and level of soreness. But Emet-Selch manages this part first, the most important part, in case he found himself too raw to continue. In case only rasp emerged.
Neverminding that he was already raw in every other sense as well, from that of scratched or punctured skin, to the vigorous thrusting in his ass, to the sense of being emotionally scraped clean. It felt like he didn't have the energy left to be stubborn or disruptive, or to do anything other than appreciate all that had occurred. All that rested on top of him and inside him, gently cleaning his wounds that he'd less-gently inflicted. But no less lovingly.
Emet-Selch would nuzzle back at him if he could, or at least make some sound to indicate his liking of Mettaton's gestures of affection, the soft rubs of his face at his back, the attempts to sooth or clean his injuries. But a sound like that was beyond him; he can only tremble a little underneath his Bonded's form, with a shiver too faint to even be called that. Emet-Selch ached terribly but he was... content. Four orgasms without much of a break between them would do that, but the comfort of being in contact with his lover's body afterward accounted for just as much of it.
Even Mettaton still being inside him was fine, and he wondered if the man would ever be less than somewhat hard. Like many thoughts, it would be an arousing one if he weren't so drained, so spent.
It's with effort that he drags his thoughts back to Mettaton's usual show of concern over his condition, rather than drift in a vague haze of calm soreness, basking in his lover's presence and their shared afterglow.]
--And I- loved that. [Quiet, and not only because it was uncomfortable to speak, causing him to choose his words with more care, and considering how difficult it was to gather his thoughts in the first place, it takes him some moments. But it feels like something of an admittance, for all that his pleasure hadn't exactly been hidden. But to recognize an enjoyment of being used like that, mounted and fucked- it was another thing he hadn't expected to discover about himself.
He'd sigh if it wouldn't hurt.] I feel- better for it, I think.
[A strange outlet for some of his impulses that wouldn't work with anyone else. To come out of it only feeling more tender towards Mettaton, softened entirely... it causes his throat to tighten, which hurts.]
How-- [A swallow that he immediately regrets.] You are. Are you. [One of those. Asking how Mettaton is, it seems, but he's not going to use more words just for the sake of coherency. He'd huff against the bed if it wouldn't also hurt.]