[At his assent, Mettaton hums. His eye slips closed as he places a kiss to the back of his head, listening to the struggle Emet-Selch goes through to speak. Withdrawing and pulling off of him, he gets a good look at Emet-Selch from behind when he pulls back: legs awfully spread by Mettaton's demand, spread enough that he can see the bruises he sucked into his inner thighs with perfect clarity...
His cock aches hard from that alone, the pressure reminding him of what it might feel like if he had a heart. The pulsing of engorgement, distracting in a way totally unlike the continuous build of need and hypnotizing in its own right. But Emet-Selch's also bitten all over his upper back, bruises and bites and still fresh blood, much of it cleaned by tongue. Emet-Selch rises, a process labored by wounds that end up becoming agitated all over again. Watching the Ascian move to face him feels like it takes so long, a process made more pronounced by the ache in his abdomen.
His eyes skirt down his figure, taking in his waist, his hips, his ass again, watching him shift around to face him better — then, his chest, his abdomen, his crotch. What a sight he is. The bed's responsible for having smeared much of his come, but evidence of ejaculation rests above his Bonded's cock, the smell of their sex still hot in to his senses. Mettaton fantasizes hard about those thighs, his ass, the sight of his cock smeared with come, and those bright eyes of his eye him hungrily all over again.
He abstains only because he's not fully under the sway of the sisters.
Emet-Selch leans in, however, to place a kiss to his lips. It's sweet and soft, but the touch of tongue lights Mettaton up anew — and he can feel that adoration of him without words exchanged at all, striking in him ever more eagerness. With that predatory verve, he kisses the other man back with tongue, thrusting past his lips as one of his hands presses to the back of Emet-Selch's head, slipping and twisting into hair. Mettaton looms with more strength to his demeanor as though ready to pounce, ready to push Emet-Selch back all over again, ready to topple him over and fuck him. His erection practically feels like it's pulsing with his sudden need, his head filled with the sight of his Bonded's thighs spread, come smeared on skin, bruises sucked between his thighs—
(And when he thinks about Emet-Selch's lovebitten thighs, he fantasizes some more about Emet-Selch wrapped between his own legs, face shoved into his crotch, made to suck and lick at his balls, lips parted over the whole of his arousal and made to suck down his shaft and swallow around the head—)
(And when he thinks about that, he also thinks about Emet-Selch's contrariness, his design to fuck himself frustratingly with fingers, the taste of his blood and the sudden relief of conquering Emet-Selch's body with enough persuasion; the way he could bury his erection between his thighs, massaging his cock with the use of his body—)
Mettaton has doomed himself to endless temptation, and he doesn't know if he cares to pull away. They'd... make it to the shower? Surely he could just take a moment to kiss him harder, to push him down, to...
At least he pulls him into his lap, forcing him into a straddle as though he's ready to pick him up and take him to the shower. He gets that far — as Emet-Selch projected, Mettaton would be capable of carrying him. But as soon as he collects him in his lap, seated on the edge of the bed and ready to lift him into his arms, Mettaton exhales. He shifts his hips, rubbing his cock against Emet-Selch's front, dragging the head of himself along his abdomen as he buries his nose into his neck.]
Ah...
[How does patience work? He could take him in the shower... but he could also take him one more time here, then take him to the shower, couldn't he? He could have him endlessly, he could have him all. Mettaton knows it would only be Emet-Selch's delight to have him over and over as well, after all.
He giggles a bit, almost abashed, if he had any shame to spare. He doesn't: and Mettaton instead opts to raise Emet-Selch's hips so that he can rub against his ass.]
We're... Yes, we're still going to shower. Don't you worry, darling. I...
[Emet-Selch's also covered in his own saliva along his face and neck, then Mettaton's saliva coats his back. He's really, truly marked by their sex... That in itself is a thought arresting, one that has Mettaton's arm wrapping around Emet-Selch's hips to prod his entrance with the pad of his finger (gentle still with that claw), once more shameless in his palpation. His need to fuck him only rears its head some more, and he groans at the sensation of him, yearning to press the swollen head of his arousal there in place of a digit.]
You are a mess, and... Well, I could... carry you... Or.
[Or, he could be more of a mess, says one half of him. The other half says he could be made a mess of under running water. Both halves say he could be made a mess of regardless, so either way, he's not losing anything. Mettaton's finger rubs circles against his lover's entrance, the head of his cock close by as though waiting to take place of his hand.]
no subject
His cock aches hard from that alone, the pressure reminding him of what it might feel like if he had a heart. The pulsing of engorgement, distracting in a way totally unlike the continuous build of need and hypnotizing in its own right. But Emet-Selch's also bitten all over his upper back, bruises and bites and still fresh blood, much of it cleaned by tongue. Emet-Selch rises, a process labored by wounds that end up becoming agitated all over again. Watching the Ascian move to face him feels like it takes so long, a process made more pronounced by the ache in his abdomen.
His eyes skirt down his figure, taking in his waist, his hips, his ass again, watching him shift around to face him better — then, his chest, his abdomen, his crotch. What a sight he is. The bed's responsible for having smeared much of his come, but evidence of ejaculation rests above his Bonded's cock, the smell of their sex still hot in to his senses. Mettaton fantasizes hard about those thighs, his ass, the sight of his cock smeared with come, and those bright eyes of his eye him hungrily all over again.
He abstains only because he's not fully under the sway of the sisters.
Emet-Selch leans in, however, to place a kiss to his lips. It's sweet and soft, but the touch of tongue lights Mettaton up anew — and he can feel that adoration of him without words exchanged at all, striking in him ever more eagerness. With that predatory verve, he kisses the other man back with tongue, thrusting past his lips as one of his hands presses to the back of Emet-Selch's head, slipping and twisting into hair. Mettaton looms with more strength to his demeanor as though ready to pounce, ready to push Emet-Selch back all over again, ready to topple him over and fuck him. His erection practically feels like it's pulsing with his sudden need, his head filled with the sight of his Bonded's thighs spread, come smeared on skin, bruises sucked between his thighs—
(And when he thinks about Emet-Selch's lovebitten thighs, he fantasizes some more about Emet-Selch wrapped between his own legs, face shoved into his crotch, made to suck and lick at his balls, lips parted over the whole of his arousal and made to suck down his shaft and swallow around the head—)
(And when he thinks about that, he also thinks about Emet-Selch's contrariness, his design to fuck himself frustratingly with fingers, the taste of his blood and the sudden relief of conquering Emet-Selch's body with enough persuasion; the way he could bury his erection between his thighs, massaging his cock with the use of his body—)
Mettaton has doomed himself to endless temptation, and he doesn't know if he cares to pull away. They'd... make it to the shower? Surely he could just take a moment to kiss him harder, to push him down, to...
At least he pulls him into his lap, forcing him into a straddle as though he's ready to pick him up and take him to the shower. He gets that far — as Emet-Selch projected, Mettaton would be capable of carrying him. But as soon as he collects him in his lap, seated on the edge of the bed and ready to lift him into his arms, Mettaton exhales. He shifts his hips, rubbing his cock against Emet-Selch's front, dragging the head of himself along his abdomen as he buries his nose into his neck.]
Ah...
[How does patience work? He could take him in the shower... but he could also take him one more time here, then take him to the shower, couldn't he? He could have him endlessly, he could have him all. Mettaton knows it would only be Emet-Selch's delight to have him over and over as well, after all.
He giggles a bit, almost abashed, if he had any shame to spare. He doesn't: and Mettaton instead opts to raise Emet-Selch's hips so that he can rub against his ass.]
We're... Yes, we're still going to shower. Don't you worry, darling. I...
[Emet-Selch's also covered in his own saliva along his face and neck, then Mettaton's saliva coats his back. He's really, truly marked by their sex... That in itself is a thought arresting, one that has Mettaton's arm wrapping around Emet-Selch's hips to prod his entrance with the pad of his finger (gentle still with that claw), once more shameless in his palpation. His need to fuck him only rears its head some more, and he groans at the sensation of him, yearning to press the swollen head of his arousal there in place of a digit.]
You are a mess, and... Well, I could... carry you... Or.
[Or, he could be more of a mess, says one half of him. The other half says he could be made a mess of under running water. Both halves say he could be made a mess of regardless, so either way, he's not losing anything. Mettaton's finger rubs circles against his lover's entrance, the head of his cock close by as though waiting to take place of his hand.]