[Relief floods him upon the eventual conclusion of his release, every stroke and pull of Emet-Selch's body triggering a series more of thrusts as though his body had anything more to give. The hand he'd used to pull Emet-Selch off is splayed along his thigh, stroking and rubbing his skin while he continues to hold him close, all of this part of a long set of automatic impulses fostered in closeness. Emet-Selch curls into him, slack; all of the exhaustion is evidently catching up to him.
But he doesn't need to moan, not when Mettaton can feel wave after wave still impressing upon his lover of pleasure, residual from their orgasm and all of the little sensory details that present themselves to the two lovers. The smell of sex, the feeling of heat around Mettaton's cock, the pressure of weight from his lover's body, the sounds of them both, Emet-Selch's breath and Mettaton's shifting...
Mettaton focuses on the sound of his lover's breath. It's wonderful to hear, Emet-Selch spent and curling into him, his body prone and marked and his, the work of two efforts combined. Mettaton wants to hold him ever closer, but his arms are being disagreeable; he can only tighten the one, his thoughts scattered. But he does tighten that arm. He does pull him closer, for all that Emet-Selch is still seated atop his cock and unable to leave that spot; and when Emet-Selch mouths him, kisses too uncoordinated to be called such, he can only smile and let him. Endeared to it, he lets out a stream of air that carries a soft hum. He nuzzles him, and Mettaton returns the gesture, gentle in its application yet full of his intent.
There doesn't need to be any thoughts to distract them from this moment of gentle bliss, only the awareness of skin against his cheek, his lips. The Ascian's drawn to his lips by impulse and catches himself only as he skims them together like this. Awareness comes to them both, but only that they have each other's lips pressed together, waiting to be kissed: an agreeable pursuit, one that Mettaton takes to just as soon as Emet-Selch finds himself taking him in a soft, tender kiss.
Blood is smeared all over Mettaton's face, the most marked-up place on his whole body, an indication that the bejeweled idol has been feasting on his lover — who bears matching marks, streaks of blood that cascade down from his neck in rivulets and smears, both dried and drying. They tore into each other and ended up on the other side of it like this, in each other's arms, intimate and warmed and thoughtless save for each other. Gentle and kind, even after savagery and desire burned them down. They had each other's company, each other's hearts, and each other's lips at their own. It does feel natural: Mettaton finds himself gently sucking at his Bonded's lower lip before releasing it for further kisses, ones that aren't desperate for air or fiery hot, but tempered, warm, loving.
Ferocity and gentleness were two different applications of the same emotion, after all. Two extremes to the same emotion they felt strongly for one another, and Mettaton silently appreciates Emet-Selch for being so receptive. For prying himself open to this, for taking his hand and meeting him in this way.
All thoughts he can't precisely form in any coherent manner, but work themselves quietly in the depths of Mettaton's mind. The feeling of appreciation still seeps into his manner, and he breaks their kiss for a moment to nuzzle noses, to press their foreheads together as he closes his eye. His dark-tinged ears lean dangerously forward in his interest in his Bonded, heat on his "breath" in an effort for his body to cool down. There's really no point in opening his eye to meet Emet-Selch's gaze, but he does it anyway; the eye he meets is the one that cannot see, after all, but it's always been like that since they Bonded.
But he can still regard him. Can still see the details of his face, a scar that decorates his skin, eye shuttered closed with the gentle swoop of lashes, lips and skin flushed with vitality, and the hints of red decorating his body just out of sight from his current view. He's grown so familiar to the anatomy of this man, and he remembers finding him to be a bit more differentiated from the rest of humankind when he first saw him... Unique, and carrying himself with an air totally his own. That shock of white, the one he sees just within his sights—
Actually, like this, from Mettaton's view, white hair is all he sees on him. For a moment, his arm leaves Emet-Selch free of his grip, but only so he could pet over light strands of hair that frame his vision of Emet-Selch. Just as quickly, his claws graze down his lover's spine, and his arm is returned to its rightful embrace.
He's almost too love-struck to speak, even though all he can do is smile at Emet-Selch. His voice is low, as soft as their kiss.]
Hades, darling...
[Indeed, thoughts just aren't happening for the moment, tongue-tied besides. The little ways being overwhelmed and spent manifests on a robot, one reliant on the emotions of someone with independent thought and a soul besides. He squeezes Emet-Selch a little closer.]
no subject
But he doesn't need to moan, not when Mettaton can feel wave after wave still impressing upon his lover of pleasure, residual from their orgasm and all of the little sensory details that present themselves to the two lovers. The smell of sex, the feeling of heat around Mettaton's cock, the pressure of weight from his lover's body, the sounds of them both, Emet-Selch's breath and Mettaton's shifting...
Mettaton focuses on the sound of his lover's breath. It's wonderful to hear, Emet-Selch spent and curling into him, his body prone and marked and his, the work of two efforts combined. Mettaton wants to hold him ever closer, but his arms are being disagreeable; he can only tighten the one, his thoughts scattered. But he does tighten that arm. He does pull him closer, for all that Emet-Selch is still seated atop his cock and unable to leave that spot; and when Emet-Selch mouths him, kisses too uncoordinated to be called such, he can only smile and let him. Endeared to it, he lets out a stream of air that carries a soft hum. He nuzzles him, and Mettaton returns the gesture, gentle in its application yet full of his intent.
There doesn't need to be any thoughts to distract them from this moment of gentle bliss, only the awareness of skin against his cheek, his lips. The Ascian's drawn to his lips by impulse and catches himself only as he skims them together like this. Awareness comes to them both, but only that they have each other's lips pressed together, waiting to be kissed: an agreeable pursuit, one that Mettaton takes to just as soon as Emet-Selch finds himself taking him in a soft, tender kiss.
Blood is smeared all over Mettaton's face, the most marked-up place on his whole body, an indication that the bejeweled idol has been feasting on his lover — who bears matching marks, streaks of blood that cascade down from his neck in rivulets and smears, both dried and drying. They tore into each other and ended up on the other side of it like this, in each other's arms, intimate and warmed and thoughtless save for each other. Gentle and kind, even after savagery and desire burned them down. They had each other's company, each other's hearts, and each other's lips at their own. It does feel natural: Mettaton finds himself gently sucking at his Bonded's lower lip before releasing it for further kisses, ones that aren't desperate for air or fiery hot, but tempered, warm, loving.
Ferocity and gentleness were two different applications of the same emotion, after all. Two extremes to the same emotion they felt strongly for one another, and Mettaton silently appreciates Emet-Selch for being so receptive. For prying himself open to this, for taking his hand and meeting him in this way.
All thoughts he can't precisely form in any coherent manner, but work themselves quietly in the depths of Mettaton's mind. The feeling of appreciation still seeps into his manner, and he breaks their kiss for a moment to nuzzle noses, to press their foreheads together as he closes his eye. His dark-tinged ears lean dangerously forward in his interest in his Bonded, heat on his "breath" in an effort for his body to cool down. There's really no point in opening his eye to meet Emet-Selch's gaze, but he does it anyway; the eye he meets is the one that cannot see, after all, but it's always been like that since they Bonded.
But he can still regard him. Can still see the details of his face, a scar that decorates his skin, eye shuttered closed with the gentle swoop of lashes, lips and skin flushed with vitality, and the hints of red decorating his body just out of sight from his current view. He's grown so familiar to the anatomy of this man, and he remembers finding him to be a bit more differentiated from the rest of humankind when he first saw him... Unique, and carrying himself with an air totally his own. That shock of white, the one he sees just within his sights—
Actually, like this, from Mettaton's view, white hair is all he sees on him. For a moment, his arm leaves Emet-Selch free of his grip, but only so he could pet over light strands of hair that frame his vision of Emet-Selch. Just as quickly, his claws graze down his lover's spine, and his arm is returned to its rightful embrace.
He's almost too love-struck to speak, even though all he can do is smile at Emet-Selch. His voice is low, as soft as their kiss.]
Hades, darling...
[Indeed, thoughts just aren't happening for the moment, tongue-tied besides. The little ways being overwhelmed and spent manifests on a robot, one reliant on the emotions of someone with independent thought and a soul besides. He squeezes Emet-Selch a little closer.]