[Similarly caught by the notes of his name on Emet-Selch's voice, soft and low as it's made to be, he's caught by... a lot in this moment. Caught by body and smell, by the weight of their emotions and a smile so fleeting that he could have dreamed it up, if he wasn't so sure of his perception. It was perhaps that rarity of his sincerity that made it all the more enticing: it wasn't his nature to find himself smiling as it is Mettaton's, but for a smile to manifest on Emet-Selch's face meant volumes.
If Emet-Selch could feel so welcome to be whoever he was with Mettaton, that was right. He leans forward all over again, nudging a kiss to the Ascian's lips as though he could taste that smile even after it's disappeared.
As soon as he draws back from that, Mettaton does it so that Emet-Selch could see his face with more clarity. He scans his body, makes sure to make a pointed effort in doing so; his gold gaze appraises his jaw, his neck, his chest, shoulders, waist, abdomen, his cock, then his thighs, all in varying states of bruised, bloodied, hot, sweaty, bitten, or come-marked. And the unseen note to it all is what's behind, a sight he'd surely drink in... if he had a mirror pointed their way. If Mettaton spread his legs, he's sure he might even get a glimpse of the root of his cock between his lover's similarly spread legs, his back bitten and blood trailing down parallel to his spine.
He's a mess. It's not a bad look on him, Mettaton thought.
Here, though, the robot stoops in and twists his neck so that he could better fit between Emet-Selch's head and shoulder, mouthing hotly Emet-Selch's neck. But it's all to the greater end of slipping his lips around his throat proper, kissing and licking as though appreciating him for all of the work he put into speaking for him, for crying out and moaning on a voice made hoarse and raw. In the process, he laps up blood left to dry, even if it doesn't perfectly clean off of his skin. It's when he reaches his jaw that Mettaton places a less heated kiss to his Bonded, humming in a low, softened tone.]
Now you truly are a mess...
[And Mettaton is, once more, not soft. He's not engorged or rigid, nothing like he was moments before climax, but there's a stiffness to his length all the same. He unhands Emet-Selch's thigh and withdraws from his neck, making a show of delicately cleaning off his come-spattered fingers with the hint of tongue.]
Shower?
[With both hands free (and not so covered in come), he wraps that arm around Emet-Selch's waist, pulling him tight and secure as he waits for his lover to kiss him with a smile, licking his lips and finding it difficult not to goad Emet-Selch... So he doesn't bother trying to avoid being so flirtatious and sensual. After all, he could become hard at the drop of a hat. It's not fair.
Somehow, even though Mettaton's so easy to work up, he's not so focused on trying to bed his lover again. He could, though. And likely, he will: the remembrance of what's to come when he withdraws from Emet-Selch tempts him near immediately, and he bites a little at his own lip in sudden want for it. To see his lover attempt to stand after his legs have been so spread, so taut around his hips, surely rendered sore from his use... then to see him leaking with come, to watch it decorate his thighs? It would ruin the Puca. He welcomes this demise.
He also just loves him, and wants to see him comfortable and clean and knows the Ascian would be satisfied relaxing, soft and warm and wet in a way the robot couldn't quite hope to be in a body like this. (His fur would be wet for a time, though.) The options remain the same: more sex, shower (and more sex). Is there a third option called sleeping? Mettaton's never heard of it.]
no subject
If Emet-Selch could feel so welcome to be whoever he was with Mettaton, that was right. He leans forward all over again, nudging a kiss to the Ascian's lips as though he could taste that smile even after it's disappeared.
As soon as he draws back from that, Mettaton does it so that Emet-Selch could see his face with more clarity. He scans his body, makes sure to make a pointed effort in doing so; his gold gaze appraises his jaw, his neck, his chest, shoulders, waist, abdomen, his cock, then his thighs, all in varying states of bruised, bloodied, hot, sweaty, bitten, or come-marked. And the unseen note to it all is what's behind, a sight he'd surely drink in... if he had a mirror pointed their way. If Mettaton spread his legs, he's sure he might even get a glimpse of the root of his cock between his lover's similarly spread legs, his back bitten and blood trailing down parallel to his spine.
He's a mess. It's not a bad look on him, Mettaton thought.
Here, though, the robot stoops in and twists his neck so that he could better fit between Emet-Selch's head and shoulder, mouthing hotly Emet-Selch's neck. But it's all to the greater end of slipping his lips around his throat proper, kissing and licking as though appreciating him for all of the work he put into speaking for him, for crying out and moaning on a voice made hoarse and raw. In the process, he laps up blood left to dry, even if it doesn't perfectly clean off of his skin. It's when he reaches his jaw that Mettaton places a less heated kiss to his Bonded, humming in a low, softened tone.]
Now you truly are a mess...
[And Mettaton is, once more, not soft. He's not engorged or rigid, nothing like he was moments before climax, but there's a stiffness to his length all the same. He unhands Emet-Selch's thigh and withdraws from his neck, making a show of delicately cleaning off his come-spattered fingers with the hint of tongue.]
Shower?
[With both hands free (and not so covered in come), he wraps that arm around Emet-Selch's waist, pulling him tight and secure as he waits for his lover to kiss him with a smile, licking his lips and finding it difficult not to goad Emet-Selch... So he doesn't bother trying to avoid being so flirtatious and sensual. After all, he could become hard at the drop of a hat. It's not fair.
Somehow, even though Mettaton's so easy to work up, he's not so focused on trying to bed his lover again. He could, though. And likely, he will: the remembrance of what's to come when he withdraws from Emet-Selch tempts him near immediately, and he bites a little at his own lip in sudden want for it. To see his lover attempt to stand after his legs have been so spread, so taut around his hips, surely rendered sore from his use... then to see him leaking with come, to watch it decorate his thighs? It would ruin the Puca. He welcomes this demise.
He also just loves him, and wants to see him comfortable and clean and knows the Ascian would be satisfied relaxing, soft and warm and wet in a way the robot couldn't quite hope to be in a body like this. (His fur would be wet for a time, though.) The options remain the same: more sex, shower (and more sex). Is there a third option called sleeping? Mettaton's never heard of it.]