[The direction of Mettaton's ears would be enough to tell the condition of the man's focus. From intent, curious, interested- to overcome, aroused and lost. Attention so caught in what he could see, that there was nothing left to keep them upright, left splaying downward where gravity could take them instead.
Other parts of Mettaton's body were very much not obeying gravity, though. And Emet-Selch doesn't need to look down for his Bonded's cock to know that he'd been rendered completely erect from this sight of bruised thighs made sticky and wet, this awareness of how overfull he'd been made. Hard with a quickness that would've surely dizzied had he a heart and blood to divert, or breath to stop- but Emet-Selch can tell nonetheless of the haze which enters his lover's expression, which clouds his thoughts with unspeakable lust. He felt the same way after all, any intention of departing with some sort of efficiency... thoroughly, thoroughly disrupted.
Claws return to his hips as though it was their place to be there, and Emet-Selch offers no resistance on being pulled back down, on feeling the slick, swollen head of Mettaton's cock made slicker yet from what was slowly running from his body. He cries out, the sound an echo of what it should've been, an aching rasp turned into a moan that doesn't want to end, only forced into silence by his need for air and the damage to his throat.
Pulse raising so fast, breath with it- the Ascian himself is made dizzy, his hold on Mettaton's shoulder becoming ever more one for balance, even with his lover taking over the control of his hips. His legs only want to splay more for him, in offering, muscles twitching as he feels his lover's erection stroking along the mess he was making- rubbing himself in his own sticky come, and doing nothing to prevent its escape from him. Warm, thick trails travel slowly down his thighs, and he groans roughly at the thought of having this proof of how much he'd been filled with. Blessed with. Claimed by. Enough to delight in, to smear across them both, a mess he couldn't imagine ever being fully cleaned of. Some indelible residue would always remain, clinging to his thighs, the mark of Mettaton's ownership of him made explicit.
There's no hesitation involved when he hears Mettaton's order to him. Only a shudder of unfathomable wanting, to make what was already graphically, starkly sexual in nature that more obscene still. One arm remaining about the robot's shoulders, he moves the other between them with a deliberation that was only incidentally slow. There was the desire to linger, to dwell on each moment, each breath, each thrust of Mettaton's cock, the way his length felt rubbing his own come against his lover's body. The way he longed to take him inside again, to feel the soft give of the glans held tight by his body, to feel it pushed deeper and deeper, inch by inexorable inch until he was full, until Mettaton could replace what they had allowed to escape down his legs.
But he also wanted just as terribly to keep feeling him stroke himself like this against his entrance, between his thighs, teasing as it was, to let come spread and drip as far as it could, to smear it across flesh and fur, to be brought to successive climaxes from base pleasure in this love of their own obscenity. To let their come drip and fall where it may, to spread it through brushes of thigh and cock and hand, to find rapture in vulgarity. He couldn't yet bear to move away from his cock in either case.
Emet-Selch's fingers glide between his thighs, sparing his own cock a lingering touch down its length, aware too of his own come that lay along it, a stickily drying substance. But he moves on soon enough to reach lower still between his legs, to feel for where one of those trails of come had reached. While not as hot as it had been while kept within his body, it hadn't cooled entirely either, and his hand explores shakily back upward where the flow was thicker still, every sense captivated by the thick wetness his fingers were collecting.
Tracing all the way to the source, he encounters the rub of his lover's erection and his breath hitches sharply all over again, body shaking from a sort of desire for him that felt nigh unendurable. The hold of his other arm tightens around him, as he brings thoroughly-coated fingers back up to his own lips. And the focus of Emet-Selch's gaze shifts then, eyes barely open, to this much closer sight, to the way it clung to his fingers, the way it tried to stick them together a little. And even if Mettaton hadn't told him to, he would've been drawn to taste it- how could he resist it?
His lips first brush along his forefinger, starting at the tip and drifting all the way to the base, spreading Mettaton's come against his mouth as much as taking it inside. But even this hint of him has him sucking in a quick breath, senses inundated by every part of it, the texture, scent, and flavor of it upon his tongue. A tongue which laps with a clear hunger for it as he swipes it along his fingers, one after another, licking, prodding, sucking. Swallowing it down with obvious rapture, attending to every crevice, the space between fingers, anything that might've been caught underneath blunt nails, his desperation for it went beyond blatant. What had started with deliberation and care devolved quickly into a kind of starvation for it, even nipping at fingers that now had more saliva than come on them, as though this would cause more of it to appear. But there was far more, of course, still at his thighs, and especially along Mettaton's erection- a spreading that he knew must be copious by now.
Breath becoming shakier as he continues, Emet-Selch is hardly aware of how his own cock shows signs of stiffness, as though his body were taking mercy on him (or otherwise forced into submission under the waves of successive stimulus, forced to answer these calls to arousal, no matter how much he ached).]
no subject
Other parts of Mettaton's body were very much not obeying gravity, though. And Emet-Selch doesn't need to look down for his Bonded's cock to know that he'd been rendered completely erect from this sight of bruised thighs made sticky and wet, this awareness of how overfull he'd been made. Hard with a quickness that would've surely dizzied had he a heart and blood to divert, or breath to stop- but Emet-Selch can tell nonetheless of the haze which enters his lover's expression, which clouds his thoughts with unspeakable lust. He felt the same way after all, any intention of departing with some sort of efficiency... thoroughly, thoroughly disrupted.
Claws return to his hips as though it was their place to be there, and Emet-Selch offers no resistance on being pulled back down, on feeling the slick, swollen head of Mettaton's cock made slicker yet from what was slowly running from his body. He cries out, the sound an echo of what it should've been, an aching rasp turned into a moan that doesn't want to end, only forced into silence by his need for air and the damage to his throat.
Pulse raising so fast, breath with it- the Ascian himself is made dizzy, his hold on Mettaton's shoulder becoming ever more one for balance, even with his lover taking over the control of his hips. His legs only want to splay more for him, in offering, muscles twitching as he feels his lover's erection stroking along the mess he was making- rubbing himself in his own sticky come, and doing nothing to prevent its escape from him. Warm, thick trails travel slowly down his thighs, and he groans roughly at the thought of having this proof of how much he'd been filled with. Blessed with. Claimed by. Enough to delight in, to smear across them both, a mess he couldn't imagine ever being fully cleaned of. Some indelible residue would always remain, clinging to his thighs, the mark of Mettaton's ownership of him made explicit.
There's no hesitation involved when he hears Mettaton's order to him. Only a shudder of unfathomable wanting, to make what was already graphically, starkly sexual in nature that more obscene still. One arm remaining about the robot's shoulders, he moves the other between them with a deliberation that was only incidentally slow. There was the desire to linger, to dwell on each moment, each breath, each thrust of Mettaton's cock, the way his length felt rubbing his own come against his lover's body. The way he longed to take him inside again, to feel the soft give of the glans held tight by his body, to feel it pushed deeper and deeper, inch by inexorable inch until he was full, until Mettaton could replace what they had allowed to escape down his legs.
But he also wanted just as terribly to keep feeling him stroke himself like this against his entrance, between his thighs, teasing as it was, to let come spread and drip as far as it could, to smear it across flesh and fur, to be brought to successive climaxes from base pleasure in this love of their own obscenity. To let their come drip and fall where it may, to spread it through brushes of thigh and cock and hand, to find rapture in vulgarity. He couldn't yet bear to move away from his cock in either case.
Emet-Selch's fingers glide between his thighs, sparing his own cock a lingering touch down its length, aware too of his own come that lay along it, a stickily drying substance. But he moves on soon enough to reach lower still between his legs, to feel for where one of those trails of come had reached. While not as hot as it had been while kept within his body, it hadn't cooled entirely either, and his hand explores shakily back upward where the flow was thicker still, every sense captivated by the thick wetness his fingers were collecting.
Tracing all the way to the source, he encounters the rub of his lover's erection and his breath hitches sharply all over again, body shaking from a sort of desire for him that felt nigh unendurable. The hold of his other arm tightens around him, as he brings thoroughly-coated fingers back up to his own lips. And the focus of Emet-Selch's gaze shifts then, eyes barely open, to this much closer sight, to the way it clung to his fingers, the way it tried to stick them together a little. And even if Mettaton hadn't told him to, he would've been drawn to taste it- how could he resist it?
His lips first brush along his forefinger, starting at the tip and drifting all the way to the base, spreading Mettaton's come against his mouth as much as taking it inside. But even this hint of him has him sucking in a quick breath, senses inundated by every part of it, the texture, scent, and flavor of it upon his tongue. A tongue which laps with a clear hunger for it as he swipes it along his fingers, one after another, licking, prodding, sucking. Swallowing it down with obvious rapture, attending to every crevice, the space between fingers, anything that might've been caught underneath blunt nails, his desperation for it went beyond blatant. What had started with deliberation and care devolved quickly into a kind of starvation for it, even nipping at fingers that now had more saliva than come on them, as though this would cause more of it to appear. But there was far more, of course, still at his thighs, and especially along Mettaton's erection- a spreading that he knew must be copious by now.
Breath becoming shakier as he continues, Emet-Selch is hardly aware of how his own cock shows signs of stiffness, as though his body were taking mercy on him (or otherwise forced into submission under the waves of successive stimulus, forced to answer these calls to arousal, no matter how much he ached).]