[Emet-Selch will be a sight to see in the days to come. Weeks, even, as all of his various marks made their valiant attempts to heal (only to have fresher ones regularly applied, the canvas of his body never allowed to be wiped clean entirely). Imprints that would tell a story, would reveal a position, the way their bodies must've been entwined during one encounter or the next. And the Ascian would wonder, in his observance of these records later, tracing between those of teeth, those of claw, those of sucking lips- how easy it would be for anyone to tell not only what had occurred, but how. The memories would be so vivid to him that it would be difficult to understand how anyone could miss it.
But he at least would be able to recall it with dangerous, distracting precision. Mettaton's claws sink deeper into his shoulders and provide more memories, perfectly spaced. The impression of his fingers, his nails, staining them both a rich red, and how easily the scent of blood would be called to mind as well. Mingled as it was these days with that of sex and of Mettaton, the smell of any of those things would lead to thoughts of the others. Drops of deep fluid ran underneath his lover's hands, and Emet-Selch could appreciate with some strange version of clarity Mettaton's ability to leave him dripping with both come and blood, to be made sticky all over from one or the other, a mix of their essences. It was primal and perfect, in the same way being mounted and fucked was, and he drew him closer in his desire to be devoured.
His lover moans, practically curls up on him, in him, as close as he could be, his body hard and furred, a mix of softness and metal, but ultimately unyielding. The closer he was, the more the Ascian's body was made to give in, and the more he loved it. To know he couldn't escape, that he was there to take him, every ridge and dial, claw and tooth and cock. Especially cock, which did feel as though it were scraping deeper somehow, the glans pressing further with each shove of Mettaton's hips against his ass, the kind of depth that has him arching, clenching, voice lost again to noiseless cries that he can't prevent himself from making. His own erection felt so heavy, a thick weight that the rest of his blood had pooled to, engorged and hard and rubbing into a surface even harder, that he would soon enough leave running with come.
Mettaton mouths and licks his throat- a place already sore inside and out, clawed and bit and fucked- and it's the sort of attention that he shivers under, waiting for the bite. And when it happens, his neck arches into it, moaning with hollowed-out rasping non-sounds, feeling the drag of hard tooth through skin again, and feeling more the restriction on his head Mettaton was applying. Another avenue of holding him in place, and when he looked at the bite marks later, when paired with the piercing of his shoulders- how vivid this particular moment would be, of his lover mounted over him, impaling him with his cock between raised, spread legs, hands pinioning him to the bed, and incisors taking his neck.
And he would surrender to it even in memory, and his pulse would rise and he'd want him all over again. A plea to be taken and held, deeper than any other. Because it was true that ultimately, underneath it all, it wasn't about sex, but a longing for company. To not feel so entirely alone in a world that he could never belong to. And he loved him for that, but also for himself- for Mettaton being precisely who he was, and for giving himself over so readily to him. For being the man he was, and someone he could devote himself to cherishing- and who he knew would do the same to him.
There would be no chance of Emet-Selch moving on from him. Even if he didn't have claws of his own, he was dug in regardless, and he would drag Mettaton down with him. He would drown him in intensity and worship, to every part of his body and soul, and in so doing, the Ascian wouldn't have to be alone.
Sounds continue, echoes of them. Attempts, faint and ever more pleading. He couldn't think, not with the swell of the head of Mettaton's erection rubbing him like this, not with the incessant shoving of his hips, not with his moans and the sound of their bodies meeting everything he can hear. It wasn't pain in his throat, but another form of ecstasy, a pang that's answered ever louder in his abdomen with each passing moment. Every dig, every arch, every failed gasp for breath; there was nothing but the scent of them together, and the combination of their bodies.
And finally he succumbs. Mettaton's hips rock into him, and the Ascian's own erection responds by releasing its load with thick spurts against the idol's core. An ejaculation that the swollen tip of his cock is made to drag through even amidst its climax, rubbed into even as come continues to burst from the slit.
Though his eyes are closed, Emet-Selch feels nearly blinded by it regardless, every grip he has on Mettaton shaking, twitching, senses not only inundated but consumed entirely.]
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But he at least would be able to recall it with dangerous, distracting precision. Mettaton's claws sink deeper into his shoulders and provide more memories, perfectly spaced. The impression of his fingers, his nails, staining them both a rich red, and how easily the scent of blood would be called to mind as well. Mingled as it was these days with that of sex and of Mettaton, the smell of any of those things would lead to thoughts of the others. Drops of deep fluid ran underneath his lover's hands, and Emet-Selch could appreciate with some strange version of clarity Mettaton's ability to leave him dripping with both come and blood, to be made sticky all over from one or the other, a mix of their essences. It was primal and perfect, in the same way being mounted and fucked was, and he drew him closer in his desire to be devoured.
His lover moans, practically curls up on him, in him, as close as he could be, his body hard and furred, a mix of softness and metal, but ultimately unyielding. The closer he was, the more the Ascian's body was made to give in, and the more he loved it. To know he couldn't escape, that he was there to take him, every ridge and dial, claw and tooth and cock. Especially cock, which did feel as though it were scraping deeper somehow, the glans pressing further with each shove of Mettaton's hips against his ass, the kind of depth that has him arching, clenching, voice lost again to noiseless cries that he can't prevent himself from making. His own erection felt so heavy, a thick weight that the rest of his blood had pooled to, engorged and hard and rubbing into a surface even harder, that he would soon enough leave running with come.
Mettaton mouths and licks his throat- a place already sore inside and out, clawed and bit and fucked- and it's the sort of attention that he shivers under, waiting for the bite. And when it happens, his neck arches into it, moaning with hollowed-out rasping non-sounds, feeling the drag of hard tooth through skin again, and feeling more the restriction on his head Mettaton was applying. Another avenue of holding him in place, and when he looked at the bite marks later, when paired with the piercing of his shoulders- how vivid this particular moment would be, of his lover mounted over him, impaling him with his cock between raised, spread legs, hands pinioning him to the bed, and incisors taking his neck.
And he would surrender to it even in memory, and his pulse would rise and he'd want him all over again. A plea to be taken and held, deeper than any other. Because it was true that ultimately, underneath it all, it wasn't about sex, but a longing for company. To not feel so entirely alone in a world that he could never belong to. And he loved him for that, but also for himself- for Mettaton being precisely who he was, and for giving himself over so readily to him. For being the man he was, and someone he could devote himself to cherishing- and who he knew would do the same to him.
There would be no chance of Emet-Selch moving on from him. Even if he didn't have claws of his own, he was dug in regardless, and he would drag Mettaton down with him. He would drown him in intensity and worship, to every part of his body and soul, and in so doing, the Ascian wouldn't have to be alone.
Sounds continue, echoes of them. Attempts, faint and ever more pleading. He couldn't think, not with the swell of the head of Mettaton's erection rubbing him like this, not with the incessant shoving of his hips, not with his moans and the sound of their bodies meeting everything he can hear. It wasn't pain in his throat, but another form of ecstasy, a pang that's answered ever louder in his abdomen with each passing moment. Every dig, every arch, every failed gasp for breath; there was nothing but the scent of them together, and the combination of their bodies.
And finally he succumbs. Mettaton's hips rock into him, and the Ascian's own erection responds by releasing its load with thick spurts against the idol's core. An ejaculation that the swollen tip of his cock is made to drag through even amidst its climax, rubbed into even as come continues to burst from the slit.
Though his eyes are closed, Emet-Selch feels nearly blinded by it regardless, every grip he has on Mettaton shaking, twitching, senses not only inundated but consumed entirely.]