[Squeezing and tensing around his length only brings the idol to dazzling heights, adoring that sensation even as it means that coming down from it all is even more of a crash land. His cries are indeed rapturous, his release extreme and filling, but his eventual slackening into Emet-Selch's body is pronounced compared to his other releases. Could even a robot have a limit?
Unlikely. Mettaton's recovery would make itself manifest shortly, even if he's rattled by climax as blinding to him as it was to Emet-Selch.
Mettaton still has his arms hooked about him, fingers wrapped around his shoulders — though his grip is no longer so desperate and fierce, relaxing enough to allow for those punctures to lazily leak ooze with blood. He's numbed delightfully, head and body full of a welcome, warm static that follows his release, invigorating yet dizzying both. He feels so good; Mettaton didn't know how he could ever go without such intense sensation and emotion in his life, now that he's met Emet-Selch and bonded with him. Bonded, in both the ritual sense, and the getting-to-know-you sense.
He loves him for everything. He couldn't find a moment of peace prior to seeking him out today, with nobody capable of providing Mettaton with the feedback he sought. Only Emet-Selch could understand his authenticity in moments like these.
And so he nuzzles into him at first sign of his lover trying to lean into him, sighing at the sort of... vague knowledge that he'd tried to say his name. Those tall ears are sensitive, and he'd pick up even the hints of his name on Emet-Selch's lips, he thought. How ragged he's been run, how fucked and taken and used; pleasured and pleasurable, and Mettaton finds himself rewinding to a memory of stripping him — always a moment of great vulnerability for the Ascian in comparison, given that Mettaton has nothing to strip from him, save for the jewels he wears — ones that no doubt dig into Emet-Selch's skin, but he's not thinking about that very hard. Between them, Emet-Selch was terribly, terribly prone: emotions laid out, body bare, legs spread and body fucked, lips split and skin punctured, blood drying and clotting everywhere, he was the picture of prey to this Puca, a sight of a Witch subdued by a Monster.
But Mettaton acknowledges that he's gripped in return, well in Emet-Selch's clutches. He may be the one with claws, but Emet-Selch would protect him in turn. Fiercely. He relies on him for even his continued sanity despite the sway of pendants or moons, he needs him to achieve shapeshift, and he's even his greatest protection against the Cwyld of this world. Beyond that, Emet-Selch had his own figurative claws in him. If Mettaton ever thought to escape, he wouldn't let him. They felt that way about each other.
Every touch feels like sparks some more. It's all so new, and he feels so sensitive to it... Even the contact of his chest against Emet-Selch's is an inundation of sensation, the feeling of his bloody neck at his lips another smattering of sensory input, from touch to taste to smell. Mettaton shudders to match his lover's trembling, focusing on the feeling of fingers stroking so gently along dark fur. He sighs again, calmed, given a point of focus.
It would be easy to think about the heat that engulfs the head of his cock. He can practically feel Emet-Selch's pulse along his length, his body still tight and his cock still in a state of rigid, even as it takes the time to gradually relax. A moment of repose, and one that he takes to think go fingers, to think of his lover's throat, to think of their feelings for each other communicated by Bond.
A heaviness, crushing as ever, but Emet-Selch is so vulnerable... Mettaton kisses him again, squeezing his shoulders in his arms. It disturbs his wounds there, wounds that haven't even had a moment to clot whatsoever.]
I love you... You know I love you. [Even though Emet-Selch knows, Mettaton would always tell him. He kisses and licks at blood, a hybrid act of affection and care to demonstrate that love. Cleaning and reassuring both.] You did... so well.
[... Why he'd say that at all is because Mettaton knows Emet-Selch's pushed to a limit of his, made weakened and used. And the effort he put forth to honor Mettaton's glory, to express his devotion, is worthy of him. His hum is on a note of pleasure, happiness.
Mustering up the coordination to lift his head, he only does it enough to see Emet-Selch's face. To watch his lips, to meet his eyes and to kiss his cheek.] H... How are you, my dearest?
no subject
Unlikely. Mettaton's recovery would make itself manifest shortly, even if he's rattled by climax as blinding to him as it was to Emet-Selch.
Mettaton still has his arms hooked about him, fingers wrapped around his shoulders — though his grip is no longer so desperate and fierce, relaxing enough to allow for those punctures to lazily leak ooze with blood. He's numbed delightfully, head and body full of a welcome, warm static that follows his release, invigorating yet dizzying both. He feels so good; Mettaton didn't know how he could ever go without such intense sensation and emotion in his life, now that he's met Emet-Selch and bonded with him. Bonded, in both the ritual sense, and the getting-to-know-you sense.
He loves him for everything. He couldn't find a moment of peace prior to seeking him out today, with nobody capable of providing Mettaton with the feedback he sought. Only Emet-Selch could understand his authenticity in moments like these.
And so he nuzzles into him at first sign of his lover trying to lean into him, sighing at the sort of... vague knowledge that he'd tried to say his name. Those tall ears are sensitive, and he'd pick up even the hints of his name on Emet-Selch's lips, he thought. How ragged he's been run, how fucked and taken and used; pleasured and pleasurable, and Mettaton finds himself rewinding to a memory of stripping him — always a moment of great vulnerability for the Ascian in comparison, given that Mettaton has nothing to strip from him, save for the jewels he wears — ones that no doubt dig into Emet-Selch's skin, but he's not thinking about that very hard. Between them, Emet-Selch was terribly, terribly prone: emotions laid out, body bare, legs spread and body fucked, lips split and skin punctured, blood drying and clotting everywhere, he was the picture of prey to this Puca, a sight of a Witch subdued by a Monster.
But Mettaton acknowledges that he's gripped in return, well in Emet-Selch's clutches. He may be the one with claws, but Emet-Selch would protect him in turn. Fiercely. He relies on him for even his continued sanity despite the sway of pendants or moons, he needs him to achieve shapeshift, and he's even his greatest protection against the Cwyld of this world. Beyond that, Emet-Selch had his own figurative claws in him. If Mettaton ever thought to escape, he wouldn't let him. They felt that way about each other.
Every touch feels like sparks some more. It's all so new, and he feels so sensitive to it... Even the contact of his chest against Emet-Selch's is an inundation of sensation, the feeling of his bloody neck at his lips another smattering of sensory input, from touch to taste to smell. Mettaton shudders to match his lover's trembling, focusing on the feeling of fingers stroking so gently along dark fur. He sighs again, calmed, given a point of focus.
It would be easy to think about the heat that engulfs the head of his cock. He can practically feel Emet-Selch's pulse along his length, his body still tight and his cock still in a state of rigid, even as it takes the time to gradually relax. A moment of repose, and one that he takes to think go fingers, to think of his lover's throat, to think of their feelings for each other communicated by Bond.
A heaviness, crushing as ever, but Emet-Selch is so vulnerable... Mettaton kisses him again, squeezing his shoulders in his arms. It disturbs his wounds there, wounds that haven't even had a moment to clot whatsoever.]
I love you... You know I love you. [Even though Emet-Selch knows, Mettaton would always tell him. He kisses and licks at blood, a hybrid act of affection and care to demonstrate that love. Cleaning and reassuring both.] You did... so well.
[... Why he'd say that at all is because Mettaton knows Emet-Selch's pushed to a limit of his, made weakened and used. And the effort he put forth to honor Mettaton's glory, to express his devotion, is worthy of him. His hum is on a note of pleasure, happiness.
Mustering up the coordination to lift his head, he only does it enough to see Emet-Selch's face. To watch his lips, to meet his eyes and to kiss his cheek.] H... How are you, my dearest?