[It would probably be harder than not to find some area on the Ascian's body which didn't have something damp or drying on it, be it sweat, saliva, blood, or come. Or mixtures of several of the foregoing. Any encounter with Mettaton seemed to leave him coated in all four of those to varying degrees, sticky and used, drained yet attentive.
As the adjustment of Mettaton's hips certainly reminds (as though he could've forgotten) of the length that remained inside him. A thickness of cock he remained stretched around, remained filled by. Of how his legs remained spread around him, his body no less available than it had been moments prior, than it had been at the start of this encounter. No matter how spent, he'd keep his thighs parted to him, he'd keep taking his come, every load Mettaton had for him, until it was running down his thighs once more, a delicacy just asking to be licked up again.
Thoughts excessive in his current state, perhaps; Emet-Selch didn't care. Even if his own cock couldn't respond, he loved the thought of it, of Mettaton continuously pounding away at him, both filling him and allowing him to drip. When they cared for each other so much, sometimes- these extremes of expressing it were necessary. Were the most natural and wanted thing in the world.
And Mettaton did feel warmer than usual, he thought, underneath his fingers. And he didn't think it was just his own temperature reflected onto him, but something that was seeping through the fur from the robot underneath it. Even though Emet-Selch could dig hard enough with his fingers to feel the unbending of metal through black fur, it did give the puca more of an organic impression than usual. It wasn't skin but it was- something, and the man had never needed a pulse or breath in order to feel alive to him.
But he certainly felt hotter than usual, in a purely temperature sense (and equally as hot in a sexual sense, of course, and while that was always the case, this more feral, animalistic bent had its specific appeal, no matter how raw or spent it left him). Through fur, through exhalation, through mouth. He wasn't sure if his cock was hotter as well, or whether it just felt that way due to past movement, or to the come left behind, sealed within him. A thought that has him shiver a little, despite the heat. He strokes slowly at Mettaton's heated fur.
But the robot's reminder of the senses he'd recently taken from him draws a sigh- that much, at least, Emet-Selch could still express without trouble, costing no more than a bit of soreness to his throat (which was sore regardless). He'd truly... gotten what he wanted, with desires that ran deeper than he could've guessed. Mettaton's claw drags slowly across vulnerable skin, in another reminder of how prone he was to him. That it wouldn't take more than a whim to pierce him (and it hadn't), to split his skin open, reveal his blood to the air. That his voice had been just as much up for grabs, and Mettaton had grabbed it. There was no part of him to be held back, nothing that he would refuse his Bonded... and there was peace in that.
Sight and voice... with movement to follow too, the more he was fucked like this. The more Mettaton left his cock inside him, the more he moved it, the harder he thrusted; Emet-Selch expected to be sore. But feeling him afterward was a result to anticipate. It was wanted, even if he'd grumble eventually (in a likely too-hoarse voice) over the mess he'd made of him. Of the discomfort it would be to move or speak, that no matter how he rested, he'd be pressing against one bruise or bite or another.
But did he mind? He takes in a quick breath at the shifting of his lover's hips- and therefore his cock as well. Leaning his head back against his, Emet-Selch closes his eyes and breathes the both of them in.]
Of course not.
[It's not even a whisper, and it's not even necessary, but he answers anyway. What was there to mind, when this was a state he wanted to be in, trembling limbs and rended body and all. He nuzzles his head against Mettaton's a bit more.]
no subject
As the adjustment of Mettaton's hips certainly reminds (as though he could've forgotten) of the length that remained inside him. A thickness of cock he remained stretched around, remained filled by. Of how his legs remained spread around him, his body no less available than it had been moments prior, than it had been at the start of this encounter. No matter how spent, he'd keep his thighs parted to him, he'd keep taking his come, every load Mettaton had for him, until it was running down his thighs once more, a delicacy just asking to be licked up again.
Thoughts excessive in his current state, perhaps; Emet-Selch didn't care. Even if his own cock couldn't respond, he loved the thought of it, of Mettaton continuously pounding away at him, both filling him and allowing him to drip. When they cared for each other so much, sometimes- these extremes of expressing it were necessary. Were the most natural and wanted thing in the world.
And Mettaton did feel warmer than usual, he thought, underneath his fingers. And he didn't think it was just his own temperature reflected onto him, but something that was seeping through the fur from the robot underneath it. Even though Emet-Selch could dig hard enough with his fingers to feel the unbending of metal through black fur, it did give the puca more of an organic impression than usual. It wasn't skin but it was- something, and the man had never needed a pulse or breath in order to feel alive to him.
But he certainly felt hotter than usual, in a purely temperature sense (and equally as hot in a sexual sense, of course, and while that was always the case, this more feral, animalistic bent had its specific appeal, no matter how raw or spent it left him). Through fur, through exhalation, through mouth. He wasn't sure if his cock was hotter as well, or whether it just felt that way due to past movement, or to the come left behind, sealed within him. A thought that has him shiver a little, despite the heat. He strokes slowly at Mettaton's heated fur.
But the robot's reminder of the senses he'd recently taken from him draws a sigh- that much, at least, Emet-Selch could still express without trouble, costing no more than a bit of soreness to his throat (which was sore regardless). He'd truly... gotten what he wanted, with desires that ran deeper than he could've guessed. Mettaton's claw drags slowly across vulnerable skin, in another reminder of how prone he was to him. That it wouldn't take more than a whim to pierce him (and it hadn't), to split his skin open, reveal his blood to the air. That his voice had been just as much up for grabs, and Mettaton had grabbed it. There was no part of him to be held back, nothing that he would refuse his Bonded... and there was peace in that.
Sight and voice... with movement to follow too, the more he was fucked like this. The more Mettaton left his cock inside him, the more he moved it, the harder he thrusted; Emet-Selch expected to be sore. But feeling him afterward was a result to anticipate. It was wanted, even if he'd grumble eventually (in a likely too-hoarse voice) over the mess he'd made of him. Of the discomfort it would be to move or speak, that no matter how he rested, he'd be pressing against one bruise or bite or another.
But did he mind? He takes in a quick breath at the shifting of his lover's hips- and therefore his cock as well. Leaning his head back against his, Emet-Selch closes his eyes and breathes the both of them in.]
Of course not.
[It's not even a whisper, and it's not even necessary, but he answers anyway. What was there to mind, when this was a state he wanted to be in, trembling limbs and rended body and all. He nuzzles his head against Mettaton's a bit more.]