[Mettaton was so good to him; it was a clear kind of thought in the haze of lust and infatuation. Who else could cause him to feel this way, in both body and heart? Could be someone he could love like this, and could love him in return, despite... everything. Despite the world, despite himself- even as Emet-Selch pants, caught by the intense sensation offered by Mettaton's cock stroking so much of his body, by the smell of their sex and the heat of their union- he's aware most of all of how loved he felt, and how far he loved him.
...Being brought to this place, this world- in moments like these, when all else melted away, he could be almost grateful for it.
But suddenly, he couldn't hit Mettaton with his lips at all, when the man dives down to his throat instead. Neither a sound of protest nor approval get past the vague-vibration stage in his neck, but that was fine. Breathing more freely, if still not without pain (and certainly not without thinking about why it was uncomfortable), Emet-Selch tilts his head back, eyes closed. His face felt damp from saliva and blood, and his neck similarly so, and with the added warmth of a particularly-hot robot kissing and sucking at it. It wasn't unusual for the Ascian to offer him his neck when Mettaton found himself there, expose the vulnerable area to him without a second thought (even with the memory of him having bitten just a bit too hard that one time).
But in these sorts of moments, with Mettaton bearing the influence of the moons (however false), it felt a touch more primal than usual. That his lover refrained from tearing his throat open was his prerogative, and a sign of his mercy; that he decided to claim it instead with bruise and kiss was his right.
Emet-Selch wondered what his neck would look like when all was said and done (though done was a status he had a difficult time imagining). Claws had been sunk into it, it had been bruised, squeezed, mouthed, bitten, fucked. Even with the blood cleaned off, it would no doubt be a sight, a mix of colors decorated by scratches. Much like the rest of his body, but it was a natural point to receive particular focus, a natural place for a predator to hone in on- even if in this case, Mettaton only uses the opportunity to love on him, to spear him with affection alone, even while he was still busy spearing him with his cock.
It's inevitable too, when Mettaton moves back upward again, leaving hot kisses against his jaw, and even finding his lips once again for more of them. There was a desperation he could breathe in, a sense exuded by the robotic idol, and one that kept his own body taut, anticipation growing. Emet-Selch kisses him, sucks on his lip, bites and licks and pants and mutters soft things that might as well be his name. It might also just be encouraging, pleading noises, or an assent- a concurrence of need. Mettaton was so stiff, and how weighted his balls must be, just aching for the chance to empty himself once more, to flood him.
And he moans, low and indistinct against him, pushing into whatever thrusts he can, squeezing at Mettaton's cock with his body, as though he could pull from him his climax, drag it all from him again, dizzied all over again from the memory of the way it felt gushing out from him. Hot and thick and so much, but he would take it all.
Until Mettaton allowed it to spill over. And with that much in his body... if he did feel warm come dripping from him once more, Emet-Selch wondered if he'd find his own cock filling in response, that his body would be stirred past reason and made to ache from it all. It wouldn't surprise him, and something that he would sigh over if he had the space of mind to be exasperated with himself. Nevermind the injuries of his body, marks of tooth and claw, the loss of blood, his throat and ass fucked to the point of considerable and lingering tenderness, and the equally as considerable amount of come he's ended up containing (which was only an arousing thought rather than injurious one, actually)- his orgasms alone would exhaust him utterly. He'd collapse and still find himself wanting.
Not that he's thinking much on that, or on much of anything- not when Mettaton was rocking his body like this, pushing him ever harder into the bed with each long, full thrust of his hips. Not when he could barely even try kissing him in response, his press of lips fevered, parted, panting. His arms hold and hands drag and dig, and his body clenches around his swollen length with more need than deliberation, desperate to feel his lover in climax, to take his come, to know he was in ecstasy and be able to experience every moment of it. His incoherency endeared him terribly, and even in the heat of passions he felt so fond of him that he thought he could collapse from the weight of that feeling alone, meld into Mettaton's body never to emerge.
Kissing him harder, he licks and nuzzles and breathes him in, determined to absorb every sound, to be as close as it was possible for them to be, to take his own satisfaction in witnessing his lover brought to rapture.]
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...Being brought to this place, this world- in moments like these, when all else melted away, he could be almost grateful for it.
But suddenly, he couldn't hit Mettaton with his lips at all, when the man dives down to his throat instead. Neither a sound of protest nor approval get past the vague-vibration stage in his neck, but that was fine. Breathing more freely, if still not without pain (and certainly not without thinking about why it was uncomfortable), Emet-Selch tilts his head back, eyes closed. His face felt damp from saliva and blood, and his neck similarly so, and with the added warmth of a particularly-hot robot kissing and sucking at it. It wasn't unusual for the Ascian to offer him his neck when Mettaton found himself there, expose the vulnerable area to him without a second thought (even with the memory of him having bitten just a bit too hard that one time).
But in these sorts of moments, with Mettaton bearing the influence of the moons (however false), it felt a touch more primal than usual. That his lover refrained from tearing his throat open was his prerogative, and a sign of his mercy; that he decided to claim it instead with bruise and kiss was his right.
Emet-Selch wondered what his neck would look like when all was said and done (though done was a status he had a difficult time imagining). Claws had been sunk into it, it had been bruised, squeezed, mouthed, bitten, fucked. Even with the blood cleaned off, it would no doubt be a sight, a mix of colors decorated by scratches. Much like the rest of his body, but it was a natural point to receive particular focus, a natural place for a predator to hone in on- even if in this case, Mettaton only uses the opportunity to love on him, to spear him with affection alone, even while he was still busy spearing him with his cock.
It's inevitable too, when Mettaton moves back upward again, leaving hot kisses against his jaw, and even finding his lips once again for more of them. There was a desperation he could breathe in, a sense exuded by the robotic idol, and one that kept his own body taut, anticipation growing. Emet-Selch kisses him, sucks on his lip, bites and licks and pants and mutters soft things that might as well be his name. It might also just be encouraging, pleading noises, or an assent- a concurrence of need. Mettaton was so stiff, and how weighted his balls must be, just aching for the chance to empty himself once more, to flood him.
And he moans, low and indistinct against him, pushing into whatever thrusts he can, squeezing at Mettaton's cock with his body, as though he could pull from him his climax, drag it all from him again, dizzied all over again from the memory of the way it felt gushing out from him. Hot and thick and so much, but he would take it all.
Until Mettaton allowed it to spill over. And with that much in his body... if he did feel warm come dripping from him once more, Emet-Selch wondered if he'd find his own cock filling in response, that his body would be stirred past reason and made to ache from it all. It wouldn't surprise him, and something that he would sigh over if he had the space of mind to be exasperated with himself. Nevermind the injuries of his body, marks of tooth and claw, the loss of blood, his throat and ass fucked to the point of considerable and lingering tenderness, and the equally as considerable amount of come he's ended up containing (which was only an arousing thought rather than injurious one, actually)- his orgasms alone would exhaust him utterly. He'd collapse and still find himself wanting.
Not that he's thinking much on that, or on much of anything- not when Mettaton was rocking his body like this, pushing him ever harder into the bed with each long, full thrust of his hips. Not when he could barely even try kissing him in response, his press of lips fevered, parted, panting. His arms hold and hands drag and dig, and his body clenches around his swollen length with more need than deliberation, desperate to feel his lover in climax, to take his come, to know he was in ecstasy and be able to experience every moment of it. His incoherency endeared him terribly, and even in the heat of passions he felt so fond of him that he thought he could collapse from the weight of that feeling alone, meld into Mettaton's body never to emerge.
Kissing him harder, he licks and nuzzles and breathes him in, determined to absorb every sound, to be as close as it was possible for them to be, to take his own satisfaction in witnessing his lover brought to rapture.]