[Even when Mettaton does end up pulling away from his lips in order to cry out, his head arching back- Emet-Selch can't find it in himself for particular regret. Not when his eyes could open and it afforded him a vision of his Bonded instead in the throes of his release, in the moments directly preceding it, so he could observe him closely for as long as possible. A sight that was well-worth watching, and imagery he knew he'd find himself returning to, all to stoke further yearning for him, a desire to seek him out all to watch him in his rapture over and over again. It wouldn't be the worst way to spend his days, milking climax after climax from his Bonded monster, demanding his come from him any time he wanted a taste of it, or to watch the heavy fluid drip from his body, or to feel it deposited with satisfying depth.
And it's an observation to correspond with all that Emet-Selch could feel, with every shove of hips and stroke of cock enough to leave him gasping on their own, particularly when Mettaton digs his hands into his shoulders again, further securing him to the bed, holding him steady as he relentlessly pounds into him. Pleasures himself on his body with quick, hard drags of his length, rubbing himself off to his inevitable conclusion. Mettaton was curled over him, desperate and moaning, nearly incoherent in his cries, and Emet-Selch could only hold on, coax and encourage, provide him the whole of himself to claim, to rest in. He would take every part of him and protect him.
It wasn't unusual for him to think of Mettaton as beautiful, and this was another one of those moments when it struck him. Not only in appearance (though of course he couldn't neglect that point either, especially not with the blood and saliva at his face and chest, that surely stuck to his claws and fingers; even the mix of come that he knew must be stuck and tangled into the fur around his thighs only added to the dark eroticism of him). But in his movement as well, the way his body closed in, the way a form that lacked muscles (mostly) could be made to look tense, taut. Prone and determined and lost in him. And in voice not least- given not even to words but to sounds, unreserved in all manners of expression. Mettaton was giving him all of himself, and Emet-Selch couldn't get enough of watching him, and in taking everything that he offered.
When passion crests, it's unmistakable. Both in Mettaton's own reaction to it- that in itself stilling his breath, and nearly causing his own eyes to close- as well as the burst of heat inundating as deeply as his lover's erection could reach. Their bodies were as closely connected as they could be, and yet struggled to push even closer, to join even harder- but at least there was this marker of his ejaculate to further bind them. A recognition of their efforts, rich and thick. Something that belonged with him, either in or on his body- and he'd wear every drop that Mettaton could produce.
Eventually it fades, and Mettaton collapses bodily onto him, pressing their faces together, and only then does Emet-Selch remember to breathe. It's a shiver of a breath as his eyes also close, and the Ascian rubs his cheek back against his momentarily-spent lover. From holding on, gripping tightly into fur, he forces his fingers to relax, to change instead to slow strokes against his back, as though to sooth. His arms still squeeze him a bit tighter for a few moments (that he was hugging a fur-covered metal form with no give doesn't even register; this was his lover's body and how he felt, this was normal), as do his legs, before relaxing back.
His throat wants to form similarly soothing, or at least appreciative noises, but nothing emerges, and every time he swallows is a reminder of why. So he nuzzles and pets instead, and listens to Mettaton's own voice reduced, though as the result of excessive pleasure rather than damage. It was difficult to not keep moaning quietly with him, both from the sympathetic aftershocks of his Bonded's orgasm, as well as from how hot he felt internally, how utterly full, Mettaton's come soaking them both.
From deliberately squeezing him, his body settles for simply holding his length from base to tip, tight and slick and as intimate as their bodies could be. The both of them warm, loving, protective.]
--Love you.
[Rawness or otherwise, it's something worth rumbling through his throat, words followed with additional firm nudges of his cheek against Mettaton's.]
no subject
And it's an observation to correspond with all that Emet-Selch could feel, with every shove of hips and stroke of cock enough to leave him gasping on their own, particularly when Mettaton digs his hands into his shoulders again, further securing him to the bed, holding him steady as he relentlessly pounds into him. Pleasures himself on his body with quick, hard drags of his length, rubbing himself off to his inevitable conclusion. Mettaton was curled over him, desperate and moaning, nearly incoherent in his cries, and Emet-Selch could only hold on, coax and encourage, provide him the whole of himself to claim, to rest in. He would take every part of him and protect him.
It wasn't unusual for him to think of Mettaton as beautiful, and this was another one of those moments when it struck him. Not only in appearance (though of course he couldn't neglect that point either, especially not with the blood and saliva at his face and chest, that surely stuck to his claws and fingers; even the mix of come that he knew must be stuck and tangled into the fur around his thighs only added to the dark eroticism of him). But in his movement as well, the way his body closed in, the way a form that lacked muscles (mostly) could be made to look tense, taut. Prone and determined and lost in him. And in voice not least- given not even to words but to sounds, unreserved in all manners of expression. Mettaton was giving him all of himself, and Emet-Selch couldn't get enough of watching him, and in taking everything that he offered.
When passion crests, it's unmistakable. Both in Mettaton's own reaction to it- that in itself stilling his breath, and nearly causing his own eyes to close- as well as the burst of heat inundating as deeply as his lover's erection could reach. Their bodies were as closely connected as they could be, and yet struggled to push even closer, to join even harder- but at least there was this marker of his ejaculate to further bind them. A recognition of their efforts, rich and thick. Something that belonged with him, either in or on his body- and he'd wear every drop that Mettaton could produce.
Eventually it fades, and Mettaton collapses bodily onto him, pressing their faces together, and only then does Emet-Selch remember to breathe. It's a shiver of a breath as his eyes also close, and the Ascian rubs his cheek back against his momentarily-spent lover. From holding on, gripping tightly into fur, he forces his fingers to relax, to change instead to slow strokes against his back, as though to sooth. His arms still squeeze him a bit tighter for a few moments (that he was hugging a fur-covered metal form with no give doesn't even register; this was his lover's body and how he felt, this was normal), as do his legs, before relaxing back.
His throat wants to form similarly soothing, or at least appreciative noises, but nothing emerges, and every time he swallows is a reminder of why. So he nuzzles and pets instead, and listens to Mettaton's own voice reduced, though as the result of excessive pleasure rather than damage. It was difficult to not keep moaning quietly with him, both from the sympathetic aftershocks of his Bonded's orgasm, as well as from how hot he felt internally, how utterly full, Mettaton's come soaking them both.
From deliberately squeezing him, his body settles for simply holding his length from base to tip, tight and slick and as intimate as their bodies could be. The both of them warm, loving, protective.]
--Love you.
[Rawness or otherwise, it's something worth rumbling through his throat, words followed with additional firm nudges of his cheek against Mettaton's.]