[His attention feels trained upon the way Emet-Selch's body wraps around his length. But could he be blamed? That's where the action was happening, his desire to fill his Bonded with his much-needed release immense, and it clouded his mind with obsession. Mettaton is reduced to sensation once more, eye closed and everything about the form beneath him soft. Even the arms and legs that wrap about him are soft, even as they squeeze him just like Emet-Selch's body squeezes his cock, all of it soft but tensing around him in an embrace. Even around his length, he felt, it had been a long, affectionate gesture on Emet-Selch's part, to squeeze and massage his length to his orgasm. ...Mettaton is overcome with a temporary torpor, letting the entirety of his form slacken as though feeling his spirit itself give his body up to Emet-Selch's, protected and safe and spent. He sinks into that squeezing of arms and legs, even as Emet-Selch relaxes, holding him in every way possible.
He nestles himself against Emet-Selch's neck, the side of his head against his lover's. In this state of repose, he's able to take stock of his own body: the way fingers curl around shoulders, the smell of Emet-Selch's bloodied neck and the accompaniment of sweat and come. The way his ears lay flat against the mounds of pillows behind Emet-Selch, the sensation of them chest-to-chest with a layer of diamonds between. Hips flush to his ass, cock buried within him and still hard, surrounded by the heat of come and body — a rare area of temperature sensitivity, and something overly sensitive besides. Still on his knees, still wearing his heels (of course he'd take survey of those long legs of his, important as they are), but prone to collapse if he weren't relying on the anchoring of his Bonded around his hips, the way they find themselves combined like this. How odd, to feel weakened like this, even momentarily... He's wrapped up and held, flush otherwise to the receptive figure of his lover.
This close to his throat, it would be impossible to miss that Emet-Selch's made any attempt at words, and his effort is so clear besides. All over again Mettaton's dazed by two simple words that mean so much. Heat exhaled against his neck, he can only smile, his heart heavy with adoration for Emet-Selch in such a way that feels entirely pleasant. ...Words. How was he meant to convey his reply to a sentiment so beautiful?
He didn't need to say anything, he thought. Everything about him in body said as much: he loves Emet-Selch. But even Emet-Selch's manner suggests as much, and he even fought against a throat so raw that speaking at all would be a chore... An overture. Something worth comparison on Mettaton's part. He sighs a dreamy sigh.]
I love you... to the moons and stars. Every moon, and every star. [Not just Aefenglom's two, plus the blanket of stars difficult to see past those moons. He will love him to all of them, and he will like it.
Mettaton attempts to right himself, and it's a labored task. Lifting his head after falling so lax, he's only able to press their forehead's together, as if that helped them see eye-to-eye at all instead of letting synthetic, dark hair fall over Emet-Selch's good eye as Mettaton stares into his scarred, unusable one.] And... beyond even that.
[Too close for vision though they may be, Mettaton wears a smile. It's a smile unmistakable both in sight and sound, and in touch, as he leans closer to press his lips to Emet-Selch's in a gentle kiss. If feral, if on a vanity high, Mettaton could evidently be placated momentarily by sex, finding a state of calm composure even he relishes during such swings into madness and fever. Clarity offered by an outlet for energy and reverent praise, atop the clarity offered by his Witch's sacrifice of blood for his cause. He's stable, relieved, pleasured and given all he desires.
Sated, momentarily, as he is, Mettaton speaks low and slow against Emet-Selch's lips — as though Emet-Selch could reply to him by mouth even devoid of sound, and he'd be able to pick it up through touch.]
And how do you fare, dear...?
[Mettaton doesn't need at all to ask if he'd merely endured that, nor if he enjoyed it. He knew the answer. Emet-Selch took pleasure in being used and filled by him, and that knowledge in itself is pleasure to the robot. But of course he'd enjoy being so filled by Mettaton. Even without a set of cursed jewelry, he would think that way just as strongly. It would be a pleasure for anyone, but for his Bonded... it was even more special, he thought.]
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He nestles himself against Emet-Selch's neck, the side of his head against his lover's. In this state of repose, he's able to take stock of his own body: the way fingers curl around shoulders, the smell of Emet-Selch's bloodied neck and the accompaniment of sweat and come. The way his ears lay flat against the mounds of pillows behind Emet-Selch, the sensation of them chest-to-chest with a layer of diamonds between. Hips flush to his ass, cock buried within him and still hard, surrounded by the heat of come and body — a rare area of temperature sensitivity, and something overly sensitive besides. Still on his knees, still wearing his heels (of course he'd take survey of those long legs of his, important as they are), but prone to collapse if he weren't relying on the anchoring of his Bonded around his hips, the way they find themselves combined like this. How odd, to feel weakened like this, even momentarily... He's wrapped up and held, flush otherwise to the receptive figure of his lover.
This close to his throat, it would be impossible to miss that Emet-Selch's made any attempt at words, and his effort is so clear besides. All over again Mettaton's dazed by two simple words that mean so much. Heat exhaled against his neck, he can only smile, his heart heavy with adoration for Emet-Selch in such a way that feels entirely pleasant. ...Words. How was he meant to convey his reply to a sentiment so beautiful?
He didn't need to say anything, he thought. Everything about him in body said as much: he loves Emet-Selch. But even Emet-Selch's manner suggests as much, and he even fought against a throat so raw that speaking at all would be a chore... An overture. Something worth comparison on Mettaton's part. He sighs a dreamy sigh.]
I love you... to the moons and stars. Every moon, and every star. [Not just Aefenglom's two, plus the blanket of stars difficult to see past those moons. He will love him to all of them, and he will like it.
Mettaton attempts to right himself, and it's a labored task. Lifting his head after falling so lax, he's only able to press their forehead's together, as if that helped them see eye-to-eye at all instead of letting synthetic, dark hair fall over Emet-Selch's good eye as Mettaton stares into his scarred, unusable one.] And... beyond even that.
[Too close for vision though they may be, Mettaton wears a smile. It's a smile unmistakable both in sight and sound, and in touch, as he leans closer to press his lips to Emet-Selch's in a gentle kiss. If feral, if on a vanity high, Mettaton could evidently be placated momentarily by sex, finding a state of calm composure even he relishes during such swings into madness and fever. Clarity offered by an outlet for energy and reverent praise, atop the clarity offered by his Witch's sacrifice of blood for his cause. He's stable, relieved, pleasured and given all he desires.
Sated, momentarily, as he is, Mettaton speaks low and slow against Emet-Selch's lips — as though Emet-Selch could reply to him by mouth even devoid of sound, and he'd be able to pick it up through touch.]
And how do you fare, dear...?
[Mettaton doesn't need at all to ask if he'd merely endured that, nor if he enjoyed it. He knew the answer. Emet-Selch took pleasure in being used and filled by him, and that knowledge in itself is pleasure to the robot. But of course he'd enjoy being so filled by Mettaton. Even without a set of cursed jewelry, he would think that way just as strongly. It would be a pleasure for anyone, but for his Bonded... it was even more special, he thought.]