[Mettaton's reluctance to pull from his body was understandable, comprehensible, natural. His cock was hardening, and in a place where it could only be encouraged to do so, somewhere hot and slick and snug, nestled deep in his lover, and amidst his earlier releases. And Emet-Selch had no inclination towards suggesting him to leave- at least for his own sake. He was already sore and would be made undoubtedly more sore- but he loved the feeling of Mettaton's length more than that, and the sheer intimacy of having him so close. Inescapable. The more he was fucked, the more Mettaton continued to take of him (and to leave behind in him)- the more they were bound. It was worth every scrap of discomfort.
Mettaton was touching his throat and disturbing his bruises, his clotting scratches, reminding them both of how thoroughly possessed the area was, and Emet-Selch can feel his pulse increase from the contact. A rub of clawed fingers against wounded skin, an area of his body particularly vulnerable, and he has to push back the reflex to close his eyes, in some instinctive desire to acknowledge that claim, that Mettaton had true control over his neck, and how intact it was allowed to remain. Instead, for all of the drain and weakness in his body, the Ascian's gaze stays focused, expectant- exhausted yet... eager all the same. There's certainly no suggestion of not intending to encourage his lover's arousal, and his tired body shifts as best it can underneath him, in its own version of restlessness.
But that's right... Mettaton had offered to take him to the shower (presumably to take him in the shower) some rounds ago, but each attempt had been aborted with increasing swiftness. They'd only made it off the bed once (because Mettaton brought him to the floor), and the last time he'd barely had his cock withdrawn before it was stuffed back in again, Emet-Selch pulled back into his lap where he belonged, onto the erection they both wanted him to take. It's a memory that has his breathing shiver and his blood rousing; the suggestion of potential violence in Mettaton's manner did nothing to dissuade him. It was much the opposite: every look stoked his desire for him, a hunger to be torn apart by his monstrous Bonded. Love was written in every drop of blood he lost, and he always had more to lose. And more bruises to gain. And more come to lay somewhere on his body.
He did appreciate being clean. But he also appreciated this, coated and smeared and dripped upon... it was indecent, every part of his body on potential display, available for use, and showing every sign of having been indulged in. And yet even now, while exhausted in body... there's little sign of Emet-Selch being any less wanting, any less fixated on his lover. A rapt, heated inclination that continued in spite of any weakness in body.]
You're- just as much of a tease.
[The barest suggestion of a voice, but it's... sort of there. Mettaton was similarly teasing by just existing in the Ascian's presence and his body, agitating the filling cock within him, looking down at him as though he were only a few suggestions away from ravishing him yet again. Not so much giving into animalistic impulses but harnessing them, using their influence to seek ever greater enjoyment for them both. Instincts that were worth indulging, when they could lead to pleasure like this, an intense way of expressing their mutual love.
It's not much more than a nudge, but Emet-Selch tries to push his ass back against Mettaton's hips. As though either of them needed any reminder over where the puca remained, and what the Ascian contained because of it.]
Yet. Even if you allowed me to rise....
[If they made yet another valiant attempt towards a shower... or to just sit up at all, he would drip with come, they both would notice it, Mettaton would fall on him, Emet-Selch would give himself over, and the cycle would continue. And every time he'd get a few more scratches, or another bruise, and his constitution would be eroded that bit more, until he could hardly move at all, could only shiver and twitch and yet still attempt to reach for him. Yet would still desire being fucked. He was well on the way to that state already.]
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Mettaton was touching his throat and disturbing his bruises, his clotting scratches, reminding them both of how thoroughly possessed the area was, and Emet-Selch can feel his pulse increase from the contact. A rub of clawed fingers against wounded skin, an area of his body particularly vulnerable, and he has to push back the reflex to close his eyes, in some instinctive desire to acknowledge that claim, that Mettaton had true control over his neck, and how intact it was allowed to remain. Instead, for all of the drain and weakness in his body, the Ascian's gaze stays focused, expectant- exhausted yet... eager all the same. There's certainly no suggestion of not intending to encourage his lover's arousal, and his tired body shifts as best it can underneath him, in its own version of restlessness.
But that's right... Mettaton had offered to take him to the shower (presumably to take him in the shower) some rounds ago, but each attempt had been aborted with increasing swiftness. They'd only made it off the bed once (because Mettaton brought him to the floor), and the last time he'd barely had his cock withdrawn before it was stuffed back in again, Emet-Selch pulled back into his lap where he belonged, onto the erection they both wanted him to take. It's a memory that has his breathing shiver and his blood rousing; the suggestion of potential violence in Mettaton's manner did nothing to dissuade him. It was much the opposite: every look stoked his desire for him, a hunger to be torn apart by his monstrous Bonded. Love was written in every drop of blood he lost, and he always had more to lose. And more bruises to gain. And more come to lay somewhere on his body.
He did appreciate being clean. But he also appreciated this, coated and smeared and dripped upon... it was indecent, every part of his body on potential display, available for use, and showing every sign of having been indulged in. And yet even now, while exhausted in body... there's little sign of Emet-Selch being any less wanting, any less fixated on his lover. A rapt, heated inclination that continued in spite of any weakness in body.]
You're- just as much of a tease.
[The barest suggestion of a voice, but it's... sort of there. Mettaton was similarly teasing by just existing in the Ascian's presence and his body, agitating the filling cock within him, looking down at him as though he were only a few suggestions away from ravishing him yet again. Not so much giving into animalistic impulses but harnessing them, using their influence to seek ever greater enjoyment for them both. Instincts that were worth indulging, when they could lead to pleasure like this, an intense way of expressing their mutual love.
It's not much more than a nudge, but Emet-Selch tries to push his ass back against Mettaton's hips. As though either of them needed any reminder over where the puca remained, and what the Ascian contained because of it.]
Yet. Even if you allowed me to rise....
[If they made yet another valiant attempt towards a shower... or to just sit up at all, he would drip with come, they both would notice it, Mettaton would fall on him, Emet-Selch would give himself over, and the cycle would continue. And every time he'd get a few more scratches, or another bruise, and his constitution would be eroded that bit more, until he could hardly move at all, could only shiver and twitch and yet still attempt to reach for him. Yet would still desire being fucked. He was well on the way to that state already.]