[Now that Mettaton was producing saliva at all it would be a waste not to smear it on his lover's face, to make known to all that he'd just kissed him with wild abandon... To make known to Emet-Selch that he'd just keep doing it, too. To coat him with any of the fluids and pheromones he could produce that were his now, just like this body was his now, just like Emet-Selch was his now, all things to conquer and claim. He'd wear his lover's blood on his face like a mark of pride. (Even though it would only end up alarming people, and the Coven might get him in trouble for becoming a maneater... Mettaton's not thinking about any of that.)
There was the swapping of spit, but there was intensity in emotion that gets that golden eye of Mettaton's to flutter shut just to bask in. Feelings of adoration and admiration both, ones he reciprocated. He could feel and enjoy and feed into the simmering warmth between them best exhibited by the slow, intent way they focused so purely on kissing each other, on each other's bodies and souls, somewhere he felt... comfortable. They could both just be themselves in the purest, rawest sense in each other's presence, and though the idol was never pretending to be someone he wasn't... It was different to be in the sole company of his Bonded, and they both understood why. He could tell Emet-Selch felt similarly, even if it always struck the robot that he wasn't ever sure what such a state should be for himself — but he would simply be with him anyway, and that was pleasing to him to witness.
Like this, it would make sense that as soon as Mettaton shifts his hips and draws his cock, both of them would end up on the same page. He could almost feel the complexity of mood on the matter from the both of them: drawing even an inch from Emet-Selch was the reminder that being inside of him was where Mettaton should be. He could feel Emet-Selch agreed with that fiercely. Down to the root should he be buried, where Emet-Selch could continue to rub and squeeze the glans of his cock as soon as he (inevitably) stiffened again... But what was a bit of playful adjusting, a bit of exploratory shuffling of positions? It sounds enticing to the Puca, and he makes the decision to change things up for experiment's sake. To see what calls to him most, to see what his lover would do.
Emet-Selch's stuttered in his kiss, misaligning their lips after a good shiver. Mettaton only smiles, a smooth, soft laugh replacing soft moans. And yet still, it's painted in pleasure.]
You're keeping step with me even still, I see...
[Not at all in body. Even Mettaton was presently in his right mind enough to take in how beaten down Emet-Selch was, bloodied and bruised, and — really, his neck was something that he thinks a human would get alarmed at. He looks like he was strangled and worse... but the amount of bruising on his neck would surely give away that it was from passion alone, and not of hateful violence. After all, were they from injury, that would be enough to... severely harm his lover, he thinks, but he's not sure.
Necks are tender, vulnerable places; he knew that first-hand. Mettaton draws back just enough to regard the other man's throat, blinking at it all. It would be rarer to find a spot unmarked on him now... Indeed, it would have to be bruising from the sucking of lips or the biting of teeth, all of it passionate and sensual.
But where Emet-Selch falters in body, he keeps up with him in imagination and thought and spirit. That's what the Puca's getting at: both of them felt the shift of his hips and both of them, he's sure, envisioned the way Emet-Selch would drip with come were he righted from this spot. And both of them wondered... should they do it? Should they watch him try to rise, only to find themselves fiercely aroused by his state? Just picturing the events that could potentially unfold after Emet-Selch's valiant attempt has Mettaton putting a firm halt on them, but not to spare his lover. Only to spare himself the fantasy, so that he could watch the real thing.
So Emet-Selch keeps up with him in consideration, passion, intensity, and anticipation. His voice, the soreness of his body... He was spent, but it wouldn't be so bad, Mettaton thought. All Emet-Selch would have to do is take his cock some more, more and more and more as he left in him load after load so that he could see just how full he could leave him, time and again. But right now was a good point to check.
With a firm kiss to his lover's cheek, Mettaton flashes Emet-Selch a charming smile with teeth: canines manicured sharp, incisors long, an odd combination but one he owns in this moment. There's a mischievousness to his gaze. Not at all burdened by the events of their time tangled together, Mettaton shifts to half-rise from Emet-Selch's body... but drawing his cock out is more of an ordeal. It's done with obvious regret on his features, the contortion of displeasure from leaving the heat and squeeze of his lover's body and with a shaky sigh to match. But even regarding Emet-Selch's body has Mettaton interrupting his efforts to press a quick kiss to his chest.]
Don't worry, Hades. I'm sure you'll still feel full... And should you not, you'll tell me, right?
[With that, he slinks along his body to rise to his knees, narrowing his eyes with a sultry heat to his gaze, watching him behind dark lashes with a predator's hunger.]
I'll fill you right back up...
[It's up to Emet-Selch to decide if that's a guarantee - that if he feels too empty, he'd fill him - or if that's a promise anyway - that he'd stuff his cock back inside of him regardless of his feeling. But it would almost certainly be the latter: they both knew Mettaton won't be able to hold back if he catches sight of his lover so full of his come that it runs down his thighs.
But Mettaton seems determined to get the best view, leaning back with an air of expectant intensity. His cock, only semi-stiff in its attempt to relax, is slick with a sheen, evidence to its bed of come and lube but on full display. The way he leans is regal and pompous, the diamonds spilling over his neck only adding to the picture of decadence. Darkly he watches, his perspective like this giving a full view of Emet-Selch's spread legs, from bruises to ass to cock... It's hard not to lunge for him just like this. It's obscene, his entrance so slicked and with come all over between his thighs, enough to have Mettaton near slavering over it... No, Emet-Selch wouldn't be able to leave this bed without good reason, Mettaton's sure. He couldn't allow it, and he couldn't bear it.
As though offering the illusion of freedom, Mettaton's disengaged from Emet-Selch completely. But the pressure in the air itself suggests anything but: he would surely pounce the moment it struck him to. How would he resist his lover? Ears standing tall in their interest with a pronounced lean, Mettaton tilts his head.]
Hmm... But where would I have you go? Well! I could leave that up to you. You could try for the shower... You could stretch your legs. You could come back to me... If you can move at all.
[So Mettaton sits back. He waits. He watches intently his lover from his spot between his legs, feeling pressure build all over again in his groin, tension and want filling him. From here he can still see his Bonded's face, can still watch the whole of him while sitting on his knees, but he does his best to remain purely in this moment, not in fantasy. If he gives himself over to fantasy too soon, he'll end up losing his mind.]
no subject
There was the swapping of spit, but there was intensity in emotion that gets that golden eye of Mettaton's to flutter shut just to bask in. Feelings of adoration and admiration both, ones he reciprocated. He could feel and enjoy and feed into the simmering warmth between them best exhibited by the slow, intent way they focused so purely on kissing each other, on each other's bodies and souls, somewhere he felt... comfortable. They could both just be themselves in the purest, rawest sense in each other's presence, and though the idol was never pretending to be someone he wasn't... It was different to be in the sole company of his Bonded, and they both understood why. He could tell Emet-Selch felt similarly, even if it always struck the robot that he wasn't ever sure what such a state should be for himself — but he would simply be with him anyway, and that was pleasing to him to witness.
Like this, it would make sense that as soon as Mettaton shifts his hips and draws his cock, both of them would end up on the same page. He could almost feel the complexity of mood on the matter from the both of them: drawing even an inch from Emet-Selch was the reminder that being inside of him was where Mettaton should be. He could feel Emet-Selch agreed with that fiercely. Down to the root should he be buried, where Emet-Selch could continue to rub and squeeze the glans of his cock as soon as he (inevitably) stiffened again... But what was a bit of playful adjusting, a bit of exploratory shuffling of positions? It sounds enticing to the Puca, and he makes the decision to change things up for experiment's sake. To see what calls to him most, to see what his lover would do.
Emet-Selch's stuttered in his kiss, misaligning their lips after a good shiver. Mettaton only smiles, a smooth, soft laugh replacing soft moans. And yet still, it's painted in pleasure.]
You're keeping step with me even still, I see...
[Not at all in body. Even Mettaton was presently in his right mind enough to take in how beaten down Emet-Selch was, bloodied and bruised, and — really, his neck was something that he thinks a human would get alarmed at. He looks like he was strangled and worse... but the amount of bruising on his neck would surely give away that it was from passion alone, and not of hateful violence. After all, were they from injury, that would be enough to... severely harm his lover, he thinks, but he's not sure.
Necks are tender, vulnerable places; he knew that first-hand. Mettaton draws back just enough to regard the other man's throat, blinking at it all. It would be rarer to find a spot unmarked on him now... Indeed, it would have to be bruising from the sucking of lips or the biting of teeth, all of it passionate and sensual.
But where Emet-Selch falters in body, he keeps up with him in imagination and thought and spirit. That's what the Puca's getting at: both of them felt the shift of his hips and both of them, he's sure, envisioned the way Emet-Selch would drip with come were he righted from this spot. And both of them wondered... should they do it? Should they watch him try to rise, only to find themselves fiercely aroused by his state? Just picturing the events that could potentially unfold after Emet-Selch's valiant attempt has Mettaton putting a firm halt on them, but not to spare his lover. Only to spare himself the fantasy, so that he could watch the real thing.
So Emet-Selch keeps up with him in consideration, passion, intensity, and anticipation. His voice, the soreness of his body... He was spent, but it wouldn't be so bad, Mettaton thought. All Emet-Selch would have to do is take his cock some more, more and more and more as he left in him load after load so that he could see just how full he could leave him, time and again. But right now was a good point to check.
With a firm kiss to his lover's cheek, Mettaton flashes Emet-Selch a charming smile with teeth: canines manicured sharp, incisors long, an odd combination but one he owns in this moment. There's a mischievousness to his gaze. Not at all burdened by the events of their time tangled together, Mettaton shifts to half-rise from Emet-Selch's body... but drawing his cock out is more of an ordeal. It's done with obvious regret on his features, the contortion of displeasure from leaving the heat and squeeze of his lover's body and with a shaky sigh to match. But even regarding Emet-Selch's body has Mettaton interrupting his efforts to press a quick kiss to his chest.]
Don't worry, Hades. I'm sure you'll still feel full... And should you not, you'll tell me, right?
[With that, he slinks along his body to rise to his knees, narrowing his eyes with a sultry heat to his gaze, watching him behind dark lashes with a predator's hunger.]
I'll fill you right back up...
[It's up to Emet-Selch to decide if that's a guarantee - that if he feels too empty, he'd fill him - or if that's a promise anyway - that he'd stuff his cock back inside of him regardless of his feeling. But it would almost certainly be the latter: they both knew Mettaton won't be able to hold back if he catches sight of his lover so full of his come that it runs down his thighs.
But Mettaton seems determined to get the best view, leaning back with an air of expectant intensity. His cock, only semi-stiff in its attempt to relax, is slick with a sheen, evidence to its bed of come and lube but on full display. The way he leans is regal and pompous, the diamonds spilling over his neck only adding to the picture of decadence. Darkly he watches, his perspective like this giving a full view of Emet-Selch's spread legs, from bruises to ass to cock... It's hard not to lunge for him just like this. It's obscene, his entrance so slicked and with come all over between his thighs, enough to have Mettaton near slavering over it... No, Emet-Selch wouldn't be able to leave this bed without good reason, Mettaton's sure. He couldn't allow it, and he couldn't bear it.
As though offering the illusion of freedom, Mettaton's disengaged from Emet-Selch completely. But the pressure in the air itself suggests anything but: he would surely pounce the moment it struck him to. How would he resist his lover? Ears standing tall in their interest with a pronounced lean, Mettaton tilts his head.]
Hmm... But where would I have you go? Well! I could leave that up to you. You could try for the shower... You could stretch your legs. You could come back to me... If you can move at all.
[So Mettaton sits back. He waits. He watches intently his lover from his spot between his legs, feeling pressure build all over again in his groin, tension and want filling him. From here he can still see his Bonded's face, can still watch the whole of him while sitting on his knees, but he does his best to remain purely in this moment, not in fantasy. If he gives himself over to fantasy too soon, he'll end up losing his mind.]