[Emet-Selch's pointed look gets a giggle out of Mettaton, for having anticipated his minor annoyance and for it being so clear on his face, so easy to read, almost like he could have predicted it and imitated it for himself. Drawn it from a precognitive memory, but it's much more satisfying to see it for himself. The pride, however, remains: it's more obvious as a backdrop to his amusement, still working his hands over his legs, his lips against his skin, tasting him despite having no intent to consume him. Yet when he presses and prods his thighs, he can feel the tension beneath his fingers and he knows fully that such soreness came from Emet-Selch's proper position, thighs spread around Mettaton's body as he took a thick cock, pleasured them both with the warmth of his body—
Excessive and indulgent, Mettaton continues to kiss hotly around his hip, his abdomen, surely kissing right over areas where he'd wiped up (a rudimentary fix) some of his lover's come, caring not at all that he's still a mess regardless and deigning to make him more of a mess, it seems. A mess of saliva — then, as he rubs his cheek against the taut plane of his abdomen, a mess of scents as well. As if he weren't already a mess of all regards...
...Arousal plagues him still, and he knows better than to continue, even though he has no anatomical features that should ache or distract. It didn't make it necessarily easier to cope with... Just less obvious, and more frustrating. A forced abstinence from relief, when Mettaton is hardly one to abstain.
They were a mess, and Mettaton scarcely knew how to hold back. Evidenced by the amount of come he'd wiped just from his inner thighs, a true exercise in excess, an amount shocking and only from places he could reach! This wasn't including the come left on the floor, from the multiple attempts his lover had at rising — and it's terrible, really, how aroused Mettaton feels. He squirms somewhat, imagining the times earlier where he saw milky fluid cascading down his thighs, how it looked when he spread his ass and had a chance to fit his cock against all of that, proof of how much he'd fucked him, deposited in him load after load... Before it all went sour, before he lost his mind and Emet-Selch was rendered too used to say a word.
The Puca presses his face more deeply into Emet-Selch's abdomen to cope, reminding himself that such excess is what led them down this scary path when unchecked.
So the robot pulls back, gaze gentling, still fixing on his lover's lower half for the moment. He exhales, letting the settling, charged air between them weigh on him as comfortably and uncomfortably, as it should. They were coming around from the fearsome drop into terror and discomfort their sex brought them, all of it intense, but when he glances at Emet-Selch's face he can still see the evidence of tears. Mettaton gentles further, and he scoots himself closer to his upper half, having cleaned what he could get to on his lower half.
He truly is weak to Emet-Selch now, he thought... Emet-Selch would do anything for his sake, but if Emet-Selch wanted something, Mettaton's sure he'd have a hard time denying him. Even when he doesn't want something and Mettaton thinks he ought to have it, he has a hard time saying no to himself. Closer to his face, Mettaton presses his palm to the Ascian's cheek in a regard for him: his split lip, his attentive gaze, the shock of white in his bangs... All of his features are once more soaked in.]
You're so difficult to pass up...
[Said on a voice airy and smooth, reflective and low as if in a dream — and a touch embarrassed, but not because he thought it shameful to want Emet-Selch so bad. Just that he possessed such uncontrollable libido. No doubt Emet-Selch could feel the full of his appetitive conflict, and he shakes his head no. One of his ears stands properly, attentive and neutral, but the other... flops over somewhat, forgetting to stand like its partner.
He doesn't plan on ravishing him another time, even when his body wishes it. That much is clear.
But it's clear that Mettaton thinks of something when he looks at his chest. His other hand skims over scars: a long line of one, then rounding around the bite he'd taken out of his lover's chest, just over his heart. A time during the heat of summer, the allure of sun so inviting to Mettaton as he wanted to try it on for himself — failure imminent, scarring in a different way. An admission of trouble to his lover, making an unfaltering idol look weakened; a subsequent admission between them both that they were both bearing scars from the time they met. They'd traded traumas, spoke of them, shared their horrors and held each other, elected to take back what was rightfully theirs.
...He lifts his gaze again to meet Emet-Selch's eyes.]
Your shoulder... I think it's going to scar, at this rate.
[The option was always to go to a healer who could properly close it. Stitches and magic, the options were plentiful here. Mettaton only caught sight of it when they sat on the floor, but his understanding of what scarred and what didn't suggested to him that such openness wrought by his teeth sunken in flesh twice over would me more difficult for his lover's body to piece back together again.]
I didn't hold back, did I? [Aside from the lack of coordination from too-recent climax that hindered his ability to sink his teeth into flesh, making for a bite so sloppy... no, he didn't.]
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Excessive and indulgent, Mettaton continues to kiss hotly around his hip, his abdomen, surely kissing right over areas where he'd wiped up (a rudimentary fix) some of his lover's come, caring not at all that he's still a mess regardless and deigning to make him more of a mess, it seems. A mess of saliva — then, as he rubs his cheek against the taut plane of his abdomen, a mess of scents as well. As if he weren't already a mess of all regards...
...Arousal plagues him still, and he knows better than to continue, even though he has no anatomical features that should ache or distract. It didn't make it necessarily easier to cope with... Just less obvious, and more frustrating. A forced abstinence from relief, when Mettaton is hardly one to abstain.
They were a mess, and Mettaton scarcely knew how to hold back. Evidenced by the amount of come he'd wiped just from his inner thighs, a true exercise in excess, an amount shocking and only from places he could reach! This wasn't including the come left on the floor, from the multiple attempts his lover had at rising — and it's terrible, really, how aroused Mettaton feels. He squirms somewhat, imagining the times earlier where he saw milky fluid cascading down his thighs, how it looked when he spread his ass and had a chance to fit his cock against all of that, proof of how much he'd fucked him, deposited in him load after load... Before it all went sour, before he lost his mind and Emet-Selch was rendered too used to say a word.
The Puca presses his face more deeply into Emet-Selch's abdomen to cope, reminding himself that such excess is what led them down this scary path when unchecked.
So the robot pulls back, gaze gentling, still fixing on his lover's lower half for the moment. He exhales, letting the settling, charged air between them weigh on him as comfortably and uncomfortably, as it should. They were coming around from the fearsome drop into terror and discomfort their sex brought them, all of it intense, but when he glances at Emet-Selch's face he can still see the evidence of tears. Mettaton gentles further, and he scoots himself closer to his upper half, having cleaned what he could get to on his lower half.
He truly is weak to Emet-Selch now, he thought... Emet-Selch would do anything for his sake, but if Emet-Selch wanted something, Mettaton's sure he'd have a hard time denying him. Even when he doesn't want something and Mettaton thinks he ought to have it, he has a hard time saying no to himself. Closer to his face, Mettaton presses his palm to the Ascian's cheek in a regard for him: his split lip, his attentive gaze, the shock of white in his bangs... All of his features are once more soaked in.]
You're so difficult to pass up...
[Said on a voice airy and smooth, reflective and low as if in a dream — and a touch embarrassed, but not because he thought it shameful to want Emet-Selch so bad. Just that he possessed such uncontrollable libido. No doubt Emet-Selch could feel the full of his appetitive conflict, and he shakes his head no. One of his ears stands properly, attentive and neutral, but the other... flops over somewhat, forgetting to stand like its partner.
He doesn't plan on ravishing him another time, even when his body wishes it. That much is clear.
But it's clear that Mettaton thinks of something when he looks at his chest. His other hand skims over scars: a long line of one, then rounding around the bite he'd taken out of his lover's chest, just over his heart. A time during the heat of summer, the allure of sun so inviting to Mettaton as he wanted to try it on for himself — failure imminent, scarring in a different way. An admission of trouble to his lover, making an unfaltering idol look weakened; a subsequent admission between them both that they were both bearing scars from the time they met. They'd traded traumas, spoke of them, shared their horrors and held each other, elected to take back what was rightfully theirs.
...He lifts his gaze again to meet Emet-Selch's eyes.]
Your shoulder... I think it's going to scar, at this rate.
[The option was always to go to a healer who could properly close it. Stitches and magic, the options were plentiful here. Mettaton only caught sight of it when they sat on the floor, but his understanding of what scarred and what didn't suggested to him that such openness wrought by his teeth sunken in flesh twice over would me more difficult for his lover's body to piece back together again.]
I didn't hold back, did I? [Aside from the lack of coordination from too-recent climax that hindered his ability to sink his teeth into flesh, making for a bite so sloppy... no, he didn't.]