[Dedicated as he is to marking him up again, Mettaton's ministrations are interrupted by a short stroke applied to the back of his thigh. Already wound tense, he shifts hard and sudden, forcing his body to press into the front of Emet-Selch's pants and his back to arch into him further. His fingers press desperately into the skin of his torso as his latest kiss is interrupted by a broken moan, and the robot finds himself right back to being just as strung out as he was before that long and amorous kiss that served to ground him, dazed and frantic.
He whines. It's too much, and his craving for Emet-Selch's goes beyond his physical capabilities, made evident by the way he boldly rubs against him this time, doubling down.]
Haaades, darling, haa, I— You— c-can't get enough...
[Is that a statement about himself, or a question for the Ascian? Both, really. And as if the terribly distracting sensation of his hard arousal wasn't enough, there's too much else to focus on that Mettaton could die for.
There's the matter of his hand against his ear, which feels too good, better than ever, and he finds himself burying his face into the space between his shoulder and his neck while the one ear Emet-Selch focuses on bends into his touch. To this, he treats the Ascian with a contented, shaky sigh, kissing and kissing him where he can.
And one of the greatest culprits is this Bond of theirs, a heavy, heartfelt thing that aches in pain, in longing, in lust, and in love, all depending on the recipient. And perhaps all at once, the gravity of it eclipsing all else for Mettaton and trapping him here flush against Emet-Selch's body. Their collective feelings are enough to drown the both of them, and neither of them are upset with it: they really do go all or nothing, and when they go for completion, it's as far as they can push their bodies.
Where his fingers press and prod, they also wander, and his hands linger curiously against his chest, where he continues to finger and squeeze at his nipples while he sucks another kiss into his neck, humming into him and pressing into his groin with urgency.
All of it causes his sense for pleasure to crest, stupefying him, and between his needy kisses and bites he can't help but emit a sigh of his pleasure, overcome by sensation as he is. It registers to his body as the same feeling of craving or hunger, and it encourages in him a drooling reflex, of all things. Developing organic responses in a synthetic body is a strange game.
It's a balancing act of delectable sensation that he can't handle, in truth, so he gives way to showing far too much appreciation for all of it at once. He's overwhelmed with delight. It's only minutes in and, as it would turn out, Mettaton's the one coming absolutely undone. ...Yet for as drugged on pleasure as the Puca finds himself, he has enough capacity to reach beneath his body to unfasten Emet-Selch's trousers, pushing them open with one hand but too reluctant to lift from his body to free his cock, despite the shudder of pleasure the very thought of doing so does for him.]
no subject
He whines. It's too much, and his craving for Emet-Selch's goes beyond his physical capabilities, made evident by the way he boldly rubs against him this time, doubling down.]
Haaades, darling, haa, I— You— c-can't get enough...
[Is that a statement about himself, or a question for the Ascian? Both, really. And as if the terribly distracting sensation of his hard arousal wasn't enough, there's too much else to focus on that Mettaton could die for.
There's the matter of his hand against his ear, which feels too good, better than ever, and he finds himself burying his face into the space between his shoulder and his neck while the one ear Emet-Selch focuses on bends into his touch. To this, he treats the Ascian with a contented, shaky sigh, kissing and kissing him where he can.
And one of the greatest culprits is this Bond of theirs, a heavy, heartfelt thing that aches in pain, in longing, in lust, and in love, all depending on the recipient. And perhaps all at once, the gravity of it eclipsing all else for Mettaton and trapping him here flush against Emet-Selch's body. Their collective feelings are enough to drown the both of them, and neither of them are upset with it: they really do go all or nothing, and when they go for completion, it's as far as they can push their bodies.
Where his fingers press and prod, they also wander, and his hands linger curiously against his chest, where he continues to finger and squeeze at his nipples while he sucks another kiss into his neck, humming into him and pressing into his groin with urgency.
All of it causes his sense for pleasure to crest, stupefying him, and between his needy kisses and bites he can't help but emit a sigh of his pleasure, overcome by sensation as he is. It registers to his body as the same feeling of craving or hunger, and it encourages in him a drooling reflex, of all things. Developing organic responses in a synthetic body is a strange game.
It's a balancing act of delectable sensation that he can't handle, in truth, so he gives way to showing far too much appreciation for all of it at once. He's overwhelmed with delight. It's only minutes in and, as it would turn out, Mettaton's the one coming absolutely undone. ...Yet for as drugged on pleasure as the Puca finds himself, he has enough capacity to reach beneath his body to unfasten Emet-Selch's trousers, pushing them open with one hand but too reluctant to lift from his body to free his cock, despite the shudder of pleasure the very thought of doing so does for him.]