[Though Mettaton's reached this point of incomprehension, his is a sustained ordeal that colors his experiences rather than signals his end, and he's all the more starstruck for it. With his lips against Emet-Selch's throat he can feel each noise he makes and the swallow of anticipation at the possibility of his cock's release, which causes Mettaton to smile despite himself. If that's not begging for him to kiss him up and down his throat, pepper him with bites and marks, he doesn't know what is.
With each sound Emet-Selch mirrors, Mettaton's longing manifests as deep, hard kisses against his neck, fulfilling that desire to mark him and take him, sucking in some places until he's sure the mark will last, biting at others, dark and purple to his liking. Between each, it's all he can do to take stock of himself before he finds himself slipping again, feverish and wanting, so he uses Emet-Selch's neck as something of a means to pleasure himself in a way he can control. He sighs with satisfaction as he sinks into his Bonded; his fingers continue tracing his torso where there's defined muscle, occasionally returning to press firm against his chest. He could be as open as he pleased and it would only be for the better, he thinks, and he slips hard into the comfort of being Emet-Selch's in this moment. It's a surrender, but also a claim of his own, something communicated by Bond. With a low hum, he nestles against his neck some more to reaffirm his claim, all the while unable to keep from shifting his hips with his exuberant desire.
The robot's feelings of losing himself intensify with the continued stroking of his thigh, the firmness, and he decides he wants desperately to lean his full weight against the Ascian again. And he will, shortly, but he's still in a position where he took him down from the edge of the bed.
And if he wants to feel his cock as badly as he does, between his thighs and as close as he can get him, he'll have to end up moving, anyway.
He doesn't want to move his hands to wipe at the corner of his mouth once the awareness strikes him that he was drooling gracelessly, but, whatever. He licks his lips, dedicating that hand to something more important as he reluctantly shifts his weight off for the sake of freeing Emet-Selch's arousal: with a deftness, he finishes the job, sliding his fingers against his clothes just where he needs in order to pull out his cock. He applies a single flick of his finger against its head, licking his lips some more.
And he considers for a moment touching him by hand, first. Testing the waters, even as the craving to take him into his mouth strikes him. All of this want feels like one big need, and Mettaton gives up on trying to reason it out as he slides his body back down to settle against the curve of his erection. And his legs, still straddling his hips more than anything, tense significantly at what he feels of his erection, enough for him to gasp and freeze up.]
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With each sound Emet-Selch mirrors, Mettaton's longing manifests as deep, hard kisses against his neck, fulfilling that desire to mark him and take him, sucking in some places until he's sure the mark will last, biting at others, dark and purple to his liking. Between each, it's all he can do to take stock of himself before he finds himself slipping again, feverish and wanting, so he uses Emet-Selch's neck as something of a means to pleasure himself in a way he can control. He sighs with satisfaction as he sinks into his Bonded; his fingers continue tracing his torso where there's defined muscle, occasionally returning to press firm against his chest. He could be as open as he pleased and it would only be for the better, he thinks, and he slips hard into the comfort of being Emet-Selch's in this moment. It's a surrender, but also a claim of his own, something communicated by Bond. With a low hum, he nestles against his neck some more to reaffirm his claim, all the while unable to keep from shifting his hips with his exuberant desire.
The robot's feelings of losing himself intensify with the continued stroking of his thigh, the firmness, and he decides he wants desperately to lean his full weight against the Ascian again. And he will, shortly, but he's still in a position where he took him down from the edge of the bed.
And if he wants to feel his cock as badly as he does, between his thighs and as close as he can get him, he'll have to end up moving, anyway.
He doesn't want to move his hands to wipe at the corner of his mouth once the awareness strikes him that he was drooling gracelessly, but, whatever. He licks his lips, dedicating that hand to something more important as he reluctantly shifts his weight off for the sake of freeing Emet-Selch's arousal: with a deftness, he finishes the job, sliding his fingers against his clothes just where he needs in order to pull out his cock. He applies a single flick of his finger against its head, licking his lips some more.
And he considers for a moment touching him by hand, first. Testing the waters, even as the craving to take him into his mouth strikes him. All of this want feels like one big need, and Mettaton gives up on trying to reason it out as he slides his body back down to settle against the curve of his erection. And his legs, still straddling his hips more than anything, tense significantly at what he feels of his erection, enough for him to gasp and freeze up.]