[At the sound of his name, he hums in reply, warm and pleasant while his kissing is feverish and responsive. For the feelings he has that are all for this and for his Bonded, he harbors his own airy thrill at them, the pleasure it brings him to feel dizzy when he so much as hears Emet-Selch's voice and feels his familiar form before him. But the Ascian's ache permeates. Not only does it permeate, but it elicits awareness of the pang of hurt that accompanies such delight in himself: a strong emotion only deserves both, and though he's predisposed to focusing on the half most commonly associated with positivity, the other's always been there. Feeling love is both light and heavy, and his ability to feel it in balance is stronger than ever.
As soon as Emet-Selch tightens like a vice about his leg, Mettaton's gaze becomes hazy, his ears springing upright. The suddenness of the gesture washes over him hot, a heat wave both lulling and striking both in tandem. His neck slackens in response while the hand he has wrapped around Emet-Selch's backside moves to wrap frantically around his lower back for some further closeness, support. His other hand returns to wrap around his erection, and he finds himself sliding his thumb in slow circles around the tip as he stutters into their kiss, no longer able to even say Emet-Selch's name.
His sheer willingness to give into him is interrupted for another erupting desire, purely psychological, as most things are for the robot. Everything's a slow build for him and though he's solidly in the most climactic territory he can be in, he thinks he can push himself further. Mettaton's weakness dissolves and he returns their latest kiss hard and heavy, sliding his tongue against the Ascian's lower lip before pulling away. There's a renewed glint in his heavy-lidded eye, his lips parted and wet with the product of their kissing, though he smiles.
All he wants is to appreciate his work. To see what the product of their adoration for each other has done to Emet-Selch, to his chest, his neck, his gaze and his lips, his entire disposition. They mean more than impact upon his body. He knows he himself must be a sight in his own right, as little as his composition can be affected. The Puca can tell his hair's been mussed, his body language frenetic, his expressions a betrayal of a want turned into a need. But what of Emet-Selch? He keeps working his hand over his cock in long, slow strokes, most of the focus applied to the head, where his thumb presses and slides, skirting over the very tip here and there.]
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As soon as Emet-Selch tightens like a vice about his leg, Mettaton's gaze becomes hazy, his ears springing upright. The suddenness of the gesture washes over him hot, a heat wave both lulling and striking both in tandem. His neck slackens in response while the hand he has wrapped around Emet-Selch's backside moves to wrap frantically around his lower back for some further closeness, support. His other hand returns to wrap around his erection, and he finds himself sliding his thumb in slow circles around the tip as he stutters into their kiss, no longer able to even say Emet-Selch's name.
His sheer willingness to give into him is interrupted for another erupting desire, purely psychological, as most things are for the robot. Everything's a slow build for him and though he's solidly in the most climactic territory he can be in, he thinks he can push himself further. Mettaton's weakness dissolves and he returns their latest kiss hard and heavy, sliding his tongue against the Ascian's lower lip before pulling away. There's a renewed glint in his heavy-lidded eye, his lips parted and wet with the product of their kissing, though he smiles.
All he wants is to appreciate his work. To see what the product of their adoration for each other has done to Emet-Selch, to his chest, his neck, his gaze and his lips, his entire disposition. They mean more than impact upon his body. He knows he himself must be a sight in his own right, as little as his composition can be affected. The Puca can tell his hair's been mussed, his body language frenetic, his expressions a betrayal of a want turned into a need. But what of Emet-Selch? He keeps working his hand over his cock in long, slow strokes, most of the focus applied to the head, where his thumb presses and slides, skirting over the very tip here and there.]