[The hand he had laced in Emet-Selch's hair moves down to rest against his shoulder, bracing himself as these open-mouthed kisses compound upon his affection, right down to the way the Ascian breathes him in. Mettaton expels all of the breath he has, his passion entwined with arousal to render him achingly sensitive, heat coursing through his thighs and groin both. It's hard to keep still when he wants so much of the man before him.
The sensation of his finger inside of him gradually becomes easier to accept. His inability to still, however, makes it so that he's continuously reminded of the size of it, made to tense spontaneously at the notice of it. The way his lover treats him to unhurried strokes of his digit, as deep within his body as he can reach before withdrawing slowly, is an energy quite unlike Mettaton's from earlier. Compared to his own needy fervency, an energy that compelled him to take to Emet-Selch's body with lusty haste, his manner is so much more deliberate, a dimension that feels as though he's soaking in the moment rather than leaping for immediate and complete gratification. MTT sighs yet more breath that he doesn't have, making room for an equally unhurried intake of air. Chest full even without oxygen, the robot's dazed by the consideration of his Bonded.
This bodily response is a sympathetic one to his lover's tempo, picking up on an even rhythm that only serves to entice him. An increasingly comfortable sensation, even as he tightens, or becomes too aware of this foreign intrusion in this foreign body.
But just as it's foreign, it aligns so right. This moment with Emet-Selch ranks among the most like himself he could ever possibly feel... And Mettaton doesn't think it's entirely because of this human form. It transcends it, a feeling like he's known completely. It warms him to his core.
Rewinding time, he wonders briefly if he was capable of relaxing solely in Emet-Selch's presence upon their first meeting because there was some sort of acknowledgement, deep down, that he could be this person who he trusts so deeply with the whole of him. And this trust makes it easier to tune into his pace, a measured stroke and a slow advancing, a pace intended to admire every step of the way. And so he does, paying mind to the way Emet-Selch's finger sinks into him. The way his own body tenses, the way he can feel the throb of pleasure in his own cock despite the lack of touch, the way he begins to relax and accept.
Emet-Selch's movements become rhythmic, a pushing and pulling that reminds him of what's to come. The idol couldn't possibly still, but his lower body relaxes just enough to welcome him inside of him entirely. His eyelid curtains as his hand presses more firmly to his heart, feeling for the way that his lungs expand and contract as he's forced to resume breathing. (He hadn't realized he was holding his breath until he began again, gasping for air, tensing again around his finger.)
It grows familiar. Easy to sink into. Addictive. Mettaton sighs, long and soft. His sigh, however, is interrupted by the suddenness of a second finger: he knows, because it's a slightly different temperature, a slightly thicker plunge, and he tightens all over again with a hitch of his breath, a note of surprise on his voice.
It doesn't hurt like he thought it would. No doubt, Emet-Selch takes meticulous care for the act of preparation, and Mettaton's thighs tremble. With this new introduction, he imagines with such vivid fascination the sensation of his cock, how soon he'll get to feel that sink hip-deep into his body. Mettaton fails to exhale, caught up in his fantasy as he is.
He squirms atop his fingers, panting, almost trying to shift his hips into his fingers, even with the surprising new addition. When he sighs, it carries a long, soft note of contentment, of fondness, and Mettaton pulls his throat away from Emet-Selch to trace his lips with his own, even as he pants, lips damp. Softly, he sucks at Emet-Selch's lower lip, purely infatuated.]
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The sensation of his finger inside of him gradually becomes easier to accept. His inability to still, however, makes it so that he's continuously reminded of the size of it, made to tense spontaneously at the notice of it. The way his lover treats him to unhurried strokes of his digit, as deep within his body as he can reach before withdrawing slowly, is an energy quite unlike Mettaton's from earlier. Compared to his own needy fervency, an energy that compelled him to take to Emet-Selch's body with lusty haste, his manner is so much more deliberate, a dimension that feels as though he's soaking in the moment rather than leaping for immediate and complete gratification. MTT sighs yet more breath that he doesn't have, making room for an equally unhurried intake of air. Chest full even without oxygen, the robot's dazed by the consideration of his Bonded.
This bodily response is a sympathetic one to his lover's tempo, picking up on an even rhythm that only serves to entice him. An increasingly comfortable sensation, even as he tightens, or becomes too aware of this foreign intrusion in this foreign body.
But just as it's foreign, it aligns so right. This moment with Emet-Selch ranks among the most like himself he could ever possibly feel... And Mettaton doesn't think it's entirely because of this human form. It transcends it, a feeling like he's known completely. It warms him to his core.
Rewinding time, he wonders briefly if he was capable of relaxing solely in Emet-Selch's presence upon their first meeting because there was some sort of acknowledgement, deep down, that he could be this person who he trusts so deeply with the whole of him. And this trust makes it easier to tune into his pace, a measured stroke and a slow advancing, a pace intended to admire every step of the way. And so he does, paying mind to the way Emet-Selch's finger sinks into him. The way his own body tenses, the way he can feel the throb of pleasure in his own cock despite the lack of touch, the way he begins to relax and accept.
Emet-Selch's movements become rhythmic, a pushing and pulling that reminds him of what's to come. The idol couldn't possibly still, but his lower body relaxes just enough to welcome him inside of him entirely. His eyelid curtains as his hand presses more firmly to his heart, feeling for the way that his lungs expand and contract as he's forced to resume breathing. (He hadn't realized he was holding his breath until he began again, gasping for air, tensing again around his finger.)
It grows familiar. Easy to sink into. Addictive. Mettaton sighs, long and soft. His sigh, however, is interrupted by the suddenness of a second finger: he knows, because it's a slightly different temperature, a slightly thicker plunge, and he tightens all over again with a hitch of his breath, a note of surprise on his voice.
It doesn't hurt like he thought it would. No doubt, Emet-Selch takes meticulous care for the act of preparation, and Mettaton's thighs tremble. With this new introduction, he imagines with such vivid fascination the sensation of his cock, how soon he'll get to feel that sink hip-deep into his body. Mettaton fails to exhale, caught up in his fantasy as he is.
He squirms atop his fingers, panting, almost trying to shift his hips into his fingers, even with the surprising new addition. When he sighs, it carries a long, soft note of contentment, of fondness, and Mettaton pulls his throat away from Emet-Selch to trace his lips with his own, even as he pants, lips damp. Softly, he sucks at Emet-Selch's lower lip, purely infatuated.]