[(As if returning to his other house would guarantee safety from Mettaton's break-ins.)
When he meets his lover's eyes in the heat of his own dizzying passion, lust parts for a heady bout of absolute love for the man sitting before him, who speaks on words unsteady. Captivated by his eyes, Mettaton might describe his state. His breath's caught in his throat at the sight of him and his battered and bruised neck, a damage wrought by himself, a love so immense that it could hurt even himself.
Oddly enough, it registers to him somewhat like pain in this moment. Earlier on, no feeling of his crush on the Ascian registered as ache or longing or any manner of sorrow... And even still, Mettaton's own sort of love shines brighter than all else. He smiles so warmly at Emet-Selch, cheek pressed to his erection, but he thinks about how... deep his feelings run now. How much just loving him leaves him sore. It's not in any anticipation of losing anything, but rather, that there's so much love he feels that he yearns to demonstrate it all: the feeling of a love so swollen that there's no expression sufficient enough to make it adequately known all at once. Only in increments. In a body like this one, it's a love that tangles itself messily with his body, the bridging of an emotional-physical experience: the beat of his heart and the inhalation of lungs are weighted down, and he wonders if Emet-Selch's pain in attachment feels like this. How different is the pain of impending loss to the ache of excessive love? Is this simply the feeling of excessiveness in general?
Moments spent staring lovestruck, zoning out of the moment completely. Even with the heat of an erection pressed to his flushed cheek, breathing shallow and violet eyes taking on a syrupy fondness. Spacing out seems to be something Mettaton does sometimes, a more private trait that he reserves for his lonesome... Or for special company. Emet-Selch qualifies as special company.
Mettaton comes back around and blinks, smile warming yet at the sound of Emet-Selch's voice.]
Good. [He trails kisses up the length of the shaft with a breathy exhale, a silvery hum accompanying his affection.] For me to occupy your thoughts if ever you find yourself wanting... I'd be delighted.
[Finally. Satisfied beyond belief at his handiwork manifested in Emet-Selch's body, the Puca kisses the tip of his arousal, sloppy and with a dedication to first slipping his lips over the tip of his cock. It's a kiss he provides some suction into, a kiss he reapplies, but this time for longer. The robot unhands Emet-Selch's wrists then, dragging his fingertips along his midriff, warm and soft. The smack of a kiss has Mettaton slipping the head between his lips, sucking with such amorous intent that he sighs in relief.
A relief, he supposes, found in being able to express this want: he sucks hard, suction accompanied by the ambitious stroke of his tongue, even while his own hard-on throbs painfully in his sympathy. But he refuses to acknowledge it, not yet. He'll have his turn after he sucks his lover off, when Emet-Selch's spent, when Mettaton deems him needing to be overwhelmed with his expression of want. Sucking him off isn't enough to express this love of his that crushes him, not if he wants to inundate him totally. He groans softly into his mouthful of cock, throat open as he unhands Emet-Selch's wrists to slip his hands under his thighs. He gives his upper leg a firm squeeze, a satisfied sigh slipping from his throat as he sucks ardently.
He spares a moment to release his cock from his mouth again, a line of saliva following his tongue as he exposes the glistening head to the air. He regards him amorously, hungrily; he licks his lips, even.]
God, Hades... [He speaks on a collapsing sigh, parted lips pressed to the slickness of his glans. He glances up at his lover, eyes half-lidded and wanting.]
no subject
When he meets his lover's eyes in the heat of his own dizzying passion, lust parts for a heady bout of absolute love for the man sitting before him, who speaks on words unsteady. Captivated by his eyes, Mettaton might describe his state. His breath's caught in his throat at the sight of him and his battered and bruised neck, a damage wrought by himself, a love so immense that it could hurt even himself.
Oddly enough, it registers to him somewhat like pain in this moment. Earlier on, no feeling of his crush on the Ascian registered as ache or longing or any manner of sorrow... And even still, Mettaton's own sort of love shines brighter than all else. He smiles so warmly at Emet-Selch, cheek pressed to his erection, but he thinks about how... deep his feelings run now. How much just loving him leaves him sore. It's not in any anticipation of losing anything, but rather, that there's so much love he feels that he yearns to demonstrate it all: the feeling of a love so swollen that there's no expression sufficient enough to make it adequately known all at once. Only in increments. In a body like this one, it's a love that tangles itself messily with his body, the bridging of an emotional-physical experience: the beat of his heart and the inhalation of lungs are weighted down, and he wonders if Emet-Selch's pain in attachment feels like this. How different is the pain of impending loss to the ache of excessive love? Is this simply the feeling of excessiveness in general?
Moments spent staring lovestruck, zoning out of the moment completely. Even with the heat of an erection pressed to his flushed cheek, breathing shallow and violet eyes taking on a syrupy fondness. Spacing out seems to be something Mettaton does sometimes, a more private trait that he reserves for his lonesome... Or for special company. Emet-Selch qualifies as special company.
Mettaton comes back around and blinks, smile warming yet at the sound of Emet-Selch's voice.]
Good. [He trails kisses up the length of the shaft with a breathy exhale, a silvery hum accompanying his affection.] For me to occupy your thoughts if ever you find yourself wanting... I'd be delighted.
[Finally. Satisfied beyond belief at his handiwork manifested in Emet-Selch's body, the Puca kisses the tip of his arousal, sloppy and with a dedication to first slipping his lips over the tip of his cock. It's a kiss he provides some suction into, a kiss he reapplies, but this time for longer. The robot unhands Emet-Selch's wrists then, dragging his fingertips along his midriff, warm and soft. The smack of a kiss has Mettaton slipping the head between his lips, sucking with such amorous intent that he sighs in relief.
A relief, he supposes, found in being able to express this want: he sucks hard, suction accompanied by the ambitious stroke of his tongue, even while his own hard-on throbs painfully in his sympathy. But he refuses to acknowledge it, not yet. He'll have his turn after he sucks his lover off, when Emet-Selch's spent, when Mettaton deems him needing to be overwhelmed with his expression of want. Sucking him off isn't enough to express this love of his that crushes him, not if he wants to inundate him totally. He groans softly into his mouthful of cock, throat open as he unhands Emet-Selch's wrists to slip his hands under his thighs. He gives his upper leg a firm squeeze, a satisfied sigh slipping from his throat as he sucks ardently.
He spares a moment to release his cock from his mouth again, a line of saliva following his tongue as he exposes the glistening head to the air. He regards him amorously, hungrily; he licks his lips, even.]
God, Hades... [He speaks on a collapsing sigh, parted lips pressed to the slickness of his glans. He glances up at his lover, eyes half-lidded and wanting.]