[He's not the only one smug at what he sees: Mettaton nods in approval at all of the Ascian's probing and shifting, finding his thighs tensing in sympathy, in response, abstaining from such wild rubbing against skin despite how hard and wanting and incited he is by the sight set before him. He thoroughly enjoys the thought of Emet-Selch being made to witness how turned on he is by letting himself loose and just... rubbing wildly against his body, his release turned into yet another marking upon skin, but he prefers the thought of shoving his arousal in his body more. So while Emet-Selch gazes upon Mettaton's work, he kisses his upper back, patiently. This is one of those situations that warrants patience, even when there's technically no need for it. He wants his lover to get an eyeful.
In the meantime, Mettaton is so, so glad that when he turns over his shoulder to glance behind him for lubrication, it had been carelessly tossed back over the surface of the bed. And, fortunately again, not too out of the way. His arm doesn't have the same reach it normally does, and he's made to stretch out some, but he grabs it with fingertips after temporarily unhanding Emet-Selch's legs.
He does this just as Emet-Selch commands that he take the rest. He can't wait a moment more, but he also appreciates the smooth glide offered by lubricant — a significant improvement over spit, even for a robot who enjoys the sensation of pain. There's something psychological about such an easy insertion that gets to him, besides, he considers. The way Emet-Selch's body gives to his, forms around him so readily...
Mettaton's set to panting again, he realizes, and he swallows it down as he squeezes lube directly onto the tip of his erection. He hisses at the temperature; swipes a hand over it with a bite of his lip just to get it over with. The cold of the air is relentless against burning, aching flesh. Mettaton simply wipes his hand against the silky bedspread, caring little for the integrity of it despite being obviously expensive. He cares less for it than for this.
He takes Emet-Selch's hands and plants them firmly against the mattress, a demand to stabilize himself somewhat. Fingers slip under Emet-Selch's knees again, lifting up as he braces his arms against his thighs so that he can lift him up slightly, muscle in his arms tensing as he tries to handle much of his lover's weight. He hums, peeking over his shoulder at the sight spread before him. If they weren't at the edge of the bed, this would be a position where Emet-Selch had all of the control, but he has only part of the mattress to maneuver with, as he did with his hands to shift closer to Mettaton's cock. Fondly he considers that action, applying another kiss to the base of the Ascian's neck. Given agency, all Emet-Selch did with it was try to shift closer, to lift his body, sidling his ass teasingly against his arousal; Mettaton expels a puff of air against his skin in a quiet sigh, appreciating him.
Mettaton pushes his own hips down, trying to angle the head of his cock as his hands slide further up his lover's legs, closer to the mid-section of his thighs. Fingers dig into muscle as he keeps him spread, Mettaton slipping into something of a fusion between self-indulgence, and the deliberation it takes to put on a show for a beloved audience. Emet-Selch should be watching, after all. The Puca's manner starts a bit sloppy, dragging the other man's hips back a bit too far, to which the tip of his cock pokes instead at his thigh. He peeks around his lover's side to better guide him, dragging his body along the tip of his cock until he finds himself poking at the underside of his balls. That's closer, and he shifts his hips and manipulates his body on trembling arms until the tip of his cock is pushed against his entrance.
He collapses in a sigh, muscles slackening somewhat, letting the tip of his arousal nudge in. Nudge in is putting it lightly, as his lover's already been prepared for him once before. His sigh quickly becomes a sharp intake of air.]
Ah... I've been. Fantasizing about this...
[He doesn't say for how long. Seriously, it's been since he made the decision to take his lover into his mouth. Entertaining it, it's been since the Looking-Glass House.
With another firm kiss to his back, Mettaton gradually eases his lover's weight onto his cock as he pushes his eager hips forward. His breath hitches, short, uncontrollable cries clear as a bell, and the stuffing of his lover unstoppable: Mettaton doesn't give him any breaks in his gradual settling of his weight. Once the entirety of the glans penetrates him, his hands slide back to the underside of his knees, making sure that his legs are forced apart liberally, view of kissed and bruised flesh as clear as the cock he sits upon.
The only way Emet-Selch will be able to stop him is by holding up his own weight, as Mettaton doesn't seem to be considering any possible discomfort, lost to his own euphoria as he is. A relief found in heat, an indelible squeeze: Mettaton even whimpers at how much he's wanted this feeling as that ring of muscle clamps down delightfully around his girth, sliding down his shaft, inch by gradual inch.]
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In the meantime, Mettaton is so, so glad that when he turns over his shoulder to glance behind him for lubrication, it had been carelessly tossed back over the surface of the bed. And, fortunately again, not too out of the way. His arm doesn't have the same reach it normally does, and he's made to stretch out some, but he grabs it with fingertips after temporarily unhanding Emet-Selch's legs.
He does this just as Emet-Selch commands that he take the rest. He can't wait a moment more, but he also appreciates the smooth glide offered by lubricant — a significant improvement over spit, even for a robot who enjoys the sensation of pain. There's something psychological about such an easy insertion that gets to him, besides, he considers. The way Emet-Selch's body gives to his, forms around him so readily...
Mettaton's set to panting again, he realizes, and he swallows it down as he squeezes lube directly onto the tip of his erection. He hisses at the temperature; swipes a hand over it with a bite of his lip just to get it over with. The cold of the air is relentless against burning, aching flesh. Mettaton simply wipes his hand against the silky bedspread, caring little for the integrity of it despite being obviously expensive. He cares less for it than for this.
He takes Emet-Selch's hands and plants them firmly against the mattress, a demand to stabilize himself somewhat. Fingers slip under Emet-Selch's knees again, lifting up as he braces his arms against his thighs so that he can lift him up slightly, muscle in his arms tensing as he tries to handle much of his lover's weight. He hums, peeking over his shoulder at the sight spread before him. If they weren't at the edge of the bed, this would be a position where Emet-Selch had all of the control, but he has only part of the mattress to maneuver with, as he did with his hands to shift closer to Mettaton's cock. Fondly he considers that action, applying another kiss to the base of the Ascian's neck. Given agency, all Emet-Selch did with it was try to shift closer, to lift his body, sidling his ass teasingly against his arousal; Mettaton expels a puff of air against his skin in a quiet sigh, appreciating him.
Mettaton pushes his own hips down, trying to angle the head of his cock as his hands slide further up his lover's legs, closer to the mid-section of his thighs. Fingers dig into muscle as he keeps him spread, Mettaton slipping into something of a fusion between self-indulgence, and the deliberation it takes to put on a show for a beloved audience. Emet-Selch should be watching, after all. The Puca's manner starts a bit sloppy, dragging the other man's hips back a bit too far, to which the tip of his cock pokes instead at his thigh. He peeks around his lover's side to better guide him, dragging his body along the tip of his cock until he finds himself poking at the underside of his balls. That's closer, and he shifts his hips and manipulates his body on trembling arms until the tip of his cock is pushed against his entrance.
He collapses in a sigh, muscles slackening somewhat, letting the tip of his arousal nudge in. Nudge in is putting it lightly, as his lover's already been prepared for him once before. His sigh quickly becomes a sharp intake of air.]
Ah... I've been. Fantasizing about this...
[He doesn't say for how long. Seriously, it's been since he made the decision to take his lover into his mouth. Entertaining it, it's been since the Looking-Glass House.
With another firm kiss to his back, Mettaton gradually eases his lover's weight onto his cock as he pushes his eager hips forward. His breath hitches, short, uncontrollable cries clear as a bell, and the stuffing of his lover unstoppable: Mettaton doesn't give him any breaks in his gradual settling of his weight. Once the entirety of the glans penetrates him, his hands slide back to the underside of his knees, making sure that his legs are forced apart liberally, view of kissed and bruised flesh as clear as the cock he sits upon.
The only way Emet-Selch will be able to stop him is by holding up his own weight, as Mettaton doesn't seem to be considering any possible discomfort, lost to his own euphoria as he is. A relief found in heat, an indelible squeeze: Mettaton even whimpers at how much he's wanted this feeling as that ring of muscle clamps down delightfully around his girth, sliding down his shaft, inch by gradual inch.]
O-Ohh...