[His natural contrariness is endearing at least, and agitating at worst, to Mettaton. Here, it's endearing, it's teasing, it's riles him up (and Mettaton likes being worked up; why wouldn't he appreciate having Emet-Selch's face nuzzled to his cock, lips to his balls, the sight of him nearly drooling on him in Emet-Selch's own lust?). He can exact patience for this. After all, he can tell that Emet-Selch's need to feel his throat filled is comparable to Mettaton's need to fill it.
Mettaton has always wanted to be someone Emet-Selch could turn to to gain some respite from the weight of worlds. It's in his nature to want to distract and to divert attention, even if a distraction doesn't solve any problems. And when he can pull Emet-Selch close to him, he feels like he's capable of being someone separate from "Emet-Selch": he sees it more and more, even if that person doesn't know what shape he's in anymore. Mettaton loves him all the same, and wants dearly to give Emet-Selch this space to figure himself out. They both benefit: Emet-Selch had thanked him for showing him he could still feel this way, and Mettaton takes joy out of seeing Emet-Selch come undone for him, out of exerting his sway and being so paid attention to. Ultimately, he loves him, and he wants to see him simply be.
He considers this while he's made the audience of Emet-Selch's attentions. Really, both of them are audiences of each other's. Emet-Selch's impassioned, lively, and Mettaton loves it. He's attracted to the sight of him shamelessly lapping at his cock, dragging his eyes from his crotch to his face with a look of need, watching enraptured the sight of his lips dragging along the shaft of him, catching on the corona, and slipping up to the glans. Watching him drool, watching him hunger for something he's found indulgence in: the shape of him in his mouth.
Hearing his name on his voice gives him chills. He loves the sound of it. Everything Emet-Selch does feels like a compliment to some degree even without words, surprisingly: his sheer dedication to his arousal, the looks he gives him heavy and covetous. His tongue, sloppy upon the slit of him and a pleasure just to watch, has Mettaton biting at his lower lip in stilled anticipation of him. He can practically feel the size of Emet-Selch's want for his throat to be encroached upon, for all that it's colored by the desire to lose his mind. Mettaton will support his endeavor, and his free hand also slips into his hair: one is tangled there and ready to hold him in place, the other soft and stroking.
He smiles at him through his lust, and it's a smile colored by it. He may be subject to the pull of the "sisters," and he may have his vanity dialed up to the nines, but Emet-Selch satisfies him, flatters him, soothes him with blood and Bond. And then, before he knows it, Mettaton's gasping: Emet-Selch's lips are parted over the head of his cock and he plunges down, taking as much of him as his mouth can hold. Mettaton would tense, full-bodied, if he had the muscles in the whole of him to do it: instead, he jerks and seizes. He does, however, throw his head back and grip into dark brown hair.]
Hades-!
[He sucks and sucks, eyes closed and focus on him, and Mettaton will make sure that he's worthy of such focus. He is, he doesn't even need to think about it, and the whole of his response will guarantee that. Emet-Selch deserves nothing less: they know and love the whole of each other, even the parts they know not yet. He stammers around something he's trying to say, voice strained as he keeps his gaze locked on Emet-Selch, hazy and desperate.]
I can't, ohh... Yes, Hades, please... [He lets his head loll in his pleasure, feeling the suction working over much of his length, the glans a single thrust away from being lodged in his throat. His hips work short thrusts against the Ascian, threatening to invade his throat with each, and Mettaton remembers he was trying to say something. His fingers tighten in his hair, then comb through it, only to latch on all over again — as though fighting his need.] I can barely- keep myself from you... but you. If you're aching to be full of me, then...
[His eye widens in this bright, unhinged realization, excitement blooming on his features as that wickedness manifests in an assumption that is likely a correct one: why is he holding back? If his inclination is to stuff Emet-Selch so full of him that misery can't visit him, that thought's left behind in favor of sucking and swallowing his erection, and if Emet-Selch is so hungry for him, why not give them both what they want?
Emet-Selch's only warning is this verbal realization, this darkness, this luminous gaze, the upright ears and the full smile as Mettaton grips into his hair and tugs Emet-Selch over his cock, slipping the head into his throat. How sore he must be, he thinks— but all thought is drained from him the very moment the glans is securely in the back of his mouth. He moans; his thighs tighten around his lover, securing him in his love for him and for this. And when he speaks next, his voice is airy and nearly relieved, rapturous and pleased.]
There. Take- Take me.
[He's not the only one taking someone, Mettaton realizes. Emet-Selch is dutifully and lovingly taking him, too. He wants him most of all, and that's an incredibly satisfying thought.]
no subject
Mettaton has always wanted to be someone Emet-Selch could turn to to gain some respite from the weight of worlds. It's in his nature to want to distract and to divert attention, even if a distraction doesn't solve any problems. And when he can pull Emet-Selch close to him, he feels like he's capable of being someone separate from "Emet-Selch": he sees it more and more, even if that person doesn't know what shape he's in anymore. Mettaton loves him all the same, and wants dearly to give Emet-Selch this space to figure himself out. They both benefit: Emet-Selch had thanked him for showing him he could still feel this way, and Mettaton takes joy out of seeing Emet-Selch come undone for him, out of exerting his sway and being so paid attention to. Ultimately, he loves him, and he wants to see him simply be.
He considers this while he's made the audience of Emet-Selch's attentions. Really, both of them are audiences of each other's. Emet-Selch's impassioned, lively, and Mettaton loves it. He's attracted to the sight of him shamelessly lapping at his cock, dragging his eyes from his crotch to his face with a look of need, watching enraptured the sight of his lips dragging along the shaft of him, catching on the corona, and slipping up to the glans. Watching him drool, watching him hunger for something he's found indulgence in: the shape of him in his mouth.
Hearing his name on his voice gives him chills. He loves the sound of it. Everything Emet-Selch does feels like a compliment to some degree even without words, surprisingly: his sheer dedication to his arousal, the looks he gives him heavy and covetous. His tongue, sloppy upon the slit of him and a pleasure just to watch, has Mettaton biting at his lower lip in stilled anticipation of him. He can practically feel the size of Emet-Selch's want for his throat to be encroached upon, for all that it's colored by the desire to lose his mind. Mettaton will support his endeavor, and his free hand also slips into his hair: one is tangled there and ready to hold him in place, the other soft and stroking.
He smiles at him through his lust, and it's a smile colored by it. He may be subject to the pull of the "sisters," and he may have his vanity dialed up to the nines, but Emet-Selch satisfies him, flatters him, soothes him with blood and Bond. And then, before he knows it, Mettaton's gasping: Emet-Selch's lips are parted over the head of his cock and he plunges down, taking as much of him as his mouth can hold. Mettaton would tense, full-bodied, if he had the muscles in the whole of him to do it: instead, he jerks and seizes. He does, however, throw his head back and grip into dark brown hair.]
Hades-!
[He sucks and sucks, eyes closed and focus on him, and Mettaton will make sure that he's worthy of such focus. He is, he doesn't even need to think about it, and the whole of his response will guarantee that. Emet-Selch deserves nothing less: they know and love the whole of each other, even the parts they know not yet. He stammers around something he's trying to say, voice strained as he keeps his gaze locked on Emet-Selch, hazy and desperate.]
I can't, ohh... Yes, Hades, please... [He lets his head loll in his pleasure, feeling the suction working over much of his length, the glans a single thrust away from being lodged in his throat. His hips work short thrusts against the Ascian, threatening to invade his throat with each, and Mettaton remembers he was trying to say something. His fingers tighten in his hair, then comb through it, only to latch on all over again — as though fighting his need.] I can barely- keep myself from you... but you. If you're aching to be full of me, then...
[His eye widens in this bright, unhinged realization, excitement blooming on his features as that wickedness manifests in an assumption that is likely a correct one: why is he holding back? If his inclination is to stuff Emet-Selch so full of him that misery can't visit him, that thought's left behind in favor of sucking and swallowing his erection, and if Emet-Selch is so hungry for him, why not give them both what they want?
Emet-Selch's only warning is this verbal realization, this darkness, this luminous gaze, the upright ears and the full smile as Mettaton grips into his hair and tugs Emet-Selch over his cock, slipping the head into his throat. How sore he must be, he thinks— but all thought is drained from him the very moment the glans is securely in the back of his mouth. He moans; his thighs tighten around his lover, securing him in his love for him and for this. And when he speaks next, his voice is airy and nearly relieved, rapturous and pleased.]
There. Take- Take me.
[He's not the only one taking someone, Mettaton realizes. Emet-Selch is dutifully and lovingly taking him, too. He wants him most of all, and that's an incredibly satisfying thought.]