[It's an absolute delight Mettaton can only melt into, even though he hardly melts, given that he continues to manipulate Emet-Selch's head to remain solidly in his lap. He'd only moments ago thought nothing could be more blindingly pleasurable in this moment, but Emet-Selch's fingers prod and stroke at his cock through the tight confines of his throat. It's the shadow of a touch, but it's pressure enough for his sensitive length to be pleasured even further.
Smooth cries ride on his voice, making up for the noise Emet-Selch can't make with his own ecstasy. Losing the skill for forming words, he thinks instead (for all that he can barely think) about Emet-Selch stroking his cock through his neck, how deeply he swallows him and pleasures him and how he knows his own arousal must be getting progressively harder. He wonders all over again if he'll come without being touched, and Mettaton can only drool some more at the recollection of the sight of his Bonded, exposed so blatantly and with his cock on full display for Mettaton to watch, to touch. His abdomen, tightening erratically, was a perfect canvas for his ejaculation, an explosive affair that painted his skin in a spurt of come and dripped down his shaft, and the robot can't get the thought of it out of his head. His own arousal feels that much harder for it, that much needier, even while he's thrusting into his lover's throat and being squeezed by fingers.
Mettaton is not in a mental space to remember Emet-Selch's need for air, having decided to succumb to desire so fully. His self-control slips and gives way to absolute indulgence, the picture of decadence as he is, bejeweled and drooling and waiting for praise, for flattery, for pleasure; all else would earn only his ire and spite, and be treated accordingly. But Emet-Selch gives him only what he wants and more: he hungrily devours his cock and pleasures him; gives him feelings through Bond that tenderize him if his own feelings for the other man didn't do the trick; and his very body is a conduit for how much Emet-Selch finds Mettaton attractive.
He may very well not receive a moment to breathe like this, save for a whimsical inclination on Mettaton's part. He craves the sound of Emet-Selch's voice and the sight of his cock. He wants all of it at once, but he can't have that. So he chooses to pull back on his lover's head, forcing him of off his length.
Sliding smoothly out of his throat, there's almost a popping sensation as the ridge of the head slips out of Emet-Selch's agitated throat, but Mettaton doesn't pull him off of the glans. It's already intolerable for his length to be extricated from the warm confines of his neck, but he wants to check on the status of his throat, wants to hear what his Bonded can manage after being so ravaged. He pants in a manner more for the sake of expressing his renewed starvation, allowing one of his hands to cup his cheek. Lust and love are always entwined between them, after all: even though Mettaton craves the stealing of the other man's voice and wants him bruised and bloodied out of their passion, he loves him dearly, and loves the sight and sound and sensation of him.
Emet-Selch has the glans of him offered for his preoccupation while Mettaton's legs loosen in their grip, giving him this rare moment for sound and breath. His eye is bright in anticipation of his lover's response.]
Kiss me, there-- [...He's trying to ask him how much he enjoys what he's doing (more for the sake of hearing his voice: he already knows he loves this), but more primal thoughts take over and demand him to mouth the glans of him, a glutton who can't get enough pleasure exacted to his cock. He pants at the sight of Emet-Selch with his mouth made to hold the tip of his length, and tries to swallow.] You... ah, Hades... your voice...
[What it boils down to is that he wants to hear him try to talk. Anything would do, any expression of himself would sate his ego, would satisfy his desires. They're already connected, and Mettaton knows Emet-Selch's enjoying himself so thoroughly that it echoes off of his own enjoyment. They pleasure each other simply by existing like this. Mettaton's grip on his head loosens enough to give Emet-Selch the choice to dive down upon his cock, his legs even tightening back up to secure him in place and reassure that he'd just as readily facilitate his hunger for more. Mettaton stares at him, saliva coating his arousal absolutely as his lover's given only enough space to collect himself with his lips still around the swollen head of his arousal.
Already, however, Mettaton's hips shift and thrust, begging for the secure warmth of his throat all over again. He invites him to swallow him back up, yearning all over again for the feeling of his throat stroking over the thick head of his cock, for the vibration of feeling he gets from his attempts at vocalizing.]
no subject
Smooth cries ride on his voice, making up for the noise Emet-Selch can't make with his own ecstasy. Losing the skill for forming words, he thinks instead (for all that he can barely think) about Emet-Selch stroking his cock through his neck, how deeply he swallows him and pleasures him and how he knows his own arousal must be getting progressively harder. He wonders all over again if he'll come without being touched, and Mettaton can only drool some more at the recollection of the sight of his Bonded, exposed so blatantly and with his cock on full display for Mettaton to watch, to touch. His abdomen, tightening erratically, was a perfect canvas for his ejaculation, an explosive affair that painted his skin in a spurt of come and dripped down his shaft, and the robot can't get the thought of it out of his head. His own arousal feels that much harder for it, that much needier, even while he's thrusting into his lover's throat and being squeezed by fingers.
Mettaton is not in a mental space to remember Emet-Selch's need for air, having decided to succumb to desire so fully. His self-control slips and gives way to absolute indulgence, the picture of decadence as he is, bejeweled and drooling and waiting for praise, for flattery, for pleasure; all else would earn only his ire and spite, and be treated accordingly. But Emet-Selch gives him only what he wants and more: he hungrily devours his cock and pleasures him; gives him feelings through Bond that tenderize him if his own feelings for the other man didn't do the trick; and his very body is a conduit for how much Emet-Selch finds Mettaton attractive.
He may very well not receive a moment to breathe like this, save for a whimsical inclination on Mettaton's part. He craves the sound of Emet-Selch's voice and the sight of his cock. He wants all of it at once, but he can't have that. So he chooses to pull back on his lover's head, forcing him of off his length.
Sliding smoothly out of his throat, there's almost a popping sensation as the ridge of the head slips out of Emet-Selch's agitated throat, but Mettaton doesn't pull him off of the glans. It's already intolerable for his length to be extricated from the warm confines of his neck, but he wants to check on the status of his throat, wants to hear what his Bonded can manage after being so ravaged. He pants in a manner more for the sake of expressing his renewed starvation, allowing one of his hands to cup his cheek. Lust and love are always entwined between them, after all: even though Mettaton craves the stealing of the other man's voice and wants him bruised and bloodied out of their passion, he loves him dearly, and loves the sight and sound and sensation of him.
Emet-Selch has the glans of him offered for his preoccupation while Mettaton's legs loosen in their grip, giving him this rare moment for sound and breath. His eye is bright in anticipation of his lover's response.]
Kiss me, there-- [...He's trying to ask him how much he enjoys what he's doing (more for the sake of hearing his voice: he already knows he loves this), but more primal thoughts take over and demand him to mouth the glans of him, a glutton who can't get enough pleasure exacted to his cock. He pants at the sight of Emet-Selch with his mouth made to hold the tip of his length, and tries to swallow.] You... ah, Hades... your voice...
[What it boils down to is that he wants to hear him try to talk. Anything would do, any expression of himself would sate his ego, would satisfy his desires. They're already connected, and Mettaton knows Emet-Selch's enjoying himself so thoroughly that it echoes off of his own enjoyment. They pleasure each other simply by existing like this. Mettaton's grip on his head loosens enough to give Emet-Selch the choice to dive down upon his cock, his legs even tightening back up to secure him in place and reassure that he'd just as readily facilitate his hunger for more. Mettaton stares at him, saliva coating his arousal absolutely as his lover's given only enough space to collect himself with his lips still around the swollen head of his arousal.
Already, however, Mettaton's hips shift and thrust, begging for the secure warmth of his throat all over again. He invites him to swallow him back up, yearning all over again for the feeling of his throat stroking over the thick head of his cock, for the vibration of feeling he gets from his attempts at vocalizing.]