[It's doubly worth pleasure, this. All of it. Mettaton aches at the sound of his voice and the content of his words, an expression of love undeniable. (Really, the jewelry he wears can't curse him enough to keep up with how touched he often feels in Emet-Selch's presence, especially if he asks for his appreciation, which he has no qualms doing.) When Mettaton moans in response, it's light and airy as though not at all wanting to drown out the sound of Emet-Selch's voice, though it sounds downright pleased, a matching smile to grace his lips. There's satisfaction found in both quality of voice and content, and it sets him aching some more with the pressure of building arousal.
There's also the difficulty found in talking around his cock, Mettaton acknowledges. It's worthy of his thumb toying with his lip, examining the split of it with a dazed satisfaction and a claw hooked around it before he lets it go. But Mettaton can't still his hips and can't stop the pressure building, the want overcoming him to be back in his lover's used throat, where he belongs. Even here is where he belongs, no doubt. But if he's going to use his throat, he wants to use it fully, wants to stroke himself off in it until Emet-Selch's made to swallow another load of his come. As much as he can, he'd use his lover's body because his pleasure is Emet-Selch's, and if Emet-Selch's pleased, Mettaton's triply pleased.
Watching his Bonded suck kisses into the slickened head of his length, though, has his own "breath" catching. He stutters, and time feels like it pauses for these slight, affectionate gestures, a hunger belying each kiss. Even Mettaton imagines vividly the experience of coming against his lips, making him taste and lick up every last drop of the richness of his come, making him lap it off of the head of his cock the way Mettaton wanted to clean Emet-Selch's, if he weren't so busy losing himself to fevered release as he was, if he could reach with anything other than his hand. He licks his own lips in sympathy, imagining Emet-Selch's mouth coated thick with come and made not only to swallow three loads of his, not only to stretch his throat and render his voice weak with use, but made to taste him, to have him linger in his mouth. He could enjoy the taste of Mettaton's mouth and his come, and feel the work of his cock in his throat, all while knowing he's swallowed his come three times over. (What more could he do to his beloved? Scarred and bruised, bitten and sore, scented and given memory of him, Bonded and... (marriage. he must. this becomes a more feral inclination that he imagines feverishly and with far too much sexual passion, as though marrying him would be a carnal affair.) Emet-Selch would not be without a reminder of Mettaton's love for him.)
Mettaton tries for words to reply to his lover's raspy ones, but is quickly interrupted by the sight of the Ascian diving down upon his length again. He takes it with some more measure this time: a smooth, gradual swallowing of his length is accompanied by a sigh of relief, the warmth and pressure wrapped around his length once more. It's pressure that battles his own, and his hands move up gently to rest against Emet-Selch's head, where he massages his fingers into his scalp in his fondness and in his desire to exert pressure. He's so tight that it feels like he could squeeze him to release, he thought, and he bites his lower lip in anticipation.
As Emet-Selch swallows the whole of his length all over again, filling himself to the brim with a thick cock, Mettaton's sigh turns into something more of a cry, letting his neck loosen again and allowing his hips to roll in a rhythmic thrusting, tempered and even as though savoring him.]
Hades... I love you too. You- you do everything I could dream...
[Mettaton is starstruck by him. If they were still in public, he'd no doubt be lost to it. The room is nothing but them and their sex, the smell and heat of it (or what heat he can feel, which is limited to his tongue and his cock and all of it building inside of his robotic shell). Even though Mettaton is feverish and desperate for pleasure (while he's receiving pleasure), he mellows himself, places himself firmly in the moment and appreciates it all, drinks his lover in and evens out his tempo. There's a new energy to him: no longer uncoordinated, but demanding. Still ever veering toward feral, a moment away from jamming Emet-Selch against his lap in a loss of control, but he drinks in every sensation and basks in it.]
Ohh, Hades, darling... I feel- I feel all of you...
[And he loves it. How open they've grown by Bond, how much their souls give way to each other's, and how familiar Emet-Selch's become to the Puca. Their pleasure is so evident, a mutual indulgence, even when Emet-Selch's the one swallowing down his length. Even if his throat should be so sore, Mettaton only envisions the sensation of the swell of is glans rubbing deep inside of his mouth. It's so intimate of a gesture that it's pleasurable by virtue of that, and Mettaton's made to sate his own curiosity when he prods his lover's throat once more.
The feeling alone has his thrusts firming, a moan of delight accompanying his new, ecstatic rhythm. He needs to share his observations, and his voice rides on a desperate sort of daze, intoxicated by their pleasures entwined.]
You're so full of me, I can feel how, how thick, you're- mine, sweetheart, I- going...
[He wanted to describe the physical sensation of his cock filling such a tight space and so evidently, but an expression of possession and endearment come from him instead on frenzied, scrambled words to match the contents of his head. Emet-Selch is his. He wouldn't forget that. They love each other, after all. It all builds terribly, an overwhelming delight in each other's bodies that Mettaton feels that pressure in him overwhelm all else.
He knows he's close, but he can't quite express it. He considers all over again the thought of making him taste his come, making his lover lick and suck and kiss at the head of him, slick and smooth and soft, and it only pushes him further toward the edge. His thrusts grow more feverish, each accompanied by a short moan of delight.]
no subject
There's also the difficulty found in talking around his cock, Mettaton acknowledges. It's worthy of his thumb toying with his lip, examining the split of it with a dazed satisfaction and a claw hooked around it before he lets it go. But Mettaton can't still his hips and can't stop the pressure building, the want overcoming him to be back in his lover's used throat, where he belongs. Even here is where he belongs, no doubt. But if he's going to use his throat, he wants to use it fully, wants to stroke himself off in it until Emet-Selch's made to swallow another load of his come. As much as he can, he'd use his lover's body because his pleasure is Emet-Selch's, and if Emet-Selch's pleased, Mettaton's triply pleased.
Watching his Bonded suck kisses into the slickened head of his length, though, has his own "breath" catching. He stutters, and time feels like it pauses for these slight, affectionate gestures, a hunger belying each kiss. Even Mettaton imagines vividly the experience of coming against his lips, making him taste and lick up every last drop of the richness of his come, making him lap it off of the head of his cock the way Mettaton wanted to clean Emet-Selch's, if he weren't so busy losing himself to fevered release as he was, if he could reach with anything other than his hand. He licks his own lips in sympathy, imagining Emet-Selch's mouth coated thick with come and made not only to swallow three loads of his, not only to stretch his throat and render his voice weak with use, but made to taste him, to have him linger in his mouth. He could enjoy the taste of Mettaton's mouth and his come, and feel the work of his cock in his throat, all while knowing he's swallowed his come three times over. (What more could he do to his beloved? Scarred and bruised, bitten and sore, scented and given memory of him, Bonded and... (marriage. he must. this becomes a more feral inclination that he imagines feverishly and with far too much sexual passion, as though marrying him would be a carnal affair.) Emet-Selch would not be without a reminder of Mettaton's love for him.)
Mettaton tries for words to reply to his lover's raspy ones, but is quickly interrupted by the sight of the Ascian diving down upon his length again. He takes it with some more measure this time: a smooth, gradual swallowing of his length is accompanied by a sigh of relief, the warmth and pressure wrapped around his length once more. It's pressure that battles his own, and his hands move up gently to rest against Emet-Selch's head, where he massages his fingers into his scalp in his fondness and in his desire to exert pressure. He's so tight that it feels like he could squeeze him to release, he thought, and he bites his lower lip in anticipation.
As Emet-Selch swallows the whole of his length all over again, filling himself to the brim with a thick cock, Mettaton's sigh turns into something more of a cry, letting his neck loosen again and allowing his hips to roll in a rhythmic thrusting, tempered and even as though savoring him.]
Hades... I love you too. You- you do everything I could dream...
[Mettaton is starstruck by him. If they were still in public, he'd no doubt be lost to it. The room is nothing but them and their sex, the smell and heat of it (or what heat he can feel, which is limited to his tongue and his cock and all of it building inside of his robotic shell). Even though Mettaton is feverish and desperate for pleasure (while he's receiving pleasure), he mellows himself, places himself firmly in the moment and appreciates it all, drinks his lover in and evens out his tempo. There's a new energy to him: no longer uncoordinated, but demanding. Still ever veering toward feral, a moment away from jamming Emet-Selch against his lap in a loss of control, but he drinks in every sensation and basks in it.]
Ohh, Hades, darling... I feel- I feel all of you...
[And he loves it. How open they've grown by Bond, how much their souls give way to each other's, and how familiar Emet-Selch's become to the Puca. Their pleasure is so evident, a mutual indulgence, even when Emet-Selch's the one swallowing down his length. Even if his throat should be so sore, Mettaton only envisions the sensation of the swell of is glans rubbing deep inside of his mouth. It's so intimate of a gesture that it's pleasurable by virtue of that, and Mettaton's made to sate his own curiosity when he prods his lover's throat once more.
The feeling alone has his thrusts firming, a moan of delight accompanying his new, ecstatic rhythm. He needs to share his observations, and his voice rides on a desperate sort of daze, intoxicated by their pleasures entwined.]
You're so full of me, I can feel how, how thick, you're- mine, sweetheart, I- going...
[He wanted to describe the physical sensation of his cock filling such a tight space and so evidently, but an expression of possession and endearment come from him instead on frenzied, scrambled words to match the contents of his head. Emet-Selch is his. He wouldn't forget that. They love each other, after all. It all builds terribly, an overwhelming delight in each other's bodies that Mettaton feels that pressure in him overwhelm all else.
He knows he's close, but he can't quite express it. He considers all over again the thought of making him taste his come, making his lover lick and suck and kiss at the head of him, slick and smooth and soft, and it only pushes him further toward the edge. His thrusts grow more feverish, each accompanied by a short moan of delight.]