[While he still strokes himself in Emet-Selch's throat, Mettaton becomes acutely aware of the other man's hands: where they are, and how they remain squarely away from his own arousal. It's another obscene pleasure to match Emet-Selch's, that he should be so disciplined to refrain and earn his pleasure through sucking Mettaton off, and he almost grins wickedly at the thought. A satisfied hum is made to accompany a pleasured sigh, a sound that becomes even more pleasured after his Bonded's shudder, the attempt and failure at a moan, and louder yet as Emet-Selch sucks and swallows around his length.
The both of them are acutely aware of the space Mettaton occupies, his lover's body forming tightly around his length. Thrusts of his hips drag the head of him along in his throat toward his undeniable release, imminent and soon, and Mettaton's sure he'll be spilling over in his throat. There's but a shred of him capable of regarding anything beyond each passing instant, and that part of him hyper-fixates on the instant only moments ahead: the imaginings of filling the rest of his partner's throat with come, drowning him in his essence. But when that moment closes in and darkens him so warmly, panting in the sound of soft moans, Emet-Selch pulls back, to his pleasant surprise.
And it's not with the sound of gagging or choking, but with an intention that sweeps Mettaton off his feet. His tongue fixes on the glans, the work of his hips stroking himself off not in the confines of his throat but between his lips and fingers, all of it warm and tight in its own right. Somewhere still to thrust that belongs to his lover.
Kneading the whole of his length, squeezing his balls as though to coax him toward release, Emet-Selch's the picture of anticipation and the sound of it too, and the robot assumes immediately the intent behind this alteration of position: Emet-Selch wants as much to taste him as he wants to be tasted by him. Biting his lip, he collapses in another moan loud enough to drown out Emet-Selch's (though Mettaton's ears are tuned in on the sound of his lover no matter what), eager to fall prey to the hunger his Bonded, bruised and bitten and claimed, exhibits for his body. Theirs is a mutual taking, after all, and if Mettaton's going to ravish and ravage the Ascian's soft, supple form, it's only fair that Emet-Selch can take as much of him as he wants in turn.
It shocks him and electrifies him to have this sudden, last-second change of position, something jarring enough to please him beyond his limits. The very sight of Emet-Selch gripping his cock and slipping the head of him past lips made swollen, sucking ardently upon him in eager wait for his load, is something he'll be terribly distracted by in time to come.
Trembling, what muscle he's developed in his legs slacken and tighten his succumbing to pleasure as Mettaton's fingers prod and nails rake against Emet-Selch's upper back in his loss of control. Feeling the swell of the head against the bed of Emet-Selch's tongue and the divine rub there, he notes readily the eagerness which his lover laps at the slit and strokes his length encouragingly. How could he stand this? It conquers his senses completely, visual and tactile and aural completely overwhelmed.
Mettaton can't make words happen, as if he had any to make. But he loves Emet-Selch for his love of him, and what is more flattering than the sheer amount of desire he exhibits for the idol? Kneading his balls in eager anticipation of his climax, stroking up the shaft of his cock, sucking desperately at the head of him... Mettaton imagines it, but he feels heavy with come when release hits him, a moment that feels as though it extends for long. Short, curved thrusts into Emet-Selch's mouth spill his load, and he drools in sympathy for the taste his lover will surely have of him. How lucky he is, to be so full of his cock and come, and Mettaton feels he's most worthy of all to be stuffed with it. To taste him and have him.
Nobody else would love him and know him this way, and nobody else could fill him and receive him as readily. Nobody could compare to this. Mettaton is in bliss under Emet-Selch's attention, fully in love and pleasure, adoring the whole of his lover's attention.]
no subject
The both of them are acutely aware of the space Mettaton occupies, his lover's body forming tightly around his length. Thrusts of his hips drag the head of him along in his throat toward his undeniable release, imminent and soon, and Mettaton's sure he'll be spilling over in his throat. There's but a shred of him capable of regarding anything beyond each passing instant, and that part of him hyper-fixates on the instant only moments ahead: the imaginings of filling the rest of his partner's throat with come, drowning him in his essence. But when that moment closes in and darkens him so warmly, panting in the sound of soft moans, Emet-Selch pulls back, to his pleasant surprise.
And it's not with the sound of gagging or choking, but with an intention that sweeps Mettaton off his feet. His tongue fixes on the glans, the work of his hips stroking himself off not in the confines of his throat but between his lips and fingers, all of it warm and tight in its own right. Somewhere still to thrust that belongs to his lover.
Kneading the whole of his length, squeezing his balls as though to coax him toward release, Emet-Selch's the picture of anticipation and the sound of it too, and the robot assumes immediately the intent behind this alteration of position: Emet-Selch wants as much to taste him as he wants to be tasted by him. Biting his lip, he collapses in another moan loud enough to drown out Emet-Selch's (though Mettaton's ears are tuned in on the sound of his lover no matter what), eager to fall prey to the hunger his Bonded, bruised and bitten and claimed, exhibits for his body. Theirs is a mutual taking, after all, and if Mettaton's going to ravish and ravage the Ascian's soft, supple form, it's only fair that Emet-Selch can take as much of him as he wants in turn.
It shocks him and electrifies him to have this sudden, last-second change of position, something jarring enough to please him beyond his limits. The very sight of Emet-Selch gripping his cock and slipping the head of him past lips made swollen, sucking ardently upon him in eager wait for his load, is something he'll be terribly distracted by in time to come.
Trembling, what muscle he's developed in his legs slacken and tighten his succumbing to pleasure as Mettaton's fingers prod and nails rake against Emet-Selch's upper back in his loss of control. Feeling the swell of the head against the bed of Emet-Selch's tongue and the divine rub there, he notes readily the eagerness which his lover laps at the slit and strokes his length encouragingly. How could he stand this? It conquers his senses completely, visual and tactile and aural completely overwhelmed.
Mettaton can't make words happen, as if he had any to make. But he loves Emet-Selch for his love of him, and what is more flattering than the sheer amount of desire he exhibits for the idol? Kneading his balls in eager anticipation of his climax, stroking up the shaft of his cock, sucking desperately at the head of him... Mettaton imagines it, but he feels heavy with come when release hits him, a moment that feels as though it extends for long. Short, curved thrusts into Emet-Selch's mouth spill his load, and he drools in sympathy for the taste his lover will surely have of him. How lucky he is, to be so full of his cock and come, and Mettaton feels he's most worthy of all to be stuffed with it. To taste him and have him.
Nobody else would love him and know him this way, and nobody else could fill him and receive him as readily. Nobody could compare to this. Mettaton is in bliss under Emet-Selch's attention, fully in love and pleasure, adoring the whole of his lover's attention.]