[A slight noise of confirmation is provided to Emet-Selch's initial musing, dragging those dark, sharpened claws along the backs of his thighs as another show of their new build, one surely meant to rend and tear: sturdy, sharp, and long. These claws were better suited for puncturing and raking, for making him bleed wherever he wished for a mark to become present, but even so, he only uses them in this present moment to give Emet-Selch a texture of sensation as he watches his newly lubed fingers reach behind him with a keen glint to his eye, fingers running over skin to return to the supple flesh of his Bonded's ass.
How could he not wish to touch him and get in on the action when he has a view like this? Mettaton sees his lover teasing himself first, running slick fingers over his entrance, and Mettaton's made to imagine precisely the same thing: the tip of him pressing and prodding Emet-Selch, threatening to slip inside (as much as a threat only yields a good thing for them both). He swallows, aching already... and he sighs then, a stream of heated air, in almost a gesture of exasperation. Not even moments into this and the pressure ever builds in him, the ache in his cock growing exponentially as he feels himself get somehow harder. The robot glances down at his own erection, its stiffness practically a feature during these full moon effects — so long as Emet-Selch was available, or even on the mind. So long as the Puca had sex available, arousal would quickly follow — and become a temptation difficult to defy.
It doesn't especially bother him to be so aroused. Even on his own, even thinking about Emet-Selch, it doesn't bring him to a point of irritation — only want, only anticipation, only a state of daydreaming and fantasizing. Here, now, those fantasies can become immediate realities, one after another in succession and able to be revisited as daydreams. This sight is one he wants to return to — Emet-Selch's finger slipping inside of himself with a short, soft moan, and Mettaton knows what he's imagining instead. A slight digit is transposed with the texture, the supple, firm give of the glans in his mind.
Mettaton finds he desperately wants to touch himself to the new rhythm of those strokes. His hand hovers over his length, but he does not touch. He watches: the idol imagines the softness of his lover's body squeezing around a rigid erection, so accommodating, as Emet-Selch thought. Accommodating and capable of wrapping around him tight and warm, his lover's body is so terribly soft, and Mettaton wants it immediately. He may be using his knees to pin apart Emet-Selch's legs, but the very sight of him thrusting his fingers into his body has his hips wanting to imitate that smooth, steady rhythm.
There is one thing he permits, and Mettaton reaches easily for the bottle of lubricant, which he plucks neatly from its place. Unhanding Emet-Selch is a necessity for the moment, but he gives himself only as much time and lube as he needs when he deposits some on his own fingers, swiping more clinically over his length — pleasured as far as he is, he doesn't need nor want anything other than his lover's body, even when he'd delight in stroking himself to completion. That's why he refrains. A sigh slips from his throat, hypnotized by the sight of Emet-Selch fucking himself with his finger and yearning to be in its place, even to palpate his body with his own digit, to curl that finger and hear Emet-Selch groan and sigh, to feel him writhe—
A terrible tease to behold, so vivid to his eye with his vantage point. He adores him terribly, and he wants to give him exactly what he fantasizes. Wiping his hand off on the throw he'd earlier used on Emet-Selch's face, he returns his hands back to squeeze at his ass.]
Reality's not too far behind, dear. And... Oh, you're a wonderful tease, you know. Hah.
[Once again, he's a robot who sounds breathless. He takes note of his cock again, comparing its thickness to the slender digit Emet-Selch works himself with, his hips impossible to still, and Mettaton gets another wicked idea. His smile is practically audible in the way he laughs low.
But it's quickly followed by Mettaton unhanding Emet-Selch, placing his hands instead on either side of his body as he leans forward. He wants dearly to join in on the action, and, hovering above Emet-Selch's body, he lowers his hips and directs the head of his lengths to crowd next to the Ascian's finger — as though trying to take its place, as though demanding occupancy, he even offers lube to the equation in his rub. He shows himself off, showing Emet-Selch that he's prepared with slick lube and far, far thicker than a finger.
And surely longer. They both know that, and Mettaton knows it's another point toward temptation. His next sigh sounds like a hiss of breath, and he shoves his cock against the other man with a demand for entry, a pushiness to replace fingers. But his words contradict.]
I think you'll need more fingers, if you wish to compare! Here. I'm even... I can be a tease, myself. What do you think, Hades...?
[Mettaton clearly likes it. He gasps, his cock slipping against Emet-Selch with nowhere to thrust into, no body to hold him tight when it's being occupied by something else. But he realigns his erection and crowds into Emet-Selch's finger again, pushing the head firmly against his hand and his digit and, therefore, his entrance.]
no subject
How could he not wish to touch him and get in on the action when he has a view like this? Mettaton sees his lover teasing himself first, running slick fingers over his entrance, and Mettaton's made to imagine precisely the same thing: the tip of him pressing and prodding Emet-Selch, threatening to slip inside (as much as a threat only yields a good thing for them both). He swallows, aching already... and he sighs then, a stream of heated air, in almost a gesture of exasperation. Not even moments into this and the pressure ever builds in him, the ache in his cock growing exponentially as he feels himself get somehow harder. The robot glances down at his own erection, its stiffness practically a feature during these full moon effects — so long as Emet-Selch was available, or even on the mind. So long as the Puca had sex available, arousal would quickly follow — and become a temptation difficult to defy.
It doesn't especially bother him to be so aroused. Even on his own, even thinking about Emet-Selch, it doesn't bring him to a point of irritation — only want, only anticipation, only a state of daydreaming and fantasizing. Here, now, those fantasies can become immediate realities, one after another in succession and able to be revisited as daydreams. This sight is one he wants to return to — Emet-Selch's finger slipping inside of himself with a short, soft moan, and Mettaton knows what he's imagining instead. A slight digit is transposed with the texture, the supple, firm give of the glans in his mind.
Mettaton finds he desperately wants to touch himself to the new rhythm of those strokes. His hand hovers over his length, but he does not touch. He watches: the idol imagines the softness of his lover's body squeezing around a rigid erection, so accommodating, as Emet-Selch thought. Accommodating and capable of wrapping around him tight and warm, his lover's body is so terribly soft, and Mettaton wants it immediately. He may be using his knees to pin apart Emet-Selch's legs, but the very sight of him thrusting his fingers into his body has his hips wanting to imitate that smooth, steady rhythm.
There is one thing he permits, and Mettaton reaches easily for the bottle of lubricant, which he plucks neatly from its place. Unhanding Emet-Selch is a necessity for the moment, but he gives himself only as much time and lube as he needs when he deposits some on his own fingers, swiping more clinically over his length — pleasured as far as he is, he doesn't need nor want anything other than his lover's body, even when he'd delight in stroking himself to completion. That's why he refrains. A sigh slips from his throat, hypnotized by the sight of Emet-Selch fucking himself with his finger and yearning to be in its place, even to palpate his body with his own digit, to curl that finger and hear Emet-Selch groan and sigh, to feel him writhe—
A terrible tease to behold, so vivid to his eye with his vantage point. He adores him terribly, and he wants to give him exactly what he fantasizes. Wiping his hand off on the throw he'd earlier used on Emet-Selch's face, he returns his hands back to squeeze at his ass.]
Reality's not too far behind, dear. And... Oh, you're a wonderful tease, you know. Hah.
[Once again, he's a robot who sounds breathless. He takes note of his cock again, comparing its thickness to the slender digit Emet-Selch works himself with, his hips impossible to still, and Mettaton gets another wicked idea. His smile is practically audible in the way he laughs low.
But it's quickly followed by Mettaton unhanding Emet-Selch, placing his hands instead on either side of his body as he leans forward. He wants dearly to join in on the action, and, hovering above Emet-Selch's body, he lowers his hips and directs the head of his lengths to crowd next to the Ascian's finger — as though trying to take its place, as though demanding occupancy, he even offers lube to the equation in his rub. He shows himself off, showing Emet-Selch that he's prepared with slick lube and far, far thicker than a finger.
And surely longer. They both know that, and Mettaton knows it's another point toward temptation. His next sigh sounds like a hiss of breath, and he shoves his cock against the other man with a demand for entry, a pushiness to replace fingers. But his words contradict.]
I think you'll need more fingers, if you wish to compare! Here. I'm even... I can be a tease, myself. What do you think, Hades...?
[Mettaton clearly likes it. He gasps, his cock slipping against Emet-Selch with nowhere to thrust into, no body to hold him tight when it's being occupied by something else. But he realigns his erection and crowds into Emet-Selch's finger again, pushing the head firmly against his hand and his digit and, therefore, his entrance.]