[The familiar weight of Emet-Selch's love for Mettaton cocoons him, heavy and deep and raw. It's enough for Mettaton's eye to shutter closed, even as he presses kiss after kiss against any part of his lover's face — sometimes dipping down to kiss his neck, bruised and bitten on the outside and raw within, filled with Mettaton to Emet-Selch's pleasure.
And even though Mettaton's the cause for so much damage on his physical form, Emet-Selch leans into him for safety, close enough to kiss so thoroughly. Close enough to feel the incidental brush of his cock against his body, likewise thick and hard. The idol can't help but spare a glance to his body in his infatuated stupor, as if the nudging of its head were trying to nab his attention. An attention he feels willing to provide, withdrawing slightly one of his arms, slipping it along skin with the drag of sharp nails that eventually turn into a fingering of his length. Mettaton hums low into their kiss, a jolt of pleasure from merely feeling and knowing of his lover's arousal so intimately as he leans deeper into their kiss, covetous of everything and wanting to leave nothing untouched, unclaimed.
Speech is fortunately not so necessary, not when they're wrapped in each other's arms and kissing so ardently that words are usually part-kiss, pressed against skin and only for each other. But Mettaton's enamored with hearing his name on Emet-Selch's voice, whether it's fully realized or too indistinct to make out. Mettaton breathes him in; drinks in the smell of Emet-Selch and how familiar, how a part of Mettaton he's become. He can smell himself so strongly on his lover, but... when he thinks about it, he can smell Emet-Selch on himself, can't he? A fusion of themselves unmistakable, one that has Mettaton grinning into his Bonded's neck.
That love of Emet-Selch's is always so well-complimented by his own, after all. A high thing, something that could lift his mood just to consider. A love formidable, and Mettaton relishes how differently they experience the emotion with such contrast of heights and depths. It's thrilling.
Emet-Selch loses himself to the roll of his hips, body hugging his cock and the angle of Mettaton's thrusts changing with every jostle of it within. Each arch and curve, each rock of the Ascian's hips, all of it leads to some different angle to knead and prod with the soft tip of his cock — and each is worth a hearty moan from the robot, who can barely handle all of the changing squeezing pressure around such a sensitive area. It's euphoric; Mettaton thought he could feel this forever, and could hold Emet-Selch forever just as eagerly. He shudders, only to take notice that when he stops, his lover's trembling terribly.
Mettaton's fingers grip down on Emet-Selch's cock, pulling at his length in time with each push into his hips: letting his fingers run brush over the head of him, skirting along the glans and pressing against his tip, then pinching him between fingers and thumb before wrapping him totally, firmly, in his hand and tugging his length. A praising, a coercing, the desire to reward Emet-Selch for being so proactive in fucking himself on his arousal, to convince him to always tense his thighs and squeeze his cock, to always crave him and fit him just right. He hums again, this time against Emet-Selch's lips when he's found himself luckily landing them a kiss.
Smiling against him like this, Mettaton doesn't want to break this kiss now that he's obtained it in his love-drunk state.]
You feel... so good. You're perfect, rocking into me like you are...
[Truly, when he sits back and closes his eyes, lets the feeling of Emet-Selch's body shifting and stroking his cock as he does, it's... immensely flattering, that he'd love his erection so much that he'd fuck himself on him with such zeal. Into their kiss, Mettaton's hit with a spike of fever as he bites Emet-Selch's lip, thrusting on his own once more — feeling their thrusts combined and deepening, especially as Mettaton's thrusts grow more forceful, more animalistic as he pants.
Mettaton leans forward, his fingers hiking their pace around Emet-Selch's arousal as he focuses on stroking along the head of him. He has the bearing of someone who might just take the next opportunity to pounce, to lunge forward and topple Emet-Selch to the mattress between his legs; to follow him and fuck him hard, and all of these fantasies make themselves at home in his mind, even as he delights in his lover's agency to move against him like this. He just can't thrust hard enough from this angle, can't drag the head of him and fuck Emet-Selch the way his body demands; his own body demands to move completely on its own accord.
But he also adores having Emet-Selch leaning into him. He loves holding him, letting him lean into him, being there to steady him while he trembles. (But couldn't he do that against the mattress?)]
Hades... God, I want to take you, ever-everything... Hah...
[He's madly in love, madly in lust, the sound of Emet-Selch's broken cries on the mind and the feeling of his lover's body holding his cock occupying all else. The feeling of sticky come between them and knowing where it all came from... How erotic of a sight he'll be, trembling and dripping from overuse. Mettaton can't even remember what count this is: six, or seven? He wants more and more. He could find him so used and raw and come-filled, but if his lover's on his back, he wouldn't leak as readily. He could fill him and use him, Emet-Selch given the chance to simply lay back and take it all. Mortal form, a limitation? Not if Mettaton has anything to say about it.]
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And even though Mettaton's the cause for so much damage on his physical form, Emet-Selch leans into him for safety, close enough to kiss so thoroughly. Close enough to feel the incidental brush of his cock against his body, likewise thick and hard. The idol can't help but spare a glance to his body in his infatuated stupor, as if the nudging of its head were trying to nab his attention. An attention he feels willing to provide, withdrawing slightly one of his arms, slipping it along skin with the drag of sharp nails that eventually turn into a fingering of his length. Mettaton hums low into their kiss, a jolt of pleasure from merely feeling and knowing of his lover's arousal so intimately as he leans deeper into their kiss, covetous of everything and wanting to leave nothing untouched, unclaimed.
Speech is fortunately not so necessary, not when they're wrapped in each other's arms and kissing so ardently that words are usually part-kiss, pressed against skin and only for each other. But Mettaton's enamored with hearing his name on Emet-Selch's voice, whether it's fully realized or too indistinct to make out. Mettaton breathes him in; drinks in the smell of Emet-Selch and how familiar, how a part of Mettaton he's become. He can smell himself so strongly on his lover, but... when he thinks about it, he can smell Emet-Selch on himself, can't he? A fusion of themselves unmistakable, one that has Mettaton grinning into his Bonded's neck.
That love of Emet-Selch's is always so well-complimented by his own, after all. A high thing, something that could lift his mood just to consider. A love formidable, and Mettaton relishes how differently they experience the emotion with such contrast of heights and depths. It's thrilling.
Emet-Selch loses himself to the roll of his hips, body hugging his cock and the angle of Mettaton's thrusts changing with every jostle of it within. Each arch and curve, each rock of the Ascian's hips, all of it leads to some different angle to knead and prod with the soft tip of his cock — and each is worth a hearty moan from the robot, who can barely handle all of the changing squeezing pressure around such a sensitive area. It's euphoric; Mettaton thought he could feel this forever, and could hold Emet-Selch forever just as eagerly. He shudders, only to take notice that when he stops, his lover's trembling terribly.
Mettaton's fingers grip down on Emet-Selch's cock, pulling at his length in time with each push into his hips: letting his fingers run brush over the head of him, skirting along the glans and pressing against his tip, then pinching him between fingers and thumb before wrapping him totally, firmly, in his hand and tugging his length. A praising, a coercing, the desire to reward Emet-Selch for being so proactive in fucking himself on his arousal, to convince him to always tense his thighs and squeeze his cock, to always crave him and fit him just right. He hums again, this time against Emet-Selch's lips when he's found himself luckily landing them a kiss.
Smiling against him like this, Mettaton doesn't want to break this kiss now that he's obtained it in his love-drunk state.]
You feel... so good. You're perfect, rocking into me like you are...
[Truly, when he sits back and closes his eyes, lets the feeling of Emet-Selch's body shifting and stroking his cock as he does, it's... immensely flattering, that he'd love his erection so much that he'd fuck himself on him with such zeal. Into their kiss, Mettaton's hit with a spike of fever as he bites Emet-Selch's lip, thrusting on his own once more — feeling their thrusts combined and deepening, especially as Mettaton's thrusts grow more forceful, more animalistic as he pants.
Mettaton leans forward, his fingers hiking their pace around Emet-Selch's arousal as he focuses on stroking along the head of him. He has the bearing of someone who might just take the next opportunity to pounce, to lunge forward and topple Emet-Selch to the mattress between his legs; to follow him and fuck him hard, and all of these fantasies make themselves at home in his mind, even as he delights in his lover's agency to move against him like this. He just can't thrust hard enough from this angle, can't drag the head of him and fuck Emet-Selch the way his body demands; his own body demands to move completely on its own accord.
But he also adores having Emet-Selch leaning into him. He loves holding him, letting him lean into him, being there to steady him while he trembles. (But couldn't he do that against the mattress?)]
Hades... God, I want to take you, ever-everything... Hah...
[He's madly in love, madly in lust, the sound of Emet-Selch's broken cries on the mind and the feeling of his lover's body holding his cock occupying all else. The feeling of sticky come between them and knowing where it all came from... How erotic of a sight he'll be, trembling and dripping from overuse. Mettaton can't even remember what count this is: six, or seven? He wants more and more. He could find him so used and raw and come-filled, but if his lover's on his back, he wouldn't leak as readily. He could fill him and use him, Emet-Selch given the chance to simply lay back and take it all. Mortal form, a limitation? Not if Mettaton has anything to say about it.]