[Praise that gets Mettaton to hum some, for any particularly irksome madness to bleed away in favor of keeping only heightened instinctual madness. One madness parts for the other — or, more accurately, they work too well together. Right now, those dark ears listen to gravity like this, forcing them to lean forward utterly: in interest, and in loss of sense.
The knowledge alone of Emet-Selch's submission to him, in combination with the nature of his position, fills the Puca with a deep-seated warmth, erotic and contented both. It's a position that manages to make Mettaton feel that his Bonded's safe, secure with him and well within his territory (which he is, even when this bed, this room, this house, all of it is also Emet-Selch's). But it would be hard to forget how displayed his lover is like this: hips elevated and legs spread, he's so easily accessed by Mettaton in this particular orientation — especially if he leans over him. And that lean was another reason to desire this position. Like this, the robot could wrap him up if he so desired. It's the perfect position to fulfill that primal need of his to mount Emet-Selch, allowing the robot to follow the curve of his lover's body with his own, cock in place and the rest of his body following Emet-Selch's, until he finds himself able to kiss him.
Which he does. A locking of lips, even as his thrusts continue uninterrupted, steady and not yet particularly fevered: still long, still dragging the tip of his cock along his Bonded, feeling the swell of the head pushing forth to make way for the thick shaft of him. If anything, this moment ends up a continuation of the last, an evolution of it: warm, affectionate, full of infatuation, Mettaton kisses his lover hotly, gently, caring in his every press of lip and flick of tongue. But it's accompanied by the hard drag of his length, withdrawing a good portion of himself only to tense his legs, to stuff the full of his length back in.
But he breaks from this kiss to smile against his lover's lips, intoxicated on the love he harbors for Emet-Selch.]
You are... too. Finding you so aroused, as you are.
[Shifting his weight into one of his arms, Mettaton lets the other take an adventure between them, where fingers prod his length — an arousal that is surely pressed against Mettaton's waist, a surface the two of them often find it rubbing against, given Mettaton's usual position between typically spread legs. The proper orientation for the both of them: Emet-Selch's legs spread, Mettaton pressed between, cock pounding into him heavily. As is right.
Mettaton commends his arousal by giving it a few pets against his body, fond and loving in his application. Warm squeezes of fingers, stroking and tightening along its shaft, and kneading the swollen tip of Emet-Selch's erection with fingers as Mettaton places another kiss to his lips, ears flicking just for a moment out of his pleasure to be so accessible for kissing. Unfortunately, Mettaton unhands Emet-Selch's cock again, kissing his lover with more firmness as though in apology.]
But you've proven to me... that you're plenty able to get off on the rhythm of our bodies alone. You like the sensation of being so full of me, don't you...? Being pounded into. Feeling rubbed and taken...
[Another way to say that it's easier for him to thrust with the fervency he desires if he has both of his arms flanking Emet-Selch's body, as he hooks his fingers around his lover's shoulders — further bracing him in warning for a deeper, more thorough thrusting, his eyelid dropping somewhat in lascivious, heartfelt desire. Claws prick skin. Bruises are dented, previous clots are disrupted, but it's mostly a gripping of hands rather than bracing him with teeth or the full force of his sharp claws, something that could change in a threatening instant if he so found himself there. They should both know that Mettaton could pitch violent and scalding at any moment, rather than heated and sultry as he is right now.
But his thrusts are unrelenting, measured and even still as he exhales against his lover's lips, feeling that satisfying, full-bodied thrust into his Bonded. The whole of him strokes and massages along his cock, practically tugging at the ridge of him as though greedy to pull his length as deep as it'll go. Mettaton gives Emet-Selch's body that; he fills him, thrusts his hips against his lover's ass, but even still Emet-Selch's body tugs and pulls on his cock. A short moan slips from his lips, decorated by a weak, sloppy kiss as Mettaton stutters.]
H... Ha. Even this full, you want more...
[Well, it's Emet-Selch's body demanding more, stroking and pressing the glans as though welcoming this thick intrusion, even amidst all of his previous releases, amidst the fucking he's already exacted upon his Bonded. Possessiveness begins to amp back up into fever when Mettaton considers how many times he's taken Emet-Selch. How raw he's fucked and bitten him, how wanting he always is, enough to match the robotic Puca at every turn. It's worth a shudder, worth an intensifying of thrusts, a harsher, more frenetic pounding: a perfect drag of the glans, a low noise in Mettaton's throat.
Another kiss, soft but wet, open-mouthed and hot enough to match his rising internal temperature.]
You are good... So good. For feeling so good, for loving the sensation of being filled as you do... Ah...
no subject
The knowledge alone of Emet-Selch's submission to him, in combination with the nature of his position, fills the Puca with a deep-seated warmth, erotic and contented both. It's a position that manages to make Mettaton feel that his Bonded's safe, secure with him and well within his territory (which he is, even when this bed, this room, this house, all of it is also Emet-Selch's). But it would be hard to forget how displayed his lover is like this: hips elevated and legs spread, he's so easily accessed by Mettaton in this particular orientation — especially if he leans over him. And that lean was another reason to desire this position. Like this, the robot could wrap him up if he so desired. It's the perfect position to fulfill that primal need of his to mount Emet-Selch, allowing the robot to follow the curve of his lover's body with his own, cock in place and the rest of his body following Emet-Selch's, until he finds himself able to kiss him.
Which he does. A locking of lips, even as his thrusts continue uninterrupted, steady and not yet particularly fevered: still long, still dragging the tip of his cock along his Bonded, feeling the swell of the head pushing forth to make way for the thick shaft of him. If anything, this moment ends up a continuation of the last, an evolution of it: warm, affectionate, full of infatuation, Mettaton kisses his lover hotly, gently, caring in his every press of lip and flick of tongue. But it's accompanied by the hard drag of his length, withdrawing a good portion of himself only to tense his legs, to stuff the full of his length back in.
But he breaks from this kiss to smile against his lover's lips, intoxicated on the love he harbors for Emet-Selch.]
You are... too. Finding you so aroused, as you are.
[Shifting his weight into one of his arms, Mettaton lets the other take an adventure between them, where fingers prod his length — an arousal that is surely pressed against Mettaton's waist, a surface the two of them often find it rubbing against, given Mettaton's usual position between typically spread legs. The proper orientation for the both of them: Emet-Selch's legs spread, Mettaton pressed between, cock pounding into him heavily. As is right.
Mettaton commends his arousal by giving it a few pets against his body, fond and loving in his application. Warm squeezes of fingers, stroking and tightening along its shaft, and kneading the swollen tip of Emet-Selch's erection with fingers as Mettaton places another kiss to his lips, ears flicking just for a moment out of his pleasure to be so accessible for kissing. Unfortunately, Mettaton unhands Emet-Selch's cock again, kissing his lover with more firmness as though in apology.]
But you've proven to me... that you're plenty able to get off on the rhythm of our bodies alone. You like the sensation of being so full of me, don't you...? Being pounded into. Feeling rubbed and taken...
[Another way to say that it's easier for him to thrust with the fervency he desires if he has both of his arms flanking Emet-Selch's body, as he hooks his fingers around his lover's shoulders — further bracing him in warning for a deeper, more thorough thrusting, his eyelid dropping somewhat in lascivious, heartfelt desire. Claws prick skin. Bruises are dented, previous clots are disrupted, but it's mostly a gripping of hands rather than bracing him with teeth or the full force of his sharp claws, something that could change in a threatening instant if he so found himself there. They should both know that Mettaton could pitch violent and scalding at any moment, rather than heated and sultry as he is right now.
But his thrusts are unrelenting, measured and even still as he exhales against his lover's lips, feeling that satisfying, full-bodied thrust into his Bonded. The whole of him strokes and massages along his cock, practically tugging at the ridge of him as though greedy to pull his length as deep as it'll go. Mettaton gives Emet-Selch's body that; he fills him, thrusts his hips against his lover's ass, but even still Emet-Selch's body tugs and pulls on his cock. A short moan slips from his lips, decorated by a weak, sloppy kiss as Mettaton stutters.]
H... Ha. Even this full, you want more...
[Well, it's Emet-Selch's body demanding more, stroking and pressing the glans as though welcoming this thick intrusion, even amidst all of his previous releases, amidst the fucking he's already exacted upon his Bonded. Possessiveness begins to amp back up into fever when Mettaton considers how many times he's taken Emet-Selch. How raw he's fucked and bitten him, how wanting he always is, enough to match the robotic Puca at every turn. It's worth a shudder, worth an intensifying of thrusts, a harsher, more frenetic pounding: a perfect drag of the glans, a low noise in Mettaton's throat.
Another kiss, soft but wet, open-mouthed and hot enough to match his rising internal temperature.]
You are good... So good. For feeling so good, for loving the sensation of being filled as you do... Ah...