[What pushes Mettaton well over the edge is the sensation of his lover arching into him, despite having his hips so elevated to meet his hips. He curves into each of Mettaton's thrusts as though pushing himself into his cock, swallowing deeper his length and expressing with blatancy his desire for him. A new angle presents itself: a more firm drag of his cock, from the swell of the shaft to the protruding head. Emet-Selch's fits him tightly, perfectly, pulling and squeezing around him to rival the pressure of feeling so engorged, and to have him curve his back into each of his thrusts only forces Mettaton to drag along his body more harshly. He cries out, rapturous and beyond thought and sense entirely.
He's elated, pleased to have Emet-Selch gladly beneath him and desperate for pleasure, for his senses to be occupied by the robot. He thrives with people who want only that from him, and why shouldn't he give Emet-Selch the preoccupation he craves? Mettaton has more than enough of himself to try and try again to fill Emet-Selch, every crack that needs filling something worth his attention. He would try and try to fill him until he felt anywhere near satisfied, placated, pacified; and he would love him with all of his being until he could see that he's not alone to his despair. Even if he never relinquished it, Mettaton would always hope alongside him, enough for the both of them.
But there's the accompanying, sudden sensation of the Ascian tightening. Squeezing and jerking and it's so much that Mettaton could sink into him and melt, except for that he has all of this energy to expend. He realizes, then, that the firm drag of his lover's erection is accompanied by the introduction of come, and his mind paints vivid pictures of the sight: come upon glass, but dripping lusciously over the head of his lover's cock, onto his abdomen and down the shaft of him... How could he resist such a thought, such a sight? But he can't resist the taste and smell of his blood, his neck, either; he doesn't pull away, fucking him harder as his own climax builds hot and heavy in him with each hard pound.
The feeling of Emet-Selch's legs, tight around his hips, is the beckoning Mettaton finds himself succumbing to in his release, sharp and hot. It's almost like another method of release for the build of his increasing temperature, and his moan is pure relief when he spills over into his lover. His hips are pushed flush to Emet-Selch's ass, and he can feel come filling his Bonded, wrapping the glans in sticky, thick heat, right where he deposits it. Deeper still, as none if it's allowed to pass around the seal of the ridge of him; and the idol moans higher, louder at the notion that each subsequent orgasm is sure to fill his beloved that much fuller, that much deeper and hotter. His fingers grip and his body curls around Emet-Selch, holding him close and pinned and perfectly mounted. Mettaton's in pure ecstatic delight.
As his body then succumbs to gravity, the robot transitions easily from relying upon taut, rigid framework to a gentle collapse upon his lover's body. The Ascian's made to bear his full weight, slowly but surely as the contours of his chest is first pressed into him, his hips next to press listlessly into his body. Even his legs find themselves relaxing, any muscle built in them uncoiling comfortably. The tensity of his jaw, too, relaxes, even as Mettaton gives Emet-Selch a final shudder, a final thrust and a final sigh of a moan. Sticky come from Emet-Selch's release is pressed into his skin as Mettaton makes them both obey each other's bodies, falling and forming into each other despite their mismatch in material, flesh against metal.
The robot dislodges his teeth to sigh against Emet-Selch's neck, where he presses his lips: a mercy to his violence, as he's brought down and mollified from feverish ferality and vainglory. Soothed by sex, by the knowledge that he's released within his lover and marked him as his own... Nothing could be better than the depths he's achieved with Emet-Selch.
He's very special to the robot, as it turns out. Not that this is any revelation at this stage in their relationship... But a thought distant in his addled head.]
Hades...
[It's voiced on a smooth, light tone, dainty and endeared. And if it didn't already sound like it was on a smile, his lips are pulled into one, flush against blood and skin as he applies a wet, open-mouthed kiss to his latest wound. Yes, he'd be well-marked for some time, he thought.]
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He's elated, pleased to have Emet-Selch gladly beneath him and desperate for pleasure, for his senses to be occupied by the robot. He thrives with people who want only that from him, and why shouldn't he give Emet-Selch the preoccupation he craves? Mettaton has more than enough of himself to try and try again to fill Emet-Selch, every crack that needs filling something worth his attention. He would try and try to fill him until he felt anywhere near satisfied, placated, pacified; and he would love him with all of his being until he could see that he's not alone to his despair. Even if he never relinquished it, Mettaton would always hope alongside him, enough for the both of them.
But there's the accompanying, sudden sensation of the Ascian tightening. Squeezing and jerking and it's so much that Mettaton could sink into him and melt, except for that he has all of this energy to expend. He realizes, then, that the firm drag of his lover's erection is accompanied by the introduction of come, and his mind paints vivid pictures of the sight: come upon glass, but dripping lusciously over the head of his lover's cock, onto his abdomen and down the shaft of him... How could he resist such a thought, such a sight? But he can't resist the taste and smell of his blood, his neck, either; he doesn't pull away, fucking him harder as his own climax builds hot and heavy in him with each hard pound.
The feeling of Emet-Selch's legs, tight around his hips, is the beckoning Mettaton finds himself succumbing to in his release, sharp and hot. It's almost like another method of release for the build of his increasing temperature, and his moan is pure relief when he spills over into his lover. His hips are pushed flush to Emet-Selch's ass, and he can feel come filling his Bonded, wrapping the glans in sticky, thick heat, right where he deposits it. Deeper still, as none if it's allowed to pass around the seal of the ridge of him; and the idol moans higher, louder at the notion that each subsequent orgasm is sure to fill his beloved that much fuller, that much deeper and hotter. His fingers grip and his body curls around Emet-Selch, holding him close and pinned and perfectly mounted. Mettaton's in pure ecstatic delight.
As his body then succumbs to gravity, the robot transitions easily from relying upon taut, rigid framework to a gentle collapse upon his lover's body. The Ascian's made to bear his full weight, slowly but surely as the contours of his chest is first pressed into him, his hips next to press listlessly into his body. Even his legs find themselves relaxing, any muscle built in them uncoiling comfortably. The tensity of his jaw, too, relaxes, even as Mettaton gives Emet-Selch a final shudder, a final thrust and a final sigh of a moan. Sticky come from Emet-Selch's release is pressed into his skin as Mettaton makes them both obey each other's bodies, falling and forming into each other despite their mismatch in material, flesh against metal.
The robot dislodges his teeth to sigh against Emet-Selch's neck, where he presses his lips: a mercy to his violence, as he's brought down and mollified from feverish ferality and vainglory. Soothed by sex, by the knowledge that he's released within his lover and marked him as his own... Nothing could be better than the depths he's achieved with Emet-Selch.
He's very special to the robot, as it turns out. Not that this is any revelation at this stage in their relationship... But a thought distant in his addled head.]
Hades...
[It's voiced on a smooth, light tone, dainty and endeared. And if it didn't already sound like it was on a smile, his lips are pulled into one, flush against blood and skin as he applies a wet, open-mouthed kiss to his latest wound. Yes, he'd be well-marked for some time, he thought.]