[It would be with "breathless anticipation" that Mettaton waits for Emet-Selch to take his lips, his manner even hastening as though eager. He finds himself licking his lips in that short period of time before the Ascian complies (part on his demand and part on his own inclination), and there's another exhalation of that same heat at the mere touch of Emet-Selch's lips, the hint of tongue to flirt with the robot's mouth. All of it's so vivid a feeling... And for a moment, his own tongue darts out to taste his lip for a trace of Emet-Selch.
They do taste startlingly similar at this point, don't they? A thought to have his whole body seizing, interrupting his thrusting into a quick stutter of hips as he succumbs to a full-bodied tremor. This is a kiss he couldn't be more eager for, applied from beneath him, the control of it handed over to his Bonded.
And Mettaton allows him to continue, focusing on the tempo of his hips. They rock into Emet-Selch deeply, barely pulling out for the moment as he strokes his cock against the other man's body in such a way that he can feel him digging and rubbing along the underside of the glans — and if Mettaton focuses harder upon that stroke, upon this thrust, he finds he's pushing harder, forcing his lover back against the mattress with each thrust. And he finds it more erotic for it, to feel as though he's overpowering Emet-Selch during the act of pleasing himself... So why not continue?
Deep, firm thrusts hard enough to rock Emet-Selch into the bed only follow, and Mettaton succumbs to each intensifying kiss: his lips are licked, sucked, nipped; held between swollen and blood-tasting ones, and Emet-Selch treats his lips like they're his oxygen. They're still his oxygen, even when his lover is so overcome that he has to take a swallow of the authentic article. Who could blame him, when Mettaton's jostling his cock so much? Each thrust is something worth a soft sight from Mettaton as it is, his gaze hazy and eye half-lidded, dreamlike and desirous. He could be panting right now, he thought, from how much he wants Emet-Selch alone.
His lover's arms tighten around him: better for both the kiss, and Mettaton's thrusts.
Their kisses turn sloppier, saliva dragged across lips and cheeks and chin as they both attempt to capture each other's lips in an open-mouthed locking, one that is forced to be broken by gasps or moans from either of them. But Emet-Selch's grip upon Mettaton's back enables his stroke to change up: instead of the short dragging, the sensation of stroking the head of his cock repeatedly in one place, Mettaton switches to long, deep, firm thrusts. Full rolls of his hips, all of the passion to match Emet-Selch's kisses for him: a reward, but also because Mettaton can't help it, not when Emet-Selch captivates him so. Passion for passion, pleasure for pleasure.
This time, it's Mettaton who interrupts their kiss for a moment: a moan, airy and lost and loud, slips between their lips for Emet-Selch to capture in his. These full-bodied thrusts pull and treat the whole of his length both to his entrance and the sudden squeeze of his body, as though his lover became shocked with each intrusion of thick cock all over again.
Even as he speaks, he lets Emet-Selch continue to kiss him to his absolute pleasure and reverence.]
You're, mmm, so... so dedicated, Hades... It's a kiss to die for, you are— ahh...
[He enjoys the feeling of speech against kisses and between pants, between sucks and licks and nips of teeth and lips and tongue. And with these drags so pronounced, he feels so suddenly... thick, hard, engorged and needy, Emet-Selch's body once more providing a squeeze he could sigh in relief just to have. But Mettaton pants between kisses, moans into them, delights in being so inundated with the focus of lips to his own and the blinding pleasure of fucking his Bondeed, mounting him and filling him with a rigid, heavy cock that he stuffs him with in hearty passes, pronounced thrusts of his hip so as to remind him to always remember how swollen he'd made Mettaton's cock. How heavy he grows, laden with come to spill just for him.]
What... Ahh, do you think, beautiful? About my length... About this rhythm, so- so, firm, and hard, and deeper... Ah...
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They do taste startlingly similar at this point, don't they? A thought to have his whole body seizing, interrupting his thrusting into a quick stutter of hips as he succumbs to a full-bodied tremor. This is a kiss he couldn't be more eager for, applied from beneath him, the control of it handed over to his Bonded.
And Mettaton allows him to continue, focusing on the tempo of his hips. They rock into Emet-Selch deeply, barely pulling out for the moment as he strokes his cock against the other man's body in such a way that he can feel him digging and rubbing along the underside of the glans — and if Mettaton focuses harder upon that stroke, upon this thrust, he finds he's pushing harder, forcing his lover back against the mattress with each thrust. And he finds it more erotic for it, to feel as though he's overpowering Emet-Selch during the act of pleasing himself... So why not continue?
Deep, firm thrusts hard enough to rock Emet-Selch into the bed only follow, and Mettaton succumbs to each intensifying kiss: his lips are licked, sucked, nipped; held between swollen and blood-tasting ones, and Emet-Selch treats his lips like they're his oxygen. They're still his oxygen, even when his lover is so overcome that he has to take a swallow of the authentic article. Who could blame him, when Mettaton's jostling his cock so much? Each thrust is something worth a soft sight from Mettaton as it is, his gaze hazy and eye half-lidded, dreamlike and desirous. He could be panting right now, he thought, from how much he wants Emet-Selch alone.
His lover's arms tighten around him: better for both the kiss, and Mettaton's thrusts.
Their kisses turn sloppier, saliva dragged across lips and cheeks and chin as they both attempt to capture each other's lips in an open-mouthed locking, one that is forced to be broken by gasps or moans from either of them. But Emet-Selch's grip upon Mettaton's back enables his stroke to change up: instead of the short dragging, the sensation of stroking the head of his cock repeatedly in one place, Mettaton switches to long, deep, firm thrusts. Full rolls of his hips, all of the passion to match Emet-Selch's kisses for him: a reward, but also because Mettaton can't help it, not when Emet-Selch captivates him so. Passion for passion, pleasure for pleasure.
This time, it's Mettaton who interrupts their kiss for a moment: a moan, airy and lost and loud, slips between their lips for Emet-Selch to capture in his. These full-bodied thrusts pull and treat the whole of his length both to his entrance and the sudden squeeze of his body, as though his lover became shocked with each intrusion of thick cock all over again.
Even as he speaks, he lets Emet-Selch continue to kiss him to his absolute pleasure and reverence.]
You're, mmm, so... so dedicated, Hades... It's a kiss to die for, you are— ahh...
[He enjoys the feeling of speech against kisses and between pants, between sucks and licks and nips of teeth and lips and tongue. And with these drags so pronounced, he feels so suddenly... thick, hard, engorged and needy, Emet-Selch's body once more providing a squeeze he could sigh in relief just to have. But Mettaton pants between kisses, moans into them, delights in being so inundated with the focus of lips to his own and the blinding pleasure of fucking his Bondeed, mounting him and filling him with a rigid, heavy cock that he stuffs him with in hearty passes, pronounced thrusts of his hip so as to remind him to always remember how swollen he'd made Mettaton's cock. How heavy he grows, laden with come to spill just for him.]
What... Ahh, do you think, beautiful? About my length... About this rhythm, so- so, firm, and hard, and deeper... Ah...