[Each squeeze of his lover's body, whether it's to pull him back inside or to welcome his length thoroughly into the depths of his form, is the kind of sensation that purely suggests to Mettaton just how much Emet-Selch enjoys being so filled by him. It's an observation that precedes the Ascian's answer, one that has Mettaton swallowing even as he dives back in to feel his lover's kisses miss their mark and occasionally latch onto his lips, because what else did he want but this scalding passion between them?
Longer strokes of his cock that both fill him to the brim and deprive Emet-Selch of that fullness feel like the right choice, the perfect way to evoke such strong responses out of them both: each time he fills Emet-Selch completely, it pulls a cry from Mettaton, and a withdrawal earns a gasp as he feels Emet-Selch clenching around him, greedily drawing him in. Dutifully his lover kisses him as he asked, but there's so much else to interrupt them that it poses a challenge at all to maintain.
Nonetheless, that he would remain steadfast in his attempts to remain with lips locked (or at least, lips pressed to some point on Mettaton's face) is appreciated, and he can only smile into his attention.
But when Emet-Selch responds to Mettaton's inquiry, it has the same sort of thrilling effect of stroking his cock with fingers, offering such attention to his body merely by the force of words on a fragile breath. Mettaton can't even stifle a moan when he's made to focus on how he does stretch Emet-Selch... Pulling back, he feels so caught by the tightness of his lover's body, prohibiting him from detaching. But each slick, come-aided plunge within is pure bliss: Emet-Selch's body is made to part for a thick intrusion, but he doesn't do so without a consistent application of pressure all along his length, his entrance providing a final, far firmer squeeze around the base.
He is thick. He feels so appropriate for Emet-Selch's body, to fill him and fuck him, to stroke him and cause his lover to whine and call his name on a voice he barely has claim to anymore, a persistent reminder of how that's Mettaton's, too. And he chose to fill his throat and fuck him there, reducing his ability to even speak... A constant reminder of his thickness there, too, Mettaton's sure. Even while he applies himself to Emet-Selch like this, pounding him into the mattress to give him the attention he deserves for his worship with a heavy erection and deep, full strokes, Mettaton knows that Emet-Selch's thinking about the treatment of his throat. How could he not?
As natural as anything, even those murmurs that resemble his name are heard above all else, inciting the robot to push deep, to pay mind to the way he strokes against his lover's body.]
Hades...! Ah... You're g- You're so, right, and good...
[His mind is scattered, a sort of unnatural state for the robot — but one that's become natural every time he falls into Emet-Selch like this.
Hungrily, Mettaton dives away from Emet-Selch's lips to kiss feverishly and wetly along the Ascian's neck. Pressing kiss after kiss along his throat, he nearly groans from the delight of it all, focused on how much work this body put into accommodating and pleasing him — a sort of gratitude for his hard work, a pleasure found in the devotion Emet-Selch's paid to his body. He deserves it, he thought, kissing and sucking his throat with a ravenous appetite for his skin, listening to each plea and whine ends up strangled or rapturous both, all to the tune of his name. It's perfect, so perfect: Mettaton moans and teeths his throat as though prepared to tear it out, but he does nothing but lave him with love, skim him with teeth, suck into him kisses of similar starvation like he'd been waiting all this time just to take to Emet-Selch's body and to fill even himself with his form.
But the both of them are acutely aware that it's the best they can do, just short of tangling souls: their bodies could grow mussed and bloodied and they could sink whatever parts they had into the other, from teeth to tongue to cock, but they were always tied by soul and aching for more contact. They want more and more, and it shows in their feverish entwining. Mettaton kisses back up Emet-Selch's jaw, pressing with urgency against his lips even as he moans.
He's in utter bliss, the sounds of Emet-Selch's voice still echoing in his head while he imagines how full he'd become, how easily his Bonded lover will drip thick, rich come, and how it would unerringly force Mettaton to succumb to these base instincts. He would accost him each time, he would push him to the nearest surface, and he would end up filling him with his cock once more, another load of come to make up for anything he's lost. He knows Emet-Selch would only fall into him each time, rendered both wanting and weakened besides to his touch. Pressure builds in him, and his thrusts grow firmer, harder, the desire to feel Emet-Selch's body stroke him to release stronger and stronger.]
no subject
Longer strokes of his cock that both fill him to the brim and deprive Emet-Selch of that fullness feel like the right choice, the perfect way to evoke such strong responses out of them both: each time he fills Emet-Selch completely, it pulls a cry from Mettaton, and a withdrawal earns a gasp as he feels Emet-Selch clenching around him, greedily drawing him in. Dutifully his lover kisses him as he asked, but there's so much else to interrupt them that it poses a challenge at all to maintain.
Nonetheless, that he would remain steadfast in his attempts to remain with lips locked (or at least, lips pressed to some point on Mettaton's face) is appreciated, and he can only smile into his attention.
But when Emet-Selch responds to Mettaton's inquiry, it has the same sort of thrilling effect of stroking his cock with fingers, offering such attention to his body merely by the force of words on a fragile breath. Mettaton can't even stifle a moan when he's made to focus on how he does stretch Emet-Selch... Pulling back, he feels so caught by the tightness of his lover's body, prohibiting him from detaching. But each slick, come-aided plunge within is pure bliss: Emet-Selch's body is made to part for a thick intrusion, but he doesn't do so without a consistent application of pressure all along his length, his entrance providing a final, far firmer squeeze around the base.
He is thick. He feels so appropriate for Emet-Selch's body, to fill him and fuck him, to stroke him and cause his lover to whine and call his name on a voice he barely has claim to anymore, a persistent reminder of how that's Mettaton's, too. And he chose to fill his throat and fuck him there, reducing his ability to even speak... A constant reminder of his thickness there, too, Mettaton's sure. Even while he applies himself to Emet-Selch like this, pounding him into the mattress to give him the attention he deserves for his worship with a heavy erection and deep, full strokes, Mettaton knows that Emet-Selch's thinking about the treatment of his throat. How could he not?
As natural as anything, even those murmurs that resemble his name are heard above all else, inciting the robot to push deep, to pay mind to the way he strokes against his lover's body.]
Hades...! Ah... You're g- You're so, right, and good...
[His mind is scattered, a sort of unnatural state for the robot — but one that's become natural every time he falls into Emet-Selch like this.
Hungrily, Mettaton dives away from Emet-Selch's lips to kiss feverishly and wetly along the Ascian's neck. Pressing kiss after kiss along his throat, he nearly groans from the delight of it all, focused on how much work this body put into accommodating and pleasing him — a sort of gratitude for his hard work, a pleasure found in the devotion Emet-Selch's paid to his body. He deserves it, he thought, kissing and sucking his throat with a ravenous appetite for his skin, listening to each plea and whine ends up strangled or rapturous both, all to the tune of his name. It's perfect, so perfect: Mettaton moans and teeths his throat as though prepared to tear it out, but he does nothing but lave him with love, skim him with teeth, suck into him kisses of similar starvation like he'd been waiting all this time just to take to Emet-Selch's body and to fill even himself with his form.
But the both of them are acutely aware that it's the best they can do, just short of tangling souls: their bodies could grow mussed and bloodied and they could sink whatever parts they had into the other, from teeth to tongue to cock, but they were always tied by soul and aching for more contact. They want more and more, and it shows in their feverish entwining. Mettaton kisses back up Emet-Selch's jaw, pressing with urgency against his lips even as he moans.
He's in utter bliss, the sounds of Emet-Selch's voice still echoing in his head while he imagines how full he'd become, how easily his Bonded lover will drip thick, rich come, and how it would unerringly force Mettaton to succumb to these base instincts. He would accost him each time, he would push him to the nearest surface, and he would end up filling him with his cock once more, another load of come to make up for anything he's lost. He knows Emet-Selch would only fall into him each time, rendered both wanting and weakened besides to his touch. Pressure builds in him, and his thrusts grow firmer, harder, the desire to feel Emet-Selch's body stroke him to release stronger and stronger.]
You... I... I need...!