[It's even more pleasant that Emet-Selch would spread his legs, would aid in making himself viewable to Mettaton's delight, and would be so lovely a sight in his eye. Even standing at full height like this (albeit with a slight bend to his knee to better align their bodies), Mettaton's enraptured by the sight of his cock glazed with milky come, thick dribbles of it slipping down his shaft. It's a sight to generate ideas, cravings, thoughts of Emet-Selch's lips being forced against the head only for him to eagerly suck and lap at thick come that had escaped his body; of Emet-Selch being reintroduced immediately to the come he'd lost by having Mettaton reuse it as lube, to slip his cock inside of his already-stretched, already-prepared body and to fuck him just like this, to render his trembling knees weak so that he was forced to stand by the presence of a heavy cock.
Mettaton's blearily watching, gripping onto Emet-Selch's hip as his own come slicks up his other hand as natural as anything. The urgency to slip his lover the full of his length grows beyond him as he answers his lover's raspy, poorly-formed moans with his own louder, clearer one. His hips shift, dipping the head of his cock against the slick mess of Emet-Selch's entrance, continuously flirting with slipping the tip of his cock within his waiting body... And how easy it would be, something he could do to fill Emet-Selch in an instant. The sloping glans looks like such a perfect fit — a perfect squeeze maybe, but a perfect fit nonetheless. It would be moments unaware for his lover until he felt the filling flare of the corona stretching him, until the rest of the thick shaft followed...
It's then that Emet-Selch curves his back, bumps with intent against the robot's hardened erection. That's right: Mettaton mused earlier that Emet-Selch would tell him if he no longer felt so full, didn't he? And with voice reduced, this must be his way of telling him he needed more come, needed the thick shaft of his cock, and needed all as deeply as he could manage.
A sudden craving to nearly set Mettaton to ferality again, gnashing his teeth as his fingers curl into his grip on Emet-Selch's hip in his sheer pleasure, the ache in his abdomen growing intense enough to darken the world around him save for this. For his lover leaned over the bed, supporting himself on arms against the blankets, with his legs spread and ass up for Mettaton's use, not just prone but giving himself to the idol. He laughs, both light and dark at once and pressing forward with insistence, with claim, with intention as he nestles the head of his cock threateningly against the Ascian's ass.
Mettaton leans forward, following the bend of Emet-Selch's body with his own to bring himself closer to his shoulder. His cock remains pressed to his entrance, insistent and slowly, slowly slipping its way inside: how could it not, if it was so slick, if there was this pressure, if Emet-Selch's body was made to fit him? It's a realization to have Mettaton drooling when he gets closer to his lover's neck.]
You're not feeling full enough, are you...?
[Light and dark, just like his laugh. Pressure still, the head of his cock sinks slowly and insistently into his lover's body with just a bit of firm rocking as Mettaton strokes the head of his cock in and out of Emet-Selch's entrance, relishing how sloppy he's been made from being filled with so much of his own come. A complete mark of possession: Emet-Selch is bruised, bitten, and come-marked, rendered scarcely able to move, and it's all a part of Mettaton's design. The pressure in his crotch is unbearable; he exhales heat, bringing forward his come-slicked hand and pressing it to his lover's lips.
Slick, thick fluid coats the robot's fingers and claws, even down to his palms — a thoroughness to tease how messy Emet-Selch is, how messy they both are now that he's let just some of the ejaculate spill from his body. Mouthing and kissing Emet-Selch's neck, the Puca continues to rock his hips, to stroke more and more of his cock against just the tight, slick ring of his lover's entrance while he presses insistent fingers to Emet-Selch's lips.]
This is only a fraction of what you've lost... Clean it up, darling. [Another heavy, heated kiss to his neck.] As your reward... I'll f... fill you properly.
[Fill him properly, as opposed to dipping the head of his cock in and out of his body shallowly, letting the ridge of the head continuously stroke along Emet-Selch's entrance. Mettaton talks about it as though he's the one treating Emet-Selch, but the restraint he practices is shoddy at best: Mettaton's craving for this body are beyond him, and he wants the man himself even more. How distracted he can play him, how thoroughly he can work him to live from moment to moment... It's a fulfilling thing to witness. But even as he presses come-slicked fingers to Emet-Selch's lips, he gasps and sighs at the sensation of such a tight slip of his cock: at the squeeze of muscle around the glans, as it pulls and squeezes and manipulates the glans with each pass with indelible pressure, the only defense his body has against Mettaton's inevitable pounding.]
no subject
Mettaton's blearily watching, gripping onto Emet-Selch's hip as his own come slicks up his other hand as natural as anything. The urgency to slip his lover the full of his length grows beyond him as he answers his lover's raspy, poorly-formed moans with his own louder, clearer one. His hips shift, dipping the head of his cock against the slick mess of Emet-Selch's entrance, continuously flirting with slipping the tip of his cock within his waiting body... And how easy it would be, something he could do to fill Emet-Selch in an instant. The sloping glans looks like such a perfect fit — a perfect squeeze maybe, but a perfect fit nonetheless. It would be moments unaware for his lover until he felt the filling flare of the corona stretching him, until the rest of the thick shaft followed...
It's then that Emet-Selch curves his back, bumps with intent against the robot's hardened erection. That's right: Mettaton mused earlier that Emet-Selch would tell him if he no longer felt so full, didn't he? And with voice reduced, this must be his way of telling him he needed more come, needed the thick shaft of his cock, and needed all as deeply as he could manage.
A sudden craving to nearly set Mettaton to ferality again, gnashing his teeth as his fingers curl into his grip on Emet-Selch's hip in his sheer pleasure, the ache in his abdomen growing intense enough to darken the world around him save for this. For his lover leaned over the bed, supporting himself on arms against the blankets, with his legs spread and ass up for Mettaton's use, not just prone but giving himself to the idol. He laughs, both light and dark at once and pressing forward with insistence, with claim, with intention as he nestles the head of his cock threateningly against the Ascian's ass.
Mettaton leans forward, following the bend of Emet-Selch's body with his own to bring himself closer to his shoulder. His cock remains pressed to his entrance, insistent and slowly, slowly slipping its way inside: how could it not, if it was so slick, if there was this pressure, if Emet-Selch's body was made to fit him? It's a realization to have Mettaton drooling when he gets closer to his lover's neck.]
You're not feeling full enough, are you...?
[Light and dark, just like his laugh. Pressure still, the head of his cock sinks slowly and insistently into his lover's body with just a bit of firm rocking as Mettaton strokes the head of his cock in and out of Emet-Selch's entrance, relishing how sloppy he's been made from being filled with so much of his own come. A complete mark of possession: Emet-Selch is bruised, bitten, and come-marked, rendered scarcely able to move, and it's all a part of Mettaton's design. The pressure in his crotch is unbearable; he exhales heat, bringing forward his come-slicked hand and pressing it to his lover's lips.
Slick, thick fluid coats the robot's fingers and claws, even down to his palms — a thoroughness to tease how messy Emet-Selch is, how messy they both are now that he's let just some of the ejaculate spill from his body. Mouthing and kissing Emet-Selch's neck, the Puca continues to rock his hips, to stroke more and more of his cock against just the tight, slick ring of his lover's entrance while he presses insistent fingers to Emet-Selch's lips.]
This is only a fraction of what you've lost... Clean it up, darling. [Another heavy, heated kiss to his neck.] As your reward... I'll f... fill you properly.
[Fill him properly, as opposed to dipping the head of his cock in and out of his body shallowly, letting the ridge of the head continuously stroke along Emet-Selch's entrance. Mettaton talks about it as though he's the one treating Emet-Selch, but the restraint he practices is shoddy at best: Mettaton's craving for this body are beyond him, and he wants the man himself even more. How distracted he can play him, how thoroughly he can work him to live from moment to moment... It's a fulfilling thing to witness. But even as he presses come-slicked fingers to Emet-Selch's lips, he gasps and sighs at the sensation of such a tight slip of his cock: at the squeeze of muscle around the glans, as it pulls and squeezes and manipulates the glans with each pass with indelible pressure, the only defense his body has against Mettaton's inevitable pounding.]