[It's not unusual for Mettaton's ears to take a useless, floppy posture during sex, as though he's too drunk to passively hold them up. But Mettaton's attention is so focused on Emet-Selch's ravenous appetite for his slick, sticky fingers that his ears are upright, leaning forward attentively as he smiles wickedly, eye wide and bright as he licks his lips in sympathy. Even though Emet-Selch can't steady his hand, it was fine: wasn't there something attractive about the messiness of his application, the way lips and tongue wrap around digits and nails yet he manages to get traces of come on his chin, on his cheek? There was, and Mettaton feels a rush of delight that forces him to give his lover a profound thrust as though his own legs were trying to give way, a sharp push of shaft, another act of sympathy.
Mettaton's mind wants to deprive them both until they couldn't stand it, but Mettaton's body rebels, and he moans at the additional warmth surrounding his cock, the way the swell of the shaft is squeezed so delectably by Emet-Selch's body.
But his lover should have no trouble licking up as much come as he can, as Mettaton's sure to keep (sometimes hazy) watch over his work, turning his hand and urging him to lick here and there, never once taking from him his fingers until he was sure his lover had lapped it clean. His observation of the Ascian's work is a strange mix of anticipation and satisfaction, being satisfied all while on the edge of his seat, attention stolen by each flick of tongue and wrap of lips, by each inch of white left slick with spit rather than milky with errant come. And saliva-coated he is, as Emet-Selch even gets some of that on his face in his focus, teeth sometimes gripping fingers to better access spots of his hand that escaped even the Puca's notice, he finds himself spellbound by the touch and understanding of what unfolds before him.
His dedication is something to be admired, thought Mettaton, witnessing for himself how thorough Emet-Selch was about licking him clean of ejaculate, letting the taste and texture swim in his mouth, letting it coat and flavor his lips. He's the intended, sole audience to a show so erotic that he finds that pressure of his cock building, engorged, thick and hard and undeniable, his body aching to be suffused with warmth and pressure, to be massaged and stroked and slicked over. But all Mettaton does is drool some more, kissing and mouthing Emet-Selch's shoulder, only swallowing when he remembers, when he feels his lover has an especially full mouth and he feels sympathetic toward it.
He's utterly captivated by the sight. There's not a doubt in the Puca's mind that Emet-Selch tastes completely of his come, that he feels it lingering in his mouth even as he finalizes his work, licking with long, broad strokes along fingers to capture every last taste. The robot shudders in his lust: what could be more flattering than all of this want? He may not be speaking, but having Emet-Selch use his mouth in another way to demonstrate the vastness of his desire was... more than an adequate replacement for speech-sound. It was delightful, it was erotic, it was enough to have Mettaton completely rigid and full, for his arousal to feel so heavy between his thighs.
He loved it. This ache was intense. He thought he could come by this feeling alone, just focusing on all of the sights and sensations that could lead him to feeling so full, so thick, so engorged; if he were squeezed, it would feel raw and ever more aching, and he would love even that, would cry out loud and strong just from that. Craving it like nothing else, Mettaton withdraws his hand to wrap it around Emet-Selch's waist in an embrace as he moans into his shoulder, shuddering.
It's after a few more swallows, a few more kisses to lap up some of the spit he'd left on his skin, that Mettaton manages to collect himself enough to speak — not that he hadn't already stuffed more of his cock within, not that Emet-Selch wasn't already asking without words for his promised 'reward' by shoving into his hips.]
You're perfect, darling... Just perfect. [Emet-Selch is treated to a series of kisses that trail up his neck, up to his ear, as far as he can reach.] You had me enchanted by your dedication... Licking up every trace of come you'd lost. For that, your prize... I'm sure you can feel.
[He could probably already feel how engorged he was, how he's already beginning to slip in restraint, thrusting with more fervor.]
How thick I am, now that you've been so thorough... You did this, you know. You're why I... H- Oh, I. I'm...
[Composure slipping, Mettaton grips his hip some more, thrusts harder some more, agreeing with Emet-Selch's nudging with the sudden, full thrust of his hips. The full length of his cock sinks into Emet-Selch's body as the ever continuing reward he'd promised, filling him out to the root of his cock once more. Everything in the right place, Emet-Selch stuffed from glans to base, his body made to squeeze and bear down upon the rigidity of Mettaton's arousal. He moans again, but instead of throwing his head back, Mettaton bears down on Emet-Selch, curling into him, mounting him, pushing him into the bed some more.]
I'm... I ache, Hades, I'm so f...
[Full, he wants to say, but all the robotic idol can do is moan next to his neck, kissing and sucking on skin as his dark ears give way to gravity once more, flopping forward while Mettaton gives himself over to lust and appetite, grinding his hips into Emet-Selch's ass and feeling the drag of the glans so deeply inside of him, enough to pull gasp after sigh from him. Then, a short burst of laughter as he thinks to himself that he's not the one who's full, Emet-Selch is. Mettaton buries his nose affectionately in his shoulder, shifting both of his arms to wrap around his lover's torso, hands bracing against his shoulders to better mount him, to better pound into him.
And pound he does, short, firm curves of his body to jostle and stroke his length against Emet-Selch's body. From lazy arousal to being so suddenly engorged in hardly any time and all, Mettaton can only follow the current of his own libido, can only stroke and satisfy each of his cravings... And Emet-Selch was both the cause and the cure for each incident, his lover so tantalizing, so prone, so desirable in his nudity, his attitude, his intensity and his follow-through. The amount of want between them was... probably alarming, their appetites equally alarming in its insatiability. But they loved each other, and it was that, Mettaton felt, that made them both want to consume each other bodily, sexually; to wear each other down emotionally, too, until they were their most core selves and with nothing else to concern themselves over in the world but each other.]
no subject
Mettaton's mind wants to deprive them both until they couldn't stand it, but Mettaton's body rebels, and he moans at the additional warmth surrounding his cock, the way the swell of the shaft is squeezed so delectably by Emet-Selch's body.
But his lover should have no trouble licking up as much come as he can, as Mettaton's sure to keep (sometimes hazy) watch over his work, turning his hand and urging him to lick here and there, never once taking from him his fingers until he was sure his lover had lapped it clean. His observation of the Ascian's work is a strange mix of anticipation and satisfaction, being satisfied all while on the edge of his seat, attention stolen by each flick of tongue and wrap of lips, by each inch of white left slick with spit rather than milky with errant come. And saliva-coated he is, as Emet-Selch even gets some of that on his face in his focus, teeth sometimes gripping fingers to better access spots of his hand that escaped even the Puca's notice, he finds himself spellbound by the touch and understanding of what unfolds before him.
His dedication is something to be admired, thought Mettaton, witnessing for himself how thorough Emet-Selch was about licking him clean of ejaculate, letting the taste and texture swim in his mouth, letting it coat and flavor his lips. He's the intended, sole audience to a show so erotic that he finds that pressure of his cock building, engorged, thick and hard and undeniable, his body aching to be suffused with warmth and pressure, to be massaged and stroked and slicked over. But all Mettaton does is drool some more, kissing and mouthing Emet-Selch's shoulder, only swallowing when he remembers, when he feels his lover has an especially full mouth and he feels sympathetic toward it.
He's utterly captivated by the sight. There's not a doubt in the Puca's mind that Emet-Selch tastes completely of his come, that he feels it lingering in his mouth even as he finalizes his work, licking with long, broad strokes along fingers to capture every last taste. The robot shudders in his lust: what could be more flattering than all of this want? He may not be speaking, but having Emet-Selch use his mouth in another way to demonstrate the vastness of his desire was... more than an adequate replacement for speech-sound. It was delightful, it was erotic, it was enough to have Mettaton completely rigid and full, for his arousal to feel so heavy between his thighs.
He loved it. This ache was intense. He thought he could come by this feeling alone, just focusing on all of the sights and sensations that could lead him to feeling so full, so thick, so engorged; if he were squeezed, it would feel raw and ever more aching, and he would love even that, would cry out loud and strong just from that. Craving it like nothing else, Mettaton withdraws his hand to wrap it around Emet-Selch's waist in an embrace as he moans into his shoulder, shuddering.
It's after a few more swallows, a few more kisses to lap up some of the spit he'd left on his skin, that Mettaton manages to collect himself enough to speak — not that he hadn't already stuffed more of his cock within, not that Emet-Selch wasn't already asking without words for his promised 'reward' by shoving into his hips.]
You're perfect, darling... Just perfect. [Emet-Selch is treated to a series of kisses that trail up his neck, up to his ear, as far as he can reach.] You had me enchanted by your dedication... Licking up every trace of come you'd lost. For that, your prize... I'm sure you can feel.
[He could probably already feel how engorged he was, how he's already beginning to slip in restraint, thrusting with more fervor.]
How thick I am, now that you've been so thorough... You did this, you know. You're why I... H- Oh, I. I'm...
[Composure slipping, Mettaton grips his hip some more, thrusts harder some more, agreeing with Emet-Selch's nudging with the sudden, full thrust of his hips. The full length of his cock sinks into Emet-Selch's body as the ever continuing reward he'd promised, filling him out to the root of his cock once more. Everything in the right place, Emet-Selch stuffed from glans to base, his body made to squeeze and bear down upon the rigidity of Mettaton's arousal. He moans again, but instead of throwing his head back, Mettaton bears down on Emet-Selch, curling into him, mounting him, pushing him into the bed some more.]
I'm... I ache, Hades, I'm so f...
[Full, he wants to say, but all the robotic idol can do is moan next to his neck, kissing and sucking on skin as his dark ears give way to gravity once more, flopping forward while Mettaton gives himself over to lust and appetite, grinding his hips into Emet-Selch's ass and feeling the drag of the glans so deeply inside of him, enough to pull gasp after sigh from him. Then, a short burst of laughter as he thinks to himself that he's not the one who's full, Emet-Selch is. Mettaton buries his nose affectionately in his shoulder, shifting both of his arms to wrap around his lover's torso, hands bracing against his shoulders to better mount him, to better pound into him.
And pound he does, short, firm curves of his body to jostle and stroke his length against Emet-Selch's body. From lazy arousal to being so suddenly engorged in hardly any time and all, Mettaton can only follow the current of his own libido, can only stroke and satisfy each of his cravings... And Emet-Selch was both the cause and the cure for each incident, his lover so tantalizing, so prone, so desirable in his nudity, his attitude, his intensity and his follow-through. The amount of want between them was... probably alarming, their appetites equally alarming in its insatiability. But they loved each other, and it was that, Mettaton felt, that made them both want to consume each other bodily, sexually; to wear each other down emotionally, too, until they were their most core selves and with nothing else to concern themselves over in the world but each other.]