[The Ascian's lips part to the puca's tongue without hesitation, less inviting him into his mouth so much as demanding his presence there. That unusual taste Mettaton had was still in evidence, though not as unfamiliar this time, and no more unwelcome. Drawing a quick breath first, he sucks a little at the other man's tongue, barely stifling a small sound around it.
It was true that Mettaton came with... significantly less baggage, compared to those Warriors of Light. They weren't even from the same star. The robot was annoying, but a curiosity; inexplicable and unique and the strangest bit familiar. It was an effective combination, if a wholly unexpected one- but Emet-Selch found himself responding to it quite readily, even appreciating the possessiveness of Mettaton's attentions. Was it due to their few shared commonalities that he could react so strongly in turn? But underlying each touch, each sound, was a singular, unrelenting feeling: don't you dare leave me alone.
Skin-on-primarily-metal wasn't quite the same as skin-on-skin contact, but that detail hardly mattered; Emet-Selch desired it all the same. It was the presence of another alongside him, some fleeting recollection of a time before solitude. Mettaton's arms against his skin was something, but not remotely sufficient or satisfying. Yet at the same time he was loathe to let go long enough to open or remove anything. If anything, the Ascian holds the man that much tighter, blunt nails scratching down along his back, able to use more force than he would have had it been skin.
And his breath hitches against Mettaton's lips, a low moan swallowed up by them, once he feels the more direct pressure of the other's thigh. That he was completely hard by now didn't surprise him, and it's something that could likely be felt through the material of his trousers. Accompanied by a faint shudder, a hiss of breath, he presses deliberately into the puca's thigh, grinding slowly against it.]
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It was true that Mettaton came with... significantly less baggage, compared to those Warriors of Light. They weren't even from the same star. The robot was annoying, but a curiosity; inexplicable and unique and the strangest bit familiar. It was an effective combination, if a wholly unexpected one- but Emet-Selch found himself responding to it quite readily, even appreciating the possessiveness of Mettaton's attentions. Was it due to their few shared commonalities that he could react so strongly in turn? But underlying each touch, each sound, was a singular, unrelenting feeling: don't you dare leave me alone.
Skin-on-primarily-metal wasn't quite the same as skin-on-skin contact, but that detail hardly mattered; Emet-Selch desired it all the same. It was the presence of another alongside him, some fleeting recollection of a time before solitude. Mettaton's arms against his skin was something, but not remotely sufficient or satisfying. Yet at the same time he was loathe to let go long enough to open or remove anything. If anything, the Ascian holds the man that much tighter, blunt nails scratching down along his back, able to use more force than he would have had it been skin.
And his breath hitches against Mettaton's lips, a low moan swallowed up by them, once he feels the more direct pressure of the other's thigh. That he was completely hard by now didn't surprise him, and it's something that could likely be felt through the material of his trousers. Accompanied by a faint shudder, a hiss of breath, he presses deliberately into the puca's thigh, grinding slowly against it.]