[He pouts. It's not a sincere upset at all, even when he huffs against his cock. His lips part momentarily, as he animatedly engulfs the tip of him with a hum, bobbing gently over the very head and tightening just enough, until he's caught just over the ridge. There's no saliva, but Mettaton's touch isn't so rough that it pulls or tugs; he knew Emet-Selch was sensitive enough, and a lighter touch would be better, rather than the tearing of skin. When he lets him go, it's with a full kiss, right over the slit.
He's smiling wide, playful, enamored.]
I'll tell you about creativity!
[And it would be about dressing. Mettaton departs from the Ascian's crotch, lifting himself up with the push of his hands upon the bed—this time, with his arms flanking Emet-Selch's hips. He crawls atop the bed, a near slip as he curves and arches to surreptitiously graze along Emet-Selch's entire body with warm metal and soft silicone—sensations Emet-Selch was all accustomed to, out of his metal husband. Knees still pressed to the insides of Emet-Selch's thighs, the way the idol presses his legs together emphasizes the swell of his hips—full, broad, just as they were when he'd transformed into a Puca, and even furred. Mettaton's shapshift was still in full effect, save for the amethyst of his eye, save for... the much-coveted sensation.
Slinking along Emet-Selch's body, MTT only stops once he's made it even with his face. But along the way he kisses, as warmly and fully as he can, along his chest. His nipple's treated to a flick of his tongue, but just next to it, Mettaton takes a nibble of flesh between teeth and clamps down around it, ears splaying as he settles for just long enough to kiss it into a deep blue. Relinquishing that point of intensity, he rocks his hips; he has Emet-Selch's erection arched up just between his thighs, as he keeps the Ascian's legs spread wide.
And here, Mettaton leans down to nudge his nose against Emet-Selch's, pushing him back down against the pillow.]
You know... I'd love to see you in clothes that leave nothing to my imagination, all while inspiring me to no end. And I had you in a lovely little get-up so short, that I could catch glimpses of my prize as you leaned for me... [Detailing his fantasy, one of Mettaton's long, flexible arms reaches lower, grabbing as much of Emet-Selch's ass as he can with the smaller man laying face-up on the bed. All the while, he leverages his weight down, until Emet-Selch's pressed down by the full of his weight. As for Mettaton's legs...
The robot straddles Emet-Selch's cock, slipping it between silicone thighs still plush from the "muscular" definition he'd shapeshifted for himself. He shudders, squeezing his legs together as he nudges himself low enough that he could feel his arousal at its deepest point between his legs, flush to his body—and Mettaton can't help the way his voice rises in a crescendo, a silky note carried on a moan to feel his husband so aroused.
Because even though he lacked sensation, this was the most he's had in a maddening month. It was a strange vacuum that felt like a dream in itself—and when his actual dream gave him the memory of intensity, when it broke for him to find his husband slipping into bed with him, he finds himself overcome from that alone.]
Hades... Ah, you're so...
[He was handsome nude. He was handsome in a maid dress, short enough that Mettaton could grope him at any opportunity where he so much as slouched. (Which was always.) ...That's not very creative either, only horny.]
no subject
[He pouts. It's not a sincere upset at all, even when he huffs against his cock. His lips part momentarily, as he animatedly engulfs the tip of him with a hum, bobbing gently over the very head and tightening just enough, until he's caught just over the ridge. There's no saliva, but Mettaton's touch isn't so rough that it pulls or tugs; he knew Emet-Selch was sensitive enough, and a lighter touch would be better, rather than the tearing of skin. When he lets him go, it's with a full kiss, right over the slit.
He's smiling wide, playful, enamored.]
I'll tell you about creativity!
[And it would be about dressing. Mettaton departs from the Ascian's crotch, lifting himself up with the push of his hands upon the bed—this time, with his arms flanking Emet-Selch's hips. He crawls atop the bed, a near slip as he curves and arches to surreptitiously graze along Emet-Selch's entire body with warm metal and soft silicone—sensations Emet-Selch was all accustomed to, out of his metal husband. Knees still pressed to the insides of Emet-Selch's thighs, the way the idol presses his legs together emphasizes the swell of his hips—full, broad, just as they were when he'd transformed into a Puca, and even furred. Mettaton's shapshift was still in full effect, save for the amethyst of his eye, save for... the much-coveted sensation.
Slinking along Emet-Selch's body, MTT only stops once he's made it even with his face. But along the way he kisses, as warmly and fully as he can, along his chest. His nipple's treated to a flick of his tongue, but just next to it, Mettaton takes a nibble of flesh between teeth and clamps down around it, ears splaying as he settles for just long enough to kiss it into a deep blue. Relinquishing that point of intensity, he rocks his hips; he has Emet-Selch's erection arched up just between his thighs, as he keeps the Ascian's legs spread wide.
And here, Mettaton leans down to nudge his nose against Emet-Selch's, pushing him back down against the pillow.]
You know... I'd love to see you in clothes that leave nothing to my imagination, all while inspiring me to no end. And I had you in a lovely little get-up so short, that I could catch glimpses of my prize as you leaned for me... [Detailing his fantasy, one of Mettaton's long, flexible arms reaches lower, grabbing as much of Emet-Selch's ass as he can with the smaller man laying face-up on the bed. All the while, he leverages his weight down, until Emet-Selch's pressed down by the full of his weight. As for Mettaton's legs...
The robot straddles Emet-Selch's cock, slipping it between silicone thighs still plush from the "muscular" definition he'd shapeshifted for himself. He shudders, squeezing his legs together as he nudges himself low enough that he could feel his arousal at its deepest point between his legs, flush to his body—and Mettaton can't help the way his voice rises in a crescendo, a silky note carried on a moan to feel his husband so aroused.
Because even though he lacked sensation, this was the most he's had in a maddening month. It was a strange vacuum that felt like a dream in itself—and when his actual dream gave him the memory of intensity, when it broke for him to find his husband slipping into bed with him, he finds himself overcome from that alone.]
Hades... Ah, you're so...
[He was handsome nude. He was handsome in a maid dress, short enough that Mettaton could grope him at any opportunity where he so much as slouched. (Which was always.) ...That's not very creative either, only horny.]