[A sharp gasp would've been choked on, MTT knew, if he had saliva. Already the sensation of lips lingering on a welcoming kiss ignites those sparks that sear through his body, setting fire to his thighs, his crotch. (Figuratively. He's a robot, so it's worth clarifying.) Emet-Selch makes out with his cock and makes it look proper, sweet and nearly chaste, even though Mettaton felt nothing short of kisses that would give a makeout a run for its money.
This is a suggestion that Emet-Selch would start here, and keep going. And Mettaton ached harder, cock preemptively dribbling sweet milky fluid, at the promise of being relieved over and over—and being aroused over and over as well. Mettaton loved the intensity of being coaxed into arousal, and loved it immensely when it was Emet-Selch who was the object of his fascination, and the one fascinating over him.
Every last sound of pleasure that comes from Emet-Selch, whether pleased or approving, brings Mettaton to groan. To buck his hips, and when Emet-Selch settles into the bind of his legs, the robot squeezes him there for security. He's possessed, and Mettaton laces both of his thighs over Emet-Selch's shoulders to impress upon him that truth.
He also just can't help but twine his legs around him while in his rapture. Emet-Selch grips onto his base and wraps his lips tight around his tip, and Mettaton stumbles over syllables, over cries that break and form and break again, cascading and loud.]
H- H- Hades!! Ohh, Hade- Hades—
[He cries his name, because he's the center of his world right now. Orbiting each other, Mettaton can't envision it being possible for anyone else's name to sail from his lips as Emet-Selch's does, the most comfortable name to cry out and the most comfortable man to give himself over to... In the moment, even all of their waiting felt like a blip, as they continue right from where they left off in this comfortable, familiar dance. God, it felt so familiar to be held like this, to scream his name and lose himself and to know that this was a demonstration of intensity and love and most of all, vulnerability.
Gripping into Emet-Selch's hair, Mettaton helplessly strokes himself against his lips, against his tongue, as Emet-Selch fit his girth in his mouth. He suited him well, Mettaton thought hazily, focus blearily upon him as he leaks against his tongue. It's a warning that Mettaton meant it: he could not hold on with the smaller man taking to him so abruptly, and he wouldn't even try, not with the way Emet-Selch called this just a start.
He was going to be well-fucked, and Mettaton's next groan is enamored in his bliss. He needed this. From the sensation to the overwhelm to the feeling of Emet-Selch responding to him and his evident love at being responded to, he needed this.]
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[A sharp gasp would've been choked on, MTT knew, if he had saliva. Already the sensation of lips lingering on a welcoming kiss ignites those sparks that sear through his body, setting fire to his thighs, his crotch. (Figuratively. He's a robot, so it's worth clarifying.) Emet-Selch makes out with his cock and makes it look proper, sweet and nearly chaste, even though Mettaton felt nothing short of kisses that would give a makeout a run for its money.
This is a suggestion that Emet-Selch would start here, and keep going. And Mettaton ached harder, cock preemptively dribbling sweet milky fluid, at the promise of being relieved over and over—and being aroused over and over as well. Mettaton loved the intensity of being coaxed into arousal, and loved it immensely when it was Emet-Selch who was the object of his fascination, and the one fascinating over him.
Every last sound of pleasure that comes from Emet-Selch, whether pleased or approving, brings Mettaton to groan. To buck his hips, and when Emet-Selch settles into the bind of his legs, the robot squeezes him there for security. He's possessed, and Mettaton laces both of his thighs over Emet-Selch's shoulders to impress upon him that truth.
He also just can't help but twine his legs around him while in his rapture. Emet-Selch grips onto his base and wraps his lips tight around his tip, and Mettaton stumbles over syllables, over cries that break and form and break again, cascading and loud.]
H- H- Hades!! Ohh, Hade- Hades—
[He cries his name, because he's the center of his world right now. Orbiting each other, Mettaton can't envision it being possible for anyone else's name to sail from his lips as Emet-Selch's does, the most comfortable name to cry out and the most comfortable man to give himself over to... In the moment, even all of their waiting felt like a blip, as they continue right from where they left off in this comfortable, familiar dance. God, it felt so familiar to be held like this, to scream his name and lose himself and to know that this was a demonstration of intensity and love and most of all, vulnerability.
Gripping into Emet-Selch's hair, Mettaton helplessly strokes himself against his lips, against his tongue, as Emet-Selch fit his girth in his mouth. He suited him well, Mettaton thought hazily, focus blearily upon him as he leaks against his tongue. It's a warning that Mettaton meant it: he could not hold on with the smaller man taking to him so abruptly, and he wouldn't even try, not with the way Emet-Selch called this just a start.
He was going to be well-fucked, and Mettaton's next groan is enamored in his bliss. He needed this. From the sensation to the overwhelm to the feeling of Emet-Selch responding to him and his evident love at being responded to, he needed this.]