[Every reaction, whether tangible or audible, was a spur to keep going. When Mettaton had invited him to get a better look at him, how could anything but this be the result? When faced with the robot's cock, he would have to get his lips on it, and from there he could hardly be blamed for needing to take him into his mouth. Emet-Selch missed doing this too much... even if he would've reacted much the same had he sucked him just yesterday (or for that matter, ten minutes ago....).
But if there was a sharper edge to it, a craving that went past desperation and back into longing- he wouldn't be surprised. Not that he was giving it much thought in the moment, beyond an awareness of how much he loved this- and when he first felt the slickness of precome against his lips, in response to his ardent kisses, he knew Mettaton loved this with him.
And also knew that Mettaton's assessment was accurate, that he wouldn't be holding on very long at all. Which, if anything, has the mage take to him more earnestly yet, his pulse pounding with something like eagerness. If Mettaton would rub himself against his tongue, he would stroke him right back, reward him with firm, rhythmic pressure as he dips his head over him, and pumps upward with his hand over whatever didn't fit in his mouth.
But he elects not to take him into his throat, not this time. Not out of any lack of desire to do so; to the contrary, on every nudge of his length forward, teasing the back of his throat, it tempted him. He knew Mettaton would enjoy it just as he did, and surely missed being encased in that particular pressure- just as he missed having his throat made full, with no space for air and only just enough space for his lover's girth. But there was already enough to overwhelm, as it was- and he enjoyed too much just this, the weight of the thickened tip against his tongue, the way it slightly gave to the tightness of his mouth. And with it, the expectation, the want to feel him lose it right there. Even if it would all end up down his throat anyway, he wanted the sensation of his heat flooding his senses.
Groan stifled around the robot's new girth, his hair falls forward as he sucks, Mettaton's grip in it not enough to keep it from brushing against the other man's body with each dive onto him. His own hands were too busy and not inclined to hold it back either, with one occupied with milking his cock, squeezing upwards, and the other still handling his balls.
Reveling in the sound of his own name in Mettaton's voice, his willingness- and for that matter, desire- to see his lover to this initial end, was evident in Emet-Selch's touch, in his manner. In his unwillingness to let go of Mettaton's erection, to release him from his hand or mouth without first claiming his seed. Which was his, just as the rest of Mettaton was, body and soul both. Even possessiveness could be a show of vulnerability, though- an admittance of need, of concern and care- the exposure of being attached. And as ever, the request for a break from loneliness, which laced through most of the smaller man's touches.]
no subject
But if there was a sharper edge to it, a craving that went past desperation and back into longing- he wouldn't be surprised. Not that he was giving it much thought in the moment, beyond an awareness of how much he loved this- and when he first felt the slickness of precome against his lips, in response to his ardent kisses, he knew Mettaton loved this with him.
And also knew that Mettaton's assessment was accurate, that he wouldn't be holding on very long at all. Which, if anything, has the mage take to him more earnestly yet, his pulse pounding with something like eagerness. If Mettaton would rub himself against his tongue, he would stroke him right back, reward him with firm, rhythmic pressure as he dips his head over him, and pumps upward with his hand over whatever didn't fit in his mouth.
But he elects not to take him into his throat, not this time. Not out of any lack of desire to do so; to the contrary, on every nudge of his length forward, teasing the back of his throat, it tempted him. He knew Mettaton would enjoy it just as he did, and surely missed being encased in that particular pressure- just as he missed having his throat made full, with no space for air and only just enough space for his lover's girth. But there was already enough to overwhelm, as it was- and he enjoyed too much just this, the weight of the thickened tip against his tongue, the way it slightly gave to the tightness of his mouth. And with it, the expectation, the want to feel him lose it right there. Even if it would all end up down his throat anyway, he wanted the sensation of his heat flooding his senses.
Groan stifled around the robot's new girth, his hair falls forward as he sucks, Mettaton's grip in it not enough to keep it from brushing against the other man's body with each dive onto him. His own hands were too busy and not inclined to hold it back either, with one occupied with milking his cock, squeezing upwards, and the other still handling his balls.
Reveling in the sound of his own name in Mettaton's voice, his willingness- and for that matter, desire- to see his lover to this initial end, was evident in Emet-Selch's touch, in his manner. In his unwillingness to let go of Mettaton's erection, to release him from his hand or mouth without first claiming his seed. Which was his, just as the rest of Mettaton was, body and soul both. Even possessiveness could be a show of vulnerability, though- an admittance of need, of concern and care- the exposure of being attached. And as ever, the request for a break from loneliness, which laced through most of the smaller man's touches.]