[This. This was what they both needed, and it felt as natural as anything could be. If there were complications, they could drift away for now, and Emet-Selch didn't even have to be asphyxiated to manage that condition. There was too much to concentrate on, on this duty he loved, on the taste and texture of his husband's arousal, and of how much they wanted together. And could achieve, finally.
(Emet-Selch had felt a similar kind of relief, on tasting and feeling the first hints of precome. This implied that Mettaton had the capacity to be... productive, in his releases. That his orgasm (as he refused to imagine the cruelty of him being unable to reach that point with this equipment, with this sensation) wouldn't be a dry affair. That much would have been a disappointment, if he were honest with himself- and would have necessitated an additional wish.
But some part of him relaxes at that tell-tale dribble; somehow, Mettaton's body was capable of producing fluid. He wasn't inclined to ask how.)
It still hitches his breath, causes his body to tense hard when the initial burst of semen hits his tongue, floods his mouth. It's only the work of practice that has him swallowing it down as neatly as he does, despite his own overwhelm and desire to cry out with him. But dedication took priority, dedication and simple covetousness, not wanting to let even a single drop escape him, after so long without (Even if they both appreciated him being made a mess- but that was ever a process, a work to be built on round after round. As he'd already told him, this was only the start.).
Swallowing back each spurt as he's given it, he slows his movement but doesn't cease it immediately, maintaining a firm, demanding pressure around the robot's cock. His hands, too, don't neglect their duties, as his grip squeezes up Mettaton's shaft, milking him, encouraging him to give up everything that he had. The grip on his balls is comparatively gentle, a softer rub provided by his thumb, if no less possessive for it. All of what he touched belonged to him, and not because he'd wished it into existence.
But with that possessiveness was a rapturous adoration of this moment and this man he was knelt before, whose cock he was taking. His own erection felt heavier with every swallow of thick seed, but the mage doesn't consider making any move to touch himself through fabrics that felt uncomfortably restrictive. And while he shifts in place, it doesn't distract him, only adds to his own pleasure in the moment, of being properly wanting and needy as he knew he could be. All he needed was Mettaton's own cock....
Even a release as full, as extended as Mettaton's had to reach some kind of end. While the robot still moves, Emet-Selch obediently strokes him, providing him contact even to a length especially sensitive. But his mouth finally departs him, once he feels the gush of his climax slow to a drip. Not that he moves far at all, as his tongue laps gently at the slit, leaving it with damp kisses and the stroke of his lips against it, smearing what drip of come remained across them.
Safe, warmed by all he'd swallowed, and feeling protected during this whole experience by the way Mettaton's legs had wrapped around him, by the fingers in his hair, he's finally able to glance upward again, towards the other man's face. Out of breath, his own look remains fairly tidy apart from the flush to him (and the muss to his hair where it had been gripped), Mettaton's come neatly contained besides the sheen smeared deliberately on his lips. If there was anything different to his semen, the Ascian hadn't noticed it, satisfied entirely by its familiar consistency and heat- something fitting to the hot robot who produced it.]
Mettaton. [He whispers against him, soft as anything. Relieved, despite his body's own ache- as if something he'd needed to express finally had been.] How... was that?
no subject
(Emet-Selch had felt a similar kind of relief, on tasting and feeling the first hints of precome. This implied that Mettaton had the capacity to be... productive, in his releases. That his orgasm (as he refused to imagine the cruelty of him being unable to reach that point with this equipment, with this sensation) wouldn't be a dry affair. That much would have been a disappointment, if he were honest with himself- and would have necessitated an additional wish.
But some part of him relaxes at that tell-tale dribble; somehow, Mettaton's body was capable of producing fluid. He wasn't inclined to ask how.)
It still hitches his breath, causes his body to tense hard when the initial burst of semen hits his tongue, floods his mouth. It's only the work of practice that has him swallowing it down as neatly as he does, despite his own overwhelm and desire to cry out with him. But dedication took priority, dedication and simple covetousness, not wanting to let even a single drop escape him, after so long without (Even if they both appreciated him being made a mess- but that was ever a process, a work to be built on round after round. As he'd already told him, this was only the start.).
Swallowing back each spurt as he's given it, he slows his movement but doesn't cease it immediately, maintaining a firm, demanding pressure around the robot's cock. His hands, too, don't neglect their duties, as his grip squeezes up Mettaton's shaft, milking him, encouraging him to give up everything that he had. The grip on his balls is comparatively gentle, a softer rub provided by his thumb, if no less possessive for it. All of what he touched belonged to him, and not because he'd wished it into existence.
But with that possessiveness was a rapturous adoration of this moment and this man he was knelt before, whose cock he was taking. His own erection felt heavier with every swallow of thick seed, but the mage doesn't consider making any move to touch himself through fabrics that felt uncomfortably restrictive. And while he shifts in place, it doesn't distract him, only adds to his own pleasure in the moment, of being properly wanting and needy as he knew he could be. All he needed was Mettaton's own cock....
Even a release as full, as extended as Mettaton's had to reach some kind of end. While the robot still moves, Emet-Selch obediently strokes him, providing him contact even to a length especially sensitive. But his mouth finally departs him, once he feels the gush of his climax slow to a drip. Not that he moves far at all, as his tongue laps gently at the slit, leaving it with damp kisses and the stroke of his lips against it, smearing what drip of come remained across them.
Safe, warmed by all he'd swallowed, and feeling protected during this whole experience by the way Mettaton's legs had wrapped around him, by the fingers in his hair, he's finally able to glance upward again, towards the other man's face. Out of breath, his own look remains fairly tidy apart from the flush to him (and the muss to his hair where it had been gripped), Mettaton's come neatly contained besides the sheen smeared deliberately on his lips. If there was anything different to his semen, the Ascian hadn't noticed it, satisfied entirely by its familiar consistency and heat- something fitting to the hot robot who produced it.]
Mettaton. [He whispers against him, soft as anything. Relieved, despite his body's own ache- as if something he'd needed to express finally had been.] How... was that?