[Without language they agree that this should suffice, if not the most optimal of preparations. But in a world that was bizarrely without lubricant, it would have to suffice. Atop that, Emet-Selch is dangerously aroused... and Mettaton was quickly hurdling in that direction. It made it much easier to think with their cocks, and to prioritize getting Emet-Selch where he could lose himself to bliss.
As soon as the tip of his still-filling erection is aligned with the help of Emet-Selch's guidance, Mettaton lets go of his ass. But that's just to brace himself against his hip, fingers wrapped around his brand-new tattoo that connected them if not spiritually (and did it? it warranted testing, or patience), bodily. He could even feel it in its way, an electric current that came of two people bound together, as though these markings linked up the energy that coursed through their bodies most of all. He answers that nuzzle against his cheek with an answering nudge, metal paneling against warm, soft skin that gave pronouncedly against him. He would salivate if he could, he knew... There's something about this tender figure that has him starving, nearly envious for its softness but similarly pleased at just experiencing it.
Even though he was still filling, god was he erect, firm already. But still filling indeed, and he could just feel that push of pressure swim deep in his body, an agonizing ache that he'd agree felt torturous, as soon as Emet-Selch pumps his length, from base to tip. And from there, Mettaton jerks and shudders to feel Emet-Selch knead him against his entrance, trying his very best to keep his hips from stuffing his length inside. He babbles, fingers twitching against skin.]
You're, y-you're, [It's static. Even his voice is impacted, skipping slightly. He may have his very own voice, none of it regulated by any robotic device, but the body itself is the interference it needs to sound like a skipping record.] Give me, give me--!
[He doesn't realize what he's saying, how positively greedy he sounds. But despite his words MTT is mostly polite, his hips restrained, thighs taut with inertia and desire restricted to his heart, giving Emet-Selch time and space to determine the pace that his body should receive a thick intrusion. If Emet-Selch had the good sense for it, why, it could've even been a smooth insertion mostly painless, he's being so good.
But of course, neither of them are anything less than frantic and overheated. The sound of Emet-Selch's voice is music, and Mettaton nuzzles him hard as the Ascian sits himself, skillfully relaxing just enough to take the bulbous swell of his tip until he's fitted over his glans completely. Mettaton's back arches, his breath, his voice, lost.]
I...! Ohhhhhh, yeees, H... Hades!!
[Euphoric, Mettaton idly kneads at his hip, where his other hand braces the top of Emet-Selch's back, cuddling him close to his body. Trembling still, he only shimmies his hips from side-to-side, testing the tension around his tip and shifting in ecstasy. The small nudge to his face is met with a responding nudge.
Yes... somehow, Mettaton could feel the physical sensation Emet-Selch endured. Not quite as though it were his own... but it was there, the edges of pain and pleasure twisted together in some kind of harmony. It doesn't alarm him for any reason: Emet-Selch could handle this, for one. But he knew similarly that this was required of them. They need this contact, this depth, and at any cost.
(That they might be able to feel each other through the magic of this tattoo doesn't exactly settle in, in any coherent way. He felt some of Emet-Selch's experience, but not overmuch; it felt normal, if anything.)
Utter heat envelopes his tip. He needed more of it, and he grips his hip, tension in his wrist to slam the smaller man down on his lap. Of course he doesn't listen to these baser instincts, too in love with the smaller man to move him if he knew it meant hurting him, guaranteed. Instead, Mettaton continues to slowly gyrate his hips, a circular working of slick, hot muscle. He smiles against his cheek, hopelessly in love.]
Y... You've done it, dearest. You've... Oh, I have you, I need more...
[An apt summary of Mettaton's feelings. He had him; he wanted more, always.]
no subject
As soon as the tip of his still-filling erection is aligned with the help of Emet-Selch's guidance, Mettaton lets go of his ass. But that's just to brace himself against his hip, fingers wrapped around his brand-new tattoo that connected them if not spiritually (and did it? it warranted testing, or patience), bodily. He could even feel it in its way, an electric current that came of two people bound together, as though these markings linked up the energy that coursed through their bodies most of all. He answers that nuzzle against his cheek with an answering nudge, metal paneling against warm, soft skin that gave pronouncedly against him. He would salivate if he could, he knew... There's something about this tender figure that has him starving, nearly envious for its softness but similarly pleased at just experiencing it.
Even though he was still filling, god was he erect, firm already. But still filling indeed, and he could just feel that push of pressure swim deep in his body, an agonizing ache that he'd agree felt torturous, as soon as Emet-Selch pumps his length, from base to tip. And from there, Mettaton jerks and shudders to feel Emet-Selch knead him against his entrance, trying his very best to keep his hips from stuffing his length inside. He babbles, fingers twitching against skin.]
You're, y-you're, [It's static. Even his voice is impacted, skipping slightly. He may have his very own voice, none of it regulated by any robotic device, but the body itself is the interference it needs to sound like a skipping record.] Give me, give me--!
[He doesn't realize what he's saying, how positively greedy he sounds. But despite his words MTT is mostly polite, his hips restrained, thighs taut with inertia and desire restricted to his heart, giving Emet-Selch time and space to determine the pace that his body should receive a thick intrusion. If Emet-Selch had the good sense for it, why, it could've even been a smooth insertion mostly painless, he's being so good.
But of course, neither of them are anything less than frantic and overheated. The sound of Emet-Selch's voice is music, and Mettaton nuzzles him hard as the Ascian sits himself, skillfully relaxing just enough to take the bulbous swell of his tip until he's fitted over his glans completely. Mettaton's back arches, his breath, his voice, lost.]
I...! Ohhhhhh, yeees, H... Hades!!
[Euphoric, Mettaton idly kneads at his hip, where his other hand braces the top of Emet-Selch's back, cuddling him close to his body. Trembling still, he only shimmies his hips from side-to-side, testing the tension around his tip and shifting in ecstasy. The small nudge to his face is met with a responding nudge.
Yes... somehow, Mettaton could feel the physical sensation Emet-Selch endured. Not quite as though it were his own... but it was there, the edges of pain and pleasure twisted together in some kind of harmony. It doesn't alarm him for any reason: Emet-Selch could handle this, for one. But he knew similarly that this was required of them. They need this contact, this depth, and at any cost.
(That they might be able to feel each other through the magic of this tattoo doesn't exactly settle in, in any coherent way. He felt some of Emet-Selch's experience, but not overmuch; it felt normal, if anything.)
Utter heat envelopes his tip. He needed more of it, and he grips his hip, tension in his wrist to slam the smaller man down on his lap. Of course he doesn't listen to these baser instincts, too in love with the smaller man to move him if he knew it meant hurting him, guaranteed. Instead, Mettaton continues to slowly gyrate his hips, a circular working of slick, hot muscle. He smiles against his cheek, hopelessly in love.]
Y... You've done it, dearest. You've... Oh, I have you, I need more...
[An apt summary of Mettaton's feelings. He had him; he wanted more, always.]