[Is he. Why even ask? Of course he is. Of course Emet-Selch is fantasizing about replacing slender digits with the girth of his arousal, of course he wants to feel Mettaton indulging in his body, of course he wants to feel all of the heat the robot could bring him. He wants it as much as Mettaton does. And the Monster knows this, knows him, knows of their passionate love for one another. Emet-Selch would take him to satisfy his pleasure just as readily as he'd stimulate him for his own use.
His voice is a strained hiss. It's the imitation of slipping control at best, but a poor one.]
It's. Not. Me.
[The idol remembers what he suggested, that Emet-Selch should add more fingers to compare, and it frustrates him that Emet-Selch would think it ever could. It couldn't compare because there's no way it would be him, and Emet-Selch knows that! It would never compare to his viciousness, it would never be his manner, and it would never stroke him as deeply as the glans of his erection would, just the way they both like it. Mettaton grinds his teeth and presses his cock with firm insistence against his entrance, tip nestled against fingers — only to find that he's moments too late when his lover slips a third digit inside of himself. Mettaton stammers on the sound of a growl, which ends up sounding a bit more like a whine for it.
And as soon as that finger plunges deep, as soon as Mettaton can tell that Emet-Selch's penetrated himself down to the first knuckle, his lover arches into them. Emet-Selch moans for them, paying attention to fingers in a dare to see if it would compare to the rigid, hot length he could be enjoying. This would have been enough, Mettaton thought, to make a ruling, but his lover continues to press back into his hand (and thus, Mettaton's cock, but he's not the one filling him and therefore he's the afterthought). And not only that, he continues to thrust into himself with them, as if he hasn't yet had enough. Emet-Selch makes noises of pleasure at the fit of this intrusion, and were Mettaton in a more steady state of mind, he may have imagined that his lover prefers this thicker filling of himself.
Naturally, if thicker was better, it would mean that his cock would be easily preferred. He could enjoy this sign and tease Emet-Selch with words about how how tight he could fit, how full he'd feel. But the Puca, maddened by conceit and lunacy, is possessive and slighted by this show of contentment when there's a perfectly good cock for Emet-Selch to arch into instead. He can't stand it: his lover is angering him terribly.
A whine turns back into a growl as Mettaton slips down to the Ascian's right shoulder, letting his jaw snap shut. Teeth slip through flesh in a heavy, hearty bite, full of his agitation and fury. Emet-Selch should be jumping at the opportunity to replace fingers with his slick, hot erection, not fucking himself on fingers, not when Mettaton's so accessible. Even thinking upon it has him tearing at his shoulder, a short jerk of his neck as he moans into the taste of blood - minor compensation for this insufferable slight to his ego.
There's no room for speech as liquid crimson fills his mouth and coats his tongue, and Mettaton doesn't need words to convey his feelings when his hips start moving, demanding the space his fingers occupy. The head of his cock only manages to slip futilely against fingers and against his ass, given its current fullness, and this serves to frustrate the robot further. He shifts his weight so that he can pin down his lover's remaining hand under sharp, clawed fingers, his lips peeling back in his aggression, even as he lets his teeth remain solidly in his Bonded's flesh. He was the one who told him to fuck himself on his fingers, but Mettaton doesn't feel like he's being given enough attention otherwise to justify this. Emet-Selch should be describing to him his Mettaton-related fantasies, should be overtly desiring his cock, should be ready to displace his hand with Mettaton at the most inadvisable moment, even to his detriment. Obviously.
He loves him horribly, enough to tear him apart in a moment where he wants him like none other. This would get his attention, this would make him recoil, would displace those fingers and give him an opening to slip inside, and there, he'd make Emet-Selch remember to laud him with all of the glory and compliments he should be given by compulsion. Mettaton moans more heavily at the thought, harsh enough to turn to a growl in the depths of his throat as he curls fingers into his arm, pressing nails into him. He wants his lover's whole attention on him, and he wants to hear him crave his body. Mettaton's ears flatten in his outrage.]
no subject
His voice is a strained hiss. It's the imitation of slipping control at best, but a poor one.]
It's. Not. Me.
[The idol remembers what he suggested, that Emet-Selch should add more fingers to compare, and it frustrates him that Emet-Selch would think it ever could. It couldn't compare because there's no way it would be him, and Emet-Selch knows that! It would never compare to his viciousness, it would never be his manner, and it would never stroke him as deeply as the glans of his erection would, just the way they both like it. Mettaton grinds his teeth and presses his cock with firm insistence against his entrance, tip nestled against fingers — only to find that he's moments too late when his lover slips a third digit inside of himself. Mettaton stammers on the sound of a growl, which ends up sounding a bit more like a whine for it.
And as soon as that finger plunges deep, as soon as Mettaton can tell that Emet-Selch's penetrated himself down to the first knuckle, his lover arches into them. Emet-Selch moans for them, paying attention to fingers in a dare to see if it would compare to the rigid, hot length he could be enjoying. This would have been enough, Mettaton thought, to make a ruling, but his lover continues to press back into his hand (and thus, Mettaton's cock, but he's not the one filling him and therefore he's the afterthought). And not only that, he continues to thrust into himself with them, as if he hasn't yet had enough. Emet-Selch makes noises of pleasure at the fit of this intrusion, and were Mettaton in a more steady state of mind, he may have imagined that his lover prefers this thicker filling of himself.
Naturally, if thicker was better, it would mean that his cock would be easily preferred. He could enjoy this sign and tease Emet-Selch with words about how how tight he could fit, how full he'd feel. But the Puca, maddened by conceit and lunacy, is possessive and slighted by this show of contentment when there's a perfectly good cock for Emet-Selch to arch into instead. He can't stand it: his lover is angering him terribly.
A whine turns back into a growl as Mettaton slips down to the Ascian's right shoulder, letting his jaw snap shut. Teeth slip through flesh in a heavy, hearty bite, full of his agitation and fury. Emet-Selch should be jumping at the opportunity to replace fingers with his slick, hot erection, not fucking himself on fingers, not when Mettaton's so accessible. Even thinking upon it has him tearing at his shoulder, a short jerk of his neck as he moans into the taste of blood - minor compensation for this insufferable slight to his ego.
There's no room for speech as liquid crimson fills his mouth and coats his tongue, and Mettaton doesn't need words to convey his feelings when his hips start moving, demanding the space his fingers occupy. The head of his cock only manages to slip futilely against fingers and against his ass, given its current fullness, and this serves to frustrate the robot further. He shifts his weight so that he can pin down his lover's remaining hand under sharp, clawed fingers, his lips peeling back in his aggression, even as he lets his teeth remain solidly in his Bonded's flesh. He was the one who told him to fuck himself on his fingers, but Mettaton doesn't feel like he's being given enough attention otherwise to justify this. Emet-Selch should be describing to him his Mettaton-related fantasies, should be overtly desiring his cock, should be ready to displace his hand with Mettaton at the most inadvisable moment, even to his detriment. Obviously.
He loves him horribly, enough to tear him apart in a moment where he wants him like none other. This would get his attention, this would make him recoil, would displace those fingers and give him an opening to slip inside, and there, he'd make Emet-Selch remember to laud him with all of the glory and compliments he should be given by compulsion. Mettaton moans more heavily at the thought, harsh enough to turn to a growl in the depths of his throat as he curls fingers into his arm, pressing nails into him. He wants his lover's whole attention on him, and he wants to hear him crave his body. Mettaton's ears flatten in his outrage.]