[The sound of the robot's voice in shades of righteous fury was far more provocative than it should've been, a tone that made it that much harder to not give into him (particularly when paired with all of his other wants, as this was another case when Emet-Selch was taunting himself as well as Mettaton). It was like when his Bonded commanded him to one movement or another- with this demand given through anger, through gesture, rather than strictly spoken- and how appealing he found that, for reasons he didn't care to examine particularly closely. He wanted to obey, to submit.
So there was the developed reflex to pull out, to be explicitly available to him, to wrap up in and bury himself in Mettaton's spite, even as Mettaton's erection buried itself in his body. And he shuddered with barely-restrained longing, something that's agitated by each brush and shove of the tip of the puca's cock against his hand, a persistent reminder of how hot and rigid he was, and how much better it would feel pushing inside him. More than any other aspect though, was how he wanted his lover to be overwhelmed and sated, to use his body to his satisfaction- he loved him, after all. In fulfilling him, he fulfilled himself; there was no greater pleasure than that.
And yet the Ascian was also aggressively stubborn, the worst of that coming through as he continues to withhold himself, even when Mettaton's impatience and dissatisfaction with him was ramping up with every instant, every thrust that he made, every sound that wasn't directed explicitly towards him. A renewed growl is Emet-Selch's greatest warning when that thread of control snaps- followed closely by the snapping of Mettaton's jaws, sinking teeth deep into his shoulder.
Pain blossomed, blinding, eclipsing all else for a time. He cries out, loud and sharp, without hearing it, and his body jerks and writhes underneath him- though there's no where for him to go, other than deeper into his lover's teeth. Clenching down around his hand in one moment, he pulls his fingers free in the next, without being entirely aware of it. But there was the need to brace himself somehow, against the pain and the heat and the pressure- that of both bite and application of fury. Pain dripped and flowed into Mettaton's mouth, taking the form of blood, and with it, not clarity as such, but a focus switching to a need to be fucked by him over all else. How could he even consider holding himself back, in the wake of such beautiful madness? There were no considerations to be made, no one else to think about other than him.
Emet-Selch's other hand was now captured and shoved down, claws digging into flesh, but that was as desirable as the tearing of his shoulder, the awareness that he was suddenly empty of anything (though he couldn't recall exactly when he'd withdrawn his fingers), which in itself was unacceptable, but for now only meant there was space for his lover's cock. Which was very acceptable. Freed of all other thoughts, it was impossible to think of even pretending to want anything else, to have even spared the patience for preparation; his lover's growling, his moans, carried the truth of it. Mettaton deserved his complete devotion, and there was no point in denying either of them that right.
His shoulder throbbed with his pulse (which meant that it never stopped throbbing), but his own arousal was undaunted, perhaps even inspired by it- by not only the pain itself, the wetness that flowed over skin, the suddenly stronger scent of blood, but that it was Mettaton providing it all. Reveling, even, in the concept of being torn apart by him; who else could love him more than this? Could spare him this delight, this insanity? And he would love him just as terribly in return.]
Mettaton--
[Is all he manages to say, though, strangled by pain and lust and forgetting to breathe, and harshened on top of that by previous use. But Emet-Selch can fit a lot of longing into a single cry, and his hips jerk back, as though Mettaton needed any further suggestion when it came to shoving his length inside of him. But any instant without his erection filling him, taking him, fucking him, was an instant too long.]
no subject
So there was the developed reflex to pull out, to be explicitly available to him, to wrap up in and bury himself in Mettaton's spite, even as Mettaton's erection buried itself in his body. And he shuddered with barely-restrained longing, something that's agitated by each brush and shove of the tip of the puca's cock against his hand, a persistent reminder of how hot and rigid he was, and how much better it would feel pushing inside him. More than any other aspect though, was how he wanted his lover to be overwhelmed and sated, to use his body to his satisfaction- he loved him, after all. In fulfilling him, he fulfilled himself; there was no greater pleasure than that.
And yet the Ascian was also aggressively stubborn, the worst of that coming through as he continues to withhold himself, even when Mettaton's impatience and dissatisfaction with him was ramping up with every instant, every thrust that he made, every sound that wasn't directed explicitly towards him. A renewed growl is Emet-Selch's greatest warning when that thread of control snaps- followed closely by the snapping of Mettaton's jaws, sinking teeth deep into his shoulder.
Pain blossomed, blinding, eclipsing all else for a time. He cries out, loud and sharp, without hearing it, and his body jerks and writhes underneath him- though there's no where for him to go, other than deeper into his lover's teeth. Clenching down around his hand in one moment, he pulls his fingers free in the next, without being entirely aware of it. But there was the need to brace himself somehow, against the pain and the heat and the pressure- that of both bite and application of fury. Pain dripped and flowed into Mettaton's mouth, taking the form of blood, and with it, not clarity as such, but a focus switching to a need to be fucked by him over all else. How could he even consider holding himself back, in the wake of such beautiful madness? There were no considerations to be made, no one else to think about other than him.
Emet-Selch's other hand was now captured and shoved down, claws digging into flesh, but that was as desirable as the tearing of his shoulder, the awareness that he was suddenly empty of anything (though he couldn't recall exactly when he'd withdrawn his fingers), which in itself was unacceptable, but for now only meant there was space for his lover's cock. Which was very acceptable. Freed of all other thoughts, it was impossible to think of even pretending to want anything else, to have even spared the patience for preparation; his lover's growling, his moans, carried the truth of it. Mettaton deserved his complete devotion, and there was no point in denying either of them that right.
His shoulder throbbed with his pulse (which meant that it never stopped throbbing), but his own arousal was undaunted, perhaps even inspired by it- by not only the pain itself, the wetness that flowed over skin, the suddenly stronger scent of blood, but that it was Mettaton providing it all. Reveling, even, in the concept of being torn apart by him; who else could love him more than this? Could spare him this delight, this insanity? And he would love him just as terribly in return.]
Mettaton--
[Is all he manages to say, though, strangled by pain and lust and forgetting to breathe, and harshened on top of that by previous use. But Emet-Selch can fit a lot of longing into a single cry, and his hips jerk back, as though Mettaton needed any further suggestion when it came to shoving his length inside of him. But any instant without his erection filling him, taking him, fucking him, was an instant too long.]