[It's all beautifully according to plan, for all that Mettaton possesses the mental faculties for "planning." Emet-Selch would always do for him what he wants, and if he was going to be contrary about it, it was part of the show, all of it to the greater effect of enticing them both into further maddening arousal.
But the taste of him is to die for. Mettaton sighs into the bite of his shoulder, once more wondering to himself how he could ever think to go long without the taste of him on this tongue or painting his lips. He's his, after all, above all others; it only follows that the fluid in his body is for him to enjoy, every square inch of his skin for him to revel in, and his soul... he wants that, too. All he feels of their Bond is the sudden spike of intensity to match his own as his own sort of warning of his lover's reaction, and it compounds upon his own insanity.
An insanity that is met with a cry. Impulsively he rocks his hips some more, thinking only of how his Bonded would give him his body if he was going to take it. The next beats of their connection share that pain as his lover braces himself, but it also breaks to an overwhelming submission to him. Mettaton's thrilled, feeling Emet-Selch's attention completely fixed upon him. Infuriating fingers - the ones he asked to watch stroke Emet-Selch, yes, but the ones he wanted to merely decorate a desire for Mettaton - are so swiftly removed in a bid for stability on his Bondmate's part, when Mettaton knows that the only stable thing he'll be given is his length. His ire lessens immediately for his lover who prioritizes him with abundant clarity, who would call out his name on a voice worn down by lust, love, and indulgence of and for him.
But his fervor does not lessen, and the robot nearly pants as he drools against the purchase he has upon Emet-Selch's shoulder, made of flesh and teeth. To make everything that much more enticing, the other man's hips jerk into him, the sound of his breathing as harsh as his cry, clearly lusting and equally maddened. The idol groans; his free hand stabilizes his length at the base of him, Emet-Selch so freshly vacated that mounting the very tip inside of him ends up being no trial at all.
Except for the fact that he's tensing, but it doesn't deter the Puca. Mettaton's body tightens as he presses the head of his cock to his lover's slicked entrance, and it's with little fight that their slick bodies are made to fit together, as they've done so many times before. Emet-Selch's made to give way around the head of his cock, and he squeezes so divinely around the corona, the end of his shaft. Mettaton groans again, his ears springing upright as he manages to get this sort of hold on his lover. Finally! Excitement overwhelms him.
Properly recognized, properly desired. Fed the blood of his Bonded Witch, given what he demands. Mettaton's on the fast track to coming down from that unmitigated fury. But for the moment, he presses forward his hips: as Emet-Selch felt that moments spent unfilled were instants too long, Mettaton feels likewise, and having his cock exposed to the air and not to the heat of his lover's body is a slight against him. A firm, steady thrust pushes gradually his cock inside of Emet-Selch, the sloping tip of the glans making way for the curving shaft of him a he presses deeper, deeper... So deep, in fact, that Mettaton finds himself blinded with his delight in claiming Emet-Selch.
Another moan has Mettaton thrusting his cock ever deeper inside of his lover, lubricant offering plenty of glide. He doesn't stop until he feels Emet-Selch perfectly pinioned between teeth and cock before Mettaton begins to thrust, desperate to feel the hot friction of their bodies entwined. Sharp jerks of his hips draw his cock out, only to shove it back in; a consistent, feverish rhythm of desire and claim, the want to have the Ascian for himself and the willpower to make it so, as far as he could reach. He wants him in body and soul, and he'll take him as harshly or as gradually as necessary to express that claim.
Searing pleasure overwhelms him, the ache in his cock soothed by the squeezing, heated pressure of his lover's body, stroking over his whole length absolutely. He moans again, and again, incapable of stopping now that he's had a taste both of blood and of sex, his thrusts quick and deepening with each in his burgeoning satisfaction. He can't fully claim Emet-Selch until he can feel him squeezing the root of his cock, and it's clear with each pound, the robot's aiming to sink as deeply into him as his body will allow. Having his teeth lodged in his flesh is no big deal: his ability to speak at all is replaced by primal need, the urge to dominate and fuck Emet-Selch overwhelming, his body his vice and the only soothing of his addiction the way he can pound into him. He wants to hear his lover's worn voice, wants to feel his body squeeze and hold his cock; he wants to push his length so deep that Emet-Selch can't think of anything but his erection and their immense pleasure; he wants to ejaculate deep inside of his Bonded and, in this maddened state, he feels that marking him multiple times over is the only thing that would do. If he's going to be obstinate, his punishment for it ought to be pleasure and claim so great that he'll only ever be enticed by Mettaton, his body and his sex impossible to defy.
And soothed though he's so quickly become, Mettaton is still leaning feral: he still growls, and still sucks at any excess blood that drips from his Bonded's shoulder. Even so, some of it manages to trickle past his lips, running over the slope of Emet-Selch's shoulder. But Emet-Selch's caught under weight, under claws, and between teeth and a heavy cock. Struggling any which way would land him yanking at teeth or impaling himself more firmly against cock. This is a thought to deepen Mettaton's stroke, another heady, pleasurable moan erupting from his throat as he drags the glans against his lover with deep, curved thrusts, a pride swelling in him at his subjugation, at his size, at this display of affection and dominance both, and his thrusts take on an energy as if showing off his cock and the drag of it. His ears poise themselves high and likewise confident, pleased in having rendered his Bonded so receptive.]
no subject
But the taste of him is to die for. Mettaton sighs into the bite of his shoulder, once more wondering to himself how he could ever think to go long without the taste of him on this tongue or painting his lips. He's his, after all, above all others; it only follows that the fluid in his body is for him to enjoy, every square inch of his skin for him to revel in, and his soul... he wants that, too. All he feels of their Bond is the sudden spike of intensity to match his own as his own sort of warning of his lover's reaction, and it compounds upon his own insanity.
An insanity that is met with a cry. Impulsively he rocks his hips some more, thinking only of how his Bonded would give him his body if he was going to take it. The next beats of their connection share that pain as his lover braces himself, but it also breaks to an overwhelming submission to him. Mettaton's thrilled, feeling Emet-Selch's attention completely fixed upon him. Infuriating fingers - the ones he asked to watch stroke Emet-Selch, yes, but the ones he wanted to merely decorate a desire for Mettaton - are so swiftly removed in a bid for stability on his Bondmate's part, when Mettaton knows that the only stable thing he'll be given is his length. His ire lessens immediately for his lover who prioritizes him with abundant clarity, who would call out his name on a voice worn down by lust, love, and indulgence of and for him.
But his fervor does not lessen, and the robot nearly pants as he drools against the purchase he has upon Emet-Selch's shoulder, made of flesh and teeth. To make everything that much more enticing, the other man's hips jerk into him, the sound of his breathing as harsh as his cry, clearly lusting and equally maddened. The idol groans; his free hand stabilizes his length at the base of him, Emet-Selch so freshly vacated that mounting the very tip inside of him ends up being no trial at all.
Except for the fact that he's tensing, but it doesn't deter the Puca. Mettaton's body tightens as he presses the head of his cock to his lover's slicked entrance, and it's with little fight that their slick bodies are made to fit together, as they've done so many times before. Emet-Selch's made to give way around the head of his cock, and he squeezes so divinely around the corona, the end of his shaft. Mettaton groans again, his ears springing upright as he manages to get this sort of hold on his lover. Finally! Excitement overwhelms him.
Properly recognized, properly desired. Fed the blood of his Bonded Witch, given what he demands. Mettaton's on the fast track to coming down from that unmitigated fury. But for the moment, he presses forward his hips: as Emet-Selch felt that moments spent unfilled were instants too long, Mettaton feels likewise, and having his cock exposed to the air and not to the heat of his lover's body is a slight against him. A firm, steady thrust pushes gradually his cock inside of Emet-Selch, the sloping tip of the glans making way for the curving shaft of him a he presses deeper, deeper... So deep, in fact, that Mettaton finds himself blinded with his delight in claiming Emet-Selch.
Another moan has Mettaton thrusting his cock ever deeper inside of his lover, lubricant offering plenty of glide. He doesn't stop until he feels Emet-Selch perfectly pinioned between teeth and cock before Mettaton begins to thrust, desperate to feel the hot friction of their bodies entwined. Sharp jerks of his hips draw his cock out, only to shove it back in; a consistent, feverish rhythm of desire and claim, the want to have the Ascian for himself and the willpower to make it so, as far as he could reach. He wants him in body and soul, and he'll take him as harshly or as gradually as necessary to express that claim.
Searing pleasure overwhelms him, the ache in his cock soothed by the squeezing, heated pressure of his lover's body, stroking over his whole length absolutely. He moans again, and again, incapable of stopping now that he's had a taste both of blood and of sex, his thrusts quick and deepening with each in his burgeoning satisfaction. He can't fully claim Emet-Selch until he can feel him squeezing the root of his cock, and it's clear with each pound, the robot's aiming to sink as deeply into him as his body will allow. Having his teeth lodged in his flesh is no big deal: his ability to speak at all is replaced by primal need, the urge to dominate and fuck Emet-Selch overwhelming, his body his vice and the only soothing of his addiction the way he can pound into him. He wants to hear his lover's worn voice, wants to feel his body squeeze and hold his cock; he wants to push his length so deep that Emet-Selch can't think of anything but his erection and their immense pleasure; he wants to ejaculate deep inside of his Bonded and, in this maddened state, he feels that marking him multiple times over is the only thing that would do. If he's going to be obstinate, his punishment for it ought to be pleasure and claim so great that he'll only ever be enticed by Mettaton, his body and his sex impossible to defy.
And soothed though he's so quickly become, Mettaton is still leaning feral: he still growls, and still sucks at any excess blood that drips from his Bonded's shoulder. Even so, some of it manages to trickle past his lips, running over the slope of Emet-Selch's shoulder. But Emet-Selch's caught under weight, under claws, and between teeth and a heavy cock. Struggling any which way would land him yanking at teeth or impaling himself more firmly against cock. This is a thought to deepen Mettaton's stroke, another heady, pleasurable moan erupting from his throat as he drags the glans against his lover with deep, curved thrusts, a pride swelling in him at his subjugation, at his size, at this display of affection and dominance both, and his thrusts take on an energy as if showing off his cock and the drag of it. His ears poise themselves high and likewise confident, pleased in having rendered his Bonded so receptive.]