[It's a rush. Emet-Selch's pure enjoyment of Mettaton's dominance, paired with Mettaton's pleasure in his submission, is enough to pull a cry from Mettaton as well. They're so available to one another that Mettaton may have wondered what it was like, being without their signatures so woven together, if he had much ability to contemplate things beyond what was happening just beneath his body. As it happens, he doesn't have much room for that: he has only room for his cock and each thrust, each drag of his length along Emet-Selch's body eliciting a syllable of pleasure from the robot. The addition of blood has soothed him well into relief, sex and blood nearly enough to calm him completely into a switch of ferality — but it's not yet enough, even with the sound of his lover's sheer enjoyment.
He could listen to Emet-Selch's cries forever, raspy or not. They'd be enough to arouse him alone, even if he were somehow capable of separating them from the feeling of his cock being squeezed — for what would his lover be moaning about if it didn't involve his own pleasure? They're connected, their eroticism an effort combined and inseparable. And he couldn't possibly dream of separating them from his body language, could he? Emet-Selch curves his body into his cock, shifting so prominently the length he holds within his body and aiding in how deep this next thrust pushes. Harsh and firm, he can feel the sensitive ridge of his cock dragging along Emet-Selch delectably, enough that he's sure Emet-Selch can only adores it. Mettaton can't help it when he collapses face-down into Emet-Selch's shoulder, moaning against bloodied skin at the sensation of his arching back, of his overwhelming heat, of Emet-Selch's softness, his form so receptive to Mettaton's. Truly, everything about him ought to give itself over to being inundated by the robotic idol, he thought: Mettaton loves him, and wants him completely.
But what really sets Mettaton's ferality from one of righteous fury into one of indelible ecstasy is the sound of his lover's voice in words he can barely speak: his desire for him. More of him, more than anyone else. Mettaton splits into a wide smile and a sprightly laugh pleased and swinging into complete adoration for the Ascian's attempts at words. But his manner remains blazing hot and his hips pound into him with a firmness that won't cease, a rhythm he couldn't bear to stop when it feels so good. He smears his lips against bloodied skin and sucks kisses into his shoulder, cleaning him of blood that keeps leaking — a reprieve by way of affection. But the slight nip of teeth suggests a promise to continue biting him — Mettaton hasn't had enough of his lover's blood.
He kisses up his neck, sucking and heated and each nearly blossoming into a full-fledged bite. All the while, his tempo never breaks, his pleasure never yields. Mettaton moans close to his ear when he tries to speak.]
More of me... No. Y... You'll take all of me.
[A precursor to a series of deeper, tighter thrusts, ones that have Mettaton crying out in pleasure as he sinks the rest of his length inside of his lover. Slowly, surely, the head of his cock only presses deeper, Emet-Selch made to ride down to the base of his cock, where his ass sits flush to Mettaton's hips. Their bodies collide with each thrust, Mettaton so deep that the whole of his crotch is against Emet-Selchs' body: his entire cock swallowed by his body, hot and thick, the presence of his balls settling between Emet-Selch's too-spread legs. Mettaton groans deep in his throat at the knowledge of this depth and still somewhat, just to nestle his place deeply into his lover, to let him know he's his with the nuzzling of his cheek against his neck.
And with Mettaton's only free hand he grips down on Emet-Selch's remaining wrist, pinning him down fully. Emet-Selch wouldn't try to escape, but he dares him to try: he'd fail every time, and even if he somehow got away, Mettaton makes it clear that this isn't something he'd ever, ever give up on. He slips back down to his shoulder and collects a mouthful of it to suck a bruise into, right next to his bite. It's a taste and sensation intense enough to have him growling into skin again, hips resuming their rhythmic pounding.
How deep, how close they are. Mettaton marvels at the sensation of Emet-Selch's body tightening rhythmically around his cock, forced to defer to the force of his unyielding form. His cock, hard and thick and heavy, would no doubt make Emet-Selch's softer figure give way to him — and why give him a reason to want to if he could pleasure him with curved, deliberate thrusts intended to please his lover, filling him with the head of him, shoving the smooth, cushioned glans against his body and allowing his form to squeeze and massage his length? He is unbelievably hard, dizzyingly so (though he wonders if that's a feeling he's gaining from his lover, or if he's imagining it), his erection pounding with need and pressure and the desire to fuck his lover until he was crying out with pleasure, until he was full of come and made sticky and messy by his own ejaculation. It would understandably be hard to escape from under his weight and harder to want to, and when he bites down upon him and pins him the sinking of teeth and of cock, there's nowhere to go. Emet-Selch is his, and he finds himself growling anew at the thought.
As soon as he sucks an angry red bruise into his shoulder, Mettaton arouses himself with thoughts of words, pounding ever harder into his lover's body with a possession as he licks up his neck.]
You're... Hmm, not full enough to my standard. You... need more of me. More- more than three... ah...
[Mettaton's voice is slurred and idle enough to sound like musings to himself, but he pants, intoxicated by lust and power over his Bonded. He thinks so vividly upon forcing Emet-Selch's head against a wall, forcing him against his crotch, capturing him between his legs, then imagines this next filling: a filling not of his throat, but of his ass, deep in his body. And Mettaton makes the critical mistake of remembering the sight of Emet-Selch dripping with come, something that has him biting down against his shoulder with another groan.
He wants Emet-Selch to exhibit that use. He doesn't think he'll ever know the feeling of not being aroused again, he feels so achingly, painfully turned on. He's positive Emet-Selch can feel the depths of his need to fill him, his hunger for his body, his absolute love of him. His protectiveness, his adoration, his comfort and his simple fondness of him. Fucking Emet-Selch is a web of intense feelings all around, even when he channels it all into the relentless stuffing of his Bonded, when he fixates on filling him so full of his shaft, the glans the only part of him that manages to feel thicker than that constant, filling presence.]
no subject
He could listen to Emet-Selch's cries forever, raspy or not. They'd be enough to arouse him alone, even if he were somehow capable of separating them from the feeling of his cock being squeezed — for what would his lover be moaning about if it didn't involve his own pleasure? They're connected, their eroticism an effort combined and inseparable. And he couldn't possibly dream of separating them from his body language, could he? Emet-Selch curves his body into his cock, shifting so prominently the length he holds within his body and aiding in how deep this next thrust pushes. Harsh and firm, he can feel the sensitive ridge of his cock dragging along Emet-Selch delectably, enough that he's sure Emet-Selch can only adores it. Mettaton can't help it when he collapses face-down into Emet-Selch's shoulder, moaning against bloodied skin at the sensation of his arching back, of his overwhelming heat, of Emet-Selch's softness, his form so receptive to Mettaton's. Truly, everything about him ought to give itself over to being inundated by the robotic idol, he thought: Mettaton loves him, and wants him completely.
But what really sets Mettaton's ferality from one of righteous fury into one of indelible ecstasy is the sound of his lover's voice in words he can barely speak: his desire for him. More of him, more than anyone else. Mettaton splits into a wide smile and a sprightly laugh pleased and swinging into complete adoration for the Ascian's attempts at words. But his manner remains blazing hot and his hips pound into him with a firmness that won't cease, a rhythm he couldn't bear to stop when it feels so good. He smears his lips against bloodied skin and sucks kisses into his shoulder, cleaning him of blood that keeps leaking — a reprieve by way of affection. But the slight nip of teeth suggests a promise to continue biting him — Mettaton hasn't had enough of his lover's blood.
He kisses up his neck, sucking and heated and each nearly blossoming into a full-fledged bite. All the while, his tempo never breaks, his pleasure never yields. Mettaton moans close to his ear when he tries to speak.]
More of me... No. Y... You'll take all of me.
[A precursor to a series of deeper, tighter thrusts, ones that have Mettaton crying out in pleasure as he sinks the rest of his length inside of his lover. Slowly, surely, the head of his cock only presses deeper, Emet-Selch made to ride down to the base of his cock, where his ass sits flush to Mettaton's hips. Their bodies collide with each thrust, Mettaton so deep that the whole of his crotch is against Emet-Selchs' body: his entire cock swallowed by his body, hot and thick, the presence of his balls settling between Emet-Selch's too-spread legs. Mettaton groans deep in his throat at the knowledge of this depth and still somewhat, just to nestle his place deeply into his lover, to let him know he's his with the nuzzling of his cheek against his neck.
And with Mettaton's only free hand he grips down on Emet-Selch's remaining wrist, pinning him down fully. Emet-Selch wouldn't try to escape, but he dares him to try: he'd fail every time, and even if he somehow got away, Mettaton makes it clear that this isn't something he'd ever, ever give up on. He slips back down to his shoulder and collects a mouthful of it to suck a bruise into, right next to his bite. It's a taste and sensation intense enough to have him growling into skin again, hips resuming their rhythmic pounding.
How deep, how close they are. Mettaton marvels at the sensation of Emet-Selch's body tightening rhythmically around his cock, forced to defer to the force of his unyielding form. His cock, hard and thick and heavy, would no doubt make Emet-Selch's softer figure give way to him — and why give him a reason to want to if he could pleasure him with curved, deliberate thrusts intended to please his lover, filling him with the head of him, shoving the smooth, cushioned glans against his body and allowing his form to squeeze and massage his length? He is unbelievably hard, dizzyingly so (though he wonders if that's a feeling he's gaining from his lover, or if he's imagining it), his erection pounding with need and pressure and the desire to fuck his lover until he was crying out with pleasure, until he was full of come and made sticky and messy by his own ejaculation. It would understandably be hard to escape from under his weight and harder to want to, and when he bites down upon him and pins him the sinking of teeth and of cock, there's nowhere to go. Emet-Selch is his, and he finds himself growling anew at the thought.
As soon as he sucks an angry red bruise into his shoulder, Mettaton arouses himself with thoughts of words, pounding ever harder into his lover's body with a possession as he licks up his neck.]
You're... Hmm, not full enough to my standard. You... need more of me. More- more than three... ah...
[Mettaton's voice is slurred and idle enough to sound like musings to himself, but he pants, intoxicated by lust and power over his Bonded. He thinks so vividly upon forcing Emet-Selch's head against a wall, forcing him against his crotch, capturing him between his legs, then imagines this next filling: a filling not of his throat, but of his ass, deep in his body. And Mettaton makes the critical mistake of remembering the sight of Emet-Selch dripping with come, something that has him biting down against his shoulder with another groan.
He wants Emet-Selch to exhibit that use. He doesn't think he'll ever know the feeling of not being aroused again, he feels so achingly, painfully turned on. He's positive Emet-Selch can feel the depths of his need to fill him, his hunger for his body, his absolute love of him. His protectiveness, his adoration, his comfort and his simple fondness of him. Fucking Emet-Selch is a web of intense feelings all around, even when he channels it all into the relentless stuffing of his Bonded, when he fixates on filling him so full of his shaft, the glans the only part of him that manages to feel thicker than that constant, filling presence.]