[Flush to his neck, Mettaton grins wildly, pressing the flat of his teeth against his skin in a pleased snarl. (Could a snarl sound that way? Mettaton makes it happen.) Emet-Selch's movement is only to test his grip and not with any real intent to escape, but perhaps that's what makes it all the more delectable a gesture. A writhing to ensure he's been caught by the Puca before he can submit fully, a gesture enough to incite the Monster into snapping back down upon his shoulder — his other shoulder this time, and now with less of the tearing, jerking action he'd pulled on Emet-Selch before. Incisors and canines cut through flesh with ease, sinking through flesh in a clean bite that Mettaton groans into once more, settling himself firmly in place. His teeth can serve as just as much a grip as hands, and Mettaton's one to employ the full use of his body.
Because when Emet-Selch's finished testing his grip, he does submit. He bends to their carnal need, knowing that his fate is to be fucked, to be stroked by a heavy cock, to be pounded into rhythmically until he can't take it any longer. And though Mettaton occasionally finds himself staring down climax as though it's ready to hit him at any moment, he holds himself back for his lover's sake, wanting to stroke him and please him and bring them both to greater heights of wanting. Emet-Selch's movement is rendered into the curve of his back, pressing into Mettaton's hips for lack of anything else he can do but please them both.
Even though he's not seeing it with his eyes, it's a beautiful sight. Mettaton only wishes he had the ability to see them here together like this, Emet-Selch curving into his cock as he buries himself inside of his body, Emet-Selch made to stretch around his girth and to submit to the weight and hold of his form. The idol fancies himself a presence undeniable, and to feel these kinds of acknowledgements manages to stroke his ego some more: Emet-Selch giving in, arching into his thrusts, crying out in delight.
They both relished their sex, found it a means to express the depth and intensity of their love for each other. Mettaton thinks about that love as he stuffs his cock down to the base, sucking on his bite to swallow down pooling blood with a hearty shudder. His tongue prods skin and all he can smell is them together, topped off with the cherry red of blood... It's delectable, undeniable, desirable to his most basest pleasure and sense.
His whole body goes taut, pressing his lover's wrists more firmly into the bed as he curls into the Ascian with a renewed force, solidly mounting him. Fucking him. Taking him and claiming him, making sure that he knows he belongs to him. Each rock of his hips forces Emet-Selch's body into teeth, a pounding where he's immobilized by weight, by teeth, and by claws, pinned and preyed upon: a rough, ferocious claim, each curve of his body nestling the head of his cock deep in preparation for climax.
All the robot can think about anymore is the compatibility of them. They please each other, incite each other, swing from mood to mood and facilitate each other's intensity. They hold each other and love each other, and equally, that tension of testiness and conceit agitates them both. In moments like this, they fall into rhythm so easily, fulfilling each other's needs that they didn't know they had: if Emet-Selch takes solace in feeling Mettaton's endless libido and succumbing to the comfort of being so claimed with no escape, Mettaton takes deep satisfaction in the unfettered contact with his lover, the ache and the pain and the full-bodied expression of their selves they could give each other. He loves the feeling and the connection, the intensity of pleasure and of emotions.
His pounding is made up of strokes that only pull out so far, reluctant to withdraw his cock much at all, and Emet-Selch's held so firmly in place between teeth and cock that there's no way he can't feel the full brunt of his use. The squeeze of his body is rapturous, the pleasure immense, the animalistic way he can mount him and fuck him and stroke his cock on his body a delight, and each of Mettaton's thrusts are accompanied by a short, sweet moan, soft and barely escaping his throat. He radiates ecstasy, each push into his Bonded enough to rock them against the bed, even while he holds his lover firmly against his hips.]
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Because when Emet-Selch's finished testing his grip, he does submit. He bends to their carnal need, knowing that his fate is to be fucked, to be stroked by a heavy cock, to be pounded into rhythmically until he can't take it any longer. And though Mettaton occasionally finds himself staring down climax as though it's ready to hit him at any moment, he holds himself back for his lover's sake, wanting to stroke him and please him and bring them both to greater heights of wanting. Emet-Selch's movement is rendered into the curve of his back, pressing into Mettaton's hips for lack of anything else he can do but please them both.
Even though he's not seeing it with his eyes, it's a beautiful sight. Mettaton only wishes he had the ability to see them here together like this, Emet-Selch curving into his cock as he buries himself inside of his body, Emet-Selch made to stretch around his girth and to submit to the weight and hold of his form. The idol fancies himself a presence undeniable, and to feel these kinds of acknowledgements manages to stroke his ego some more: Emet-Selch giving in, arching into his thrusts, crying out in delight.
They both relished their sex, found it a means to express the depth and intensity of their love for each other. Mettaton thinks about that love as he stuffs his cock down to the base, sucking on his bite to swallow down pooling blood with a hearty shudder. His tongue prods skin and all he can smell is them together, topped off with the cherry red of blood... It's delectable, undeniable, desirable to his most basest pleasure and sense.
His whole body goes taut, pressing his lover's wrists more firmly into the bed as he curls into the Ascian with a renewed force, solidly mounting him. Fucking him. Taking him and claiming him, making sure that he knows he belongs to him. Each rock of his hips forces Emet-Selch's body into teeth, a pounding where he's immobilized by weight, by teeth, and by claws, pinned and preyed upon: a rough, ferocious claim, each curve of his body nestling the head of his cock deep in preparation for climax.
All the robot can think about anymore is the compatibility of them. They please each other, incite each other, swing from mood to mood and facilitate each other's intensity. They hold each other and love each other, and equally, that tension of testiness and conceit agitates them both. In moments like this, they fall into rhythm so easily, fulfilling each other's needs that they didn't know they had: if Emet-Selch takes solace in feeling Mettaton's endless libido and succumbing to the comfort of being so claimed with no escape, Mettaton takes deep satisfaction in the unfettered contact with his lover, the ache and the pain and the full-bodied expression of their selves they could give each other. He loves the feeling and the connection, the intensity of pleasure and of emotions.
His pounding is made up of strokes that only pull out so far, reluctant to withdraw his cock much at all, and Emet-Selch's held so firmly in place between teeth and cock that there's no way he can't feel the full brunt of his use. The squeeze of his body is rapturous, the pleasure immense, the animalistic way he can mount him and fuck him and stroke his cock on his body a delight, and each of Mettaton's thrusts are accompanied by a short, sweet moan, soft and barely escaping his throat. He radiates ecstasy, each push into his Bonded enough to rock them against the bed, even while he holds his lover firmly against his hips.]