[Even if he can't dig into skin or flesh, or into the give of muscles that Mettaton doesn't have, Emet-Selch's fingers latch onto fur. He pulls and clings at it for purchase, even as his arms tighten around the other man for whatever stability they can provide, as the rest of his body is continuously jolted by the meeting of their hips. And with every moment, there was the threat of losing even this suggestion of balance, of maintaining his position in his lap. As though if he offered even the barest hint of faltering, Mettaton would complete his pouncing upon his body, would rend him apart in his ravishing of him.
Though did it really count as a threat, when the Ascian loved every possible outcome? Just knowing Mettaton held control over not only the location of his body, but its condition, that he would decide how he would be used for him at any one moment, with Emet-Selch made to accommodate each demand, each whim, each desire- it was something of a rush. And in these moments, how could he do anything other than adapt to everything that he wanted- because he wanted the same thing after all, their pleasure was the same.
And he reveled in drawing it from him, in feeling how engorged and hot he was, something that could only lead to another proper coating of come, another load that he wanted nothing more than to contain, to have decorating the inside of his body, a heat that would linger and burn much like the rest of their passions. And Emet-Selch would squeeze and coax it all from him, but how could there ever be an end to it, when Mettaton felt so hard? Even after orgasm, he would still be stiff, he would still be aching for him surely- would still have a hard cock for him to wrap around, to stroke, to encourage to leave ever more of his release with him. Until his lover was empty, how could he ever be considered full of him?
He was being held in place and tirelessly fucked, thighs trembling, taut, all of his own movements dedicated to increasing the force Mettaton had available to him. Every time his ass met his Bondmate's body, each time he could feel himself tight around his girth, Mettaton's cock buried up to the root in him- it forced a breath from him, along with small things that would've been sounds had his throat not been so ravaged. And yet the puca was demanding words from him, to exalt him when his throat was so raw, and his thoughts were so scattered, pounded from him with each thick drag of his cock.
But yet he had to try, because he was told to, because he wanted to. Though his first attempts don't produce words at all, only sharper cries, and Emet-Selch bites down at Mettaton's neck in his own frustration, his body not doing what was expected of it. He has to stop himself from growling, because noises like that would only make the situation for his throat worse. Panting damply against him, the Ascian shudders, his hands grope through fur, and his sweaty, blood-streaked body arches into his cock, clinging tight to his lover's form.
Words. Verbal adoration.]
More-- more than, I--
[The rest is croaked off into noise, certainly, but it's too raspy to be terribly discernible as language. And without being understood, does it really qualify as praise?
Emet-Selch is aware that it's hardly sufficient, and for once his delay has little to do with his own contrariness, viewing the condition of his throat as a betrayal by his own body, spiting him for the sake of it, as though it had a rebellious streak separate from the Ascian's own. And not, just, having suffered getting a thick cock shoved into it repeatedly, rubbed and stretched and made to suffocate, followed by continued reckless use through various vocalizations. No, it was failing him out of some throat-based deliberation.
With effort, Emet-Selch attempts to not make any sounds at all, to limit the roughness of his breathing- anything to reduce the strain on his throat, to spare it briefly (so he can use it some more). But it does mean time spent not making the right praise-shaped noises in Mettaton's direction.]
no subject
Though did it really count as a threat, when the Ascian loved every possible outcome? Just knowing Mettaton held control over not only the location of his body, but its condition, that he would decide how he would be used for him at any one moment, with Emet-Selch made to accommodate each demand, each whim, each desire- it was something of a rush. And in these moments, how could he do anything other than adapt to everything that he wanted- because he wanted the same thing after all, their pleasure was the same.
And he reveled in drawing it from him, in feeling how engorged and hot he was, something that could only lead to another proper coating of come, another load that he wanted nothing more than to contain, to have decorating the inside of his body, a heat that would linger and burn much like the rest of their passions. And Emet-Selch would squeeze and coax it all from him, but how could there ever be an end to it, when Mettaton felt so hard? Even after orgasm, he would still be stiff, he would still be aching for him surely- would still have a hard cock for him to wrap around, to stroke, to encourage to leave ever more of his release with him. Until his lover was empty, how could he ever be considered full of him?
He was being held in place and tirelessly fucked, thighs trembling, taut, all of his own movements dedicated to increasing the force Mettaton had available to him. Every time his ass met his Bondmate's body, each time he could feel himself tight around his girth, Mettaton's cock buried up to the root in him- it forced a breath from him, along with small things that would've been sounds had his throat not been so ravaged. And yet the puca was demanding words from him, to exalt him when his throat was so raw, and his thoughts were so scattered, pounded from him with each thick drag of his cock.
But yet he had to try, because he was told to, because he wanted to. Though his first attempts don't produce words at all, only sharper cries, and Emet-Selch bites down at Mettaton's neck in his own frustration, his body not doing what was expected of it. He has to stop himself from growling, because noises like that would only make the situation for his throat worse. Panting damply against him, the Ascian shudders, his hands grope through fur, and his sweaty, blood-streaked body arches into his cock, clinging tight to his lover's form.
Words. Verbal adoration.]
More-- more than, I--
[The rest is croaked off into noise, certainly, but it's too raspy to be terribly discernible as language. And without being understood, does it really qualify as praise?
Emet-Selch is aware that it's hardly sufficient, and for once his delay has little to do with his own contrariness, viewing the condition of his throat as a betrayal by his own body, spiting him for the sake of it, as though it had a rebellious streak separate from the Ascian's own. And not, just, having suffered getting a thick cock shoved into it repeatedly, rubbed and stretched and made to suffocate, followed by continued reckless use through various vocalizations. No, it was failing him out of some throat-based deliberation.
With effort, Emet-Selch attempts to not make any sounds at all, to limit the roughness of his breathing- anything to reduce the strain on his throat, to spare it briefly (so he can use it some more). But it does mean time spent not making the right praise-shaped noises in Mettaton's direction.]