[It doesn't matter to Mettaton that Emet-Selch's failing voice is the product of their previous entanglements, that Emet-Selch's been rendered without a voice because he swallowed three loads worth of come and cock atop all of his moaning and crying out. Sounds of pleasure and the rub of a too-thick erection would certainly rob him of some of his vocal capabilities, sure. However, his ability to summon it will find him if he wishes to... to be spared, to be saved, to be treated to another side of the robot other than the one who is snappishly impatient. Yes: Emet-Selch will form words and create sounds to properly worship the robot worthy of being deified, after all. Mettaton's expectations for Emet-Selch are not only high, but rigid.
Because Mettaton deserves the praise. He deserves it for being so virile and lascivious, and he deserves it for being so capable of filling Emet-Selch up. He knows Emet-Selch craves being taken by him, would hop on his lap at the sight of a thick, hard cock, because it's Mettaton he wants to please and be pleased in turn. This is all aside from how much Emet-Selch covets him for his bearing, his beauty, his inherent grace and the scarcest hint of eye contact that can communicate volumes. His best traits are known to himself. Mettaton licks his lips at the thought of having Emet-Selch in any way he can dream, even while he's already rubbing himself off on the man he fantasizes about.
The sensation of teeth in his neck only serves to up not only his fever, but the ante. Mettaton sucks in air through teeth only to expel it as pure heat and a growl, patience growing that much thinner, fury swallowing his form and making his own jaw feel stiff. He leans forward some more, noticing that Emet-Selch's taken the proper course of action by depending wholly on his form for the balance, balance he's given only because he's worthy of it, and could lose such a right at the drop of a hat. The Ascian grips into his fur and slams his hips down against his lap, arching his back, and Mettaton's cry is decorated by a feral growl: ecstatic at the gesture, but remaining stormy in temper.
The Ascian's attempt comes. His voice fails. Mettaton waits for more, waits to hear more than the word more — a consolation rather than the cure to his righteous rage. Mettaton feels like he's on fire with need, and he gives into his more animalistic tendencies.
With something that sounds to be a cross between a whine and a growl, Mettaton shifts them down to the floor, firmly shoving Emet-Selch against the carpet. He's lifted by his knees, hips raised to Mettaton's hip level and his body made to curl up for Mettaton's extended use, rendered into a position granting perfect, unrestrained access.
Like this, with Emet-Sech pressed against the floor, Mettaton mounts him with all of his weight, with the whole of his length stuffed inside of his lover. Mettaton glares at him with his lips peeled back, his fury pure and worn over a smile.]
Tell me. You like this.
[That's undisputed, as far as Mettaton cares. But Emet-Selch ought to be saying it, telling Mettaton what he loves best about being ravished by him. His voice could fail afterwards, but not a moment sooner.
Like this, Mettaton begins a rhythmic, firm rocking of his hips. The robot forces Emet-Selch to wrap his legs around his hips even as he mounts him, pinned in place by the cock he has buried inside of him. With his arms freed, Mettaton grabs for Emet-Selch's wrists all over again and pins him back, forces him back against the floor and under Mettaton's grip and weight. But he can't take it, he can't wait a moment longer to rub his shaft against Emet-Selch's body, he needs that heady, deep heat and massage of the glans and the tightness of his Bonded's body around his length, the squeeze at the root of his cock that indicates how full he is of him. He aches, he feels swollen, he needs some manner of relief.
With another hybrid whine-growl, he sinks his teeth into his Bonded's shoulder once more. He's a masterpiece of bites and bruises, a work of Mettaton's efforts and beautiful in that right, a body of flesh and blood made rent and bleeding, the sign of being touched by a heavenly creature such as himself. So heavenly that he's dark and ghastly, vicious and brutal, teeth sharp and cutting as he feels incisors sink into his lover's skin and body as easily as his cock could penetrate. Blood gushes into his mouth — the most satisfying part of a hearty bite, and one that pulls a moan from his chest as his mind goes numb.
What an honor it must be to be consumed by Mettaton, both in physical form and in the fires of lust. Mettaton growls past his teeth, in disbelief at the slight of his lover for not giving him the words he deserves, but placated (momentarily) by this offering of body and blood. He rolls his hips deeply, thoroughly, paying heavy mind to the way Emet-Selch's body rubs along the tip of his cock, the way it squeezes along his entire length. It's divine, could be made moreso if only his lover would laud him with the compliments he deserves... It's a thought that has his thrusts firming, pounding Emet-Selch with the weight of his arousal that feels heavier, needier the more moments pass without the sound of his Mettaton-used voice to accompany the sight and sensation of his Mettaton-used body.]
no subject
Because Mettaton deserves the praise. He deserves it for being so virile and lascivious, and he deserves it for being so capable of filling Emet-Selch up. He knows Emet-Selch craves being taken by him, would hop on his lap at the sight of a thick, hard cock, because it's Mettaton he wants to please and be pleased in turn. This is all aside from how much Emet-Selch covets him for his bearing, his beauty, his inherent grace and the scarcest hint of eye contact that can communicate volumes. His best traits are known to himself. Mettaton licks his lips at the thought of having Emet-Selch in any way he can dream, even while he's already rubbing himself off on the man he fantasizes about.
The sensation of teeth in his neck only serves to up not only his fever, but the ante. Mettaton sucks in air through teeth only to expel it as pure heat and a growl, patience growing that much thinner, fury swallowing his form and making his own jaw feel stiff. He leans forward some more, noticing that Emet-Selch's taken the proper course of action by depending wholly on his form for the balance, balance he's given only because he's worthy of it, and could lose such a right at the drop of a hat. The Ascian grips into his fur and slams his hips down against his lap, arching his back, and Mettaton's cry is decorated by a feral growl: ecstatic at the gesture, but remaining stormy in temper.
The Ascian's attempt comes. His voice fails. Mettaton waits for more, waits to hear more than the word more — a consolation rather than the cure to his righteous rage. Mettaton feels like he's on fire with need, and he gives into his more animalistic tendencies.
With something that sounds to be a cross between a whine and a growl, Mettaton shifts them down to the floor, firmly shoving Emet-Selch against the carpet. He's lifted by his knees, hips raised to Mettaton's hip level and his body made to curl up for Mettaton's extended use, rendered into a position granting perfect, unrestrained access.
Like this, with Emet-Sech pressed against the floor, Mettaton mounts him with all of his weight, with the whole of his length stuffed inside of his lover. Mettaton glares at him with his lips peeled back, his fury pure and worn over a smile.]
Tell me. You like this.
[That's undisputed, as far as Mettaton cares. But Emet-Selch ought to be saying it, telling Mettaton what he loves best about being ravished by him. His voice could fail afterwards, but not a moment sooner.
Like this, Mettaton begins a rhythmic, firm rocking of his hips. The robot forces Emet-Selch to wrap his legs around his hips even as he mounts him, pinned in place by the cock he has buried inside of him. With his arms freed, Mettaton grabs for Emet-Selch's wrists all over again and pins him back, forces him back against the floor and under Mettaton's grip and weight. But he can't take it, he can't wait a moment longer to rub his shaft against Emet-Selch's body, he needs that heady, deep heat and massage of the glans and the tightness of his Bonded's body around his length, the squeeze at the root of his cock that indicates how full he is of him. He aches, he feels swollen, he needs some manner of relief.
With another hybrid whine-growl, he sinks his teeth into his Bonded's shoulder once more. He's a masterpiece of bites and bruises, a work of Mettaton's efforts and beautiful in that right, a body of flesh and blood made rent and bleeding, the sign of being touched by a heavenly creature such as himself. So heavenly that he's dark and ghastly, vicious and brutal, teeth sharp and cutting as he feels incisors sink into his lover's skin and body as easily as his cock could penetrate. Blood gushes into his mouth — the most satisfying part of a hearty bite, and one that pulls a moan from his chest as his mind goes numb.
What an honor it must be to be consumed by Mettaton, both in physical form and in the fires of lust. Mettaton growls past his teeth, in disbelief at the slight of his lover for not giving him the words he deserves, but placated (momentarily) by this offering of body and blood. He rolls his hips deeply, thoroughly, paying heavy mind to the way Emet-Selch's body rubs along the tip of his cock, the way it squeezes along his entire length. It's divine, could be made moreso if only his lover would laud him with the compliments he deserves... It's a thought that has his thrusts firming, pounding Emet-Selch with the weight of his arousal that feels heavier, needier the more moments pass without the sound of his Mettaton-used voice to accompany the sight and sensation of his Mettaton-used body.]