unsundered: (★034)
Emet-Selch ([personal profile] unsundered) wrote 2020-09-05 08:10 pm (UTC)

[Emet-Selch was no stranger to high, perhaps even unreasonable expectations. He had many himself, and could appreciate a good ruthlessness appropriately directed. The growling and increasing impatience came as little surprise to him, and even in the midst of heat and haze, he can fathom no other response to his failure to match what was required of him. So when he feels the darkness of Mettaton's temper deepen into a righteous fury, he can only shiver at it, pulse racing, as though he were in the presence of something dangerous and truly feral, and not only fiercely erotic. That there would be consequences for not lauding him to his satisfaction in a reasonable amount of time (that time being immediate, or without needing to be prompted), penalties to be clawed into his flesh by claw and tooth, and a blackened tempest of a mood to drown in.

(And yet it was... exciting to see and feel Mettaton like this, in some terrible way, and for all that Emet-Selch hadn't deliberately incited him, he's still stricken breathless at the pleasure of being subdued. Of knowing, with utter clarity, how much he wanted to please him, how he needed to, what other purpose did he have here--)

But before he can try again, that patience (if it could even be called that) on his Bonded monster's part snaps with a vengeance, and Emet-Selch loses his allowance of balance. Shoved to the floor instead, it's a movement to force the air from his lungs as his body is pushed down and spread apart, permitted only the feeling of being mounted again, legs dragged upward, Mettaton bearing down on him with the whole of his body. Robotic strength pinning him easily, the Ascian's hands, which reflexively attempted to grasp at him, at anything for purchase, are instead crushed to the ground as well, furthering the sensation of being caught. Trapped in a maelstrom of fury, he jerks at his confines out of habit, even as a moan of abject pleasure escapes his throat despite his best efforts to restrain it, to save his voice for words instead.

(It's a gradual process, limitations of mortality remaining, but it's this, in the moment of being crushed under by Mettaton in both spirit and body, fucked and pinned and drowning in darkness, that his own cock begins to stiffen.)

A position like this was not very good for Emet-Selch's back or shoulders, the pressure only agitating the wounds on both, tearing anew anything that had dared to begin clotting, or just otherwise reminding him of all those bruises. But even that becomes a backdrop to the fresher, and much sharper pain of Mettaton burying his incisors into the front of his shoulder. Another inescapable reminder of his place, that he had a reason for being there, and that it was to exalt his lover in every way he deserved. His body, his blood, his service- Mettaton could call on it all.

So even if Emet-Selch had the voice to spare on a protest- to argue that it was because of Mettaton's own actions that his conversational ability was somewhat reduced- he wouldn't. Partially because he knows he'd only encouraged him to this end, so it was equally his responsibility, but mostly because he found his lover's response justified, aggravated at his own voice's failure to comply with his control.

It didn't matter that Mettaton knew that he loved this, loved having him like this, every part of the thickness of his cock, and the brutality of his taking. It was his right as well to hear it, to have voice given over to his delectation, along with his body and soul. Emet-Selch gasps soundlessly as that pounding into him continues, that rough slide of Mettaton's erection, from the swell of the tip, to the heaviness of the shaft, shuddering hard at how well he fit inside him. His legs cling tighter around him, wanting him to take every bit of depth he could. He writhes, struggling to press up into both teeth and cock.

But none of that was language, so Emet-Selch tries again to force out some kind of speech. Knowing the condition of his throat, he'd have to try and be concise, even if Mettaton deserved more than that.]


I do, I--

[But it was more than that, more than he could express even if his throat wasn't failing them both. Gaze half-lidded as he looks up at him, blearily, his words are soft, so soft, but plaintive.]

I need this, you...

[A concluding rasp that may have been his name, may have been another moan; his body is tight as it continues to shudder.]

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