[Mettaton encroaches further on his body by leaning over him, and that only completes the welcome nature of this position: being kept close. Having him near, as well as his cock inside him. Kissing him, having the taste and feeling of his lips to contend with, a heat to take his breath, and a warmth to settle in his body and remain there. Kissing that could stir his heart just as every long drag of cock could stir his body. In its way it was another reminder of claim, but of his love, his affection, something that Mettaton could call up from him with a kiss, a word, a glance. A thought. Memory.
Emet-Selch didn't find it strange to consider love a submissive affair, a giving up of natural defenses, giving someone else the power to hurt with most bitter precision. When Mettaton had first told him of his burgeoning love for him, even that much he'd wanted to refuse. Had tried to refuse; how dare Mettaton care about him, and how dare he expect him to deal with it.... But he'd been so sure of it, of himself. Emet-Selch could appreciate him for it then, and he loved him for it now. And in the end he hadn't been able to deny what had been developing between them.
...And so he'd given himself over and willingly drowned. Day by day, breath by lost breath. But the reward was experiencing the whole of Mettaton's love for him, the feeling inflicted in every kiss and bruise and drag of cock.
Long drags like this were particularly heady, offering both the sensation of intolerable emptiness, and the repeated reassurance of being stuffed full once again. A reminder of how thick his length truly was, and yet how his body would always adapt to it, stretch just enough to hold him tightly, yet to not restrict his movement. And it was a smooth drag by now, in the snug heat he could offer him, from both repeated friction and continuous use, and from the slickness offered from Mettaton's previous releases. They had both seen the evidence of how... copious they had been, and where their bodies met remained that proof. Between his thighs was the demonstration of their insatiability, and inside him there was more of it, and eventually there would be more still. And on his own abdomen again there would be further proof of his own, that he could get off from this fullness, the very feeling of being taken by his lover....
But he could still appreciate the brief pets Mettaton deigns to give his cock, where it was pressing upward against its usual place at the idol's waist. Where it would be rubbed a bit by the robot's movements, but otherwise ignored. But that was fine, even if he draws in a sharp breath at this deliberate attention offered by his fingers, strokes along its heavy length, residue of his come still drying along it. The squeeze at the glans was almost too sensitive, enough to have his body jerk slightly, his legs twitch, and his hips shudder, as though unable to decide whether he was trying to press into it or not. So Emet-Selch couldn't regret it terribly when Mettaton withdraws his hand for the sake of balance and easier thrusts, and he murmurs an assent into the kiss, and more of his acceptance into that meeting of lips. Firm and adoring and with a flicker of tongue and teeth, of warmth and breath; they both knew that Mettaton fucking him was all that he needed.
With Mettaton over him, clawed hands at his shoulders now with the capacity for piercing, the ability to switch darker in an instant, whether on whim, or a deliberate sinking into more threatening carnality- the Ascian's own arms slip around him, low at his waist, his back. Holding on and encouraging close, stroking at fur or glass, and just beginning to dig in with spams of fingers when Mettaton's hips impact his body, when he can feel himself tight around the root of his cock, and can squeeze all the way up to the soft tip. And then Mettaton pulls back and the ridge of the head is scraped along his body and he cries out all over again, rough and ever aching.
A wet kiss; Emet-Selch bites back at him with little success, in an attempt to hold him there, though his teeth just drag along his lip, his tongue. Mettaton's mouth was hot, as hot as he felt inside of him, and he knew his come would be hotter still. He'd never wanted to be burned so terribly.]
I'll always take- take more of you.
[He was still so raspy, rough, words barely making it past the texture of his throat, a throat that was warning him of the consequences of it being repeatedly fucked. A warning that he ignores again.]
Every part of you, no matter how thick... and deep, and hot you press, I want it. You've filled me so thoroughly, yet--
[Yet he felt starved for more of him, never sated, always wanting. It should've been frustrating, to need someone so terribly, to be at their mercy, but there was a pleasure in this kind of pain as well, in how much he desired him, even while he was currently having him. Even while he was currently being fucked, could feel the swifter drag of his cock inside him, even when his own hips jerked up to try and meet his and his body was left trembling, stricken from want. Even when his body was already sore from previous use, was marred all over from past indulgence.]
Yet I still, I....
[It didn't matter the condition of his body, Mettaton still wanted him, and he still had so much to give him.]
no subject
Emet-Selch didn't find it strange to consider love a submissive affair, a giving up of natural defenses, giving someone else the power to hurt with most bitter precision. When Mettaton had first told him of his burgeoning love for him, even that much he'd wanted to refuse. Had tried to refuse; how dare Mettaton care about him, and how dare he expect him to deal with it.... But he'd been so sure of it, of himself. Emet-Selch could appreciate him for it then, and he loved him for it now. And in the end he hadn't been able to deny what had been developing between them.
...And so he'd given himself over and willingly drowned. Day by day, breath by lost breath. But the reward was experiencing the whole of Mettaton's love for him, the feeling inflicted in every kiss and bruise and drag of cock.
Long drags like this were particularly heady, offering both the sensation of intolerable emptiness, and the repeated reassurance of being stuffed full once again. A reminder of how thick his length truly was, and yet how his body would always adapt to it, stretch just enough to hold him tightly, yet to not restrict his movement. And it was a smooth drag by now, in the snug heat he could offer him, from both repeated friction and continuous use, and from the slickness offered from Mettaton's previous releases. They had both seen the evidence of how... copious they had been, and where their bodies met remained that proof. Between his thighs was the demonstration of their insatiability, and inside him there was more of it, and eventually there would be more still. And on his own abdomen again there would be further proof of his own, that he could get off from this fullness, the very feeling of being taken by his lover....
But he could still appreciate the brief pets Mettaton deigns to give his cock, where it was pressing upward against its usual place at the idol's waist. Where it would be rubbed a bit by the robot's movements, but otherwise ignored. But that was fine, even if he draws in a sharp breath at this deliberate attention offered by his fingers, strokes along its heavy length, residue of his come still drying along it. The squeeze at the glans was almost too sensitive, enough to have his body jerk slightly, his legs twitch, and his hips shudder, as though unable to decide whether he was trying to press into it or not. So Emet-Selch couldn't regret it terribly when Mettaton withdraws his hand for the sake of balance and easier thrusts, and he murmurs an assent into the kiss, and more of his acceptance into that meeting of lips. Firm and adoring and with a flicker of tongue and teeth, of warmth and breath; they both knew that Mettaton fucking him was all that he needed.
With Mettaton over him, clawed hands at his shoulders now with the capacity for piercing, the ability to switch darker in an instant, whether on whim, or a deliberate sinking into more threatening carnality- the Ascian's own arms slip around him, low at his waist, his back. Holding on and encouraging close, stroking at fur or glass, and just beginning to dig in with spams of fingers when Mettaton's hips impact his body, when he can feel himself tight around the root of his cock, and can squeeze all the way up to the soft tip. And then Mettaton pulls back and the ridge of the head is scraped along his body and he cries out all over again, rough and ever aching.
A wet kiss; Emet-Selch bites back at him with little success, in an attempt to hold him there, though his teeth just drag along his lip, his tongue. Mettaton's mouth was hot, as hot as he felt inside of him, and he knew his come would be hotter still. He'd never wanted to be burned so terribly.]
I'll always take- take more of you.
[He was still so raspy, rough, words barely making it past the texture of his throat, a throat that was warning him of the consequences of it being repeatedly fucked. A warning that he ignores again.]
Every part of you, no matter how thick... and deep, and hot you press, I want it. You've filled me so thoroughly, yet--
[Yet he felt starved for more of him, never sated, always wanting. It should've been frustrating, to need someone so terribly, to be at their mercy, but there was a pleasure in this kind of pain as well, in how much he desired him, even while he was currently having him. Even while he was currently being fucked, could feel the swifter drag of his cock inside him, even when his own hips jerked up to try and meet his and his body was left trembling, stricken from want. Even when his body was already sore from previous use, was marred all over from past indulgence.]
Yet I still, I....
[It didn't matter the condition of his body, Mettaton still wanted him, and he still had so much to give him.]