[A growl deeper and rougher than what Emet-Selch was used to hearing rumbled from his lover's throat, the sort of sound that sets him shivering, and were his pulse not already high, it would've raised it. But he could recognize it not as the growling of dissatisfaction or frustration, an animalistic display of disapproval like what he might be shown were the Ascian deliberately withholding praise or attention or his body from him. A growl instead of utter intensity and desire, of primal urges all coming together in a way that transcended verbal speech. Of insatiability understood and accepted, that they would ever willingly feed and incite and sate, only for the process to be repeated.
There was... so much to be filled. More than ever could be. The desire for company, for sensation- how could there ever be an end to it? They knew this.
But Mettaton responds in words as well, an added affirmation of what they both understood, but yet felt the need to express to one another. Through sound, through touch, through commingling of mood, the want to always be available. To satisfy every desire, be it a whim of inclination, a bit of imagery that felt particularly enticing in that moment- or something deep-seated and fundamental, a yearning for something that could only be soothed by their lover's presence, their body. They would be there for one another in either case. Whatever condition they found themselves in, they would still be together- and through that, could provide satisfaction.
Mettaton moved harder, and the sounds Emet-Selch made in response weren't sounds at all, only strangled, pleading noises, desperation for him to always continue fucking him like this. Nails pierce the Ascian's skin, but only shallowly; it provides only a small stinging note to Mettaton's grip, a reminder of being held, rather than any particular sensation of pain. He was safe with him, no matter how ferality struck.]
Mettaton....
[A word, a name more intelligible than most other sounds his throat is attempting to produce, escapes past hoarse cries and pants from parted lips, with his head tilted back. Eyes closed, his body writhes into him, into thrusts that force him back against the bed, which shake him, even as he's held in place, secured between pillows and his lover's grip. Emet-Selch's legs wrap more around him, clinging harder for each time he's stuffed full of cock, so full that he can scarcely bear it. But even harder to stand were those instances when Mettaton pulled back, left a space where his length was meant to occupy, a hollow intended for his cock. His arms tighten for desperate purchase, fingers tangling in dark fur, muscles taut, rigid.
His own cock was similarly rigid, pressed up against Mettaton's waist, feeling the tip rubbed against a body that had no give to it. A sensation he was used to by now, and which registered as normal, an expected part of the experience of being fucked by him, and all he could've ever asked for.
But more of his focus was on the thickness of the erection penetrating him, the pounding of his body that Mettaton was treating him to, hardly leaving him at all in his quickened stroking of his cock. The head pushed so deep, and he could tighten around it so closely that the very thought could leave him gasping. Not that he's having very many thoughts at all, not when he was being fucked like this, being taken- not when he could feel the ridge of Mettaton's swollen tip dragged and shoved into him with fearsome insistence. His erection was there for his body to continuously pleasure, to squeeze tight, to massage and to keep, every stroke of him hotter and so slick with past come, past evidence of the ecstasy he'd found in him before. Being used like this, given the opportunity to feel his lover's rapture- there was no greater pleasure than this, and he wanted it more with every breath.]
Harder-- I want you- deeper--
[The pleading part of it goes unspoken, is there only in tone. A tone and voice that's growing weaker again with all this strain he's putting on it once more- and it hadn't been very loud to start. But Mettaton was moaning again, with that depth to his voice that felt somehow base, intrinsically dark, sounds to enrapture and bind, to meet with ever starker adoration. To arch, to push, to cling, to cry- to love him absolutely, in some place where thought wasn't required.]
no subject
There was... so much to be filled. More than ever could be. The desire for company, for sensation- how could there ever be an end to it? They knew this.
But Mettaton responds in words as well, an added affirmation of what they both understood, but yet felt the need to express to one another. Through sound, through touch, through commingling of mood, the want to always be available. To satisfy every desire, be it a whim of inclination, a bit of imagery that felt particularly enticing in that moment- or something deep-seated and fundamental, a yearning for something that could only be soothed by their lover's presence, their body. They would be there for one another in either case. Whatever condition they found themselves in, they would still be together- and through that, could provide satisfaction.
Mettaton moved harder, and the sounds Emet-Selch made in response weren't sounds at all, only strangled, pleading noises, desperation for him to always continue fucking him like this. Nails pierce the Ascian's skin, but only shallowly; it provides only a small stinging note to Mettaton's grip, a reminder of being held, rather than any particular sensation of pain. He was safe with him, no matter how ferality struck.]
Mettaton....
[A word, a name more intelligible than most other sounds his throat is attempting to produce, escapes past hoarse cries and pants from parted lips, with his head tilted back. Eyes closed, his body writhes into him, into thrusts that force him back against the bed, which shake him, even as he's held in place, secured between pillows and his lover's grip. Emet-Selch's legs wrap more around him, clinging harder for each time he's stuffed full of cock, so full that he can scarcely bear it. But even harder to stand were those instances when Mettaton pulled back, left a space where his length was meant to occupy, a hollow intended for his cock. His arms tighten for desperate purchase, fingers tangling in dark fur, muscles taut, rigid.
His own cock was similarly rigid, pressed up against Mettaton's waist, feeling the tip rubbed against a body that had no give to it. A sensation he was used to by now, and which registered as normal, an expected part of the experience of being fucked by him, and all he could've ever asked for.
But more of his focus was on the thickness of the erection penetrating him, the pounding of his body that Mettaton was treating him to, hardly leaving him at all in his quickened stroking of his cock. The head pushed so deep, and he could tighten around it so closely that the very thought could leave him gasping. Not that he's having very many thoughts at all, not when he was being fucked like this, being taken- not when he could feel the ridge of Mettaton's swollen tip dragged and shoved into him with fearsome insistence. His erection was there for his body to continuously pleasure, to squeeze tight, to massage and to keep, every stroke of him hotter and so slick with past come, past evidence of the ecstasy he'd found in him before. Being used like this, given the opportunity to feel his lover's rapture- there was no greater pleasure than this, and he wanted it more with every breath.]
Harder-- I want you- deeper--
[The pleading part of it goes unspoken, is there only in tone. A tone and voice that's growing weaker again with all this strain he's putting on it once more- and it hadn't been very loud to start. But Mettaton was moaning again, with that depth to his voice that felt somehow base, intrinsically dark, sounds to enrapture and bind, to meet with ever starker adoration. To arch, to push, to cling, to cry- to love him absolutely, in some place where thought wasn't required.]