[It was both gratifying and flattering to feel Mettaton hardening back up, taking more of his body just by virtue of stiffening while still inside him, showing off his fevered insatiability. Emet-Selch lets out a warm breath that's almost a sigh, the sound carrying a note of relief, of all things, though there had been no question of Mettaton's ability or willingness to continue. But to feel him stretching him out properly again, in preparation to continue the process of filling him, to rub himself off in his body, to give him yet more of his ejaculate- it's all worth a shudder of anticipation. A shifting of spread legs and a tensing of muscles that had been tensing a lot over the past long while.
A faint shiver runs through him, breath faltering for a moment as lips softly touch his wounded, loved neck. As his lover's voice confirms what they already know. Even should Mettaton pull free from him, the result... would only have him stuffing his way back inside his come-smeared ass, while the Ascian cried out, spreading his legs ever further to accommodate him, to welcome him shoved hard back into the depths of his body, a body already so slickened internally by all of the thick, milky come Mettaton had gifted him.
But that would entail pulling out, when they were already both in their place, the pair of them. Mettaton removing himself even halfway has him suck in a breath, tighten around him as if to hold onto what his body yet contained of him. The puca's lips were against his own, as were his teeth; his voice was clear, words and tone that would've been capable of arousing on their own, had the Ascian's body not been so thoroughly drained. He kisses him back through teeth.]
How much....
[Emet-Selch doesn't waste his throat in voicing something like that, only mouthing the words as he thinks. As he considers him, Mettaton dark and demanding, clearly tense no matter his robotic shell, wanting to thrust fully back into his body where they knew he belonged. Where the Ascian could continue to warm the full length of the shaft, could squeeze it, his body's adoration of it manifesting in both how tightly he'd wrap around him, as well as how fully he'd accommodate him.
And already it felt strange, to have him partially withdrawn, while not in a state of thrusting, of stroking the thick, engorged tip all along the interior of his body. It was better than not having him at all, but it was simultaneously a frustration, wanting his girth pushed further than that, wanting the swell of the head to rub him as deeply as it could reach, wanting his lover's hips flush to his body once again.
When was he not desperate for him? Not wanting to be filled or fucked, to see his lover bearing down on him- he couldn't imagine it. It didn't matter that he wasn't the one stiff, that he was aching more from use than from arousal, Mettaton's expectation of flattery, of being wanted, didn't strike him as strange at all. It felt unthinkable to not yearn for him, and part of that yearning was for this kind of submission, to have this focus, to have someone to serve and adore and desire.
His breathing shudders; his hands stroke roughly over Mettaton's sides. Swallowing, he tries to speak.]
There's nothing I wouldn't do for it. Anything you asked, for you, I- how could I hesitate?
[It barely qualifies as a whisper and it hurts, but he manages. He had to.]
When you bury yourself in me, I-- [He didn't have to think. He didn't want to think about not having to think. And he didn't have to like this, not when he had Mettaton above him, blotting out all else. With that reward, how could he do anything but want him, as fervently as his beloved desired of him?] I need your cock. Every part of it, and every part of you.
[It's scarcely audible, lips brushing against Mettaton's as he speaks, manner caught between a desperate plea and a just as desperate demand, an insistence on being fucked, no matter how much his body trembled from its mix of fatigue and agitation.]
no subject
A faint shiver runs through him, breath faltering for a moment as lips softly touch his wounded, loved neck. As his lover's voice confirms what they already know. Even should Mettaton pull free from him, the result... would only have him stuffing his way back inside his come-smeared ass, while the Ascian cried out, spreading his legs ever further to accommodate him, to welcome him shoved hard back into the depths of his body, a body already so slickened internally by all of the thick, milky come Mettaton had gifted him.
But that would entail pulling out, when they were already both in their place, the pair of them. Mettaton removing himself even halfway has him suck in a breath, tighten around him as if to hold onto what his body yet contained of him. The puca's lips were against his own, as were his teeth; his voice was clear, words and tone that would've been capable of arousing on their own, had the Ascian's body not been so thoroughly drained. He kisses him back through teeth.]
How much....
[Emet-Selch doesn't waste his throat in voicing something like that, only mouthing the words as he thinks. As he considers him, Mettaton dark and demanding, clearly tense no matter his robotic shell, wanting to thrust fully back into his body where they knew he belonged. Where the Ascian could continue to warm the full length of the shaft, could squeeze it, his body's adoration of it manifesting in both how tightly he'd wrap around him, as well as how fully he'd accommodate him.
And already it felt strange, to have him partially withdrawn, while not in a state of thrusting, of stroking the thick, engorged tip all along the interior of his body. It was better than not having him at all, but it was simultaneously a frustration, wanting his girth pushed further than that, wanting the swell of the head to rub him as deeply as it could reach, wanting his lover's hips flush to his body once again.
When was he not desperate for him? Not wanting to be filled or fucked, to see his lover bearing down on him- he couldn't imagine it. It didn't matter that he wasn't the one stiff, that he was aching more from use than from arousal, Mettaton's expectation of flattery, of being wanted, didn't strike him as strange at all. It felt unthinkable to not yearn for him, and part of that yearning was for this kind of submission, to have this focus, to have someone to serve and adore and desire.
His breathing shudders; his hands stroke roughly over Mettaton's sides. Swallowing, he tries to speak.]
There's nothing I wouldn't do for it. Anything you asked, for you, I- how could I hesitate?
[It barely qualifies as a whisper and it hurts, but he manages. He had to.]
When you bury yourself in me, I-- [He didn't have to think. He didn't want to think about not having to think. And he didn't have to like this, not when he had Mettaton above him, blotting out all else. With that reward, how could he do anything but want him, as fervently as his beloved desired of him?] I need your cock. Every part of it, and every part of you.
[It's scarcely audible, lips brushing against Mettaton's as he speaks, manner caught between a desperate plea and a just as desperate demand, an insistence on being fucked, no matter how much his body trembled from its mix of fatigue and agitation.]
I would- give you everything, for this.