[Every jostle, every shift on Mettaton's part feels as though it carries the risk of stealing his breath with it. It was an agitation that he wanted nothing other than to give into, that he felt primed and ready to do so- if only Mettaton would thrust. If only he would resume taking him, having him, sparing him the full measure of his length and body. Hips shifting in place, Emet-Selch feels not impatient, only wanting, only needy, aching to feel the pressure that was building between them be released through movement and activity, through the repeated pounding of his lover's thick cock inside of him, all the way until climax. One more to pull from him, another instance of his come to hold; with all of this, how could he ever feel empty?
But Mettaton was speaking, and despite the longing of his body for this satisfaction, it's not difficult for him to become caught up in listening. To hear not only his voice, the way it could be broken up by the puca's own wanting, his own intensity catching up to him, rather than some failure of mortal lung- but also what Mettaton wanted. What he expected from him, and Emet-Selch could think of nothing else outside of wanting to fulfill him. To hear his lovely voice taken by screaming, to hear and feel him come undone by the pleasure his body could give him.
It could hardly be called kissing, his own presses of lips against Mettaton's, but it's a touch of breath and tongue and teeth, shivering and determined. Shaky and firm, he wanted to touch and taste and devour him as far as he could, even if Mettaton was the one pressing down on him, keeping him against the bed, penetrating him with a heavy, engorged cock that his body was made to take. To not only endure but enjoy every inch he was given, to worship and stroke him to completion- why else would the interior of his body be so hot and tight, if not for this purpose?
And was there anything more fulfilling than having one's purpose be satisfied? Strangled though it is, Emet-Selch still cries out when Mettaton shoves his hips forward, impaling him wholly again. It's a roughened, raspy sound that trails off into what would've been a moan as his whole body shudders, as he clenches hard around his cock. A welcoming tightness, an embrace by his body, a fierce squeeze as though to entice him to remain this time, to just keep fucking him indefinitely. He would give him orgasm after orgasm, until he could no longer stand, much less walk. But why would Emet-Selch even need to walk? In this moment he couldn't think of any reason why that would ever be necessary- and with his legs spread, wrapped around Mettaton's hips, how could he have ever managed to walk in the first place? It wouldn't be conductive towards being fucked at all, which meant it was something to be discarded.
Desires notwithstanding (literally), there is still some relief on the Ascian's part for the mercy of having his hips thoroughly raised by pillows. His legs already had a persistent tremble to them, that was only partially due to having the tip of Mettaton's cock rubbing him as far as it could reach (though that in itself was both a thought and sensation to leave him weak, to have the thickness of the head in a constant massage, while he was made to stretch around the entirety of his shaft, all the way to the root, where his entrance had a tight hold on him). The less Emet-Selch had to hold up on his own, the better- and the easier it was to devote himself entirely to clenching around his length with shuddered, harsh breaths, with attempted rolls of his body further onto his cock. He could feel his lover's aching, and it leaves him wanting to whine in sympathy for it, to shift, to tense, to cling, to do anything to bring him to relief, however temporary.
Over and over, he'd bring him this, milk from him brief moments of satiation, while simultaneously tempting him into further excess. More cries to take, more come to hold. If Mettaton always needed his body for this pleasure, it meant he could never leave him.]
Mettaton--
[Even if words were lost to him again, there was still his name, there were still the sounds he shouldn't be making, and which troubled an already raw throat to produce. Mettaton's claws were digging into him, his grip holding him down, bracing himself against the Ascian's body in a way that kept him secure, kept him safe, that eliminated any chance of escape. But as deep as Mettaton was, as thoroughly as he could feel the glans of his length shoved inside of him, he wanted his movement, wanted to feel his body pounded into the bed with hard shoves of his lover's hips. He wanted to feel crushed by his body and his cock, so that he couldn't move, even if Mettaton was cruel enough to abandon him entirely. That he'd still be left there, broken and shivering, used and filthy and exhausted, yet despairing for more of his touch all the same.
Soft, rough; forced through a throat that desired nothing but silence.]
no subject
But Mettaton was speaking, and despite the longing of his body for this satisfaction, it's not difficult for him to become caught up in listening. To hear not only his voice, the way it could be broken up by the puca's own wanting, his own intensity catching up to him, rather than some failure of mortal lung- but also what Mettaton wanted. What he expected from him, and Emet-Selch could think of nothing else outside of wanting to fulfill him. To hear his lovely voice taken by screaming, to hear and feel him come undone by the pleasure his body could give him.
It could hardly be called kissing, his own presses of lips against Mettaton's, but it's a touch of breath and tongue and teeth, shivering and determined. Shaky and firm, he wanted to touch and taste and devour him as far as he could, even if Mettaton was the one pressing down on him, keeping him against the bed, penetrating him with a heavy, engorged cock that his body was made to take. To not only endure but enjoy every inch he was given, to worship and stroke him to completion- why else would the interior of his body be so hot and tight, if not for this purpose?
And was there anything more fulfilling than having one's purpose be satisfied? Strangled though it is, Emet-Selch still cries out when Mettaton shoves his hips forward, impaling him wholly again. It's a roughened, raspy sound that trails off into what would've been a moan as his whole body shudders, as he clenches hard around his cock. A welcoming tightness, an embrace by his body, a fierce squeeze as though to entice him to remain this time, to just keep fucking him indefinitely. He would give him orgasm after orgasm, until he could no longer stand, much less walk. But why would Emet-Selch even need to walk? In this moment he couldn't think of any reason why that would ever be necessary- and with his legs spread, wrapped around Mettaton's hips, how could he have ever managed to walk in the first place? It wouldn't be conductive towards being fucked at all, which meant it was something to be discarded.
Desires notwithstanding (literally), there is still some relief on the Ascian's part for the mercy of having his hips thoroughly raised by pillows. His legs already had a persistent tremble to them, that was only partially due to having the tip of Mettaton's cock rubbing him as far as it could reach (though that in itself was both a thought and sensation to leave him weak, to have the thickness of the head in a constant massage, while he was made to stretch around the entirety of his shaft, all the way to the root, where his entrance had a tight hold on him). The less Emet-Selch had to hold up on his own, the better- and the easier it was to devote himself entirely to clenching around his length with shuddered, harsh breaths, with attempted rolls of his body further onto his cock. He could feel his lover's aching, and it leaves him wanting to whine in sympathy for it, to shift, to tense, to cling, to do anything to bring him to relief, however temporary.
Over and over, he'd bring him this, milk from him brief moments of satiation, while simultaneously tempting him into further excess. More cries to take, more come to hold. If Mettaton always needed his body for this pleasure, it meant he could never leave him.]
Mettaton--
[Even if words were lost to him again, there was still his name, there were still the sounds he shouldn't be making, and which troubled an already raw throat to produce. Mettaton's claws were digging into him, his grip holding him down, bracing himself against the Ascian's body in a way that kept him secure, kept him safe, that eliminated any chance of escape. But as deep as Mettaton was, as thoroughly as he could feel the glans of his length shoved inside of him, he wanted his movement, wanted to feel his body pounded into the bed with hard shoves of his lover's hips. He wanted to feel crushed by his body and his cock, so that he couldn't move, even if Mettaton was cruel enough to abandon him entirely. That he'd still be left there, broken and shivering, used and filthy and exhausted, yet despairing for more of his touch all the same.
Soft, rough; forced through a throat that desired nothing but silence.]
Take me- I want- I need you, don't--
[Don't stop. Don't leave. Don't forget. Don't stop.]