[Treated to a squeeze so intent and demanding in his own right, Mettaton chokes and stammers on a cry, spurred directly into thrusting. If filling the other man would elicit such a strong pull from him, what would thrusting into him do? His fingers curl into his arms and shoulders, another bid to stabilize himself despite his unwinding control, scarcely noticing at all how he continues to cry out in desperate ascensions of voice, begging to feel more of those squeezes without saying a word.
And even as he finds himself preparing for deeper thrusts, he's made to slow just to appreciate the way Emet-Selch tries to back his ass into his hips in his own desperation. He's not aroused even still, but his lover rolls into him, pronounced and demanding as his need of him, as he begs for him to be taken on a voice that ought to be stolen from him, too. Stolen entirely; stolen so far that he wouldn't even be able to flatter Mettaton any longer, even if he demanded his praises. A dangerous state to be in like this... But Mettaton didn't think so. Emet-Selch is safe with him, and he could feel it between them both: they were safe with each other, and nothing else but them mattered. Nothing but the beat of their cravings mattered, and the way Emet-Selch inadvertently tightens around his length with each curve of his back. The robot swallows, a sound still managing to slip through in a broken moan.
Nothing else mattered, certainly not Emet-Selch's capacity to walk. Why would it when Mettaton planned to take him and keep him, to hold him and fuck him? He would have no need to ambulate at all, only to lie in this bed, prone and properly bloodied and scented. If he moved, he would lose some of the come he'd spilled in him, after all. He was perfectly positioned with his hips elevated for access, already engulfing the whole of his length and stretched to fit him, and all Mettaton needed to do now was pound into him.
It was what Emet-Selch was begging for. It was what Mettaton desired, besides. Emet-Selch's desires would always be the same as Mettaton's, he's decided, and Mettaton slides his cock back out.
Only to jerk his hips sharply, thrusting into Emet-Selch's body with long, hard, quick passes. For each aching withdrawal of his length, the subsequent filling of Emet-Selch was a firmer, longer affair, a jostling of his length and rolling of hip with a focus on dragging the head of himself against Emet-Selch so deeply. It's a sensation that makes him feel as though he's stuffing Emet-Selch fuller and thicker, any withdrawal only serving to sharpen his need, to make louder his cries, to hike up his desperation; while every filling of cock served to pleasure and entice him into having more. He feels so heavy, heavier still when he bears down on Emet-Selch to better, more quickly pound into him, fingers gripping just as much as his weight pushes into him. Steadying his lover, there would be no escaping from under him like this, gripped down upon and fucked by a heavy cock, pressed under the metal weight of him that could only serve to make each thrust of his hips feel that much more pronounced.
Mettaton's delirious now with the same desire as before, but also with immense pleasure. There was his lover squeezing this intrusion, of the man rocking into his arousal, but there was also possession and relief, even as the pressure in him builds. He wants to be so demanded and needed, and he'd reward that expression of want on Emet-Selch's part by thrusting, hard and deep and fast, into his body so that he couldn't hope to think, could only hope to react. And by react, Mettaton was determined to have Emet-Selch squeezing over his whole length, pressure variable and unpredictable and dizzying, dazzling, something to blind and enrapture him.
His voice is a cry, and he's sure he had something to say...]
Hades—!
[But all he remembers to say is his lover's name, still pressing his lips to the other man's, scarcely kissing but remaining anchored there as though he could absorb anything from him should the opportunity arise. Should Emet-Selch cry out, he would be there to kiss him and take from him that, a further conquering of breath and voice. Mettaton feels so good, so stimulated; he couldn't not keep fucking his lover, if it feels this good. He feels loved and relished, demanded and needed, and those were all points of pleasure to the robotic idol: cherished and craved, he could only give Emet-Selch all of the stroking and filling he could want.
He fixes his libidinous attention upon the way his lover trembles, the way it intensifies with the stroke of his cock so deep; the way the Ascian rolls into his girth and squeezes around him, so desperate to be taken. Mettaton was desperate to take in return: taking, being so zealously wanted... those were things he was used to, and he was more than happy to fit his cock inside of Emet-Selch and to stroke him, to coax more pleasurable massaging of his length, to bring them both to that point of absolute rapture. Mettaton can taste it, and he wants to drown in that, too.
He wants to tell Emet-Selch how hard he feels, how his body's the only relief he has for this aching pressure, but he's reassured by the knowledge that this fierce pounding would surely convey that relief he finds in him. He moans instead, airy and blissful, and waiting for that blinding pressure he knows his lover will make good on delivering. ...In fact, the tension of waiting itself has him crying out once more, still rapturous, but with an edge of needy anticipation. He could hardly take it: he needed to feel Emet-Selch squeeze his cock, and his voice is pleading despite its firm command.]
Squeeze around me. I'm- so, so hard, you want me... Hades...!
[If he weren't so primal in need, he feels he might have had a handle on this voice of his...! He might have been able to describe to Emet-Selch in salacious detail what he'd feel if he obeyed, how tensing around his length would imbue him with the knowledge of how stuffed full he truly was. He wants to say it all to him, but he can only moan as he teases himself with the thought. Though his thrusting slows, it's with the ultimate goal of letting his cock linger for longer deep inside of Emet-Selch: firmer, harder pounding to allow Emet-Selch to drink in how full he is of cock, only to steal it away from him, to let him feel how uncomfortably devoid he is without. A filling, a taking; the cycle repeats, and Mettaton wants him to tense around all of it and none of it, to let him know how he needs his cock if he wants at all to feel full and satisfied.]
no subject
And even as he finds himself preparing for deeper thrusts, he's made to slow just to appreciate the way Emet-Selch tries to back his ass into his hips in his own desperation. He's not aroused even still, but his lover rolls into him, pronounced and demanding as his need of him, as he begs for him to be taken on a voice that ought to be stolen from him, too. Stolen entirely; stolen so far that he wouldn't even be able to flatter Mettaton any longer, even if he demanded his praises. A dangerous state to be in like this... But Mettaton didn't think so. Emet-Selch is safe with him, and he could feel it between them both: they were safe with each other, and nothing else but them mattered. Nothing but the beat of their cravings mattered, and the way Emet-Selch inadvertently tightens around his length with each curve of his back. The robot swallows, a sound still managing to slip through in a broken moan.
Nothing else mattered, certainly not Emet-Selch's capacity to walk. Why would it when Mettaton planned to take him and keep him, to hold him and fuck him? He would have no need to ambulate at all, only to lie in this bed, prone and properly bloodied and scented. If he moved, he would lose some of the come he'd spilled in him, after all. He was perfectly positioned with his hips elevated for access, already engulfing the whole of his length and stretched to fit him, and all Mettaton needed to do now was pound into him.
It was what Emet-Selch was begging for. It was what Mettaton desired, besides. Emet-Selch's desires would always be the same as Mettaton's, he's decided, and Mettaton slides his cock back out.
Only to jerk his hips sharply, thrusting into Emet-Selch's body with long, hard, quick passes. For each aching withdrawal of his length, the subsequent filling of Emet-Selch was a firmer, longer affair, a jostling of his length and rolling of hip with a focus on dragging the head of himself against Emet-Selch so deeply. It's a sensation that makes him feel as though he's stuffing Emet-Selch fuller and thicker, any withdrawal only serving to sharpen his need, to make louder his cries, to hike up his desperation; while every filling of cock served to pleasure and entice him into having more. He feels so heavy, heavier still when he bears down on Emet-Selch to better, more quickly pound into him, fingers gripping just as much as his weight pushes into him. Steadying his lover, there would be no escaping from under him like this, gripped down upon and fucked by a heavy cock, pressed under the metal weight of him that could only serve to make each thrust of his hips feel that much more pronounced.
Mettaton's delirious now with the same desire as before, but also with immense pleasure. There was his lover squeezing this intrusion, of the man rocking into his arousal, but there was also possession and relief, even as the pressure in him builds. He wants to be so demanded and needed, and he'd reward that expression of want on Emet-Selch's part by thrusting, hard and deep and fast, into his body so that he couldn't hope to think, could only hope to react. And by react, Mettaton was determined to have Emet-Selch squeezing over his whole length, pressure variable and unpredictable and dizzying, dazzling, something to blind and enrapture him.
His voice is a cry, and he's sure he had something to say...]
Hades—!
[But all he remembers to say is his lover's name, still pressing his lips to the other man's, scarcely kissing but remaining anchored there as though he could absorb anything from him should the opportunity arise. Should Emet-Selch cry out, he would be there to kiss him and take from him that, a further conquering of breath and voice. Mettaton feels so good, so stimulated; he couldn't not keep fucking his lover, if it feels this good. He feels loved and relished, demanded and needed, and those were all points of pleasure to the robotic idol: cherished and craved, he could only give Emet-Selch all of the stroking and filling he could want.
He fixes his libidinous attention upon the way his lover trembles, the way it intensifies with the stroke of his cock so deep; the way the Ascian rolls into his girth and squeezes around him, so desperate to be taken. Mettaton was desperate to take in return: taking, being so zealously wanted... those were things he was used to, and he was more than happy to fit his cock inside of Emet-Selch and to stroke him, to coax more pleasurable massaging of his length, to bring them both to that point of absolute rapture. Mettaton can taste it, and he wants to drown in that, too.
He wants to tell Emet-Selch how hard he feels, how his body's the only relief he has for this aching pressure, but he's reassured by the knowledge that this fierce pounding would surely convey that relief he finds in him. He moans instead, airy and blissful, and waiting for that blinding pressure he knows his lover will make good on delivering. ...In fact, the tension of waiting itself has him crying out once more, still rapturous, but with an edge of needy anticipation. He could hardly take it: he needed to feel Emet-Selch squeeze his cock, and his voice is pleading despite its firm command.]
Squeeze around me. I'm- so, so hard, you want me... Hades...!
[If he weren't so primal in need, he feels he might have had a handle on this voice of his...! He might have been able to describe to Emet-Selch in salacious detail what he'd feel if he obeyed, how tensing around his length would imbue him with the knowledge of how stuffed full he truly was. He wants to say it all to him, but he can only moan as he teases himself with the thought. Though his thrusting slows, it's with the ultimate goal of letting his cock linger for longer deep inside of Emet-Selch: firmer, harder pounding to allow Emet-Selch to drink in how full he is of cock, only to steal it away from him, to let him feel how uncomfortably devoid he is without. A filling, a taking; the cycle repeats, and Mettaton wants him to tense around all of it and none of it, to let him know how he needs his cock if he wants at all to feel full and satisfied.]