[Mettaton's own vocalizations were a reward in themselves, even separated from the response from his body- which was another, equally as captivating reward. Held down with a tightening grip, provided deeper, harder thrusts- it was worth his effort. It was worth every bit of his effort, his attention, and every bit of soreness he'd undoubtedly end up with. The Ascian's body and everything about it- every part of it, his energy, his attention- all of it was for Mettaton to command. To utilize, to take.
And this taking was all he could've wanted. Pushed down and pounded into, immobilized by a heavy metal body and robotic strength along with his own exhaustion further underlining how helpless he'd become. In spirit as well as body, as all he could think of doing now, was to bring his lover to increasing heights of ecstasy, however he could, at whatever cost to his flesh.
Emet-Selch shivers at the sound of his name cried out against his lips. Another reward, and his appreciation of it is returned in a kiss that's almost soft. A gentleness and moment of something like coordination, belying the intensity of the passions underneath; his exhalation is still shaky.
Though already inclined to squeeze around him, Mettaton's direction to only increases Emet-Selch's determination to do so. To tighten around his length for sharp, breathless moments, unable to find any particular pattern in his efforts, only a continuous desire to hold him as tight as he could. Sometimes it was when the glans was at its deepest point, a heavy weight inside him, a stuffing full enough and hot enough to be worth crying out for- but every vocalization he attempted was getting worse, any pause for improvement having less of an effect each time. The sharpness of his breath was all he had for sound, and whispers of Mettaton's name that were scarcely discernible from that.
(For voice and ability to move to be lost... it was a strange thing to desire, to have those aspects ruined, however temporarily. To give them up entirely in the pursuit of pleasure, and to let someone else see him so limited, weakened, made vulnerable, left reliant on Mettaton for support. That it felt simultaneously comforting and thrilling, rather than alarming and distressing was- something he just had to accept about himself.)
And when he squeezed Mettaton when he was full, it was a clear reminder of just how full he truly was- that his body could wrap round something so large and so hard felt remarkable all over again. Just as remarkable was how hard Mettaton was- something that he didn't require being told, but still did something for him to hear expressed, his form wracked with another shudder at this display of just how aroused his lover was, how much he must be aching for him, how much he was wanted. And how could he respond to that knowledge, that feeling, other than by wanting him just as severely? He was desperate for his cock, every drag of it, and he'd keep tightening around him to demonstrate it.
When Mettaton pulled back, he could tighten, stroke his length with a firm hold around him, a wordless plea for him not to leave him empty for too long. And he could also tighten on incoming thrusts, though not as any sort of defense against his intrusion, but so that they could both feel him stretched out in perfect detail as Mettaton pushed back inside, could feel his body give way to him to its strongest degree.
But sometimes Emet-Selch feels overcome enough that he can hardly tighten at all, only holding on with his arms, breathing quickly against lips (any kisses are similarly intermittent, but no less impassioned for them, damp and tinged with aching pleas for him). There was the slide of his erection to consider, and as Mettaton slows in his thrusts, there's times when he's taken by that sensation on its own, of being so deliberately ravished, of knowing that the slickness his lover was thrusting into was primarily come, of how complete he was made when their bodies were joined like this. Every retreat left him with more wanting; every time he was full, he never wanted him to leave. At the same time, Emet-Selch didn't want him to stop either, even if it meant moments of being hollow, aching (he was certain that was what the ache in his body meant) to be stuffed with cock- the stroking they were both being given was worth it. The instances of loss only made the times of complete fullness that much more valuable, worth his most rapt attention.
But it's never too long before he clenches around him again, not because he remembers to (how could he forget), but because he's overcome by the need to. To emphasize his lover's thickness to them both, to squeeze him to some impossible level of stiffness, to massage and coax and pull from him his release. And though sometimes his tightening is more of a gradual increase of pressure, a holding on against Mettaton's movements, at other times it's sharper and briefer, mere moments of clenching as tightly as he could, causing his body to try and writhe and his breath to choke and his grip to tremble.
He did want him- and when he was being fucked like this, there was little else that Emet-Selch could be certain of, other than some absolute awareness of their love, but then- their sex was just a manifestation of that truth.]
no subject
And this taking was all he could've wanted. Pushed down and pounded into, immobilized by a heavy metal body and robotic strength along with his own exhaustion further underlining how helpless he'd become. In spirit as well as body, as all he could think of doing now, was to bring his lover to increasing heights of ecstasy, however he could, at whatever cost to his flesh.
Emet-Selch shivers at the sound of his name cried out against his lips. Another reward, and his appreciation of it is returned in a kiss that's almost soft. A gentleness and moment of something like coordination, belying the intensity of the passions underneath; his exhalation is still shaky.
Though already inclined to squeeze around him, Mettaton's direction to only increases Emet-Selch's determination to do so. To tighten around his length for sharp, breathless moments, unable to find any particular pattern in his efforts, only a continuous desire to hold him as tight as he could. Sometimes it was when the glans was at its deepest point, a heavy weight inside him, a stuffing full enough and hot enough to be worth crying out for- but every vocalization he attempted was getting worse, any pause for improvement having less of an effect each time. The sharpness of his breath was all he had for sound, and whispers of Mettaton's name that were scarcely discernible from that.
(For voice and ability to move to be lost... it was a strange thing to desire, to have those aspects ruined, however temporarily. To give them up entirely in the pursuit of pleasure, and to let someone else see him so limited, weakened, made vulnerable, left reliant on Mettaton for support. That it felt simultaneously comforting and thrilling, rather than alarming and distressing was- something he just had to accept about himself.)
And when he squeezed Mettaton when he was full, it was a clear reminder of just how full he truly was- that his body could wrap round something so large and so hard felt remarkable all over again. Just as remarkable was how hard Mettaton was- something that he didn't require being told, but still did something for him to hear expressed, his form wracked with another shudder at this display of just how aroused his lover was, how much he must be aching for him, how much he was wanted. And how could he respond to that knowledge, that feeling, other than by wanting him just as severely? He was desperate for his cock, every drag of it, and he'd keep tightening around him to demonstrate it.
When Mettaton pulled back, he could tighten, stroke his length with a firm hold around him, a wordless plea for him not to leave him empty for too long. And he could also tighten on incoming thrusts, though not as any sort of defense against his intrusion, but so that they could both feel him stretched out in perfect detail as Mettaton pushed back inside, could feel his body give way to him to its strongest degree.
But sometimes Emet-Selch feels overcome enough that he can hardly tighten at all, only holding on with his arms, breathing quickly against lips (any kisses are similarly intermittent, but no less impassioned for them, damp and tinged with aching pleas for him). There was the slide of his erection to consider, and as Mettaton slows in his thrusts, there's times when he's taken by that sensation on its own, of being so deliberately ravished, of knowing that the slickness his lover was thrusting into was primarily come, of how complete he was made when their bodies were joined like this. Every retreat left him with more wanting; every time he was full, he never wanted him to leave. At the same time, Emet-Selch didn't want him to stop either, even if it meant moments of being hollow, aching (he was certain that was what the ache in his body meant) to be stuffed with cock- the stroking they were both being given was worth it. The instances of loss only made the times of complete fullness that much more valuable, worth his most rapt attention.
But it's never too long before he clenches around him again, not because he remembers to (how could he forget), but because he's overcome by the need to. To emphasize his lover's thickness to them both, to squeeze him to some impossible level of stiffness, to massage and coax and pull from him his release. And though sometimes his tightening is more of a gradual increase of pressure, a holding on against Mettaton's movements, at other times it's sharper and briefer, mere moments of clenching as tightly as he could, causing his body to try and writhe and his breath to choke and his grip to tremble.
He did want him- and when he was being fucked like this, there was little else that Emet-Selch could be certain of, other than some absolute awareness of their love, but then- their sex was just a manifestation of that truth.]