[Oversensitive and too quickly aroused, Mettaton gasps and moans at his lover's first squeezes around his length. The first is deep and firm, squeezing and pulsing around a cock that just feels overfull, two forces of pressure against each other that made his erection feel as though it would just have to give in, to spill over instantly. But it doesn't; and when Emet-Selch relaxes again, his ache is immense.
That sudden pressure remembered in his groin has his thrusts firming, stroking his cock desperately on Emet-Selch's body in bid for another squeeze. Using him, rubbing his length for relief and release, desperate to feel that pleasurable squeeze and obsessed with the addiction of orgasm. Emet-Selch squeezes again: this time, he can feel him clench mid-way up his shaft, and it's another rapturous moan from the Puca. He's positive that as he slides back inside, Emet-Selch will be able to feel him in immense definition, just as he can feel his lover's body made to part for the sloped head of him... That in itself is worthy of another moan. Squeezing, pulling, taking: it felt as though sinking his cock into Emet-Selch's body would mean he couldn't leave him, and the sensation was so immense that he wouldn't want to.
As Emet-Selch's voice diminishes, Mettaton's strengthens. Slick, hot, tight: Emet-Selch was the perfect vessel for his cock, a perfect fuck, clenching down on him every time he was full of thick, rigid flesh, and Mettaton wants to commend him for being so hot, so attractive, so beautiful in reds and purples and so good of a fuck, making a long humming sound against his palate as he kisses him in place of word formation.
Maddened, frenzied. Mettaton can't remember how many times he's done this today. He can't remember where they were, and he can barely think at all. He feels like he's in the right place, though. In his lover's arms that tighten where his body aches and fails, allowing him the push and pull of his erection with complete ease; his body's slicked by come, loads of it that he knows he's planted in his body. So many loads that his head is dizzy with thoughts and memories of it dripping down thighs, with the desire to see that result and to taste it, his own come rich and thick; he envisions vividly shoving his tongue into his lover's mouth to make him taste the result of squeezing his thick cock, the amount of ejaculate minuscule compared to the amount held by his body. But there was right now to fixate upon, barely giving Mettaton much of a chance for thought. All he knows is that he aches terribly, and each time he's squeezed is a balm. A balm he needs more and more of, a pace he needs to hasten to rub himself perfectly...
He finds a spot divine. Mettaton's eye widens, his kiss interrupted by a gasp, stroking his own cock just right on his lover's body with short, firm rubbing against his glans in a spot so slick. A body that clenches around his cock so hard that it does pull a scream from Mettaton's throat, pure and rapturous and loud, blinding and deafening as he throws his head back, writhing and thrusting madly. The ultimate flattery: Emet-Selch clenching around his heavy cock and trying to claim his body that way. Paired with this outlet for primal desire, it's one he needs to take advantage of to its fullest: the Monster finds himself craving his lover's blood again, and he doesn't know how to tell himself no to anything.
(Hard to fathom the limitations of a body so soft and giving when he can't think past his own pleasure to begin with; if Emet-Selch ached, he couldn't feel it beyond his own ache, and he couldn't fathom how worn, how sore he'd really be. (Even if he were aching from pain and soreness, it's all to serve him, and he's worthy.))
Teeth sink into his shoulder, overlapping with a bite from earlier. But a gush of blood spurts into his mouth, and Mettaton screams again into that bite, forced to let go and melt into his shoulder in the purity of his lust. He can't think: he tastes magic, feels pleasure, pressure, ache, reverie, and he feels seismic intensity.
He feels loved and tended to, pampered and treated to the highest of stimulation. A treatment worthy of him, he thought: his lover continues to apply pressure to his erection just when he needs it most, and it feels distinctly as though he's coaxing him toward climax, a sort of rub that originates at his base and slides along the shaft of his cock until his lover's body wraps around the glans. Each time, he cries out, but he never stops his frantic rhythm. With fresh blood on his lips, heat seeps from him as he nuzzles his blood-and-come-covered lover.]
Yes...! You're... like this, Hades... Feel me, I'm so—
[Hard again; or, perhaps, close. Definitely close. He thought he'd already came, but the heat of his lover's body, the come he still held, all of it overwhelms him. But he feels the distinct sensation of renewed heat, as though his cock were leaking with ejaculate, preparing him for his impending release even as he strokes himself to more intense rigidity along his body.
His lover grips down on his length so firmly that he does notice, however, his grip trembling. Faltering. But it's quickly disrupted by the sudden flood of come that spills from the slit of him, overwhelming the robot and catching him off guard as climax hits him head-on, forcing Mettaton to cry out against the other man's shoulder as he pounds into him. It's pure luxurious relief that he feels, a sort of divine pleasure exalted by the squeeze of his lover's body around his cock, the knowledge that he was depositing another thick, heavy load into his body.
When he tries to call out, it's in the form of something like "ohhh" and "hades", or a fusion of the two. He'd done everything he asked, and the result is pounding hips, the stroking of the glans against his body, a frenetic, ardent love and feverish need for him to please him, and another treatment of Mettaton curling firmly into his lover's body, as though holding him close and personal for him to deposit his release.]
no subject
That sudden pressure remembered in his groin has his thrusts firming, stroking his cock desperately on Emet-Selch's body in bid for another squeeze. Using him, rubbing his length for relief and release, desperate to feel that pleasurable squeeze and obsessed with the addiction of orgasm. Emet-Selch squeezes again: this time, he can feel him clench mid-way up his shaft, and it's another rapturous moan from the Puca. He's positive that as he slides back inside, Emet-Selch will be able to feel him in immense definition, just as he can feel his lover's body made to part for the sloped head of him... That in itself is worthy of another moan. Squeezing, pulling, taking: it felt as though sinking his cock into Emet-Selch's body would mean he couldn't leave him, and the sensation was so immense that he wouldn't want to.
As Emet-Selch's voice diminishes, Mettaton's strengthens. Slick, hot, tight: Emet-Selch was the perfect vessel for his cock, a perfect fuck, clenching down on him every time he was full of thick, rigid flesh, and Mettaton wants to commend him for being so hot, so attractive, so beautiful in reds and purples and so good of a fuck, making a long humming sound against his palate as he kisses him in place of word formation.
Maddened, frenzied. Mettaton can't remember how many times he's done this today. He can't remember where they were, and he can barely think at all. He feels like he's in the right place, though. In his lover's arms that tighten where his body aches and fails, allowing him the push and pull of his erection with complete ease; his body's slicked by come, loads of it that he knows he's planted in his body. So many loads that his head is dizzy with thoughts and memories of it dripping down thighs, with the desire to see that result and to taste it, his own come rich and thick; he envisions vividly shoving his tongue into his lover's mouth to make him taste the result of squeezing his thick cock, the amount of ejaculate minuscule compared to the amount held by his body. But there was right now to fixate upon, barely giving Mettaton much of a chance for thought. All he knows is that he aches terribly, and each time he's squeezed is a balm. A balm he needs more and more of, a pace he needs to hasten to rub himself perfectly...
He finds a spot divine. Mettaton's eye widens, his kiss interrupted by a gasp, stroking his own cock just right on his lover's body with short, firm rubbing against his glans in a spot so slick. A body that clenches around his cock so hard that it does pull a scream from Mettaton's throat, pure and rapturous and loud, blinding and deafening as he throws his head back, writhing and thrusting madly. The ultimate flattery: Emet-Selch clenching around his heavy cock and trying to claim his body that way. Paired with this outlet for primal desire, it's one he needs to take advantage of to its fullest: the Monster finds himself craving his lover's blood again, and he doesn't know how to tell himself no to anything.
(Hard to fathom the limitations of a body so soft and giving when he can't think past his own pleasure to begin with; if Emet-Selch ached, he couldn't feel it beyond his own ache, and he couldn't fathom how worn, how sore he'd really be. (Even if he were aching from pain and soreness, it's all to serve him, and he's worthy.))
Teeth sink into his shoulder, overlapping with a bite from earlier. But a gush of blood spurts into his mouth, and Mettaton screams again into that bite, forced to let go and melt into his shoulder in the purity of his lust. He can't think: he tastes magic, feels pleasure, pressure, ache, reverie, and he feels seismic intensity.
He feels loved and tended to, pampered and treated to the highest of stimulation. A treatment worthy of him, he thought: his lover continues to apply pressure to his erection just when he needs it most, and it feels distinctly as though he's coaxing him toward climax, a sort of rub that originates at his base and slides along the shaft of his cock until his lover's body wraps around the glans. Each time, he cries out, but he never stops his frantic rhythm. With fresh blood on his lips, heat seeps from him as he nuzzles his blood-and-come-covered lover.]
Yes...! You're... like this, Hades... Feel me, I'm so—
[Hard again; or, perhaps, close. Definitely close. He thought he'd already came, but the heat of his lover's body, the come he still held, all of it overwhelms him. But he feels the distinct sensation of renewed heat, as though his cock were leaking with ejaculate, preparing him for his impending release even as he strokes himself to more intense rigidity along his body.
His lover grips down on his length so firmly that he does notice, however, his grip trembling. Faltering. But it's quickly disrupted by the sudden flood of come that spills from the slit of him, overwhelming the robot and catching him off guard as climax hits him head-on, forcing Mettaton to cry out against the other man's shoulder as he pounds into him. It's pure luxurious relief that he feels, a sort of divine pleasure exalted by the squeeze of his lover's body around his cock, the knowledge that he was depositing another thick, heavy load into his body.
When he tries to call out, it's in the form of something like "ohhh" and "hades", or a fusion of the two. He'd done everything he asked, and the result is pounding hips, the stroking of the glans against his body, a frenetic, ardent love and feverish need for him to please him, and another treatment of Mettaton curling firmly into his lover's body, as though holding him close and personal for him to deposit his release.]