[Chest heaving as he breathes, Emet-Selch feels the exploratory way Mettaton's hand inspected his body. The touch of fingers and claws over skin that he knew his lover was well-familiar with by now. They were both knowledgeable of one another's forms, he considered- and that despite their differences in shape and material, they still fit together perfectly. Even if it was mostly the Ascian's body doing the physical accommodation- he could accommodate, he wanted to- to feel every sharp curve and unforgiving plane pressed to his body, inescapable. Even Mettaton's cock- a shapeshifted addition, and therefore more thoroughly organic than anything else- was more frequently hardened than otherwise, a perfect stiffness. Something for him to conform to as well, no matter where it was pressed; he would adapt to him, support him and love him, and he knew Mettaton would never leave him unsatisfied for his devotion. That his lover was no less devoted to him, to his pleasure and safety- and it's a softer thought, something that would accompany a more tender kiss were it physically possible. But the sentiment remains, an affection amidst the heat and lust.
Mettaton was palpating him all over, something that causes a shiver at some points, and a shudder at others, wondering at how even fingers brushing over his abdomen (still bearing mostly-dried come upon it) or hips (marked by claws, the ghost of where his hands had been) was enough to heighten his arousal. It wasn't as though the grind of the idol's erection along with the taste of his come at his lips weren't already enough to keep him hard, now that his body had been given enough time to respond once more to his lover's presence with a stiff cock. Being aroused by him was a natural state, after all, whether his body could keep up with his feelings or not. Even when he wasn't able to match him in hardness- he loved sex with him just as fiercely. And when Mettaton was touching him so nicely, skimming over muscle and the protrusion of bone- there was nothing about the contact that didn't entice.
It's a touch that of course ends up with Mettaton's hand at his ass, groping it. And it's worth another tremble when he feels his ass held, pushed apart, only emphasizing how far Mettaton could press, how thick his cock was, and yet how the Ascian could still hold him all the way to the root. The firm sensation of hips impacting his body provided a confirmation with each thrust, and yet with Mettaton's manipulation of his ass, it was made that much more explicit how exposed he was, how available- that the robot could stuff him down to the base of his erection, and his body would just have to take it.
Take it and love it; even were Emet-Selch not physically aroused, it would've been clear how much he reveled in the sensation of taking a heavy cock, of taking Mettaton in particular between his legs. That he adored the feeling of being shoved down and worn out, his body failing but still a warm place for his lover's erection to slide inside, and that he wanted nothing more than feel him rub himself off this way, while doing all that he could to intensify that feeling.
Mettaton's approval, his appreciation and pleasure only spur him to continue to shift, to tighten as best as he can, no matter the quivering of muscle or the progression of exhaustion that was getting that much harder to deny. Arms and hands bracing themselves against the bed, the Ascian's knees also try to provide what stability they can for him, despite having the whole of his robotic lover mounting him. But having it be a struggle was its own sort of appealing, Emet-Selch thought, in some hazy part of his mind- that he had to fight to shift, to press back, and that all of his effort was in the direction of... being fucked ever harder. Being taken more thoroughly still. Demonstrating his need for his cock, so much so that he would force disagreeable, fading limbs and a sore body to roll back into Mettaton's thrusts regardless.
...It's still a much weaker motion than he would've once been able to manage, and it's not wholly reliable either, his body just- refusing to move sometimes, no matter how much he told it to. More possible to maintain were regular tightenings around Mettaton's cock, hard squeezings of muscle around slick, rigid flesh- and were something he would've had a hard time preventing even if he'd wanted to. Which of course he does not want to, and Emet-Selch loses the occasional breath entirely (which does nothing to improve the strength of his overall condition), just from the sharp intensity of the sensation.
But the more Mettaton mounted him, the fuller the thrusts, the more Emet-Selch tries desperately to meet him, even as it feels as though he sinks further into the bed with every push on his lover's part. A wonderful sensation overall, this weakness... as his limbs continuing to give way were yet another sign of how everything on the Ascian's part would be made to give way, to adapt, to take all that Mettaton could give him. And he wanted him, every shove and grasp, the moans over his shoulder and the threat of teeth- as though his body weren't already well-marked by them.
But then Mettaton's hand drifts lower between his legs, brushing against his stiffened cock in a touch that causes the Ascian's body to jolt in place, to tighten automatically around him with a gasp for breath. A gasp that tries to turn into a moan before failing that as well, his shuddering feeling that much harder with the way he was restrained, pushed against the bed, as though it were compressed to make up for his inability to move. It was attention to his sensitive length that leaves him ever weaker. From the squeeze to the glans, to the handling of his balls- as when Mettaton was prodding over the rest of his body, it felt a particularly vulnerable touch, knowing that it would be impossible for him to hide or hold back any part of himself. No matter how personal or sensitive, every inch of his body was there for him, for his whim- whether it was to bite or scratch or stroke or ignore- it was just part of being possessed. And yet with Mettaton, this vulnerability of self, of body and heart was- wanted. Desirable in a way that he could only express though these physical responses, or through the desperate affection conveyed through Bond, a yearning for more than his cock (but also his cock). He shudders; gives another hoarse noise in some version of crying out.
Though when Mettaton lets go of his erection, leaving it to get what stimulation it could from the bed alone, Emet-Selch couldn't feel too much in the way of regret. Because his lover was entirely right: he could climax from the sensation of being full of him on its own. As much as he loved Mettaton's touch dancing across his own heavy length- whether he was stroking or sucking him, or otherwise pulling at his cock- there was a different sort of pleasure in knowing that it was technically unnecessary for him to get off. Holding Mettaton's erection inside his body, dwelling on its shape, how engorged he could render it, from the swollen tip to the thickness of the shaft, all the way to hips that push against his body, reminding him of his depth, how far they could be joined together... that was all he required.]
no subject
Mettaton was palpating him all over, something that causes a shiver at some points, and a shudder at others, wondering at how even fingers brushing over his abdomen (still bearing mostly-dried come upon it) or hips (marked by claws, the ghost of where his hands had been) was enough to heighten his arousal. It wasn't as though the grind of the idol's erection along with the taste of his come at his lips weren't already enough to keep him hard, now that his body had been given enough time to respond once more to his lover's presence with a stiff cock. Being aroused by him was a natural state, after all, whether his body could keep up with his feelings or not. Even when he wasn't able to match him in hardness- he loved sex with him just as fiercely. And when Mettaton was touching him so nicely, skimming over muscle and the protrusion of bone- there was nothing about the contact that didn't entice.
It's a touch that of course ends up with Mettaton's hand at his ass, groping it. And it's worth another tremble when he feels his ass held, pushed apart, only emphasizing how far Mettaton could press, how thick his cock was, and yet how the Ascian could still hold him all the way to the root. The firm sensation of hips impacting his body provided a confirmation with each thrust, and yet with Mettaton's manipulation of his ass, it was made that much more explicit how exposed he was, how available- that the robot could stuff him down to the base of his erection, and his body would just have to take it.
Take it and love it; even were Emet-Selch not physically aroused, it would've been clear how much he reveled in the sensation of taking a heavy cock, of taking Mettaton in particular between his legs. That he adored the feeling of being shoved down and worn out, his body failing but still a warm place for his lover's erection to slide inside, and that he wanted nothing more than feel him rub himself off this way, while doing all that he could to intensify that feeling.
Mettaton's approval, his appreciation and pleasure only spur him to continue to shift, to tighten as best as he can, no matter the quivering of muscle or the progression of exhaustion that was getting that much harder to deny. Arms and hands bracing themselves against the bed, the Ascian's knees also try to provide what stability they can for him, despite having the whole of his robotic lover mounting him. But having it be a struggle was its own sort of appealing, Emet-Selch thought, in some hazy part of his mind- that he had to fight to shift, to press back, and that all of his effort was in the direction of... being fucked ever harder. Being taken more thoroughly still. Demonstrating his need for his cock, so much so that he would force disagreeable, fading limbs and a sore body to roll back into Mettaton's thrusts regardless.
...It's still a much weaker motion than he would've once been able to manage, and it's not wholly reliable either, his body just- refusing to move sometimes, no matter how much he told it to. More possible to maintain were regular tightenings around Mettaton's cock, hard squeezings of muscle around slick, rigid flesh- and were something he would've had a hard time preventing even if he'd wanted to. Which of course he does not want to, and Emet-Selch loses the occasional breath entirely (which does nothing to improve the strength of his overall condition), just from the sharp intensity of the sensation.
But the more Mettaton mounted him, the fuller the thrusts, the more Emet-Selch tries desperately to meet him, even as it feels as though he sinks further into the bed with every push on his lover's part. A wonderful sensation overall, this weakness... as his limbs continuing to give way were yet another sign of how everything on the Ascian's part would be made to give way, to adapt, to take all that Mettaton could give him. And he wanted him, every shove and grasp, the moans over his shoulder and the threat of teeth- as though his body weren't already well-marked by them.
But then Mettaton's hand drifts lower between his legs, brushing against his stiffened cock in a touch that causes the Ascian's body to jolt in place, to tighten automatically around him with a gasp for breath. A gasp that tries to turn into a moan before failing that as well, his shuddering feeling that much harder with the way he was restrained, pushed against the bed, as though it were compressed to make up for his inability to move. It was attention to his sensitive length that leaves him ever weaker. From the squeeze to the glans, to the handling of his balls- as when Mettaton was prodding over the rest of his body, it felt a particularly vulnerable touch, knowing that it would be impossible for him to hide or hold back any part of himself. No matter how personal or sensitive, every inch of his body was there for him, for his whim- whether it was to bite or scratch or stroke or ignore- it was just part of being possessed. And yet with Mettaton, this vulnerability of self, of body and heart was- wanted. Desirable in a way that he could only express though these physical responses, or through the desperate affection conveyed through Bond, a yearning for more than his cock (but also his cock). He shudders; gives another hoarse noise in some version of crying out.
Though when Mettaton lets go of his erection, leaving it to get what stimulation it could from the bed alone, Emet-Selch couldn't feel too much in the way of regret. Because his lover was entirely right: he could climax from the sensation of being full of him on its own. As much as he loved Mettaton's touch dancing across his own heavy length- whether he was stroking or sucking him, or otherwise pulling at his cock- there was a different sort of pleasure in knowing that it was technically unnecessary for him to get off. Holding Mettaton's erection inside his body, dwelling on its shape, how engorged he could render it, from the swollen tip to the thickness of the shaft, all the way to hips that push against his body, reminding him of his depth, how far they could be joined together... that was all he required.]