glitzandglamour: (💣193)
Mettaton EX ([personal profile] glitzandglamour) wrote in [personal profile] unsundered 2020-09-21 11:01 pm (UTC)

[As Emet-Selch finds his strength diminishing with each round, succumbing more and more to soreness and finding that even now, his ability to push back into Mettaton's thrusts is lacking, Mettaton has a maintained level of perfect capability: the perks of a robotic form. Sure, his strength temporarily fades after each disorienting release, leaving his consciousness suspended in a sort of intoxicated stupor, but his sense faithfully returns to him quickly and fiercely. He can't stop: his energy and libido push him further and further, and the slavering insatiability is intensified by the presence of two moon-shaped pendants in the room. He takes monstrous to a different dimension like this, in the presence of a man he's so smitten by, so attracted to, especially when combined with his own.

But there's the persisting nag in the back of his head prevalent, a sort of embittered bite that returns to him that can only be satisfied so far by expressions of bodily pleasure and desire. Sure, Emet-Selch shows all of the signs of loving this, loving him: he tries to back his hips into him; he's aroused by him; he tries to cry out, to moan, to succumb and obey Mettaton's body. And all of this is beyond satisfying, and Mettaton finds himself moaning against his neck just from the thought of it all, fingers stroking his hip...

A stroke that turns into a sudden, fierce grip. Nails are used to anchor Emet-Selch close, to give Mettaton a perfect vantage point to thrust into him, and he withdraws his other arm to latch onto his other hip. Claws begin to slowly pierce flesh as Mettaton's manner swings violently, mood following suit.

Emet-Selch's being run ragged... being diminished. Reduced. Worn down. Yet he manages an erection, manages a cry here or there, broken though they may be. Manages to remain with his ass up for Mettaton's use, his body still holding, squeezing, massaging a thick cock while bearing his own, so much pressure concentrated around Emet-Selch's lower body, from his own erection to the one he holds. He manages all of this, but the idol begins to wonder when he'll remember to pay him the compliments he's due, for all of his godly magnificence. He's worth it, and Emet-Selch ought to remember that his reverence is required for his mercy. Lips peel back once more in a snarl as Mettaton begins to feel... agitated.

His voice is low once more, but it's not at all the same sort of sensual purr. It's low and dark, demanding, a warning.]


So... erect as you are... So covetous of my body. You think I'm... attractive. Tell me what captives your heart about... me.

[And as low as his voice is, it's broken, descending gradually, perhaps quickly, into madness. It would be hard to say what his next move would be, depending on how appeased or frustrated he ends up in moments. But for the time being, his temper pauses in its incensing. For the moment, he gives Emet-Selch the space to react.

But only verbally, as his body hastens in thrusts. He strokes his cock furiously, harshly against his lover's body, fingers curling into his hips and pushing Emet-Selch's ass flush with a demanding heat to his hips, giving himself the fullest access to deep, fulfilling thrusts. Massaging his length for his own pleasure, stuffing Emet-Selch full of his erection, never once giving him a break — Mettaton wanted to make sure his lover felt his senses swallowed by him, from the taste of come on his lips to the sound of his voice in his ears; from the filling of come to the burying of his cock; from the sensation of pain to the lull of pleasure.

Mettaton didn't want Emet-Selch to pay attention to anything but him. To them, combined. To his gory, to his devotion. To his beauty and Emet-Selch's dedication to that, to their love and the many products of it, their entwining of body and soul and feeling and smell, how they're everything when they're unified like this. Mettaton pounds into him deeply, small sounds of pleasure rocked from his body with each collision of hips to ass as Mettaton finds a satisfying, if savage, point of pleasure in this rub, in his devolving insanity. Emet-Selch's body tightens and clenches wonderfully, wrapped around his cock like this... And he squeezes so rhythmically from the tip of his glans and rubs down to the base of his cock. Does Emet-Selch know what he does to him? He doesn't think he could ever get enough.

And he wants to hear of Emet-Selch's devotion in turn. Wants to hear again how desperately Emet-Selch wanted his taste, heat, fullness... And wanted to hear how he was beautiful, how Emet-Selch wanted only to feel the Puca lose himself to his body... That he'd live for him, his pleasure, his body. Things he'd already said to him, things his mind plays on repeat like a record, but he wants to hear it. All over again, he wants his lover's voice on soft notes that he can barely manage.

He doesn't just want it, he needs it. He demands it, and he deserves it. Mettaton mouths his neck and shoulder again, teeth always grazing alongside the softness of lips and tongue. Teeth so sharp that the firm fucking Emet-Selch's being treated to would almost be enough to push him into them, to slip them through skin, if not for the way Mettaton steadies his hips with the puncture of thick, dark claws.

On a voice intended to inundate Emet-Selch completely, to captivate his awareness completely, he speaks again, just as low and dark and soft. Patience thinning, conceit mounting, demand increasing, madness ruling, Mettaton pushes himself into his lover some more, curving into him and bringing them closer together. Inescapable.]


Tell me how desperately you crave me.

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