[Danger was in the air, and it was carried by Mettaton's voice.
It was building there, along with pleasure itself. Feeding off of it, off of him- as though the robot were draining it from Emet-Selch and taking it as his own as well, as though he could replenish himself from the Ascian's body, rather than merely sate himself temporarily in it. And that there was a logical explanation for these abrupt veerings towards madness- pendants, blood-stained jewelry- is something that exists in the back of his mind, but unreachable. Only feelings remained: that Mettaton's reactions were explicable, and justified. To someone in possession of such viciousness and beauty, the only one with the right to mount and fuck him like this, dark and terrible and magnificent in it all- why shouldn't he be relentless in his demands to hear it expressed? Why would saying it only once be enough to sustain him?
(In some other corner of his mind, Emet-Selch might wonder if Mettaton had managed to impossibly temper him after all; those thusly stained by their god exist thereafter only to serve and to praise, all other desires diminished to naught. And their most beloved deity requires this worship. Is fed by it, strengthened by it; the tempered's purpose in life was only to provide this sustenance at any cost.
Emet-Selch was thoroughly stained by now, in come and blood and spit. In exhaustion, choked and torn. Worn away to nothing, of course the result would be his unerring devotion.)
Claws dig into his hip, as rigid as the cock pounding his body, and as inescapable. Mettaton's voice followed, as captivating as it ever was, if on a far darker note. The kind of tone to leave him shivering, and not wholly in pleasure and arousal- the kind of shiver that spoke of dangerously building tension, to a change in air pressure, a threat immanent. But even this was beautiful, in its stark, descending madness, something he longed to be torn apart by. The more his body faltered, the more he felt Mettaton's darkness closing in, the more he knew it not as an embrace of warmth and comfort, but something colored in savagery and chaos. His lover's mood was plunging, and Emet-Selch knew, he knew that the only way to stave off Mettaton's wrath, his righteous fury, was to speak of him, with the words he deserved, with the sincerity in his heart reflected in his broken voice. What else would be enough? Even that would barely suffice, even when paired with the sacrifice of his body.
Mettaton pushed harder, and Emet-Selch could feel the sharpness of teeth against sweaty, bruised skin, held back from tearing into him with something that could scarcely be called restraint. The Ascian's thoughts were scattered, distorted, fragments of things he'd already said, fragments of other things Mettaton deserved to hear. There was... so much to express, he realized. Everything that he loved about him, things that shook his heart to understand, even when faced with his lover's swiftly mounting impatience. It was a clarity of feeling that he could do nothing with, the only result a feeling of strange despair.
It didn't matter; incoherency would have to do, and with lips parted from panting, he forces more than breath through his wounded throat.
...But nothing came.
Nothing like words, anyway. Nothing like speech. Raspy, almost guttural noises that weren't distinguishable from much of anything. He'd used his voice too much the last time; Emet-Selch would need more time than this for it to recover.
It's something he realizes, but has little capacity to comprehend right away, as he gasps out something no more useful as his body continues to fail, to collapse. The harder Mettaton moved, grinding his erection so deeply into him, slamming his hips against his ass- the more his feeble attempts to brace himself failed, limbs driven into the bed, unable to support himself. Nor was he able to push back with his own hips any longer- not with any sort of energy that could be distinguished from the force Mettaton could exert on him.
He was desperate for him: that much was true. But he had little way of expressing it, was left trembling as he absorbs every thrust, exhausted and wanting, thoughts solely on him, on every movement, every sound, every feeling he sought to inflict on him, no matter how raw or furious. Even insane, this was Mettaton, and he loved this too.]
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It was building there, along with pleasure itself. Feeding off of it, off of him- as though the robot were draining it from Emet-Selch and taking it as his own as well, as though he could replenish himself from the Ascian's body, rather than merely sate himself temporarily in it. And that there was a logical explanation for these abrupt veerings towards madness- pendants, blood-stained jewelry- is something that exists in the back of his mind, but unreachable. Only feelings remained: that Mettaton's reactions were explicable, and justified. To someone in possession of such viciousness and beauty, the only one with the right to mount and fuck him like this, dark and terrible and magnificent in it all- why shouldn't he be relentless in his demands to hear it expressed? Why would saying it only once be enough to sustain him?
(In some other corner of his mind, Emet-Selch might wonder if Mettaton had managed to impossibly temper him after all; those thusly stained by their god exist thereafter only to serve and to praise, all other desires diminished to naught. And their most beloved deity requires this worship. Is fed by it, strengthened by it; the tempered's purpose in life was only to provide this sustenance at any cost.
Emet-Selch was thoroughly stained by now, in come and blood and spit. In exhaustion, choked and torn. Worn away to nothing, of course the result would be his unerring devotion.)
Claws dig into his hip, as rigid as the cock pounding his body, and as inescapable. Mettaton's voice followed, as captivating as it ever was, if on a far darker note. The kind of tone to leave him shivering, and not wholly in pleasure and arousal- the kind of shiver that spoke of dangerously building tension, to a change in air pressure, a threat immanent. But even this was beautiful, in its stark, descending madness, something he longed to be torn apart by. The more his body faltered, the more he felt Mettaton's darkness closing in, the more he knew it not as an embrace of warmth and comfort, but something colored in savagery and chaos. His lover's mood was plunging, and Emet-Selch knew, he knew that the only way to stave off Mettaton's wrath, his righteous fury, was to speak of him, with the words he deserved, with the sincerity in his heart reflected in his broken voice. What else would be enough? Even that would barely suffice, even when paired with the sacrifice of his body.
Mettaton pushed harder, and Emet-Selch could feel the sharpness of teeth against sweaty, bruised skin, held back from tearing into him with something that could scarcely be called restraint. The Ascian's thoughts were scattered, distorted, fragments of things he'd already said, fragments of other things Mettaton deserved to hear. There was... so much to express, he realized. Everything that he loved about him, things that shook his heart to understand, even when faced with his lover's swiftly mounting impatience. It was a clarity of feeling that he could do nothing with, the only result a feeling of strange despair.
It didn't matter; incoherency would have to do, and with lips parted from panting, he forces more than breath through his wounded throat.
...But nothing came.
Nothing like words, anyway. Nothing like speech. Raspy, almost guttural noises that weren't distinguishable from much of anything. He'd used his voice too much the last time; Emet-Selch would need more time than this for it to recover.
It's something he realizes, but has little capacity to comprehend right away, as he gasps out something no more useful as his body continues to fail, to collapse. The harder Mettaton moved, grinding his erection so deeply into him, slamming his hips against his ass- the more his feeble attempts to brace himself failed, limbs driven into the bed, unable to support himself. Nor was he able to push back with his own hips any longer- not with any sort of energy that could be distinguished from the force Mettaton could exert on him.
He was desperate for him: that much was true. But he had little way of expressing it, was left trembling as he absorbs every thrust, exhausted and wanting, thoughts solely on him, on every movement, every sound, every feeling he sought to inflict on him, no matter how raw or furious. Even insane, this was Mettaton, and he loved this too.]