[And again, in all their differences, they were matched. Devotion demanded and exceeded, and demanded again; between them there was no such thing as excess. Everything they wanted they deserved, they should have, every part of Mettaton's wicked desires for his soul left him shuddering in longing for it. Every stolen breath, every beat from his frantic pulse was an encouragement, an inciting, a demand again to take it, to claim all of him for all that he already had him. But there was always more. Mettaton deserved him, and Emet-Selch wanted him. What were constraints?
The only salvation that existed was in their arms.
But their location dissatisfied Emet-Selch.
No one deserved to see Mettaton like this. Even if all watched at an appropriately reverent distance, with the appropriate levels of respect, this darkness was for him to claim. This violence, this love was for him alone. Though their audience would be attempting to memorize every aspect of the perfection demonstrated before them, they would surely feel abject despair at knowing that they could never emulate them. What other response could there be, when looking upon divinity? If they weren't struck blind by the sight, their lives would be forever rendered meaningless, because what hope remained for them, after bearing witness to their union? How could they ever be content, knowing that they'll never achieve even a second's worth of this ecstasy?
But it's not kindness that motivates Emet-Selch to finally act, forcing a glimmer of specific focus amidst dizziness and need, amongst aggression and exhilaration. He has no desire to spare anyone anything. Mettaton may want an audience, but the Ascian was selfish. He refused to allow his eye to stray from him for even an instant, even were it only to drive off anyone who would dare and try and get them to stop.
So he takes the breath he's permitted, loathing his body's requirement for it, tasting blood on his lover's lips, and feeling it at his own throat. It would take barely a thought for the man to tear it open entirely, or to squeeze it shut, and either option would do. Either option seemed wholly plausible should he delay in answer, or were his answer insufficient.
And yet his body acts first, thrusting against the roll of Mettaton's hips, dragging his hardened cock against his thigh, hissing blood against his lover's mouth. His body was trapped and his erection was trapped, and one of those things was far more frustrating than the other. Mettaton needed more hands, he thought, snapping at his lips in his own irritation. It would be unthinkable to let their tied hands be freed, or for his throat to go unthreatened, but he wanted to rub his length all over him as well. And his own freer hand was busy groping over his hip to his thigh, dragging him ever tighter against him.
He bites back a groan by biting Mettaton instead; already, the idol's kissing was threatening to pull him back under, and his body only wanted to be dragged down with him, torn apart and merged with him, staining every surface of them both with every part of their shared essence--]
My love....
[Breathless, his eyes close for a moment; the rare endearment, still affectionate, even tender, yet darker than all else in that instant. Blackened, depthless, insane, gentle. His lips brush against Mettaton's as he speaks; they were all that deserved to exist in this world.]
More than anyone else. No one else will love you like this. No one, no one will see you the way I do.
[And Emet-Selch takes the first, and quite possibly last and only reasonable action: teleporting them from all chance of Mettaton having witnesses to having reached this pinnacle of grace and terror, placing them instead in the middle of his Bonded's finely-appointed room.
Whether he approved or not was beyond him, shoving at his lover with more force now that he was no longer trapped against precarious shelving. If Mettaton's lips were made of anything other than silicone, he would've ripped them open by now, but the way he sinks into them seems to indicate a ruthless attempt to do so regardless. His balance, though, remains in Mettaton's grasp, determined only to not be parted from him.]
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[And again, in all their differences, they were matched. Devotion demanded and exceeded, and demanded again; between them there was no such thing as excess. Everything they wanted they deserved, they should have, every part of Mettaton's wicked desires for his soul left him shuddering in longing for it. Every stolen breath, every beat from his frantic pulse was an encouragement, an inciting, a demand again to take it, to claim all of him for all that he already had him. But there was always more. Mettaton deserved him, and Emet-Selch wanted him. What were constraints?
The only salvation that existed was in their arms.
But their location dissatisfied Emet-Selch.
No one deserved to see Mettaton like this. Even if all watched at an appropriately reverent distance, with the appropriate levels of respect, this darkness was for him to claim. This violence, this love was for him alone. Though their audience would be attempting to memorize every aspect of the perfection demonstrated before them, they would surely feel abject despair at knowing that they could never emulate them. What other response could there be, when looking upon divinity? If they weren't struck blind by the sight, their lives would be forever rendered meaningless, because what hope remained for them, after bearing witness to their union? How could they ever be content, knowing that they'll never achieve even a second's worth of this ecstasy?
But it's not kindness that motivates Emet-Selch to finally act, forcing a glimmer of specific focus amidst dizziness and need, amongst aggression and exhilaration. He has no desire to spare anyone anything. Mettaton may want an audience, but the Ascian was selfish. He refused to allow his eye to stray from him for even an instant, even were it only to drive off anyone who would dare and try and get them to stop.
So he takes the breath he's permitted, loathing his body's requirement for it, tasting blood on his lover's lips, and feeling it at his own throat. It would take barely a thought for the man to tear it open entirely, or to squeeze it shut, and either option would do. Either option seemed wholly plausible should he delay in answer, or were his answer insufficient.
And yet his body acts first, thrusting against the roll of Mettaton's hips, dragging his hardened cock against his thigh, hissing blood against his lover's mouth. His body was trapped and his erection was trapped, and one of those things was far more frustrating than the other. Mettaton needed more hands, he thought, snapping at his lips in his own irritation. It would be unthinkable to let their tied hands be freed, or for his throat to go unthreatened, but he wanted to rub his length all over him as well. And his own freer hand was busy groping over his hip to his thigh, dragging him ever tighter against him.
He bites back a groan by biting Mettaton instead; already, the idol's kissing was threatening to pull him back under, and his body only wanted to be dragged down with him, torn apart and merged with him, staining every surface of them both with every part of their shared essence--]
My love....
[Breathless, his eyes close for a moment; the rare endearment, still affectionate, even tender, yet darker than all else in that instant. Blackened, depthless, insane, gentle. His lips brush against Mettaton's as he speaks; they were all that deserved to exist in this world.]
More than anyone else. No one else will love you like this. No one, no one will see you the way I do.
[And Emet-Selch takes the first, and quite possibly last and only reasonable action: teleporting them from all chance of Mettaton having witnesses to having reached this pinnacle of grace and terror, placing them instead in the middle of his Bonded's finely-appointed room.
Whether he approved or not was beyond him, shoving at his lover with more force now that he was no longer trapped against precarious shelving. If Mettaton's lips were made of anything other than silicone, he would've ripped them open by now, but the way he sinks into them seems to indicate a ruthless attempt to do so regardless. His balance, though, remains in Mettaton's grasp, determined only to not be parted from him.]