[That confidence was appealing, even when it annoyed. And that specific sort of emotional forthrightness- he could respect that and respond to it, even when it overwhelmed. That openness about what he desired was something Emet-Selch almost envied. The ability to live in the present, as though that were something worth doing....
As a single scratch could invite infection, so too did affection fester. Why should a simple touch to his face, feeling the path Mettaton's fingers walked with unnatural clarity, mean anything at all? Once the shell of indifference and apathy was gone, he had a weakness to attention like that. The Ascian was a sentimental sort.
The curse of the Bond was knowing it was genuine; this wasn't some trick or ploy; even if it were meaningless, everything Mettaton was offering was real. And Emet-Selch is unnerved anew at how much he did want that, to claim those feelings as though he had any right to them.
The kiss comes as something of an inevitability, but no worse for being anticipated. As he leans into it with the smallest of sighs, he feels his lip caught, the sense of deliberation and care in the other man's gestures. And that it took no effort at all for Emet-Selch to affix his attention on him, to respond in kind. To trail his tongue along Mettaton's lower lip before he replies.]
...I suppose you have, at that.
[He couldn't have been so open with him, before or now, without losing something in the process. Without being taken from. Because that's what it was, wasn't it- inviting loss, and hurt, to be carved up that little bit more for the sake of some temporary solace. Even the idea of being remembered sends a pang through him, a whisper of unhappy tension. How cruel, to offer something so impossible, yet so wanted....
His leg was improving by degrees, but even had it been completely well, Emet-Selch wouldn't have reacted otherwise to that squeeze to his hip, its suggested direction. Without letting himself be pulled from Mettaton's lips, he edges backward until he feels the back of his legs hit the side of his bed. Even then he hesitates to move from him, sitting down and half-trying to pull him with, somehow. Hands skimming along Mettaton's arms, his murmur has a harsher note to it.]
If so, you had better take everything, then. I despise half-measures.
[Being practically dragged down with him is wholly expected and entirely not, and Mettaton's brow quirks in time with the corner of his smile. ...And he's going to make it work, too.
Instead of sitting by his side, the Puca slides a knee at either side of Emet-Selch's hips, at first resulting in Emet-Selch being even with his torso. But he bends at the waist and curves his back, stroking his hands down Emet-Selch's hair and settling them on either side of his neck with a gentle grip. He brings their faces close, his long ears leaning forward in interest for his Bondmate, who he feels so taken by, so much more than he ever thought possible. It's inspiring: it enhances his every sense, the sheer feeling alone, as if developing them for real wasn't enough. He can feel clearer than ever the depth of Emet-Selch's feelings as though he's above their surface, all too aware of how his Bonded's conflicted emotions ran heavy.
For now, at least, he can tell where he ends and Emet-Selch begins. Mettaton himself feels alive, electric, a sort of restless energy akin to butterflies, and... acknowledged. Recognized, beyond just his desires. But on that note, to take everything from his Bonded... What would that leave behind? He wants to find out, but more than that, he wants, pure and simple.
When might they start feeling each other? That's been a trend, hasn't it? It turns out that Bonds either develop faster than Mettaton anticipated, or theirs was a peculiar connection. And how severe would it develop? It's exciting enough to make him shiver, while being equally dreadful.
The edge of Emet-Selch's voice causes him to lose his words, and he closes his eye in a breathless sigh.]
Demanding, are we...? You'll be pleased to know. I don't settle for second best... and I don't leave things half-finished.
[His hands on either side of his neck, Mettaton eagerly steals him up in a kiss, never anything but the full extent of his desire. His fingers press into the back of Emet-Selch's neck, his libidinous nature stoked so quickly that it's enough to make him feel like the past minutes were spent in aching tension, as though he's wanted him all along. His mind starts conjuring up the ways he wants Emet-Selch, both possible and impossible ā impossible always being the ways he can't take him for himself.
Deeply frustrating, but he'll put it all aside to focus on this. Right now, as he pushes his tongue between lips, appreciating their softness and his Bonded's warmth, though he's perhaps warmer yet. It's hard to beat out a machine with temperatures that beat out feverish.]
[There's a low, pleased-sounding hum from the Ascian at the choice of Mettaton's position, the touch of his hands, the nearness of his face- taking in everything that he could of him. And Emet-Selch sank down willingly into that feeling, as though he could bury himself under the weight of it, and use it to retreat from the rest of the world.
Mettaton's words, his voice, send a rush of heat running through him, a sense of satisfaction with it. Even though Emet-Selch expected nothing else by this point, it seemed that neither of them were the sort to do anything by halves. Even in gentleness there was intensity, and he had a similar thought as to their Bond; there was still much further it could go, and what would that feel like, considering the strength of everything already?
Would it even be possible to hold back, if he tried? He was either giving himself to this, to him, or he was not; there was no partial answer.
And he remained surprised at how quickly, how easily his body responded to Mettaton's advances- at his nearness alone, even. Emet-Selch's interest had ever been limited, further dampened by depression and smothered by lethargy. Perhaps it was the directness, or openness of this connection- that yearning for emotional closeness finding some physical avenue for expression. Whatever the cause, Mettaton provoked it so thoroughly that the sudden intensity of that want has him lightheaded and completely hard.
It wasn't a normal warmth, but he'd take it, lips parting to take the other's tongue, sliding his own back against Mettaton's with a stifled noise, a quick breath. Even if it reached a point of burning, Emet-Selch doubted that he'd have an easy time pulling away. His hand moves up to Mettaton's face, his thumb grazing the corner of the other's lips where their mouths met, the tips of his fingers trailing over the idol's cheek.
Though it's gently that his other hand rubs along Mettaton's hip, gently that he cups his face and moans softly into their kiss, it all belied his own frustrated want. Though the Ascian had begun his studies for transfiguration, he was still a beginner; there was nothing he could do for them yet. It was hard not to give voice to that desire, to swallow back all the ways he wanted to claim him. What he could offer in turn, if Mettaton could only take it.
But there was still the taste of his mouth, the eagerness that he could feel and respond to, the fingers at his neck encouraging him to remain where he was (as though he had any desire to pull back, even for air). Though Emet-Selch hadn't expected Mettaton's visit to go this way- not with a discussion that began with the end times and potentials for godhood, and included a disagreement on the wonders of humanity- he wasn't entirely surprised either.]
[The power of their collective appetite washes over Mettaton so strongly that he can only sigh into their kiss in return, not with any air but with sound, smooth and light on his velvety, unregulated tone. He feels like he's melting, his limbs slackening, and one of his hands moves to rest upon Emet-Selch's shoulder instead of his neck to bear some of his weight, as if he feared he'd fall into the other man with how overcome he is. No longer is this a new experience, but it remains fascinating and desirable all the same, and more enticing than the first if not to discover how far he could go... And that delights, more than he could express.
Mettaton pulls from the kiss just enough to examine the Ascian's face, a momentary break to take in the features he wants to be kissing, a chance to see how he looks as a point of reference for later. It's a sudden whim, but Mettaton's expression grows severe, sharp and evaluating in its attention to detail. To remember him now means comparing him to later, when he's flushed and lovebitten. The hue of his cheeks, the look in his eyes, the flush of his lips, the keep of his hair... None of it goes unchecked, and it's one of the more robotic things this non-robot would do.
How would Emet-Selch look minutes from now? How about after he's through with him? He's immediately hooked on the thought, desperate to see him exposed in this new light. Though Mettaton's expression is intense in the passion of his assessment, his legs tremble slightly against the mattress against his will, a fault of having muscle instead of pure metal.
And he says nothing about it, but he finally smirks.]
...Your eyes never fail to make me weak, beautiful.
[And though he's thinking of other things, it's the truth. He fancies the Ascian's gaze, found it to be one of the most defining traits he left the cell with of his soon-to-be Bonded. For being a ghost in the machine, Mettaton is awfully attracted to the physical form of things, even when he's so capable of separating their concepts.
With some of his composure regained, the hand he kept on his shoulder slides to the other man's shirt. If there are layers he'll have to use both hands, but no matter how it goes, he doesn't want anything keeping him from his chest. With unusually practiced dexterity for a robot who doesn't need to wear clothes, he unfastens closure after closure with one hand, humming with his work as he goes back to take Emet-Selch into a deep kiss, tasting him and leaning into him with the threat of pushing him over. He takes easy control, clearly driven toward something, a deep passion building within him.]
[Any added pressure from Mettaton is only a good thing as far as Emet-Selch is concerned, appreciating the sensation of being borne down on slightly, the clear effect they were having on one another. So when the kiss ends and the Ascian finds himself only stared at, his first response is to simply blink at him.
A note of skepticism enters his expression at being so closely observed, a look of habit, rather than actual feeling; he didn't know what Mettaton was searching for, but he didn't mind being considered, if for unknown reason. And it was interesting in itself to see the idol with that particular focus; it wasn't an expression he thought he'd seen before, and he watches him back just as shamelessly, waiting. Apart from his breathing being a touch elevated, his manner carrying an edge of anticipated desire, a sharper attentiveness amid permanent exhaustion, Emet-Selch looks relatively normal, thus far.
And he frowns back at that smirk, that line; though he refrains from asking, he still comments.]
So glad you found something to approve of.
[He sighs with no real exasperation into that kiss, even as he finds himself distracted by it, falling into it. His teeth graze across Mettaton's tongue, his lips, a drag of pressure rather than any bite. He could feel that hint of a quiver to the other man's legs, as more of a small vibration against the mattress, and he's drawn to drag a hand across his thigh at the sensation.
And with his shirts being opened, Emet-Selch doesn't try to help quite as much as the first time, letting Mettaton handle the fastenings on his own. He still uses the opportunity to stroke over his hands and arms, small touches to anything he could reach, ending the kiss with a shakier breath, only to press his lips along Mettaton's jaw, trailing to the top of his throat. As he feels skin hit air, he can't help but shiver, just from the change in temperature; his room tended towards the cold.
The reflex from being leaned into was to try and brace himself against the mattress with an arm, to hold himself up amid mounting pressure. But after a moment's deliberation, the Ascian relents, latching back onto Mettaton instead, allowing himself to be pushed back if he chose to.]
[It's a perfect observation, then. A flawless point of reference, a very normal Emet-Selch complete with his control and a frown to boot, but still paying Mettaton the amount of attention he approves of. He's eager to put this to use.
It's hard not to get distracted by what Emet-Selch treats him to, both within their kiss and beyond it. As feedback, feeling his hands wander his body forces him into deepening his kiss for longer with a short noise of pleasure from his throat, pressing harder, not allowing him to break it until he can have his fill. It surprises him how a mere stroke of his hips and his thighs can make him shudder, forcing him to squirm and readjust his body to handle the sensation. The feeling of teeth in his kiss makes him more amorous and intense, and before he could possibly permit his Bonded from changing focus and treating his jaw, he catches him in one last kiss, biting and sucking at his lower lip before releasing him.
MTT still smirks yet. But through their ever intensifying connection of a Bond, it's easy to tell that sensation of this quality remains new and alluring, if not overwhelming... But it's easy to tell that the idol thrives in being overwhelmed. Even the softest of touches sends sparks through his system and makes him want more, something just as sweet or something harder or more intense, he can never decide which. Would he ever get over this, when he's only craved it for so long?
His eyelid's heavy, and he bears his neck to Emet-Selch as he finishes undoing his shirts (of which there are multiple, requiring both hands). He hums, pleased by the initiative.
Emet-Selch shivers. MTT pushes, and he holds onto him in turn, ultimately allowing Mettaton to call the shots. Mettaton doesn't quite push him all the way back yet, but he smiles softly at him as he looms above him.]
You shiver... Is it cold in here?
[He can't tell. He imagines he'd be able to if Emet-Selch's skin were to accustom to the air about them and if he were to use his mouth, but he's otherwise clueless.
In the meantime, Mettaton takes the opportunity to press him into the bed, though he keeps close to allow Emet-Selch the ability to continue working on his neck. Almost as though he likes it, which he does. One of his hands greedily pushes his clothes open, dragging his hand up his abdomen and across his chest with varying pressure, all deliberate and curious. His hand lingers over his heart, his thumb stroking at his skin as Mettaton sighs again, smitten.]
[Even as he licks over his neck, Emet-Selch can feel the memory of Mettaton's lips closing over his own, the firmness of teeth. Something that has his exhalation against the idol's throat shaking, despite it being such a relatively small note, not unfamiliar. Even more alluring was the way he could feel Mettaton shudder and shift over him, encouraging his hands to return to the man's thighs. Palms running firmly along their length, his fingers turn to kneading, feeling for that suggestion of muscle that he remembered from before.
Why was the threat (or promise) of being pressed down nearly as enticing as the action itself? Each moment carried its own anticipatory edge to it, a blend of expectation and desire, and he felt a little off-balance in more than just position. At the question, Emet-Selch tilts his head back just enough to allow his gaze to flicker back up to Mettaton's face, still oddly caught between moments. As though trapped in mid-air, waiting for gravity (or more accurately, Mettaton), to finish crushing him.]
Somewhat. 'Tis good you can't feel it.
[Because then he'd have to consider keeping his room at a more appropriate temperature. But if Mettaton didn't notice, and the Ascian didn't care, then there was no point in bothering.
Finally, time resumes as Emet-Selch feels his back hit the covers, Mettaton's body remaining satisfyingly close, appreciating that he doesn't have to stretch too far to bury his face against the idol's neck again. Closing his lips around the semi-skin of his throat, he sucks a slow line along it, finding it a pity he couldn't really mark him in the same way. But the contact, even the texture remained good.
And hands on skin were much preferable to hands on clothes, setting the Ascian shivering anew, but at touch this time. His muscles contract wherever fingers press, wondering distantly if he were actually more sensitive, or just more attuned to anything Mettaton chose to focus on.]
[As though the result of being wired to respond specifically to Emet-Selch's method of teasing, Mettaton's trembling intensifies until he buckles under the pressure of it with a sharp exhale and a whine, newly breathless. In response to what? Yes. It's his sucking against his neck, the feeling of Emet-Selch beneath him, the firm handling of his thighs, the pleasure of handling his chest, and the similar anticipation for something to push him over the edge. Kneading into his thighs only enhances the unpredictability of how the robot should handle this situation.
When his legs lose the will to support the way he hovers over the other man's body, he collapses atop his Bondmate. As part of an unrelenting series of circumstances that unfairly target his weakening sensibility, Mettaton finds that he drops, legs spread, against the surprising hardness of Emet-Selch's cock, still trapped in his trousers. Mettaton's fingers grip desperately into the give of Emet-Selch's pecs, reflexively bearing more of his neck as he throws his head back and gives a hard moan still trapped in his throat, biting his lip. Of course he's hard... Even though he has nowhere he can go but remain with that arousal, Mettaton reflexively shifts his hips and holds tighter to this body, his attention unfocused and blissful.]
D... Hades... Iā
[But what a rush it is to feel his partner's hardened arousal between his forcibly spread legs. Even as he shifts, he can hardly keep himself from rocking into him, causing him to make more noise yet ā a whine, more bearing of his throat, consumed by lust enough to idly run his thumbs over Emet-Selch's nipples without realizing it.]
I...
[He can't keep track of whatever he was doing before, but his thumbs trace fond circles in anticipation against the Ascian's skin while he shudders some more, his body unresponsive when it comes to pulling away or doing much of anything save for appreciating the man beneath him. He shudders, affected by everything the Ascian does.
Such a strong reaction already... Even Mettaton notices that: it's the product of craving Emet-Selch and how such intimacy with him has his will in shambles. Though he shudders, he rubs against his body with very little disguise against his arousal, aching for more.]
[When Mettaton suddenly collapses atop his body, Emet-Selch has to release his neck with a short, choked sound, feeling the air from his lungs forcibly removed. But it's the sudden pressure against his cock that keeps him from immediately drawing breath again, gasping without sound at the pulse of more demanding need that washes through him.
Though he knew heady anticipation would eventually give way to just wanting him, Emet-Selch didn't expect it to happen so quickly. Though it wasn't just the muffled pressure on his erection that did it (though it was a significant contributing factor), but the way Mettaton had seemed so overcome, the basic awareness of the idol's position over him, legs spread and moaning. It has the Ascian arching under him on reflex, hips jerking up between his thighs as his breathing turns shallow and quick. His hands slide to Mettaton's hips to clutch at them, even if dragging them down would make it that much harder for his own to press upward.
The hands drawing patterns at his chest, the contact with his nipples, were all just more points of pleasure, sharper, smaller notes that further heightened the rest. His eyes are tightly shut.]
Gods, how....
[A small voice, breathless and almost hurt, intoned against the side of Mettaton's neck, made damp from his breath and attentions there. It's more clumsily that he nuzzles at it, punctuated with the haphazard press of teeth or interrupted with a shallow moan, seeking the contact above all else.
Was it Mettaton's response bleeding into his own? Or was it simply the observation of it that has the Ascian shuddering with him, pulse leaping at the sound of his voice, the desperate way he rubbed against his cock?
It ached to feel so constrained, a hiss of frustrated want entering the raggedness of his breaths, though he wasn't about to risk a hand to try and unfasten anything.
How could he yearn for him so strongly? Emet-Selch didn't know, but he moves a hand to the back of Mettaton's head, nudging him to where he can reach his lips again, covering them with his own with no small expression of that longing.]
[With Emet-Selch's own loss of composure comes Mettaton's further collapse, the feeling of being shoved down against his erection enough to bring him to new heights of disorienting lust. Without a Bond he can tell that this expression would have certainly affected him. But the Bond's kryptonite, and its effect is triple fold. He cries out against the gesture in surprise, but he leans into him all the same, letting his head hang toward his Bonded's shoulder when the pleasure overwhelms him even as he nips at and presses into his neck.
He'd almost mistaken himself as having short-circuited, how little he's able to move his body by his own will.
So Emet-Selch's hand guiding him by the back of his neck is a helpful gesture when he can barely take stock of his own body, and he hums into the kiss, fingers curling against the Ascian's skin. It's a good moment to pull himself together after falling so hard, so quickly. He gives Emet-Selch the control over this kiss, feeling prominently his longing and wanting to feel it for himself in action, his own manifesting as a deep heat in his body. Sometimes it's difficult to tell who's feeling what, but he can tell this much, much to his pleasure.
With the chance to recover granted, Mettaton pushes into his the Ascian's lips with his own mix of love and fever, affected but still needing to make his desire known. Emet-Selch can't hold his lips captive forever, and the very moment he breaks away, Mettaton catches him back up in another ardent kiss, a gentle nip at his lower lip before pressing his tongue against it, sliding with a firm pressure before breaking away. Since he likely needs to breathe, sometimes, a little.
He opens his eye and shifts enough to match his gaze with Emet-Selch's, since both of them only have their left eye functional. He smiles, veering heavily infatuated in his sincerity, appreciating the feeling of his chest beneath his fingertips with strokes and prods. The undercurrent, of course, is the sheer want he harbors for the other man, and it's not a moment longer before he's ducking down to press his face into his neck ā first, to make sure all knew, with certainty, that this was his Bonded, and second, to kiss and bite at the soft tissue of his neck.
...But even a shift of his hips against Emet-Selch's arousal has him stuttering all over again, and the Puca squirms, helpless against his own cravings but recoiling like he's touched a hot burner. But he settles back down with more conviction this time, the muscle of his legs wound tense.]
[The kiss had been the right choice, he thought, holding it as a kind of lifeline, when the rest of his body wanted to be pulled under by mounting want. Not that Emet-Selch didn't want to drown, in the end. To suffocate entirely and never find his way back to the surface--
It only followed to forget how to breathe sometimes. Tongue slipping into Mettaton's mouth, trailing along his lips, making a low noise whenever he brushed into the puca's own tongue. Dwelling on not only the tastes, the sensations, but the emotion evident behind it all. Emet-Selch thought he'd have noticed it even without the Bond, but alongside that connection, it dug much deeper, hit places that hurt to reach. The sort of feeling he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to claw free of or forget, even if he tried.
His chest still heaving with his elevated breathing, some portion of that hurt is evident in his broken gaze as the Ascian focuses back up on Mettaton's own eye, on what he could make out of his countenance. To try and fix his attention solely on the man over him, and their shared reactions to one another. To think only of the way Mettaton had collapsed over him, the sounds he had made, those moments of weakness. To let his own pulse drown out unwanted thought, memorizing the drifting exploration of his chest as though he could find some meaning there if he could only interpret the patterns correctly--
With openness came unhappiness, always; there was nothing else to open onto.
His neck arches without the necessity of thought as Mettaton's lips come to claim it, and Emet-Selch can't help but moan in anticipation, the hand at the puca's head smoothing over his hair, to rub at the base of an ear. The result of Mettaton's affections from before had been a pleasing sight, once he'd had the chance to observe them (and he'd been right in thinking that seeing them alone would stir some manner of arousal in him). To be marked at all again was a welcome thing.
But his attempts at breathing are disrupted again at each drag over his cock, setting off a sense of need that had never quite settled from the last time he felt Mettaton press against him. His moan is all breathless shudder as he feels the other's deliberation, the weight of him on his arousal causing the Ascian's hips to writhe up against Mettaton with little sense of control. His hand at the puca's hip still clutches at it, before stroking tensely over whatever he could reach of his thigh.]
[Dedicated as he is to marking him up again, Mettaton's ministrations are interrupted by a short stroke applied to the back of his thigh. Already wound tense, he shifts hard and sudden, forcing his body to press into the front of Emet-Selch's pants and his back to arch into him further. His fingers press desperately into the skin of his torso as his latest kiss is interrupted by a broken moan, and the robot finds himself right back to being just as strung out as he was before that long and amorous kiss that served to ground him, dazed and frantic.
He whines. It's too much, and his craving for Emet-Selch's goes beyond his physical capabilities, made evident by the way he boldly rubs against him this time, doubling down.]
Haaades, darling, haa, Iā Youā c-can't get enough...
[Is that a statement about himself, or a question for the Ascian? Both, really. And as if the terribly distracting sensation of his hard arousal wasn't enough, there's too much else to focus on that Mettaton could die for.
There's the matter of his hand against his ear, which feels too good, better than ever, and he finds himself burying his face into the space between his shoulder and his neck while the one ear Emet-Selch focuses on bends into his touch. To this, he treats the Ascian with a contented, shaky sigh, kissing and kissing him where he can.
And one of the greatest culprits is this Bond of theirs, a heavy, heartfelt thing that aches in pain, in longing, in lust, and in love, all depending on the recipient. And perhaps all at once, the gravity of it eclipsing all else for Mettaton and trapping him here flush against Emet-Selch's body. Their collective feelings are enough to drown the both of them, and neither of them are upset with it: they really do go all or nothing, and when they go for completion, it's as far as they can push their bodies.
Where his fingers press and prod, they also wander, and his hands linger curiously against his chest, where he continues to finger and squeeze at his nipples while he sucks another kiss into his neck, humming into him and pressing into his groin with urgency.
All of it causes his sense for pleasure to crest, stupefying him, and between his needy kisses and bites he can't help but emit a sigh of his pleasure, overcome by sensation as he is. It registers to his body as the same feeling of craving or hunger, and it encourages in him a drooling reflex, of all things. Developing organic responses in a synthetic body is a strange game.
It's a balancing act of delectable sensation that he can't handle, in truth, so he gives way to showing far too much appreciation for all of it at once. He's overwhelmed with delight. It's only minutes in and, as it would turn out, Mettaton's the one coming absolutely undone. ...Yet for as drugged on pleasure as the Puca finds himself, he has enough capacity to reach beneath his body to unfasten Emet-Selch's trousers, pushing them open with one hand but too reluctant to lift from his body to free his cock, despite the shudder of pleasure the very thought of doing so does for him.]
[Being arched into has him cry out, short and brief, feeling the sound echoed by Mettaton's moan. Emet-Selch can't even complain about not being completely marked up immediately, not with responses like that, the continued toying with his chest, the kisses that landed wherever Mettaton's face rested. His fingers skimmed over the back of the other man's thigh, caught up in his voice, and eventually the stronger beat of something, that he didn't think was his own.
Was that- some sort of heightening of experience on the puca's part?- and the Ascian tilts his head, nuzzling at whatever he could reach of Mettaton's- his hair, his ears, shivering, even as his own need continued to ache, his breathing not remotely settled. It was hard to swallow back a whine of resulting desperation, even as he knew he wasn't quite at that point himself, no matter how much his body cried out for it, for him.
Perhaps it was that all-or-nothingness that made it work, in the end, that sense of acceptance, amid it all, despite everything--
The sort of thing that could crush someone, were it not able to be matched. The sort of thing that could only exist in the first place, if it were already being answered, somehow.
But even feeling the echo of it through their Bond sets him trembling, his touch on Mettaton gentling but firm, despite the way he panted. It felt like being surrounded on all sides by the sensation, the physical pressure of Mettaton's body on his, the greater, shared emotional weight, the brokenness of his voice, his sighs. The smaller, tactile details like Mettaton drooling on him (which both concerned him slightly as a reaction, as well provided a kind of satisfaction at somehow being able to provoke such a response).
It was a lot to take in. And piercing it was the more direct presence of Mettaton's hand near his cock, feeling the slight give in his trousers as they were undone, pushed partially apart. It was relief by degrees, a momentary sense of not being completely stifled, followed by further frustration at the remaining constriction, at not having his erection pressed directly to Mettaton's body. There's a definite whine in his throat as he swallows heavily, presses up to him, even though that doesn't exactly make what he wants any easier to achieve.]
[Though Mettaton's reached this point of incomprehension, his is a sustained ordeal that colors his experiences rather than signals his end, and he's all the more starstruck for it. With his lips against Emet-Selch's throat he can feel each noise he makes and the swallow of anticipation at the possibility of his cock's release, which causes Mettaton to smile despite himself. If that's not begging for him to kiss him up and down his throat, pepper him with bites and marks, he doesn't know what is.
With each sound Emet-Selch mirrors, Mettaton's longing manifests as deep, hard kisses against his neck, fulfilling that desire to mark him and take him, sucking in some places until he's sure the mark will last, biting at others, dark and purple to his liking. Between each, it's all he can do to take stock of himself before he finds himself slipping again, feverish and wanting, so he uses Emet-Selch's neck as something of a means to pleasure himself in a way he can control. He sighs with satisfaction as he sinks into his Bonded; his fingers continue tracing his torso where there's defined muscle, occasionally returning to press firm against his chest. He could be as open as he pleased and it would only be for the better, he thinks, and he slips hard into the comfort of being Emet-Selch's in this moment. It's a surrender, but also a claim of his own, something communicated by Bond. With a low hum, he nestles against his neck some more to reaffirm his claim, all the while unable to keep from shifting his hips with his exuberant desire.
The robot's feelings of losing himself intensify with the continued stroking of his thigh, the firmness, and he decides he wants desperately to lean his full weight against the Ascian again. And he will, shortly, but he's still in a position where he took him down from the edge of the bed.
And if he wants to feel his cock as badly as he does, between his thighs and as close as he can get him, he'll have to end up moving, anyway.
He doesn't want to move his hands to wipe at the corner of his mouth once the awareness strikes him that he was drooling gracelessly, but, whatever. He licks his lips, dedicating that hand to something more important as he reluctantly shifts his weight off for the sake of freeing Emet-Selch's arousal: with a deftness, he finishes the job, sliding his fingers against his clothes just where he needs in order to pull out his cock. He applies a single flick of his finger against its head, licking his lips some more.
And he considers for a moment touching him by hand, first. Testing the waters, even as the craving to take him into his mouth strikes him. All of this want feels like one big need, and Mettaton gives up on trying to reason it out as he slides his body back down to settle against the curve of his erection. And his legs, still straddling his hips more than anything, tense significantly at what he feels of his erection, enough for him to gasp and freeze up.]
[The low, barely-audible moans carried on his breath aren't something that Emet-Selch is even entirely aware of, attention caught up in having his skin marred up once more. Of all the things to look forward to, this one perhaps puzzled him the most. It wasn't something he ever would've expected to accept, much less revel in.
Perhaps it was due to all the scarring. It wasn't a matter of permanence, but one of choice, taking a measure of control back by deliberately giving it to someone else. Or perhaps the lingering sign of connection was comforting.
A bit of everything, he suspected, not least of all the sensation itself. The points of pressure where mouth and teeth traveled were moments of slight pain that registered more as intensity, followed by warmth. Emet-Selch shudders. It was stranger still to feel so possessive about it, but he couldn't deny the emotion, feeling as though they were being tied together by virtue of being marked by him. And that when he touched Mettaton in reply, it was something of the same, for all that he left no obvious trace of his presence.
A mutual claim, and a mutual allowance for being claimed. Nothing else would've been fair, or even possible, he thought; anything less would've implied a reservation somewhere, which wouldn't have worked at all.
Was that why he felt so secure, while simultaneously off-balance, constantly on the verge of losing himself entirely, teased with the reprieve it would bring? That he could display his desires so openly, that he contained this many to start. Everywhere Mettaton pressed felt like another affirmation, another reassurance that in this, at least, he wasn't entirely alone.
It takes effort to hold back a noise of protest when Mettaton moves off of him, even for a moment, knowing full well that this small display of patience would be worth it. And that feeling is borne out when his cock is finally left exposed, his breath hitching at the slight relief it brought, and again at the brush of Mettaton's finger. Even that single touch has the Ascian cry out again, the noise faltering back into a moan, body tensing to a degree of pain, nearly oversensitive.
To go from muffled, insufficient friction to direct contact was a lot, and it's all Emet-Selch can do but cling hard to him as he feels Mettaton's body press to his cock once more, breathing sharp. For once, he doesn't try to shift his hips up or rub against him; the awareness and sensation of his erection pressing to Mettaton at all was overwhelming in itself. Not that he didn't still want more of it, even if it hurt- hurt in several ways, even, considering that abject longing- but even that slight friction from his own trembling is enough to lock him in place.]
[The strength of Emet-Selch's response has Mettaton shivering with pleasure, almost envious in his wish to know what it felt like to be so overcome with sheer sensation so profound that it would make his Bonded cling to him so. He hums, charmed by all he hears and feels and sees, though it's perhaps in part thanks to their Bond that Mettaton can sense that Emet-Selch felt truly raw ā something he could take advantage of, or allow to recover.
But Mettaton has needs, and he wants Emet-Selch to deliver. He'll give him his momentary peace away from further touching, though not by any choice of Mettaton's, who would much rather wish to overtake him until he screamed. He kisses along his jaw, remaining in place, squeezing his chest under his fingers and pressing his body into him possessively, before suddenly springing off of his lover and further onto his bed. (The temptation to overwhelm him and press into his painful arousal was so great that he feels regret even now as he beholds him still on his back.)
To encourage him to follow his orders, Mettaton leans over and gives him a gentle tug. From Emet-Selch's perspective, the Puca's upside-down, and he exacts another kiss from his odd angle.]
Come on. Follow me... lie back, up here. [That is to say, all the way on the bed with his head against the pillows ā Mettaton wants to treat him to his entire body, something he can't do quite as well with Emet-Selch having been in a sitting position originally. Mettaton stoops in to increase his closeness with his ear, his voice adjusting to become a sultry invitation to coax him along.] I'll have more of you yet... And you, me.
[More reassurance: he kisses his neck while he plants his hands against his shoulders, indicating his willingness to do whatever it took to strong-arm him into place if he had to. And he remembers quite well the Ascian's chill from earlier: no doubt Mettaton's proven to be a warm presence the longer he presses against the other man, and he's just lost that. This promises warmth; Mettaton even prepares for that, sliding a foot artfully under unmade blankets in preparation to envelop him.
Of course, even while he's like this (or especially while he's like this), Mettaton steals a long, hard look at Emet-Selch's cock; he feels a chill course over his body at its rigidity, its shape with the understanding of how he feels against his body. He tries to ascribe the look of him to memory, just as he did with his countenance.]
[Though he doesn't quite have the breath to yelp as Mettaton bounds aside and off of him, Emet-Selch does make a choked, startled noise, as all of that pressure and contact was suddenly gone, leaving him momentarily bereft. Though it's too brief for alarm to set in, there's relief nonetheless at being touched, even partially, when Mettaton's kiss, and his words, register properly.
Emet-Selch has a sense of regret himself for this brief delay, even if it was probably good for him, though he suspects he won't be allowed much in the way of chances to recover. Which was thoroughly fine with him; even if it hurt, especially if it hurt, that was the smallest of prices to pay for all of this. Drowning was never a comfortable thing, was it?
When he tilts his head back this time it's to look at him, upside-down and luring him elsewhere. Not a very far elsewhere, fortunately. And the Ascian had to admit that Mettaton had a point with the positioning. Only half against the flat of the bed, they couldn't press fully together, for one thing. Distantly, Emet-Selch was aware that it was a somewhat undignified position as it was- half-dressed, with his trousers open but not off, his aroused cock fully exposed, his neck bruised and a bit drooled over, out of breath, unfocused, and a bit mussed. Not that the Ascian cared at all; if anything, he was a little amused at the absurdity of being left like this.
But it doesn't exactly take much convincing for him push himself up, even with the distraction of Mettaton's voice against his ear, the lips against his neck (all of it coming from a disorienting angle). Though he takes a moment to slide his pants off the rest of the way, Emet-Selch allows himself no further delay in shifting himself onto the bed properly, helped somewhat into position through the encouragement of Mettaton's hands. Not that he needed encouraged, but he'd welcome whatever touch he could get. Though his body had warmed considerably though arousal, not having Mettaton over him was a considerable loss on all levels, including simple heating.]
Is that a promise...?
[His murmur is heavier than he intended, breathlessness and wanting coloring the edges of it. Before lying down properly, he can't help but sit up properly first, leaning over to instead press his lips to Mettaton's. There's more force, more visible need in it than he intended, a small noise smothered by the tongue he's slipping past his lips. His hand warmly cups the side of Mettaton's face, thumb stroking his cheek.
...he had other words, he thought, but Emet-Selch could no longer recall them. And it's with reluctance that he pulls back to stretch out upon the bed.]
[All while Emet-Selch's made to move into place, Mettaton feels as if he's lost the breath he doesn't have, and he sighs, ridiculous. He remembers what he thought of him on Valentine's, wondering just how he got around to thinking he was any bit worth his attraction, but right now he finds him terribly so. (Not as hot as Mettaton, but could anything rival him??) Everything he'd done to him so far only enhances the look, and Emet-Selch will find him watching him fondly with his own hand pressed to his cheek and a smile, eyes half-lidded in his wooziness. There's no way to doubt how he feels: it's conveyed loud and clear by way of Bond, his unchecked attraction for his form and his pride in what he's done to him, from his neck to his cock.
As he advances, Mettaton allows for Emet-Selch's hand to take the place of his own once he takes him into a kiss, and Mettaton hums into it with his eye closing. He leans in, appreciates his need and his intensity, placing hands upon the back of the Ascian's neck, if just for the duration of this short kiss made unintentionally passionate. Upon pulling away, Mettaton wobbles in place just a bit with a smile, smitten.
But then he has Emet-Selch prostrate before him, yet another delightful view, and it's at least an opportunity to run the back of his hand against the corner of his lip to recover from any time he ended up drooling because he fancied something too hard. He'll want to see him again, to compare that mental image he has of Hades collected compared to when Hades loses himself to pleasure, but this is an undeniable teaser. Mettaton's quick to leverage his body above Emet-Selch's, hungry for more.]
Yes, Hades-darling. How could it be anything elseā
[... Even over something like this, why did he have to say that? Mettaton visibly grows both more alert and more dazed, his ears standing to full attention as he realizes what sort of mistake he's made. A Puca... cannot defy a promise. Even a sexy promise with vague terms. He'll have more of him, and Emet-Selch should get more of him in turn? Whatever that means, he'll have to see it to its satisfactory conclusion at any cost. If it's not good enough, he'll have to do him again, until it is.
He wonders if Emet-Selch knows this about him, and he narrows his eye suspiciously, one ear in a usual state of neutral pleasantness as the other one folds back in irritation. His voice is a playful warning.]
Are you toying with me, gorgeous? Bringing promises into the bedroom... I have to admit. It's awfully clever, if you want to secure a state of being absolutely ravished by me...
[And, reciprocated. Being so easily spoken once again is bound to be lost to him from the very moment he presses his body into his Bonded's. He needs to be making contact with him now, desperately.
The Puca first leans down to kiss his neck before pressing his chest to the Ascian's. Their hips follow suit, and he makes a show of attention as he adjusts the positioning his body relative to Emet-Selch's arousal while he shifts around on top of him. He settles once he can barely feel him curved against his body, which he notes with a sigh, and he closes his thighs just enough to hardly touch him. Mettaton shivers with delight before taking stock of how Emet-Selch's doing, with his weight to his anticipation.]
[It remained a strange thing to be observed so obviously, and with something he assumed was appreciation. And while he hardly minded the attention, he also didn't understand it; this body was just a shell, like all of them. Satisfaction for the effect he had on him was one thing, but any attraction to his (now somewhat damaged) host still struck him as unnecessary.
(And he thought it a pity again that he couldn't see Mettaton's soul, had only gotten an impression of it during their Bonding. He'd never seen a soul from someone not of his star before. He'd always found them to have the potential for more beauty than anything else.)
But worse than that was any look of fondness, or affection. An absurd thing to unsettle him now, after everything, as though it hadn't already been repeatedly demonstrated. Perhaps it was just beginning to sink in, that it wasn't going away, that it was probably going to get worse. But you could care about someone without being fond of them, after all. The latter was far more...
Difficult. And the sort of thing he still emotionally recoiled from, yet longed for. A conflict that's likely to ripple through their Bond, even as Emet-Selch is distracted slightly from (those specific) unpleasant ruminations as he watches Mettaton move, hears his reply--
And blinks at the unexpected reaction, regarding him with curiosity, a different sort of interest. In truth, he was unaware of the rules binding pucas to their promises, so this- rather irritable response to what he took to be a rather straightforward exchange has him uncertain. He knew of danger sensing, and an appreciation for betting (which didn't necessarily imply a requirement for followthrough), but....
It might be something he can work out himself later, but for now the Ascian's priorities remained on what was in front of him. And soon to be on top of him. Whatever the reason for Mettaton's particular determination, he was more than willing to accept it. Really- promises or otherwise, what else would have been sufficient?
Emet-Selch finds his words lost once more when Mettaton takes his place over him, the deliberation in the way he settles. A small, full-bodied shudder passes through him at the combination of sensations, from the weight of Mettaton's body alone holding him in place, the way his skin felt pressed to metal, the hint of contact around his cock. He hisses softly, swallowing back a groan, finding it that bit harder to breathe- which was starting to become a familiar thing. His arms wrap warmly, if loosely around the puca, rubbing them slowly across his back, appreciating how much he could feel of him at once, though it was hard to imagine how it could ever be enough.]
Is that... so terrible a wish?
[Oh look, he found some words after all. But only a few.]
[Conflicted, over his show of affection? That's all he could make out of this disagreement he feels. Mettaton meets his gaze sharply, fleetingly, and there's a sudden spike in the way he feels about the other man that can't go unknown. Meeting his gaze then ignites in him all of the fondness, adoration, and care he harbors for Emet-Selch, deeply, disturbingly. He's not confused about his own feelings in the slightest, and couldn't be made to doubt his own heart.
Uncomfortable as it might make the Ascian, he couldn't stop him, nor control him. He feels not burdened by this, but light, a pleasant and electrifying energy.
But there are other matters he cares to tend to than his heart, and just as quickly, the robot changes gears and averts his hard stare for long enough to blink. Pressed under him and hardly able to conjure the words, Mettaton hums, elated to have Emet-Selch right where he wants him. The look in his eye is satisfied and deeply wanting, his hands squeezing the other man's shoulders once as he runs them down his biceps then slides them against his sides. There's a spike in pleasure at the mere sight and sensation of it, the beginnings of an automatic reflex. He can feel him shudder beneath him, and he wishes he could have had his throat close to his lips when he made that noise.
The Puca leans down to press a short kiss against his lips, and replies against him in kind.]
No. But... you'll certainly. [Words. He can force his tone to be even, but when his mind blanks out, it's troublesome. Another quick kiss before he continues.] Certainly get what I... promise. And so will I. Don't doubt, darling.
[Once more, he can feel how tense his lower body is at the notion of Emet-Selch's erection so close. He recalls the odd sensation he had before of feeling like he'd be missing something upon being separated from him the last time they got so intimate, and that much feels true all over again. Experimentally, Mettaton wraps his thighs loosely about his erection, just enough so Emet-Selch's made to feel him but with no exact pressure.
It's a good thing Mettaton's finished talking already, because it's all he can do to swallow down a noise as he lets his head hang toward the Ascian's shoulder at the impact the sensation has on him. Naturally, for such a feeling to rattle him on a mindful level, his body responds in kind: he can't help it when his thighs tense, enclose him with more pressure despite his wishes, and he presses his face into his neck to stifle a moan again. Biting into his neck helps somewhat, and Mettaton hisses.]
[If he hadn't been having trouble breathing before, meeting Mettaton's eye like that, feeling those emotions wash over him would've been more than enough to suffocate him, regardless of circumstance. As unguarded as he was, it hit very hard, and if it hadn't been for the security of being pressed down, oddly enough, he might even have panicked from it. The Ascian was still rendered dizzy, pulse thready.
He didn't want to think about it. Couldn't; even those small kisses help to snap his focus back onto something else, and he leans into them with all the concentration he can muster. Mettaton's voice registers more than his words, which take Emet-Selch a few extra moments to go back and decipher, still caught between sound and the taste of his lips. The way Mettaton's hands moved over him, his own body attempting to twitch or lean into any and all points of contact.
Underlying it all is the pulsing ache from his erection, so stiff that he finds himself gasping anew at only having his cock so gently held between Mettaton's thighs, unable to prevent his hips from shuddering upwards. But there's little he could achieve of his own accord, other than spark a more insistent want in him. The sort of thing he could bury himself in, and he moans more loudly, remembering the way the idol's strangely muscular legs had squeezed around his cock the last time.
As though spurred on by that memory, he feels the tensing of Mettaton's thighs around his length once more, and his breathing quickly sharpens. His hips still struggle to rub further against the twitches of the other man's thighs, as his body as a whole presses up, desperate for ever more of him.
Emet-Selch's hands dig in to Mettaton's back when he feels that bite sink into his neck, shivering hard. Pressing his head against Mettaton's, his eyes are tightly shut, lips slightly parted as he begins to pant. Another mark for the collection, he suspected, each one as valuable as the last.]
[As if he thought he'd crested that feeling of satisfaction before, Emet-Selch's full-bodied response is entirely too erotic. He squirms, forcing his thighs together around Emet-Selch's length, which only startles him into stuttering against the other man's throat. His figure writhing beneath his weight is intoxicating, and Mettaton's hands drift down to anchor his thumbs against Emet-Selch's hips, fingers digging into the soft tissue as far behind as he can manage with his back pressed against the bed.
To take more of his Bonded, and to give as much in return... Mettaton takes greater control of Emet-Selch's pleasure, curving his back just enough to give Emet-Selch some freedom to thrust against the twitching of his thighs. He deiberately loosens and exerts pressure between his legs in unpredictable rhythm. This is his chance to move, though it's short-lived. It's not long before the robot comes back down upon him to take away that freedom, pinning him into place with more intent than ever, pressing his trembling thighs together with a hiss. It's only natural that by this point, his body, wanting as he is, is wracked with unintentional response: for each twitch and each sound given by Emet-Selch, his body responds with immediacy, systematic in his feedback.
Mettaton moves from sucking and biting at his neck to kissing him deeply, flicking his tongue out to signal his desires before sliding between his lips. He controls him utterly from above him. If he could render him truly breathless all over again, he feels certain that he'd lose his mind to oblivion. Already, with the Ascian panting, he's off to a good start. One of his hands drift from his hips to thread into this hair, starting from that shock of white and pushing back, mussing it up worse than before.
Time for dreadful feelings, which Mettaton views as anything but. His adoration for the Ascian is immense, his desire to see his mind blown immeasurable. His behavior is flippant, usually, but when the Puca pulls him in, closer and closer, the depths of Emet-Selch's sentiment never fail to surprise Mettaton. He's terribly vulnerable like this, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He sighs by noise into their kiss, overwhelmed and content. Mettaton could drown in the satisfaction his Bonded brings him, or he could see himself drowning in his sentiment, and he'd be content either way. Neither daunt him. As always, he can be vulnerable to his heart's content beneath Mettaton's weight. He welcomes it.
When he pulls back to give Emet-Selch a moment for air, he gives him only enough before coming back down upon him with a moan in his throat, nipping at his lower lip and lifting again, then treating him to yet another kiss, three of varying intensity in a row.]
[The sudden ability to move has him feeling weightless, thrusting almost helplessly against Mettaton's thighs, unable to find any sort of rhythm himself, aching terribly from each drag of friction. And when he's rendered helpless to move, Mettaton bearing down on him again, his hips continuing to twitch, the Ascian's body shuddering into the mattress. His moaning was sharp but ever quieter as he loses ever more desire, much less opportunity, to draw a proper breath.
The kissing certainly did not help in that regard, his small noises further stifled by Mettaton's tongue, swallowed up by their mouths, and Emet-Selch makes no attempt to counter this. Even the smaller moments, the brush to his hair, the sound of a sigh, it all added up, it would all bury him.
Drowing, suffocation, the sense of being crushed; he had no word to describe the feelings that wasn't a negative one, that wasn't ultimately fatal. And yet to stop was impossible, to want to, unthinkable.
...It reminded him a little of being tempered.
And how welcome this futility was. How miserable he was, with ever more of it dragged to the surface with such openness. There was thousands of years worth to deal with, compressed and compacted, and Emet-Selch wasn't sure if he was trying to bury Mettaton in there with him, or cling to the puca's own feelings instead, to drown in a different sort of sentiment. He was lost either way, the Ascian knew that much.
Each kiss breaks him a little further, the different intensities giving him no chance of adjusting, nothing to anchor to, leaving him capable of only responding, almost harsh in his urgency. He was certainly overstimulated now, in every sense of the word, biting at Mettaton's lips when he could claim them, before losing his grip on them with ever hoarser cries. His cock hurt to be touched, much less gripped by trembling thighs, but he wouldn't have pulled back from it, even if he physically could.
Emet-Selch didn't have the coherence nor the breath to plead with him, for everything that he didn't have words for. But it was there in his feelings, in the way he struggled. He couldn't be saved, but did he have to be alone?]
[Mettaton cries out. It's broken off by the end in initiating yet another kiss, wanting nothing more than to take more of him yet. With both of them so open to each other, however, it comes as little surprise that the sheer force of Emet-Selch's feelings, pure in form and weight and misery, would yank Mettaton in another direction entirely, as if gripped by the throat. It isn't fear, but he feels unprepared, like he's found an anaconda deep in a burrow when he'd already seen its tracks. His hand fists in his hair and the one against his hip grips tighter on reflex. How could he bring them closer? He feels desperate for that, and he's not sure if it's his feeling or his Bonded's. It doesn't matter anymore. Even he felt as though he'd be crushed, but he knew he wouldn't be. He couldn't be. Despair isn't his, though it rubs raw against him.
He continues to take more and more kisses from him, frantic, and continues to rub against his cock with a feverish desire for more. The sheer amount of heat he feels in his core is surely reflected in the taste of his mouth, heat in place of air. Mettaton feels all but addicted to what he can get out of his Bonded in this moment, scarcely able to stop just to soothe the ache he feels. His ears fold back, flush against his head in his backwards submission to it all, his acceptance of him. In truth, he loves his openness in this moment, the insight into his desire, as terrifying as it is in his misery.
This intimacy appeals too much, and he can't think straight inundated by such sensation, fondness, and affect. The hand against his hip traces gently up to his shoulder, where he grips the Ascian with a shaky moan at the feeling of his trembling figure beneath him, the sound of his faint cries enough to make him go weak. The sheer weight of his feelings become pleasant, a backdrop for his bliss and his love despite it all, complex and thrilling.
Both of them felt so much, in such opposite directions. Emet-Selch's disorientation, suffocation, and abject loneliness permeated all else, but it didn't overwhelm the idol to the point of drowning. He grows more tender, continues to deliberately steal his chance for breath for as long as his urgency isn't for needing to breathe... Because the robot feels like his urgency needs to be met with him instead. He feels nothing but compassion and love and familiarity, for someone he's known for only a month's time.
Still, in his unguarded state, Mettaton ends up granting Emet-Selch room to breathe unintentionally when he ducks toward his ear and kisses him against his neck, the place he seems to gravitate to, and he sighs. Presses into him; nuzzles him; squeezes him closer with the winding sort of strength unique to an arm like his. His voice is smooth as ever, low, coaxing, heady, and close, with an edge of his need.]
Hades...
[He wants terribly to fill Emet-Selch with him as a form of claim, primal and intuitive. If he can't do it physically, how better to do that than to occupy his senses?]
[Each response, each sign of Mettaton's own frantic desperation leaves him shuddering, reeling from the sense of it seeping into his own. He didn't think that he would be burned by Mettaton's lips and tongue, but he wanted to be, wanted to take every bit of his warmth, if he couldn't have his breath. And with no breath to steal, Emet-Selch is left with only his own poor attempts at it, with every squeeze of his cock leaving him panting ever more harshly.
There was a comfort in being held to, enveloped, wrapped up in his arm, feeling Mettaton's face against his throat, the texture of his voice. And there was more comfort in that sense of familiarity he felt as well, something he didn't want to examine too closely at all. But comfort wasn't enough, no matter how hard he attached to it, and to him, no matter how much he tried.
When he finally reaches some sort of peak, the Ascian almost doesn't realize it. There was ever sharper pain, desperation and necessity, and finally a point that hurt worst of all, as though climax was something to be torn from him. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't terrible either; most of all it was intense, blinded him the rest of the way, erased the concept of thought itself- but that was what he wanted, wasn't it?
Apart from the continued small, soft pleads, it's completely soundless.
As he latches onto Mettaton physically, Emet-Selch clings to him mentally as well; he was still inundated, permeated by the sense of his own despair, but it wasn't the only thing there, the only thing left. It was so foreign, so different that he didn't know what to make of it, neither to reject it nor defend from it. It didn't hurt him any less (or at least, he couldn't disconnect it from the pain that was already there), but it hurt differently, pressing to the rawest parts of him that had long gone untreated, unreached.
His breath is shaky, not only from the desperate need for air, but from the force of collected emotion. He presses the side of his head hard against Mettaton's, as though he could burrow against him further, somehow, disturbed feelings barely even beginning to settle. His hand buries itself in Mettaton's hair, feeling the brush of those pressed-back ears, but his grip is weak, as trembling as the rest of him. There were no thoughts remaining.]
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As a single scratch could invite infection, so too did affection fester. Why should a simple touch to his face, feeling the path Mettaton's fingers walked with unnatural clarity, mean anything at all? Once the shell of indifference and apathy was gone, he had a weakness to attention like that. The Ascian was a sentimental sort.
The curse of the Bond was knowing it was genuine; this wasn't some trick or ploy; even if it were meaningless, everything Mettaton was offering was real. And Emet-Selch is unnerved anew at how much he did want that, to claim those feelings as though he had any right to them.
The kiss comes as something of an inevitability, but no worse for being anticipated. As he leans into it with the smallest of sighs, he feels his lip caught, the sense of deliberation and care in the other man's gestures. And that it took no effort at all for Emet-Selch to affix his attention on him, to respond in kind. To trail his tongue along Mettaton's lower lip before he replies.]
...I suppose you have, at that.
[He couldn't have been so open with him, before or now, without losing something in the process. Without being taken from. Because that's what it was, wasn't it- inviting loss, and hurt, to be carved up that little bit more for the sake of some temporary solace. Even the idea of being remembered sends a pang through him, a whisper of unhappy tension. How cruel, to offer something so impossible, yet so wanted....
His leg was improving by degrees, but even had it been completely well, Emet-Selch wouldn't have reacted otherwise to that squeeze to his hip, its suggested direction. Without letting himself be pulled from Mettaton's lips, he edges backward until he feels the back of his legs hit the side of his bed. Even then he hesitates to move from him, sitting down and half-trying to pull him with, somehow. Hands skimming along Mettaton's arms, his murmur has a harsher note to it.]
If so, you had better take everything, then. I despise half-measures.
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Instead of sitting by his side, the Puca slides a knee at either side of Emet-Selch's hips, at first resulting in Emet-Selch being even with his torso. But he bends at the waist and curves his back, stroking his hands down Emet-Selch's hair and settling them on either side of his neck with a gentle grip. He brings their faces close, his long ears leaning forward in interest for his Bondmate, who he feels so taken by, so much more than he ever thought possible. It's inspiring: it enhances his every sense, the sheer feeling alone, as if developing them for real wasn't enough. He can feel clearer than ever the depth of Emet-Selch's feelings as though he's above their surface, all too aware of how his Bonded's conflicted emotions ran heavy.
For now, at least, he can tell where he ends and Emet-Selch begins. Mettaton himself feels alive, electric, a sort of restless energy akin to butterflies, and... acknowledged. Recognized, beyond just his desires. But on that note, to take everything from his Bonded... What would that leave behind? He wants to find out, but more than that, he wants, pure and simple.
When might they start feeling each other? That's been a trend, hasn't it? It turns out that Bonds either develop faster than Mettaton anticipated, or theirs was a peculiar connection. And how severe would it develop? It's exciting enough to make him shiver, while being equally dreadful.
The edge of Emet-Selch's voice causes him to lose his words, and he closes his eye in a breathless sigh.]
Demanding, are we...? You'll be pleased to know. I don't settle for second best... and I don't leave things half-finished.
[His hands on either side of his neck, Mettaton eagerly steals him up in a kiss, never anything but the full extent of his desire. His fingers press into the back of Emet-Selch's neck, his libidinous nature stoked so quickly that it's enough to make him feel like the past minutes were spent in aching tension, as though he's wanted him all along. His mind starts conjuring up the ways he wants Emet-Selch, both possible and impossible ā impossible always being the ways he can't take him for himself.
Deeply frustrating, but he'll put it all aside to focus on this. Right now, as he pushes his tongue between lips, appreciating their softness and his Bonded's warmth, though he's perhaps warmer yet. It's hard to beat out a machine with temperatures that beat out feverish.]
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Mettaton's words, his voice, send a rush of heat running through him, a sense of satisfaction with it. Even though Emet-Selch expected nothing else by this point, it seemed that neither of them were the sort to do anything by halves. Even in gentleness there was intensity, and he had a similar thought as to their Bond; there was still much further it could go, and what would that feel like, considering the strength of everything already?
Would it even be possible to hold back, if he tried? He was either giving himself to this, to him, or he was not; there was no partial answer.
And he remained surprised at how quickly, how easily his body responded to Mettaton's advances- at his nearness alone, even. Emet-Selch's interest had ever been limited, further dampened by depression and smothered by lethargy. Perhaps it was the directness, or openness of this connection- that yearning for emotional closeness finding some physical avenue for expression. Whatever the cause, Mettaton provoked it so thoroughly that the sudden intensity of that want has him lightheaded and completely hard.
It wasn't a normal warmth, but he'd take it, lips parting to take the other's tongue, sliding his own back against Mettaton's with a stifled noise, a quick breath. Even if it reached a point of burning, Emet-Selch doubted that he'd have an easy time pulling away. His hand moves up to Mettaton's face, his thumb grazing the corner of the other's lips where their mouths met, the tips of his fingers trailing over the idol's cheek.
Though it's gently that his other hand rubs along Mettaton's hip, gently that he cups his face and moans softly into their kiss, it all belied his own frustrated want. Though the Ascian had begun his studies for transfiguration, he was still a beginner; there was nothing he could do for them yet. It was hard not to give voice to that desire, to swallow back all the ways he wanted to claim him. What he could offer in turn, if Mettaton could only take it.
But there was still the taste of his mouth, the eagerness that he could feel and respond to, the fingers at his neck encouraging him to remain where he was (as though he had any desire to pull back, even for air). Though Emet-Selch hadn't expected Mettaton's visit to go this way- not with a discussion that began with the end times and potentials for godhood, and included a disagreement on the wonders of humanity- he wasn't entirely surprised either.]
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Mettaton pulls from the kiss just enough to examine the Ascian's face, a momentary break to take in the features he wants to be kissing, a chance to see how he looks as a point of reference for later. It's a sudden whim, but Mettaton's expression grows severe, sharp and evaluating in its attention to detail. To remember him now means comparing him to later, when he's flushed and lovebitten. The hue of his cheeks, the look in his eyes, the flush of his lips, the keep of his hair... None of it goes unchecked, and it's one of the more robotic things this non-robot would do.
How would Emet-Selch look minutes from now? How about after he's through with him? He's immediately hooked on the thought, desperate to see him exposed in this new light. Though Mettaton's expression is intense in the passion of his assessment, his legs tremble slightly against the mattress against his will, a fault of having muscle instead of pure metal.
And he says nothing about it, but he finally smirks.]
...Your eyes never fail to make me weak, beautiful.
[And though he's thinking of other things, it's the truth. He fancies the Ascian's gaze, found it to be one of the most defining traits he left the cell with of his soon-to-be Bonded. For being a ghost in the machine, Mettaton is awfully attracted to the physical form of things, even when he's so capable of separating their concepts.
With some of his composure regained, the hand he kept on his shoulder slides to the other man's shirt. If there are layers he'll have to use both hands, but no matter how it goes, he doesn't want anything keeping him from his chest. With unusually practiced dexterity for a robot who doesn't need to wear clothes, he unfastens closure after closure with one hand, humming with his work as he goes back to take Emet-Selch into a deep kiss, tasting him and leaning into him with the threat of pushing him over. He takes easy control, clearly driven toward something, a deep passion building within him.]
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A note of skepticism enters his expression at being so closely observed, a look of habit, rather than actual feeling; he didn't know what Mettaton was searching for, but he didn't mind being considered, if for unknown reason. And it was interesting in itself to see the idol with that particular focus; it wasn't an expression he thought he'd seen before, and he watches him back just as shamelessly, waiting. Apart from his breathing being a touch elevated, his manner carrying an edge of anticipated desire, a sharper attentiveness amid permanent exhaustion, Emet-Selch looks relatively normal, thus far.
And he frowns back at that smirk, that line; though he refrains from asking, he still comments.]
So glad you found something to approve of.
[He sighs with no real exasperation into that kiss, even as he finds himself distracted by it, falling into it. His teeth graze across Mettaton's tongue, his lips, a drag of pressure rather than any bite. He could feel that hint of a quiver to the other man's legs, as more of a small vibration against the mattress, and he's drawn to drag a hand across his thigh at the sensation.
And with his shirts being opened, Emet-Selch doesn't try to help quite as much as the first time, letting Mettaton handle the fastenings on his own. He still uses the opportunity to stroke over his hands and arms, small touches to anything he could reach, ending the kiss with a shakier breath, only to press his lips along Mettaton's jaw, trailing to the top of his throat. As he feels skin hit air, he can't help but shiver, just from the change in temperature; his room tended towards the cold.
The reflex from being leaned into was to try and brace himself against the mattress with an arm, to hold himself up amid mounting pressure. But after a moment's deliberation, the Ascian relents, latching back onto Mettaton instead, allowing himself to be pushed back if he chose to.]
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It's hard not to get distracted by what Emet-Selch treats him to, both within their kiss and beyond it. As feedback, feeling his hands wander his body forces him into deepening his kiss for longer with a short noise of pleasure from his throat, pressing harder, not allowing him to break it until he can have his fill. It surprises him how a mere stroke of his hips and his thighs can make him shudder, forcing him to squirm and readjust his body to handle the sensation. The feeling of teeth in his kiss makes him more amorous and intense, and before he could possibly permit his Bonded from changing focus and treating his jaw, he catches him in one last kiss, biting and sucking at his lower lip before releasing him.
MTT still smirks yet. But through their ever intensifying connection of a Bond, it's easy to tell that sensation of this quality remains new and alluring, if not overwhelming... But it's easy to tell that the idol thrives in being overwhelmed. Even the softest of touches sends sparks through his system and makes him want more, something just as sweet or something harder or more intense, he can never decide which. Would he ever get over this, when he's only craved it for so long?
His eyelid's heavy, and he bears his neck to Emet-Selch as he finishes undoing his shirts (of which there are multiple, requiring both hands). He hums, pleased by the initiative.
Emet-Selch shivers. MTT pushes, and he holds onto him in turn, ultimately allowing Mettaton to call the shots. Mettaton doesn't quite push him all the way back yet, but he smiles softly at him as he looms above him.]
You shiver... Is it cold in here?
[He can't tell. He imagines he'd be able to if Emet-Selch's skin were to accustom to the air about them and if he were to use his mouth, but he's otherwise clueless.
In the meantime, Mettaton takes the opportunity to press him into the bed, though he keeps close to allow Emet-Selch the ability to continue working on his neck. Almost as though he likes it, which he does. One of his hands greedily pushes his clothes open, dragging his hand up his abdomen and across his chest with varying pressure, all deliberate and curious. His hand lingers over his heart, his thumb stroking at his skin as Mettaton sighs again, smitten.]
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Why was the threat (or promise) of being pressed down nearly as enticing as the action itself? Each moment carried its own anticipatory edge to it, a blend of expectation and desire, and he felt a little off-balance in more than just position. At the question, Emet-Selch tilts his head back just enough to allow his gaze to flicker back up to Mettaton's face, still oddly caught between moments. As though trapped in mid-air, waiting for gravity (or more accurately, Mettaton), to finish crushing him.]
Somewhat. 'Tis good you can't feel it.
[Because then he'd have to consider keeping his room at a more appropriate temperature. But if Mettaton didn't notice, and the Ascian didn't care, then there was no point in bothering.
Finally, time resumes as Emet-Selch feels his back hit the covers, Mettaton's body remaining satisfyingly close, appreciating that he doesn't have to stretch too far to bury his face against the idol's neck again. Closing his lips around the semi-skin of his throat, he sucks a slow line along it, finding it a pity he couldn't really mark him in the same way. But the contact, even the texture remained good.
And hands on skin were much preferable to hands on clothes, setting the Ascian shivering anew, but at touch this time. His muscles contract wherever fingers press, wondering distantly if he were actually more sensitive, or just more attuned to anything Mettaton chose to focus on.]
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When his legs lose the will to support the way he hovers over the other man's body, he collapses atop his Bondmate. As part of an unrelenting series of circumstances that unfairly target his weakening sensibility, Mettaton finds that he drops, legs spread, against the surprising hardness of Emet-Selch's cock, still trapped in his trousers. Mettaton's fingers grip desperately into the give of Emet-Selch's pecs, reflexively bearing more of his neck as he throws his head back and gives a hard moan still trapped in his throat, biting his lip. Of course he's hard... Even though he has nowhere he can go but remain with that arousal, Mettaton reflexively shifts his hips and holds tighter to this body, his attention unfocused and blissful.]
D... Hades... Iā
[But what a rush it is to feel his partner's hardened arousal between his forcibly spread legs. Even as he shifts, he can hardly keep himself from rocking into him, causing him to make more noise yet ā a whine, more bearing of his throat, consumed by lust enough to idly run his thumbs over Emet-Selch's nipples without realizing it.]
I...
[He can't keep track of whatever he was doing before, but his thumbs trace fond circles in anticipation against the Ascian's skin while he shudders some more, his body unresponsive when it comes to pulling away or doing much of anything save for appreciating the man beneath him. He shudders, affected by everything the Ascian does.
Such a strong reaction already... Even Mettaton notices that: it's the product of craving Emet-Selch and how such intimacy with him has his will in shambles. Though he shudders, he rubs against his body with very little disguise against his arousal, aching for more.]
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Though he knew heady anticipation would eventually give way to just wanting him, Emet-Selch didn't expect it to happen so quickly. Though it wasn't just the muffled pressure on his erection that did it (though it was a significant contributing factor), but the way Mettaton had seemed so overcome, the basic awareness of the idol's position over him, legs spread and moaning. It has the Ascian arching under him on reflex, hips jerking up between his thighs as his breathing turns shallow and quick. His hands slide to Mettaton's hips to clutch at them, even if dragging them down would make it that much harder for his own to press upward.
The hands drawing patterns at his chest, the contact with his nipples, were all just more points of pleasure, sharper, smaller notes that further heightened the rest. His eyes are tightly shut.]
Gods, how....
[A small voice, breathless and almost hurt, intoned against the side of Mettaton's neck, made damp from his breath and attentions there. It's more clumsily that he nuzzles at it, punctuated with the haphazard press of teeth or interrupted with a shallow moan, seeking the contact above all else.
Was it Mettaton's response bleeding into his own? Or was it simply the observation of it that has the Ascian shuddering with him, pulse leaping at the sound of his voice, the desperate way he rubbed against his cock?
It ached to feel so constrained, a hiss of frustrated want entering the raggedness of his breaths, though he wasn't about to risk a hand to try and unfasten anything.
How could he yearn for him so strongly? Emet-Selch didn't know, but he moves a hand to the back of Mettaton's head, nudging him to where he can reach his lips again, covering them with his own with no small expression of that longing.]
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He'd almost mistaken himself as having short-circuited, how little he's able to move his body by his own will.
So Emet-Selch's hand guiding him by the back of his neck is a helpful gesture when he can barely take stock of his own body, and he hums into the kiss, fingers curling against the Ascian's skin. It's a good moment to pull himself together after falling so hard, so quickly. He gives Emet-Selch the control over this kiss, feeling prominently his longing and wanting to feel it for himself in action, his own manifesting as a deep heat in his body. Sometimes it's difficult to tell who's feeling what, but he can tell this much, much to his pleasure.
With the chance to recover granted, Mettaton pushes into his the Ascian's lips with his own mix of love and fever, affected but still needing to make his desire known. Emet-Selch can't hold his lips captive forever, and the very moment he breaks away, Mettaton catches him back up in another ardent kiss, a gentle nip at his lower lip before pressing his tongue against it, sliding with a firm pressure before breaking away. Since he likely needs to breathe, sometimes, a little.
He opens his eye and shifts enough to match his gaze with Emet-Selch's, since both of them only have their left eye functional. He smiles, veering heavily infatuated in his sincerity, appreciating the feeling of his chest beneath his fingertips with strokes and prods. The undercurrent, of course, is the sheer want he harbors for the other man, and it's not a moment longer before he's ducking down to press his face into his neck ā first, to make sure all knew, with certainty, that this was his Bonded, and second, to kiss and bite at the soft tissue of his neck.
...But even a shift of his hips against Emet-Selch's arousal has him stuttering all over again, and the Puca squirms, helpless against his own cravings but recoiling like he's touched a hot burner. But he settles back down with more conviction this time, the muscle of his legs wound tense.]
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It only followed to forget how to breathe sometimes. Tongue slipping into Mettaton's mouth, trailing along his lips, making a low noise whenever he brushed into the puca's own tongue. Dwelling on not only the tastes, the sensations, but the emotion evident behind it all. Emet-Selch thought he'd have noticed it even without the Bond, but alongside that connection, it dug much deeper, hit places that hurt to reach. The sort of feeling he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to claw free of or forget, even if he tried.
His chest still heaving with his elevated breathing, some portion of that hurt is evident in his broken gaze as the Ascian focuses back up on Mettaton's own eye, on what he could make out of his countenance. To try and fix his attention solely on the man over him, and their shared reactions to one another. To think only of the way Mettaton had collapsed over him, the sounds he had made, those moments of weakness. To let his own pulse drown out unwanted thought, memorizing the drifting exploration of his chest as though he could find some meaning there if he could only interpret the patterns correctly--
With openness came unhappiness, always; there was nothing else to open onto.
His neck arches without the necessity of thought as Mettaton's lips come to claim it, and Emet-Selch can't help but moan in anticipation, the hand at the puca's head smoothing over his hair, to rub at the base of an ear. The result of Mettaton's affections from before had been a pleasing sight, once he'd had the chance to observe them (and he'd been right in thinking that seeing them alone would stir some manner of arousal in him). To be marked at all again was a welcome thing.
But his attempts at breathing are disrupted again at each drag over his cock, setting off a sense of need that had never quite settled from the last time he felt Mettaton press against him. His moan is all breathless shudder as he feels the other's deliberation, the weight of him on his arousal causing the Ascian's hips to writhe up against Mettaton with little sense of control. His hand at the puca's hip still clutches at it, before stroking tensely over whatever he could reach of his thigh.]
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He whines. It's too much, and his craving for Emet-Selch's goes beyond his physical capabilities, made evident by the way he boldly rubs against him this time, doubling down.]
Haaades, darling, haa, Iā Youā c-can't get enough...
[Is that a statement about himself, or a question for the Ascian? Both, really. And as if the terribly distracting sensation of his hard arousal wasn't enough, there's too much else to focus on that Mettaton could die for.
There's the matter of his hand against his ear, which feels too good, better than ever, and he finds himself burying his face into the space between his shoulder and his neck while the one ear Emet-Selch focuses on bends into his touch. To this, he treats the Ascian with a contented, shaky sigh, kissing and kissing him where he can.
And one of the greatest culprits is this Bond of theirs, a heavy, heartfelt thing that aches in pain, in longing, in lust, and in love, all depending on the recipient. And perhaps all at once, the gravity of it eclipsing all else for Mettaton and trapping him here flush against Emet-Selch's body. Their collective feelings are enough to drown the both of them, and neither of them are upset with it: they really do go all or nothing, and when they go for completion, it's as far as they can push their bodies.
Where his fingers press and prod, they also wander, and his hands linger curiously against his chest, where he continues to finger and squeeze at his nipples while he sucks another kiss into his neck, humming into him and pressing into his groin with urgency.
All of it causes his sense for pleasure to crest, stupefying him, and between his needy kisses and bites he can't help but emit a sigh of his pleasure, overcome by sensation as he is. It registers to his body as the same feeling of craving or hunger, and it encourages in him a drooling reflex, of all things. Developing organic responses in a synthetic body is a strange game.
It's a balancing act of delectable sensation that he can't handle, in truth, so he gives way to showing far too much appreciation for all of it at once. He's overwhelmed with delight. It's only minutes in and, as it would turn out, Mettaton's the one coming absolutely undone. ...Yet for as drugged on pleasure as the Puca finds himself, he has enough capacity to reach beneath his body to unfasten Emet-Selch's trousers, pushing them open with one hand but too reluctant to lift from his body to free his cock, despite the shudder of pleasure the very thought of doing so does for him.]
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Was that- some sort of heightening of experience on the puca's part?- and the Ascian tilts his head, nuzzling at whatever he could reach of Mettaton's- his hair, his ears, shivering, even as his own need continued to ache, his breathing not remotely settled. It was hard to swallow back a whine of resulting desperation, even as he knew he wasn't quite at that point himself, no matter how much his body cried out for it, for him.
Perhaps it was that all-or-nothingness that made it work, in the end, that sense of acceptance, amid it all, despite everything--
The sort of thing that could crush someone, were it not able to be matched. The sort of thing that could only exist in the first place, if it were already being answered, somehow.
But even feeling the echo of it through their Bond sets him trembling, his touch on Mettaton gentling but firm, despite the way he panted. It felt like being surrounded on all sides by the sensation, the physical pressure of Mettaton's body on his, the greater, shared emotional weight, the brokenness of his voice, his sighs. The smaller, tactile details like Mettaton drooling on him (which both concerned him slightly as a reaction, as well provided a kind of satisfaction at somehow being able to provoke such a response).
It was a lot to take in. And piercing it was the more direct presence of Mettaton's hand near his cock, feeling the slight give in his trousers as they were undone, pushed partially apart. It was relief by degrees, a momentary sense of not being completely stifled, followed by further frustration at the remaining constriction, at not having his erection pressed directly to Mettaton's body. There's a definite whine in his throat as he swallows heavily, presses up to him, even though that doesn't exactly make what he wants any easier to achieve.]
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With each sound Emet-Selch mirrors, Mettaton's longing manifests as deep, hard kisses against his neck, fulfilling that desire to mark him and take him, sucking in some places until he's sure the mark will last, biting at others, dark and purple to his liking. Between each, it's all he can do to take stock of himself before he finds himself slipping again, feverish and wanting, so he uses Emet-Selch's neck as something of a means to pleasure himself in a way he can control. He sighs with satisfaction as he sinks into his Bonded; his fingers continue tracing his torso where there's defined muscle, occasionally returning to press firm against his chest. He could be as open as he pleased and it would only be for the better, he thinks, and he slips hard into the comfort of being Emet-Selch's in this moment. It's a surrender, but also a claim of his own, something communicated by Bond. With a low hum, he nestles against his neck some more to reaffirm his claim, all the while unable to keep from shifting his hips with his exuberant desire.
The robot's feelings of losing himself intensify with the continued stroking of his thigh, the firmness, and he decides he wants desperately to lean his full weight against the Ascian again. And he will, shortly, but he's still in a position where he took him down from the edge of the bed.
And if he wants to feel his cock as badly as he does, between his thighs and as close as he can get him, he'll have to end up moving, anyway.
He doesn't want to move his hands to wipe at the corner of his mouth once the awareness strikes him that he was drooling gracelessly, but, whatever. He licks his lips, dedicating that hand to something more important as he reluctantly shifts his weight off for the sake of freeing Emet-Selch's arousal: with a deftness, he finishes the job, sliding his fingers against his clothes just where he needs in order to pull out his cock. He applies a single flick of his finger against its head, licking his lips some more.
And he considers for a moment touching him by hand, first. Testing the waters, even as the craving to take him into his mouth strikes him. All of this want feels like one big need, and Mettaton gives up on trying to reason it out as he slides his body back down to settle against the curve of his erection. And his legs, still straddling his hips more than anything, tense significantly at what he feels of his erection, enough for him to gasp and freeze up.]
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Perhaps it was due to all the scarring. It wasn't a matter of permanence, but one of choice, taking a measure of control back by deliberately giving it to someone else. Or perhaps the lingering sign of connection was comforting.
A bit of everything, he suspected, not least of all the sensation itself. The points of pressure where mouth and teeth traveled were moments of slight pain that registered more as intensity, followed by warmth. Emet-Selch shudders. It was stranger still to feel so possessive about it, but he couldn't deny the emotion, feeling as though they were being tied together by virtue of being marked by him. And that when he touched Mettaton in reply, it was something of the same, for all that he left no obvious trace of his presence.
A mutual claim, and a mutual allowance for being claimed. Nothing else would've been fair, or even possible, he thought; anything less would've implied a reservation somewhere, which wouldn't have worked at all.
Was that why he felt so secure, while simultaneously off-balance, constantly on the verge of losing himself entirely, teased with the reprieve it would bring? That he could display his desires so openly, that he contained this many to start. Everywhere Mettaton pressed felt like another affirmation, another reassurance that in this, at least, he wasn't entirely alone.
It takes effort to hold back a noise of protest when Mettaton moves off of him, even for a moment, knowing full well that this small display of patience would be worth it. And that feeling is borne out when his cock is finally left exposed, his breath hitching at the slight relief it brought, and again at the brush of Mettaton's finger. Even that single touch has the Ascian cry out again, the noise faltering back into a moan, body tensing to a degree of pain, nearly oversensitive.
To go from muffled, insufficient friction to direct contact was a lot, and it's all Emet-Selch can do but cling hard to him as he feels Mettaton's body press to his cock once more, breathing sharp. For once, he doesn't try to shift his hips up or rub against him; the awareness and sensation of his erection pressing to Mettaton at all was overwhelming in itself. Not that he didn't still want more of it, even if it hurt- hurt in several ways, even, considering that abject longing- but even that slight friction from his own trembling is enough to lock him in place.]
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But Mettaton has needs, and he wants Emet-Selch to deliver. He'll give him his momentary peace away from further touching, though not by any choice of Mettaton's, who would much rather wish to overtake him until he screamed. He kisses along his jaw, remaining in place, squeezing his chest under his fingers and pressing his body into him possessively, before suddenly springing off of his lover and further onto his bed. (The temptation to overwhelm him and press into his painful arousal was so great that he feels regret even now as he beholds him still on his back.)
To encourage him to follow his orders, Mettaton leans over and gives him a gentle tug. From Emet-Selch's perspective, the Puca's upside-down, and he exacts another kiss from his odd angle.]
Come on. Follow me... lie back, up here. [That is to say, all the way on the bed with his head against the pillows ā Mettaton wants to treat him to his entire body, something he can't do quite as well with Emet-Selch having been in a sitting position originally. Mettaton stoops in to increase his closeness with his ear, his voice adjusting to become a sultry invitation to coax him along.] I'll have more of you yet... And you, me.
[More reassurance: he kisses his neck while he plants his hands against his shoulders, indicating his willingness to do whatever it took to strong-arm him into place if he had to. And he remembers quite well the Ascian's chill from earlier: no doubt Mettaton's proven to be a warm presence the longer he presses against the other man, and he's just lost that. This promises warmth; Mettaton even prepares for that, sliding a foot artfully under unmade blankets in preparation to envelop him.
Of course, even while he's like this (or especially while he's like this), Mettaton steals a long, hard look at Emet-Selch's cock; he feels a chill course over his body at its rigidity, its shape with the understanding of how he feels against his body. He tries to ascribe the look of him to memory, just as he did with his countenance.]
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Emet-Selch has a sense of regret himself for this brief delay, even if it was probably good for him, though he suspects he won't be allowed much in the way of chances to recover. Which was thoroughly fine with him; even if it hurt, especially if it hurt, that was the smallest of prices to pay for all of this. Drowning was never a comfortable thing, was it?
When he tilts his head back this time it's to look at him, upside-down and luring him elsewhere. Not a very far elsewhere, fortunately. And the Ascian had to admit that Mettaton had a point with the positioning. Only half against the flat of the bed, they couldn't press fully together, for one thing. Distantly, Emet-Selch was aware that it was a somewhat undignified position as it was- half-dressed, with his trousers open but not off, his aroused cock fully exposed, his neck bruised and a bit drooled over, out of breath, unfocused, and a bit mussed. Not that the Ascian cared at all; if anything, he was a little amused at the absurdity of being left like this.
But it doesn't exactly take much convincing for him push himself up, even with the distraction of Mettaton's voice against his ear, the lips against his neck (all of it coming from a disorienting angle). Though he takes a moment to slide his pants off the rest of the way, Emet-Selch allows himself no further delay in shifting himself onto the bed properly, helped somewhat into position through the encouragement of Mettaton's hands. Not that he needed encouraged, but he'd welcome whatever touch he could get. Though his body had warmed considerably though arousal, not having Mettaton over him was a considerable loss on all levels, including simple heating.]
Is that a promise...?
[His murmur is heavier than he intended, breathlessness and wanting coloring the edges of it. Before lying down properly, he can't help but sit up properly first, leaning over to instead press his lips to Mettaton's. There's more force, more visible need in it than he intended, a small noise smothered by the tongue he's slipping past his lips. His hand warmly cups the side of Mettaton's face, thumb stroking his cheek.
...he had other words, he thought, but Emet-Selch could no longer recall them. And it's with reluctance that he pulls back to stretch out upon the bed.]
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As he advances, Mettaton allows for Emet-Selch's hand to take the place of his own once he takes him into a kiss, and Mettaton hums into it with his eye closing. He leans in, appreciates his need and his intensity, placing hands upon the back of the Ascian's neck, if just for the duration of this short kiss made unintentionally passionate. Upon pulling away, Mettaton wobbles in place just a bit with a smile, smitten.
But then he has Emet-Selch prostrate before him, yet another delightful view, and it's at least an opportunity to run the back of his hand against the corner of his lip to recover from any time he ended up drooling because he fancied something too hard. He'll want to see him again, to compare that mental image he has of Hades collected compared to when Hades loses himself to pleasure, but this is an undeniable teaser. Mettaton's quick to leverage his body above Emet-Selch's, hungry for more.]
Yes, Hades-darling. How could it be anything elseā
[... Even over something like this, why did he have to say that? Mettaton visibly grows both more alert and more dazed, his ears standing to full attention as he realizes what sort of mistake he's made. A Puca... cannot defy a promise. Even a sexy promise with vague terms. He'll have more of him, and Emet-Selch should get more of him in turn? Whatever that means, he'll have to see it to its satisfactory conclusion at any cost. If it's not good enough, he'll have to do him again, until it is.
He wonders if Emet-Selch knows this about him, and he narrows his eye suspiciously, one ear in a usual state of neutral pleasantness as the other one folds back in irritation. His voice is a playful warning.]
Are you toying with me, gorgeous? Bringing promises into the bedroom... I have to admit. It's awfully clever, if you want to secure a state of being absolutely ravished by me...
[And, reciprocated. Being so easily spoken once again is bound to be lost to him from the very moment he presses his body into his Bonded's. He needs to be making contact with him now, desperately.
The Puca first leans down to kiss his neck before pressing his chest to the Ascian's. Their hips follow suit, and he makes a show of attention as he adjusts the positioning his body relative to Emet-Selch's arousal while he shifts around on top of him. He settles once he can barely feel him curved against his body, which he notes with a sigh, and he closes his thighs just enough to hardly touch him. Mettaton shivers with delight before taking stock of how Emet-Selch's doing, with his weight to his anticipation.]
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(And he thought it a pity again that he couldn't see Mettaton's soul, had only gotten an impression of it during their Bonding. He'd never seen a soul from someone not of his star before. He'd always found them to have the potential for more beauty than anything else.)
But worse than that was any look of fondness, or affection. An absurd thing to unsettle him now, after everything, as though it hadn't already been repeatedly demonstrated. Perhaps it was just beginning to sink in, that it wasn't going away, that it was probably going to get worse. But you could care about someone without being fond of them, after all. The latter was far more...
Difficult. And the sort of thing he still emotionally recoiled from, yet longed for. A conflict that's likely to ripple through their Bond, even as Emet-Selch is distracted slightly from (those specific) unpleasant ruminations as he watches Mettaton move, hears his reply--
And blinks at the unexpected reaction, regarding him with curiosity, a different sort of interest. In truth, he was unaware of the rules binding pucas to their promises, so this- rather irritable response to what he took to be a rather straightforward exchange has him uncertain. He knew of danger sensing, and an appreciation for betting (which didn't necessarily imply a requirement for followthrough), but....
It might be something he can work out himself later, but for now the Ascian's priorities remained on what was in front of him. And soon to be on top of him. Whatever the reason for Mettaton's particular determination, he was more than willing to accept it. Really- promises or otherwise, what else would have been sufficient?
Emet-Selch finds his words lost once more when Mettaton takes his place over him, the deliberation in the way he settles. A small, full-bodied shudder passes through him at the combination of sensations, from the weight of Mettaton's body alone holding him in place, the way his skin felt pressed to metal, the hint of contact around his cock. He hisses softly, swallowing back a groan, finding it that bit harder to breathe- which was starting to become a familiar thing. His arms wrap warmly, if loosely around the puca, rubbing them slowly across his back, appreciating how much he could feel of him at once, though it was hard to imagine how it could ever be enough.]
Is that... so terrible a wish?
[Oh look, he found some words after all. But only a few.]
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Uncomfortable as it might make the Ascian, he couldn't stop him, nor control him. He feels not burdened by this, but light, a pleasant and electrifying energy.
But there are other matters he cares to tend to than his heart, and just as quickly, the robot changes gears and averts his hard stare for long enough to blink. Pressed under him and hardly able to conjure the words, Mettaton hums, elated to have Emet-Selch right where he wants him. The look in his eye is satisfied and deeply wanting, his hands squeezing the other man's shoulders once as he runs them down his biceps then slides them against his sides. There's a spike in pleasure at the mere sight and sensation of it, the beginnings of an automatic reflex. He can feel him shudder beneath him, and he wishes he could have had his throat close to his lips when he made that noise.
The Puca leans down to press a short kiss against his lips, and replies against him in kind.]
No. But... you'll certainly. [Words. He can force his tone to be even, but when his mind blanks out, it's troublesome. Another quick kiss before he continues.] Certainly get what I... promise. And so will I. Don't doubt, darling.
[Once more, he can feel how tense his lower body is at the notion of Emet-Selch's erection so close. He recalls the odd sensation he had before of feeling like he'd be missing something upon being separated from him the last time they got so intimate, and that much feels true all over again. Experimentally, Mettaton wraps his thighs loosely about his erection, just enough so Emet-Selch's made to feel him but with no exact pressure.
It's a good thing Mettaton's finished talking already, because it's all he can do to swallow down a noise as he lets his head hang toward the Ascian's shoulder at the impact the sensation has on him. Naturally, for such a feeling to rattle him on a mindful level, his body responds in kind: he can't help it when his thighs tense, enclose him with more pressure despite his wishes, and he presses his face into his neck to stifle a moan again. Biting into his neck helps somewhat, and Mettaton hisses.]
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He didn't want to think about it. Couldn't; even those small kisses help to snap his focus back onto something else, and he leans into them with all the concentration he can muster. Mettaton's voice registers more than his words, which take Emet-Selch a few extra moments to go back and decipher, still caught between sound and the taste of his lips. The way Mettaton's hands moved over him, his own body attempting to twitch or lean into any and all points of contact.
Underlying it all is the pulsing ache from his erection, so stiff that he finds himself gasping anew at only having his cock so gently held between Mettaton's thighs, unable to prevent his hips from shuddering upwards. But there's little he could achieve of his own accord, other than spark a more insistent want in him. The sort of thing he could bury himself in, and he moans more loudly, remembering the way the idol's strangely muscular legs had squeezed around his cock the last time.
As though spurred on by that memory, he feels the tensing of Mettaton's thighs around his length once more, and his breathing quickly sharpens. His hips still struggle to rub further against the twitches of the other man's thighs, as his body as a whole presses up, desperate for ever more of him.
Emet-Selch's hands dig in to Mettaton's back when he feels that bite sink into his neck, shivering hard. Pressing his head against Mettaton's, his eyes are tightly shut, lips slightly parted as he begins to pant. Another mark for the collection, he suspected, each one as valuable as the last.]
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To take more of his Bonded, and to give as much in return... Mettaton takes greater control of Emet-Selch's pleasure, curving his back just enough to give Emet-Selch some freedom to thrust against the twitching of his thighs. He deiberately loosens and exerts pressure between his legs in unpredictable rhythm. This is his chance to move, though it's short-lived. It's not long before the robot comes back down upon him to take away that freedom, pinning him into place with more intent than ever, pressing his trembling thighs together with a hiss. It's only natural that by this point, his body, wanting as he is, is wracked with unintentional response: for each twitch and each sound given by Emet-Selch, his body responds with immediacy, systematic in his feedback.
Mettaton moves from sucking and biting at his neck to kissing him deeply, flicking his tongue out to signal his desires before sliding between his lips. He controls him utterly from above him. If he could render him truly breathless all over again, he feels certain that he'd lose his mind to oblivion. Already, with the Ascian panting, he's off to a good start. One of his hands drift from his hips to thread into this hair, starting from that shock of white and pushing back, mussing it up worse than before.
Time for dreadful feelings, which Mettaton views as anything but. His adoration for the Ascian is immense, his desire to see his mind blown immeasurable. His behavior is flippant, usually, but when the Puca pulls him in, closer and closer, the depths of Emet-Selch's sentiment never fail to surprise Mettaton. He's terribly vulnerable like this, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He sighs by noise into their kiss, overwhelmed and content. Mettaton could drown in the satisfaction his Bonded brings him, or he could see himself drowning in his sentiment, and he'd be content either way. Neither daunt him. As always, he can be vulnerable to his heart's content beneath Mettaton's weight. He welcomes it.
When he pulls back to give Emet-Selch a moment for air, he gives him only enough before coming back down upon him with a moan in his throat, nipping at his lower lip and lifting again, then treating him to yet another kiss, three of varying intensity in a row.]
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The kissing certainly did not help in that regard, his small noises further stifled by Mettaton's tongue, swallowed up by their mouths, and Emet-Selch makes no attempt to counter this. Even the smaller moments, the brush to his hair, the sound of a sigh, it all added up, it would all bury him.
Drowing, suffocation, the sense of being crushed; he had no word to describe the feelings that wasn't a negative one, that wasn't ultimately fatal. And yet to stop was impossible, to want to, unthinkable.
...It reminded him a little of being tempered.
And how welcome this futility was. How miserable he was, with ever more of it dragged to the surface with such openness. There was thousands of years worth to deal with, compressed and compacted, and Emet-Selch wasn't sure if he was trying to bury Mettaton in there with him, or cling to the puca's own feelings instead, to drown in a different sort of sentiment. He was lost either way, the Ascian knew that much.
Each kiss breaks him a little further, the different intensities giving him no chance of adjusting, nothing to anchor to, leaving him capable of only responding, almost harsh in his urgency. He was certainly overstimulated now, in every sense of the word, biting at Mettaton's lips when he could claim them, before losing his grip on them with ever hoarser cries. His cock hurt to be touched, much less gripped by trembling thighs, but he wouldn't have pulled back from it, even if he physically could.
Emet-Selch didn't have the coherence nor the breath to plead with him, for everything that he didn't have words for. But it was there in his feelings, in the way he struggled. He couldn't be saved, but did he have to be alone?]
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He continues to take more and more kisses from him, frantic, and continues to rub against his cock with a feverish desire for more. The sheer amount of heat he feels in his core is surely reflected in the taste of his mouth, heat in place of air. Mettaton feels all but addicted to what he can get out of his Bonded in this moment, scarcely able to stop just to soothe the ache he feels. His ears fold back, flush against his head in his backwards submission to it all, his acceptance of him. In truth, he loves his openness in this moment, the insight into his desire, as terrifying as it is in his misery.
This intimacy appeals too much, and he can't think straight inundated by such sensation, fondness, and affect. The hand against his hip traces gently up to his shoulder, where he grips the Ascian with a shaky moan at the feeling of his trembling figure beneath him, the sound of his faint cries enough to make him go weak. The sheer weight of his feelings become pleasant, a backdrop for his bliss and his love despite it all, complex and thrilling.
Both of them felt so much, in such opposite directions. Emet-Selch's disorientation, suffocation, and abject loneliness permeated all else, but it didn't overwhelm the idol to the point of drowning. He grows more tender, continues to deliberately steal his chance for breath for as long as his urgency isn't for needing to breathe... Because the robot feels like his urgency needs to be met with him instead. He feels nothing but compassion and love and familiarity, for someone he's known for only a month's time.
Still, in his unguarded state, Mettaton ends up granting Emet-Selch room to breathe unintentionally when he ducks toward his ear and kisses him against his neck, the place he seems to gravitate to, and he sighs. Presses into him; nuzzles him; squeezes him closer with the winding sort of strength unique to an arm like his. His voice is smooth as ever, low, coaxing, heady, and close, with an edge of his need.]
Hades...
[He wants terribly to fill Emet-Selch with him as a form of claim, primal and intuitive. If he can't do it physically, how better to do that than to occupy his senses?]
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There was a comfort in being held to, enveloped, wrapped up in his arm, feeling Mettaton's face against his throat, the texture of his voice. And there was more comfort in that sense of familiarity he felt as well, something he didn't want to examine too closely at all. But comfort wasn't enough, no matter how hard he attached to it, and to him, no matter how much he tried.
When he finally reaches some sort of peak, the Ascian almost doesn't realize it. There was ever sharper pain, desperation and necessity, and finally a point that hurt worst of all, as though climax was something to be torn from him. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't terrible either; most of all it was intense, blinded him the rest of the way, erased the concept of thought itself- but that was what he wanted, wasn't it?
Apart from the continued small, soft pleads, it's completely soundless.
As he latches onto Mettaton physically, Emet-Selch clings to him mentally as well; he was still inundated, permeated by the sense of his own despair, but it wasn't the only thing there, the only thing left. It was so foreign, so different that he didn't know what to make of it, neither to reject it nor defend from it. It didn't hurt him any less (or at least, he couldn't disconnect it from the pain that was already there), but it hurt differently, pressing to the rawest parts of him that had long gone untreated, unreached.
His breath is shaky, not only from the desperate need for air, but from the force of collected emotion. He presses the side of his head hard against Mettaton's, as though he could burrow against him further, somehow, disturbed feelings barely even beginning to settle. His hand buries itself in Mettaton's hair, feeling the brush of those pressed-back ears, but his grip is weak, as trembling as the rest of him. There were no thoughts remaining.]
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