[So he focuses on this. Emet-Selch's kiss occupies much of his attention with all other stimuli an accompaniment. Mettaton falls into the kiss, slackening somewhat as he relies upon locked knees to keep himself upright.
There's something enchanting about having his body touched by somebody who exhibits signs of transparent love for him. Mettaton feels he's completely worthy of the attention, but when turning into a human hangs in the balance, it charms him all the more that Emet-Selch would always fascinate himself over his long-awaited body. It's evident in his fingers and his deliberation. His attention follows the path of his fingers, too, even as his own travel down Emet-Selch's sternum and move to handle his chest with both hands, pressing into him with both fingertips and palms. Their kiss is a delectable focus: mutually, he tastes for his Bonded and knows that, given their history, this is a taste that'll soon be lost to his own mouth in due time. He hums around his lover's tongue, fingers and claws subconsciously curling into his skin as if attempting to grip onto him. He slides his tongue against the other man's, the entirety of his action enough to give Mettaton a good shiver.
The feeling of his thumb taking such a gentle path around the remnant shape of his eye is unique, something he feels just about as often as Emet-Selch regards it at all, which is rare. But it's reassuring: Mettaton's tactile in affection. It soothes him, all while serving to remind him of tangibility. It's always a problem with that, in the end: what's present, and what's disturbingly not.
And he's very present, in all senses of the word. Drinking in the way Emet-Selch asserts himself, the way his fingers trace over his chest, takes further claim upon his mouth (something Mettaton's sure they'll be doing plenty of to come, he can feel it and it sparks like electricity to consider), and to take his cue for touch. Mettaton's fingers trace over his skin, one hand pressing firmly into his torso while the other flicks one of his nipples before rubbing, and it's another point toward just wanting, all of it.
He wants to experience this. The idol doesn't see why he can't have his way. He wants Emet-Selch in every way possible, and this is one of those absurd possibilities afforded to him, after all. He opens his eye. Focuses on Emet-Selch's face, even from this close proximity. He wants to impress him, but he also wants to have him in every way. And, he wants Emet-Selch to have him in return.
So he shifts. It's all of him, all at once, a drastic change in texture and tenderness. Emet-Selch's fingers trace over skin now, a body built and lean and decently toned. Skin warm, perhaps warmer than a human's should be, it's a forgivable mistake coming from his own perceptions of temperature. Mettaton's claws are gone, replaced by proper fingers (though he still envisions the wrong number of them); and though his eyes are closed, they're dark as his hair, the perfect image of what Mettaton would have been if he were made human instead of machine.
Importantly, there aren't any nightmarish mistakes. No missing pieces or exposed insides, no disfigurement or dripping blood. Only benign hiccups, like too-hot temperatures and too-few fingers.
And he knows it's worked: he has an actual pulse, and he feels it jump in his throat. Real functional lungs he could be rendered breathless with. And he emits a noise of pleasure at the way the air chills against his naked body — it's not as though he was wearing anything to act as a buffer against it. He jolts in place before he wraps his arms around his Bonded's back, hungrily drawing him close to his body: for contact, for love, and for warmth, even though he feels feverishly hot already. Hot, and already aroused.
The contact of pulling Emet-Selch to his body shocks him. He gasps at the feeling, and he's forced to break the kiss in his excitement. He takes a gulp of air, delirious.]
Ah— Hades...! I...
[There's a lot for the idol to focus on. His success, first of all. But the sudden sensation of the Ascian's body pulled flush to his own, his arousal shoved against his figure... Mettaton's eye's wide, lips parted, hips automatically grinding into his lover as muscle tenses.]
[The slide of tongue and grip of claws was enough on its own to keep his captured attention solely on the man in his arms. A fixation that Emet-Selch expects returned, and seems to receive, taking in the attention with a rush of emotional warmth joining the physical. The mutual wanting that was apparent in each bit of contact, no matter how small or teasing. And why shouldn't they have all of one another? It wasn't a matter of right or desire, but simple mechanical possibility. And with Mettaton's ability with the potential to bridge that divide- success was the only permitted outcome.
But it was still something of a startle, when the tracing of fingers across the firmness of metal became the differing firmness of skin. A solidity that yields to the reflexive tensing of his hands, a brief clutching at Mettaton's face and chest. At a skin too warm, perhaps, but not unpleasantly so; a fever that matched the idol's own nature.
If Mettaton hadn't broken the kiss from his own reaction, Emet-Selch would've been forced to in his stead, eyes flashing open again to stare, fascinating himself over everything he could see at this close distance. What he could make out of his face and upper torso, meeting his gaze when the idol's own eyes reopen. He'd found out that a puca's eyes were yellow; this darker violet then was Mettaton's original- or rather, his intended color, that detail standing out even amongst the overwhelming rest of him. And while he liked the gold in itself (a small point they had in common), he would admit that purple, perhaps, suited him better....
Unwilling (and once he's pulled closer again, unable) to get a full look at him yet, sensation would have to do in its place, but sensation was more than enough. His chest was pressed to the heat and texture of skin, something far easier to meld himself to. His Bonded's arms provide a similar sensation, and he shivers at his awareness of it. His own arms end up dropping to wrap around Mettaton in turn, smoothing quickly along the expanse of his back, getting an impression of muscle that just- hadn't been there before. The sign of organic strength rather than that from a machine. And of course, the clear feeling of the idol's erection pressing against his body, a hardness that has his own pulse leap, hips grinding back against him, taking an obvious pleasure at having that obvious sign of his lover's desire for him pressed to his body. Though his own was still clothed, the shape and increasing stiffness of it is more than evident as he shifts, to rub it against Mettaton's exposed cock.]
See? There-- [Breathless again for a moment, he brushes a brief kiss to his Bonded's lips. His voice is low, satisfaction- perhaps even excitement- writ into it.] There was no chance of failure.
[His breath becomes a shuddering sigh, as he dips his head to press lips along the idol's throat, learning and tasting this new texture of him, enticed by what he could feel of a pulse underneath skin. And, on curiosity, his mouth closes around a patch of his neck, wondering if he could suck a mark onto him for once.]
[Mettaton smiles silly with the eye contact of his Bonded, mind buzzing on a high while his attention is bright and lively, beside himself at this crash course to being made more human while in the presence of another person. The mere attention and unreality of it all astounds him. Mettaton can only agree: there was no chance for failure with both of their plans in motion. All notion of his previous mistakes are discarded, pushed far away from his immediate memory to make room for whatever he sees in this body and its successful conceptualization.
The way Emet-Selch shifts his hips so he can feel that hard line beneath clothes has Mettaton's grip tightening, breath catching on an exhale, making short work of a moan as he pushes forward his hips again, wanting greater contact with the Ascian's body. His body, shirtless, which is still something warm and pleasant even against his own: he grips onto him, just as delighted by that sensation as he imagined he'd be. Though built curvy in his own right with a narrow waist, it's nowhere near the dramatic angles and curves of his robotic figure, and Emet-Selch fits against him perfectly with the mutual give of their bodies. Even something that minute doesn't escape Mettaton's notice, and he hums, tugging him close.
His kiss is met with an electricity, even as he shudders. Mettaton stops focusing on his body for a moment to instead focus on Emet-Selch, his words filling him to the brim with adoration as his fleeting kiss is yet another way to fill him up. His hips roll into Emet-Selch, a movement almost brazen if it weren't that he was already completely revealed and completely hard to compare. It couldn't get more brazen than that.]
I take it you're... You like what you feel... Oh—!
[Emet-Selch moves to his throat and Mettaton predicts what he's going to do seconds before he does it, taking a preparatory gasp as he swallows hard. He can't even brace himself for the sensation, which is different than how it feels on his regular body: his moan has an edge of pain to it, but it softens into one of pleasure as soon as he acknowledges that this is how it feels. Mettaton bares his neck, granting access to his Bonded with a perverse excitement for the impending marks to be left behind, more things he's coveted desperately finally given to him.
His arms further entwine around the Ascian, shifting to his upper back as he pulls him in, demanding his complete attentions upon his body. His pulse thrums under Emet-Selch's attentions, and as Mettaton can feel the beat of it under the pressure of his lips. He shudders and clings, shoving his hips into him further, unashamed to show the full of his want. A rub against the form of his lover's arousal, the feeling of it and knowledge of it pleasurable in its own right. Mettaton closes his eyes to better appreciate the feeling of Emet-Selch at his neck.]
Yesss, Hades... I want to see... What you do me...
[It's terrible that he still wants to mark him up in return, with just as much fervor as he did in their dream. The lingering memory of blood entices him too much for him to leave it at brusies. But Mettaton is filled with every manner of want: a dizzying amount, and he exhales shakily at it all.]
[It was interesting how things that would normally be expected or routine became newly enticing all on their own, by virtue of circumstance. The give of skin and underlying muscle, the sound of breathing, the slight shift of Mettaton's chest with each exhalation, the thrum of a pulse underneath his lips: all basic signs of life became sensations worth particular enjoyment, largely in part because of Mettaton's own pleasure in it. In seeing him achieve something so wanted, Emet-Selch hums against his throat in satisfaction. It was the same feeling he'd had when the idol had first demonstrated a partial transformation to him, now only greater, and he still found it a bit strange to take so much pleasure in seeing someone else's happiness. A vicariously experienced positivity? Or just- caring for the welfare of someone important to him.
But the physical pleasure of it was nothing for him to discount either, noticing as well how more closely their bodies matched, the softness of the chest pressed to his, and Emet-Selch shivers again at the thought of having their bodies fully entwined like this. Flush and giving and excessively warm; he bites at Mettaton's neck to stave off a moan. Drawing back just enough to observe the mark he'd successfully left behind has his breathing catch anew- and then is caught again by the thrust of hips against his, the sudden pang of need leaving him shuddering, aching deeply for him. His eyes close again as he licks over the bruise he'd left behind, breath heavy as he trails to another spot on his neck, closing in on it with lips and teeth and pressure. Spurred on further by the sound of Mettaton's voice, unsurprised but still- rather touched to hear that the idol shared in his desire to leave some manner of reminder upon his skin. For all that it would only last as long as the transformation did, but- Emet-Selch didn't want to think about that.
They would both know that it had been there, for all that such demonstrations of possession weren't necessary to start.
And he had no doubt that Mettaton would be eager to return the favor, the thought of taking those marks from him again, now that they were no longer in a dream and would linger appropriately, has him biting harder again. Yes: a visual sort of claim that they could share in for a time, and he ached for his imagining of it.
But with such access to his lover's throat, Emet-Selch was disinclined to leave it yet, leaving a damp line over heated and vulnerable skin as he mouthed across it. Moaning softly against his skin at the blatant desire from the other man, the way they were rubbing their erections against one another, separated by only a few pieces of inconvenient fabric. Even with the constriction that he felt around his own, there was more a sense of anticipation rather than frustration. The knowledge of how soon and how easily they could press to one another, skin against skin, leaves his legs feeling almost weak. There was- so much that he wanted, something that he was still unused to feeling. There had been duty and naught else, but now--
To look forward to something so much- to want something so dearly. To want someone so dear to him: it has his breath trembling, hands kneading a slow path along his lover's spine, feeling as though he had to learn his body all over again, but not at all minding the prospect.]
[And Mettaton would agree that the fact that they both know of their mutual claim is what matters. Every mark he's ever made on Emet-Selch had been there, and the same is true for himself, even when marks cannot be made.
This isn't the first time Mettaton's attempted shapeshifting into a human, but it's the first time it's felt so correct. It's always felt right, but every part of this form responds to Emet-Selch's touches as it should, every nerve firing off just right, every prod and lick a different texture and sensation beyond even what he's been granted in his EX body.
He can feel all of the same by touch now, but who knew that the ability to feel temperature would change so much? Emet-Selch's mouth is so warm, he knew that. But to feel it on his neck, his tongue and teeth and lips, only to feel him drift elsewhere for his work to be left to chill... It leaves Mettaton shaking, clutching onto Emet-Selch with yet another shuddering breath. Wetness in itself feels entirely different, and the pressure of sucking on his skin and the subsequent bruising has him gasping some more, soft noises of pleasure accompanying each new kiss and mark. It's a needling sort of pain that blooms purple, at first mere pain before being converted immediately into raw pleasure. Signs of Emet-Selch's ardor, reciprocated by Mettaton entirely.
Being bitten down upon, harder this time, has Mettaton crying out. He squirms, pulls more tightly on the Ascian's body before hiccuping over his own breath, an interruption spared for the way his erection presses so firmly against his lover's.
Fixating so hard on how different everything feels has Mettaton's embrace tightening as his knees wobble, though his thighs remain taut as he continues to rub his cock against the impression of Emet-Selchs through fabric, unable to control his craving for more now that he's been given a taste. He exhales a particularly hard breath to accompany a tremble, sucking in air as he bites his lip at the sensation of both his lover at his neck and the way his hands travel down his back.
From chills of a psychological nature to the impression of air against saliva, to a lack of clothes and the suggestion of his lover's arousal and what it means for their immediate future, he has every reason in the book to shiver.
Mettaton's hands pet along Emet-Selch's back encouragingly. It's so nice to feel the press of skin against skin, the embrace in itself bringing a unique satisfaction in its warmth and softness. A softness bodies like these have that still expresses the passion he harbors. Mettaton can hardly stand it: it's surreal, holding his Bonded like this, and it feels like every time before is just as surreal and wonderful. He smiles. While Emet-Selch busies himself with his shoulders and his neck, Mettaton takes a chance to rub his cheek against the Ascian's head with a particular longing, full of love, aching and overfull at his attention and care and the want he feels from him.
The result of their entire relationship is that Mettaton loves him after all, for as much as he taunted him with it many months ago. Aside from the pain that comes of love, he could never hurt him. No matter what, he doubts he could. He doesn't have it in him, completely prone. He sighs, nuzzling him harder.]
Hades... Bed. Y... You're doing a number on me.
[That is, if both of them keep feeling weak-kneed, something ridiculous is bound to happen. It should be obvious that Mettaton's already made some of his weight Emet-Selch's responsibility. Taking his own weight back somewhat, one of his hands ventures down automatically to tease at the band of Emet-Selch's pants, pulling at the front with a finger before letting go. Flirting with the desire to strip him down, once he gets the chance.]
[Another moment, another patch of skin marred by ardent sucking, though the Ascian was reluctant to bite down too hard, at least just yet, unsure whether this body could withstand the same sort of grinding pressure as his robotic form. But the results, as they were, both satisfied, and left him with a need for ever more of them. Not only now, but in future- to repeatedly stake his claim on him in this fashion. Though possessiveness was nothing new at this point, the feeling of wanting all others to know that Mettaton was his was, and he wondered then if the puca had the same feeling when marking up his own neck.... It's a thought that leaves him both warm and a bit smug, presuming that of course Mettaton would have the inclination, and why shouldn't he? He was a worthy thing to be possessive of.
The nuzzling provokes a low, rumbling noise of pleasure from him, deep in his own throat, the sensation joining all else that he could feel and hear. The way he was pulled closer, each interruption to Mettaton's breathing, the trembling of skin against his providing the most delicate of friction. The far less delicate shove of the idol's cock against his body, and everything that it meant. The teasing suggestion offered by the brief tug at the front of his pants, though Emet-Selch can only sigh at the resulting throb of his arousal, how immediate his response was to even the thought of having his lover's hands and body pressing over sensitive flesh. How primed he was to react to him, to even the suggestion of him, the sound of his sighs and tone of his voice.]
Ah- yes....
[And the reminder it brought that they were still standing, and another suggestion worth heeding. Though it's with some reluctance that he has to lift his head slightly from Mettaton's neck- leaving it for the moment with another swipe of tongue against a most satisfactory bruised patch- in order to reorient himself in an unfamiliar room. To remember where the bed was, to make sure there was nothing in the way as his hold on his Bonded adjusts, to press and guide him back towards it. Even Mettaton moving to not lean on him to the same degree leaves him off-balance, and with as unsteady as they both were, it was both the most sensible and most comfortable option.
But apart from noting their surroundings out of necessity, Emet-Selch's gaze and attention is pulled back to Mettaton almost immediately, an inexorable pull towards his Bonded. And from looking at him, eyes flitting over his neck, his face, it became just as necessary to kiss him again, leaning up to capture his lips with... altogether more gentleness than he expected. But it's no less intense for it, that longing for him that much more evident, perhaps, in contrast to the soft deliberation in which he presses to his mouth.
...How completely prone they were to each other, he thought. An awareness that weighs heavily upon him, that dragged him under. But it's nothing that he would've changed, even if he could, even if it would be the more sensible thing- to not care, to not be so attached. Shifting a hand up again, he's drawn to touch his face once more, with the same feeling behind it as the kiss: soft but intense.]
[This pattern of their intensity swinging from sensual and lusting to vulnerable and emotional is all the more reason to find themselves somewhere they could fall into each other rather than away, and Mettaton, not wanting to separate from the Ascian in the slightest bit, starts to follow him... until he feels his eyes on him, attention locked on Emet-Selch in turn. A chill courses through him that serves only to heat him up, overcome as his Bonded steals him in yet another kiss along their way to the bed. Such a distraction, they both are to one another...
His kiss feels undeniable, an expression of his depths that Mettaton can only respond to with his own heights, arms once more encircling his body, fingers and palms pressing into his back. To appreciate his body, to memorize his dimensions, and to brand him with his touch, all in one.
Any manner of intensity is one that Mettaton will step up to and match in his own right. This is no different: it draws from an emotional reserve that grows deeper and deeper by the day for Emet-Selch, impossibly. He feels so alive in this moment between himself and his lover that the potency of his feeling leaves him forgetting to breathe or to even try, kiss gentle but likewise intense. He feels the heat of his own body warming the space between them. It's space he wants to close, Mettaton decides. Obscene, in the way that he wants so much. He could nearly succumb to his primal desire and pull him to the floor as he is, ravish him and take him there, and he shudders at the thought. His cock aches; his craving for the Ascian's body burns hot enough to sear him.
Just before he loses himself in the kiss, Mettaton breaks it with the same tenderness that it's built upon, exhaling whatever breath he has left as his body forgets how to respond at all. Such gentleness paid toward him, an obvious desire amidst an obvious care. His awareness is static, nothing more. He couldn't remove his arms from Emet-Selch if he tried.
But they still have a destination, and Mettaton remembers what it means to take a shallow breath, at least. He does, and immediately expels it in a short, dizzy laugh, lovestruck and heartsick both. Ultimately drunk, and wanting to slip further into intoxication. His voice is mildly teasing, incredibly flirtatious, and low with his desire. He leans his forehead into Emet-Selch's for some added stability. His entire world is within this room, right now.]
Oh, my. Aren't you distracting. You can have it all, darling. Every bit of me... You know patience.
[Mettaton takes initiative on unsteady feet, urging his Bonded along: if he's going to be so distracted by Mettaton, which he should be, he can finish guiding him to where he can indulge fully in this distraction he loves to provide. The idol lures him forward by stepping backwards toward the bed, and once he feels its edge against the backs of his legs, he slides onto it, pulling Emet-Selch down with him.
It's just as soon as they make it there, as soon as Emet-Selch edges onto the bed after Mettaton's body that Mettaton takes his turn to lunge for him, pulling Emet-Selch into a deep kiss with as much intensity as before, but with a touch of his unrestrained fever. A gentleness with a passion. The taste of his Bondmate has Mettaton moaning into their kiss, and he nips at his lower lip as his hands drop to the fastenings of his trousers, the ache he feels in his entire body suggestive to him of both adoration and carnal desire. He makes a soft noise into his kiss, a contented sigh to finally be somewhere he could fall. Somewhere they could both fall.]
[For once, he's not the only one with the limitation of breathing, the requirement for air. The same forgetfulness when it came to taking it, when there were far more important actions to occupy oneself with. And another thing he could finally steal from Mettaton, to add to all else that he wanted to take from him. Yet another thing he wanted to keep to himself- like that small laugh from his Bonded, his manner of expressing this distressing amount of need, with a lightness and joy that he could only witness and envy him for. And a voice he could lose himself to entirely, every aspect and quality having the capacity to distract and arouse him. To sharpen his focus onto sound alone, and the person behind it.
With an equal refusal when it came to separating from his body, Emet-Selch matches him for steps, moving with him as he closes in on the bed. That lurking intensity on Mettaton's part was a hard thing to miss, that awareness only feeding into his own, returning it back to him in a repeated building of pressure; it felt like skirting along a knife edge, softness and gentleness barely masking the passion underneath. Not really masking it at all, but tempering just the smallest degree, the barest amount, when any sudden move on either of their parts could lead to it snapping- a dragging down onto whatever surface was closest, to burn and tear and love without reserve. His breath still shudders at the strain of it, and he swallows heavily. Follows after without pause, crawling onto the bed and Mettaton, noting the sensation of both with a mild relief. If it was inevitable to collapse somewhere, this would at least be a more comfortable spot.
He did know patience. It was difficult, a painful thing, when he wanted something so much, had it dangled in front of him like this. A desire both stoked and soothed when he's dragged back against Mettaton's lips, an attempted breath choked off, pushed back, disappearing fully into that kiss. There was an adoration here that could burn, that was deep enough to cut, and Emet-Selch pushed back the pain too, nuzzling forward against his Bonded's lips with a small sound. And his hips jerk forward, unable to stop himself, at the promise Mettaton's hands brought him, his trousers feeling more constrictive by the moment. An ache that joined all the others, caused by a truly excessive amount of affection. Eventually, reluctantly, he has to breathe.]
Patience- is highly overrated. Or do you think you're any more prone to it?
[Words and the accompanying thought are interrupted by another sigh, another kiss- so light to keep from snapping down. Eyes half-open to keep an impression of Mettaton's face in mind, he trails a hand along neck and shoulder, digging in with the tips of his fingers, still becoming accustomed to the unfamiliar give to him. Where muscles attached, where blood (presumably) ran underneath.
And how warm; it wasn't as though his robotic shell had been cold, had contained a great deal of heat really, that just needed to be brought to the surface. But now that warmth was just there, completely available to bask in, a lure that he wanted to give into entirely.]
[And that jerk of his hips has Mettaton's eyes widening by degrees, an edge of excitement he already had compounded upon. It's a sharp intake of breath through his nose even into their kiss before the other man breaks it, all of which is expelled all at once when he moves to speak.
Instead of hearing him at first, Mettaton's attention is dragged down to the front of his pants, pleased that there's light enough for him to see it all — and for him to be seen in return. He loves being watched. He spares a glance to Emet-Selch's face again, noting his half-lidded gaze, before he brazenly fixates upon the work of his hands with an impatience for clothes and a hunger he wouldn't bother to disguise. His own hips shift impotently, sympathetic for his Bonded's desires and his captivity, even though he's never felt what it's like to be aroused beneath fabric. No, his sympathy comes from the feeling of being aroused and having nothing to show for it.
He practically tears Emet-Selch's fly open and yanks his pants down, increasingly feverish as his breaths become shorter and harder. His eye nearly glazes over just as he reveals his lover's cock, watching bounce to upright attention as he pulls it from its confines. And then, Mettaton moans in sympathy: there's no contact, nothing at all, just the sight and all of his craving, the way that being watch feels as if it intensifies even his own experiences. He exhales breath he almost has none of, finding it hard to take in anything more in the heights and heat of his appetite. He has no room in his body for air. He wants to fill himself with Emet-Selch instead.
The idol opens his mouth to speak as his hands reflexively grab onto Emet-Selch's hips. Something about patience, he thinks. It is overrated, and when he thinks about his Bonded's experience with it... This man has scarcely known reward from patience. It brings Mettaton to smile at him when he thinks about how he can be rewarded for a lack of it through indulgence, and he finally pries his attention from the coveted sight of Emet-Selch's cock to meet his lover's eyes, squirming against the bed as he resumes breathing, short and shallow as though to keep enough room in his body for everything else.]
I know it. [Patience. He... says he knows patience, all while unable to stay still and wait for anything at all. His hands are on Emet-Selch's hips, attempting to pull the other man onto his wanting, trembling body.] And... we don't need it. I-
[Dazed. Lusting. He can't think, gazing upon Emet-Selch's body in such a position slightly above his own after having crawled almost atop him on their way to bed. Mettaton realizes he has too much spit in his mouth, and he swallows thickly.]
I need-
[Greedy. He needs all of him at once. Not one position will do. Not one method of claim will do. The idol's eyes narrow, and a mark of frustration etches itself onto his features, a merge of libidinous irritation at the fact that he can't just... fuck him, be fucked, suck him off, be kissed from tip to toe, hold him close, force his lover to watch him pleasure himself... All of it at once.
This indecent list is endless, and it's enough to get Mettaton to lunge for Emet-Selch's neck in his impatience for it all. He sinks his perfect teeth into his neck without reserve: his blood is for him to take, and he immediately breaks out into a heavy moan at the taste. It's better tasting than he remembers, his blood...
Mettaton knows patience, but if he doesn't have to be, he doesn't see the point.]
[It's with a faint shiver that threatened to turn into another jerk of hips that Emet-Selch watches Mettaton's fingers, feels that incidental movement so close to his erection so intently that he can't think of anything outside of it. Though it hadn't really been that long, it still felt like a short eternity of waiting, from the time he'd become aroused to the time Mettaton finally got his pants open, allowing his cock to spring to some measure of freedom. The Ascian's moan is low and shamelessly pleased, reveling both in the brief relief that being exposed brought, as well as from watching (and hearing) Mettaton's own response to the sight. Even without being yet touched, it was a pleasure, fully aware and able to feel how much he was wanted, and how much it heightened his own reaction. A cycle that neither of them seemed to have any interest in breaking.
When their eyes finally meet again, his pulse leaps, breath stalling, all of that yearning plain in his expression. Agreeing with absolute conviction that they had no need for patience. Not between them. Not for this.
Too many (if such a thing were possible) needs at once made it hard to position himself for anything. Instead, his mind restlessly shifts between concepts and imaginings, along similar lines as Mettaton's. How much he wanted to take and touch and suck and simply be with him, to have enough of himself carved out and consumed so that he could never be abandoned.
But at the moment his requirements were to be closer and- not much of anything else. So closer he tries to press, encouraged by Mettaton's own drag at him, while a hand drops to the hem of his opened pants, shoving them still lower, even if he can't work out the coordination to kick himself free of them entirely just yet. He'd thought, for a fleeting moment earlier, that he'd be able to keep some measure of calm, to be able to take in the full sight of his lover's transformed body with deliberation, to explore him with hands and lips, but he knew there was no chance for that now. Not yet, not when they were both completely unsated and impatient, lusting for everything at once.
But right now, what he wants most of all is teeth in his throat- something Emet-Selch realized and decided on the moment Mettaton lunged for it, when he felt the pain of the bite blossoming outward from the points of impact. A gasping cry passes his lips as he bares his neck instinctively towards him; an absurd instinct to have, but a demand in the gesture, as though expecting to be torn open. The sharp sting let him know that skin had been successfully broken, and he shudders, the ache of his cock turning the pain into a point of simple intensity.
His hands fall back to Mettaton's own body, seeking some sort of purchase there, fingers digging into skin, in a tense and irregular kneading at it.
Patience was for things that required it. There was no reason to suffer it otherwise.]
[To be received so readily has Mettaton sighing into his claim, tonguing and tasting him to his pleasure. The robot's hands move from Emet-Selch's hips to his waist as he pulls him down, atop him, but it's not for long. He releases his neck, switching to a starved tonguing of his body.
His grip on the Ascian firms. The muscles in his body all tense at once, and his hands slide to wrap around both his back and his waist before he rolls their figures over so that Emet-Selch is the one on his back. Mettaton's lips remain at his neck, ready to continue his work as he pulls his arms out from underneath the other man. Loathe to pull his body away from his, he remains pressed full-bodily to Emet-Selch, a satisfied groan slipping from his throat at the mere sensation of his figure sinking into the body beneath him. Sinking and pressing, hips locked together, chests flush, and the hardness of their erections nestled up against each other firmly.
His hips shudder at the realization of contact, and Mettaton takes another deep bite of Emet-Selch's neck as he rocks his hips. Pleasure escapes from his throat at the friction, at the fizzy taste of metallic blood that coats his lips and tongue. It's a viciousness not born of jealousy against abstract constructs this time, but a viciousness born of the gravity of his want and the craving for all of him, in every form.
And both situations remain laden heavy with love.
Even as his teeth sink deep, his tongue runs along his skin from the confines of his mouth. He withdraws, kisses enough to tint his lips, and licks, tongue broad and firm as he tries to clean all evidence of wound from his shoulder. His sigh is shuddering as his arms, flanking either side of Emet-Selch's, tremble against the mattress.
He sighs again. Breathes in his scent that mingles with blood and the scent of himself, the way he's claimed his lover so often that he can catch the hints of himself on his Bonded even after a time away. A thorough job at possession, but not yet enough. Primal claim takes him, and he grips down onto Emet-Selch, rolling his hips into the other man. His arousal is so firm against his own, and as his vision darkens, he wonders if he's remembering to breathe...?
So he takes a sharp inhale. That's better.
The Puca trails kisses along his jaw, lips still decorated in blood. He raises his body enough to look Emet-Selch in the eye, a grin pulling on his features as he consumes not just his skin and his blood, but his the way he looks beneath him. His voice is low and breathless, interrupted by gasps for air. Breathing has to happen, but in his indulgence, he scarcely remembers to do it save for on reflex to... live, basically.]
I've decided... Yes. Since. You're here. I may as well make you... You belong to me. Everything.
[Mettaton's finger traces his neck. He has so much more yet to do. So much more skin available to mark. His thighs, his shoulders, his hips... Everywhere for everyone to see. Everywhere hidden is entirely for Emet-Selch, a private reminder of what's Mettaton's. His visage darkens hungrily at the notion of claim. Mettaton decides then and there that he's going to fill his lover with his cock: a claim by filling, by sinking into him with more than just teeth.]
[Being dragged down on top of Mettaton gets a brief jerk of his hips and a sigh that doesn't quite make it past his lips, remaining trapped in a throat that he could feel licked over by his lover's tongue. Expecting another bite but not quite sure when it would be coming, being rolled suddenly over catches him off guard, tensing with a startled noise that quickly turns pleasured as the weight of the other man sinks into him. Overwhelmed at the warmth now covering his front, his back firmly against the mattress, Emet-Selch hums a breathless satisfaction at the new position. And attempts to arch underneath him, keeping his neck tilted back and exposed, while arms wrapped around to pull his Bonded tighter.
A hum that translates smoothly into a groan at the heady combination of teeth sinking into his skin and the drag of their erections together. Two different sorts of hardness, each enhancing the other. Both were something he struggled to press into, with a jerk of hips and twist of neck. Ineffectual but determined, he shudders at the movement of Mettaton's own hips practically pinning him to the bed, feeling the stiffness of their cocks rubbing so enticingly against one another, prodded hard against each other's bodies.
His own hands fall to Mettaton's hips to help drag him closer, for all that it makes his own attempts to thrust upward that much more impossible. Shivers again as a bite turns again to a lick, the tease of tongue and feeling of his lover's breath and lips on skin. The small wounds were points of heat, sharper than the rest of his body, but surrounded by points of chill, where saliva had been left behind, any smear of blood that escaped immediate claim.
And alert to its presence, Emet-Selch notes the faint scent of blood in the air, the traces of it that Mettaton must be leaving along his jaw, feeling the mix of slicknesses left on his neck. Stirred further by the brush of Mettaton's finger along it, he swallows as he feels it pass over, eyes fixed upwards. Locked upon his face, memorizing the sight of him like this- so appropriately predatory, complete with the Ascian's blood at his lips. An attractive look for the idol, he thought, his own lips slightly parted, as though he could taste it himself, could breathe it in.]
Everything--
[He repeats, caught on that word, dwelling on the solidity and weight of it. It was easy, perhaps, to be lost so wholly to passion, to say and claim anything in the heat of the moment. Not that Emet-Selch thought they ever did, never said anything they didn't entirely mean- but he's clearly alert and focused, intent on Mettaton's words. The feeling of them, what it meant to belong to someone. To want to be marked by them, completely and utterly, both visibly and indelibly, to be filled completely. To let himself go entirely, and receive all of Mettaton in return.
How long had he felt so hollow? Could Mettaton even begin to fill him? The Ascian's own look is no less hungered, a despairing and demanding sort of love, the threat- or promise- that he was no less possessed in turn. Mettaton may be filling him, but Emet-Selch would be taking him, keeping him, expecting the whole of his essence.]
All of myself, then... for all of you.
[Voice soft and deep, Emet-Selch keeps his eyes open as he leans his head up, attempting to reach those bloodied lips with his own, in one more affirmation.
[All along, Mettaton had been finding himself wanting. Coveting the Ascian's form, but coveting his body, too. Wanting him down to his soul and his every memory, from the parts he enjoys to the parts that unsettle him. It's so easy to want to take and keep somebody else...
But for the most fleeting of moments, the weight of his Bonded's demand interrupts Mettaton's spiraling fever, a madness provoked by blood and pleasure both. For it to jar him from that, at least, means he's being forced to examine its weight. His pulse spikes.]
All...
[His voice is carried on a breath between them, his body instinctively, habitually pressing into Emet-Selch. And when he takes stock of that, of everything his Bonded means to him... What a thing to consider. But he'd been thinking it all night and for longer than that, hadn't he? The only difference is the weight of the suggestion. The desire to be seen and known and that invitation on the idols part For Emet-Selch to keep him and use him and distract him and consume him.
Yes, it's easy to want the whole of Emet-Selch, to have and to fill with himself, to know every bit of him and have his soul. But having that desire returned in such concrete terms, that hunger and demand evident on his Bonded's expression...
Mettaton takes a sharp breath. He drinks in the sight of him beneath him, that threat balanced perfectly with the love of it, and he wonders if this manner of panic is anything like the way Emet-Selch felt when Mettaton told him he loved him. There's a fleeting notion to bounce and flee... As though the notion of keeping him is some kind of confinement. But why would he flee? Where would he go? Right back to Emet-Selch, because against sense, he loves him.
Panic is swallowed up by the heat of that desire and love, incinerated completely. He knows Emet-Selch, and he knows Mettaton. And they love each other. It's reassuring. His smile blooms.
Time resumes, and Mettaton's body reacts even before his mind can catch up, knowing best of all what he wants. Mettaton leans for his Bonded with his smile renewed, still sensual but loving. His intuition has already decided for him: Emet-Selch has the whole of him. Not even a minute or two ago, he guaranteed every bit of himself to this man, didn't he? He says this all the time, and Mettaton speaks his heart, even when he doesn't realize it. He has no reason to doubt himself. He knows himself and knows that there isn't a person out there who could match this intensity, and this is something worth breaking his heart over. Something worth losing himself to. If Mettaton wants to mark Emet-Selch as raw and deep as he desires, it would only take the whole of his very soul to do it. It would take submitting to this solidity that Emet-Selch presents before him.
His exhale this time is shaky as he teases his lips against Emet-Selch's, half-lidded and finding himself intoxicated this time on... possession. Refocusing on their Bond, he feels that expectation and demand that mingles with his despair. This close to his lover, their Bond is so open that he can feel the pressure of his soul bound to his own.
Mettaton's voice is as heavy but soft, just for Emet-Selch to hear.]
All of me... for all of you.
[His own intensity flares to life to match this depth he hears in Emet-Selch's voice. A depth to his heights. He's made to pay special attention to the press of their bodies, the way he can feel his own heartbeat thudding in his throat, his breathing hard from their mounting passion, and a mirror of it from his Bonded's body. Though he hovers close to Emet-Selch's lips, he waits for his move after running this tongue along his lower lip, fingers digging into skin, a note of pleasure slipping from his throat as his hips shift again. To press his weight into him for reassertion of that claim upon his body and soul. To claim Emet-Selch now is to give himself over, after all.]
[As thoughts, as statements, as expectations went- it wasn't a new one. Similar things had been said, claims made, stakes taken. Possessiveness had been there from near the start, had only deepened in scope and sentiment as time went on, as attachment grew, learning what exactly it was that they were possessing.
And now they were here: in this place, at this time, with this person. It felt as a reaffirmation of their original Bond- or rather, it blooming into an honest, personal vow. Not a tying together for survival or to fulfill a bargain, but something done deliberately, with the knowledge of each other behind it.
He didn't think that Mettaton would leave him now, at this juncture. That this would be the moment to give him pause, or a reason to reconsider. Emet-Selch doesn't let himself even accept that as a possibility, and though his breathing takes on a trembling cant, it's from intensity rather than concern. A waiting for his demand to be accepted- because of course it would be, he didn't need the words to know. While he couldn't tell at what point it had become true, had become something inescapable, there was no question of it now.
When Mettaton finally replies (it hadn't been long, and yet time had slowed, had lost all meaning--), there's a sense of finality to it. The Ascian's hold on him tightens, then softens. This was it, then- there was no escape. There hadn't been for some time- but dwelling on it like this- dragging it into the conscious mind where it could be illuminated by thought and examined- added a measure of seriousness to it.
Both fear and comfort filled him, mixed in his heart. In giving himself, in having all of him, to keep and love and protect- he wasn't alone, was he?
And yet, if he lost him now....
But he didn't have to think about that part of it, not now. Not- now, when he still had Mettaton's voice in his ears, and his weight on his body, his taste at his lips. His soul, so close.
...And how much he wanted him. To express even a measure of the torrent coursing through him, a fraction of that devotion and affection. It's a feeling, a necessity that has his eyes close, shivering as it runs through him without truly leaving, tasting Mettaton's lips and his mouth and his own blood. In a kiss not gentle, but not reaching towards roughness either, he slips his tongue back against Mettaton's own lip, tracing along it before edging between, chasing after his Bonded's own tongue. A noise in his throat is more vibration than sound, reacting to the closer press of Mettaton's body, any shifting of hips enough to steal air that he didn't have to start. A rub that he tries to match, though he already felt so hard that it nearly hurt.
Reaching a hand back up, he cups the back of his lover's head, fingers burrowing into hair, stroking along his scalp. Feeling, oddly, nearly on the verge of tears, a reaction to sheer emotional intensity. Swallowing it back, he forces a sharp breath against his lips, a harder nuzzle. There was no chance of speech on his part, but their Bond was as clear and as open as it could be- did he need to say anything more?]
[All of the impending intensity he knew lurked beneath the surface of that demand crashes upon his own heart, just as he expected it would. He wasn't sure what manner of depth he was feeding, but it feels as if he's chanced upon a deepness unknown and unprecedented. But it's as he says: it's the whole of him. The whole of him exposed, a step further in meeting in the center, where even their Bond couldn't communicate anything further for them. It's the whole of him, his entire essence, and Mettaton easily gives himself over to that. His soul belongs to him, with every emotion and inclination.
And there's an eagerness to the star's manner, even in regard to these terrifying new depths of his Bonded's vulnerability. Mettaton closes his eyes and indulges in that kiss, a firm yet fragile thing, gladly letting Emet-Selch keep his head close to his lips. Mettaton kisses in patterns, finding his own breathing is too shallow for him to kiss him until he suffocates.
The way he presses his lips to Emet-Selch's, however, is with a manner of reassurance. He feels it all: a pain, but a comfort found. His Bonded usually feels in such duality, and he wants nothing more but to maximize that feeling of comfort. He reciprocates that nuzzle with an ascending hum, warm and filling ever more with love and affection as he probes the new dimension of their feelings for one another — feelings already there, but laid out more openly. He sighs, smitten and dreamy.
He feels like he's on fire with how hot his body burns. He shifts, squirms, restless and wanting, even as he sighs into soft, fleeting kisses that begin to drift to other parts of Emet-Selch's face in his love for him. He moves enough for his arm to frame the side of the Ascian's head, sliding fingers through locks of hair as he kisses along Emet-Selch's temple and drifts to his hairline. More attempts to reassure and comfort when he feels hurt through their connection, and an attempt to take his lover's soul with his own. Stability and a brimming presence are what Mettaton offers in this moment, his fingers tangling firm in his hair.
Drifting back to his lips, Mettaton plants a kiss there with a smile.]
I love... you.
[His voice is syrupy, slurred and hot. Without meaning to, his hips rock gently as he covets more and more, even as he focuses on his Bonded's well-being over all else. It causes him to take a shaky breath, a soft, slight moan escaping from his lips at his slipping control.]
[Every feeling on Mettaton's part served to burn, scald him for the strength of it. Was it a fuller expression of love and care, or was he only made more sensitive to it, his nerves raw and exposed, unwilling to mount even the most token of shields? Both, he thought, and it was a thought that hurt in itself.
But alongside it, reassurance. Mettaton giving off a steadiness of self that Emet-Selch wanted to wrap himself in; a presence bright enough to blot out all else. Relying on him in a way unknown to the Ascian, feeling that lightness of Mettaton's remaining, despite being repeatedly exposed to ever more of the core of him. That Mettaton could stand him without giving up or becoming damaged or demanding him to be someone else. A feeling that has his touch gentle, fingers trailing through strands of hair, a thorough and repetitive petting. Feeling both guilty and grateful to him, as he nuzzles back with a soft noise and an unsteady breath.
Focuses on the comfort, the fingers through his own hair, and the softness of Mettaton's lips on his face. Each sensation coupled intrinsically with the matching emotion. Hurt remained, and it probably always would- but Emet-Selch tries not to focus on that part of it. To not hide or restrict it, as it was an unfortunate part of who he was- but to not try to drown Mettaton in it. He could do that much for him, couldn't he? With all that Mettaton was providing for him, it would only be faint recompense. But it helped knowing that even if he did fail, that Mettaton wouldn't be lost to it....
But instead, there were the good parts of affection. The way his pulse leapt at each roll of hips, the security of his lover's body shifting over his, and the solidity of it pressing him into the bed. A warmth that was already piercing him. That they could match each other like this, that they wanted to; each squirm on Mettaton's part invited a similar sort of restlessness. To press closer, to feel more, even if they could never express everything they wanted to.
Which was reassurance again, to want something so endlessly.
And how quickly they veered between aggressive necessity and aching vulnerability, but Emet-Selch didn't think they were fundamentally too far apart. Each could feed into the other, were both variations on a theme of intensity, a way of demonstrating the same feeling. The words, the tone of Mettaton's voice has his breath hitch, then shudder. Kisses back while his lips are still close, feeling that small moan as much as he could hear it. Kisses him again, with more than an edge of need. His hand slips from Mettaton's hair forward to his face, touching and stroking it with the same sort of soft urgency.]
I love you too.
[A low tone, barely a murmur that escapes his lips, whispered directly against Mettaton's. It never got any easier to say, despite it being no secret, no surprise. It would never be a casual thing, to him.]
[Hearing him say as much, even despite the turbulence of his emotions, brings a brighter smile to Mettaton's expression. This is why he likes to talk and ask and pry even if he can feel his Bonded's feelings, because he can take these torrential emotions and fine-tune them into some words that Emet-Selch would spare for them. A better understanding of his own processes, and immensely helpful in understanding him. And while Mettaton acknowledges the guilt and the ever-present hurt, those things were a part of Emet-Selch. If Emet-Selch's sentiment here was to love him back, even if (or especially if) it was such a struggle to put it to words, it puts all else into perspective. It's what Mettaton decides every other sensation is a backdrop to.
Humming a laugh, his own mood brightens. It's okay that they're on such different wavelengths: it's not an act intended to be offensive, that Mettaton himself swings toward pleased and energetic while Emet-Selch lingers with his usual hurt, but just his own state. And really, he loves him. And each sound Emet-Selch makes even beyond his voice feeds Mettaton, an upsurge in his desire desire for the Ascian when it was already difficult to ignore the pulse of his arousal.
The delectable blend of lust and love he feels at the quality of his voice and the feeling of his fingertips upon his face against all else... Who could he attain these peaks of intensity with? No, more than that: who would he want this with more than him?
Passion ignited further than good sense should allow, Mettaton's body aches for him to pay attention to more than just emotional satisfaction, though that drives his method and deliberation. He takes his Bonded in another kiss, one firm and betraying his feeling in overflow as he takes his lower lip and gives it a suck, then a swipe of his tongue. He shifts his leg, forcibly breaking from the kiss with a hiss from the ache he feels for him, and though he's trying to reach for a bedside table, the monster gets distracted by... Emet-Selch's neck again.
His blood's been set to dry, but he leans down to lick his shoulder up to his neck anyway, taking what he can. Even the suggestion of taste makes his head spin, and he hungers for it... but it's a good thing that he can only access this much, at least to keep his head clear.
Mettaton gropes for lube without looking, attention entirely on Emet-Selch. He's prepared this time, as suggested. His tone remains sweet but low, always carried on a voice impossibly smooth.]
And since you're mine... I'll see to it. That you're taken care of.
[Regrettably, Mettaton has to shift from his spot pressed flush to Emet-Selch's body. He realizes that he didn't entirely succeed in getting his pants all the way off, which is seconds worth of frustration spent pulling them the rest of the way off. Not a big loss, in any sense, especially for the result. With that matter settled, Mettaton hums, smiling down upon Emet-Selch as he hikes up one of his legs to encourage him to wrap it around his hip.
The other could follow once Emet-Selch gets the hint.
Before he gets to any kind of work on preparing them (a sorely needed step, he recalls), he teases his intent by showing Emet-Selch how he envisions their bodies by shifting up to give him another kiss. His erection slides against skin, and Mettaton maneuvers himself to press directly against his lover's cock. Whenever he gets both of his legs wrapped around his hips, access would be easy, and the idol knows it.]
What do you think? Is this... hah... [Well, what Mettaton thinks of this position is evident. His hips jerk impatiently.] A... Agreeable, darling?
[Emotions like that were the hardest to vocalize. Emotions in general were difficult, though the Ascian could manage a good righteous fury without much trouble. But vulnerability, the kinder aspects of sentimentality- he had no practice there, no natural inclination. No shyness, at least, but no experience- and while he was yet unsure as to what he thought about having to attempt it at all, he was willing to try, when he had motivation like this ahead of him. To see Mettaton's response to it made the discomfort worthwhile.
Since for all of his own hurt, it didn't grate on him to hear Mettaton's voice carried on a laugh, the sounds he made when cheerful and pleased; that was just how he usually was, and Emet-Selch loved him for that too. Even when it could annoy, this wasn't one of those contexts, and he appreciated instead the way the idol took all of this emotional intensity, how he treated and interpreted it. Even when it led to responses that he could never hope to understand.
The resulting lust, though, they could share- a demonstration of ever more insistent physical desire, a more immediate way of demonstrating love. Being kissed like that only reminded him of it, his moan low against Mettaton's mouth, swiping back at his own lip with his tongue before the idol pulls back, only to be distracted once more.
A distraction that was in itself satisfactory; Mettaton licking at his shoulder brought a dull sting with it, the injury only mildly peeved at being prodded, though the reminder of its existence has Emet-Selch shiver again. Even if any witch's blood was delectable to monsters, he wondered how that flavor registered, what magic tasted like to them. And he fully expected that Mettaton would prefer his own over any other's, despite that being an absurd thing to assume or want.
The brief rustling and shifting as Mettaton feels for lube has Emet-Selch glancing to the side, muscles tensing, his exhalation heavy as he realized what he was reaching for. Attention flitting back to the other man's face at the sound of his voice, he's both pleased and a bit touched that Mettaton had planned at all ahead, as the Ascian had expected to have to conjure up something appropriate. Nothing that would've even qualified as a hassle, but he appreciated the anticipation inherent in the gesture.
And of just... being cared for. It's enough to make his heart hurt again.
It's also enough to sustain him for those unfortunate few moments when Mettaton needed to move away from him enough to get his pants the rest of the way off, the Ascian doing his best to shift hips and wriggle legs in a helpful and encouraging manner. Fortunately, success is quickly attained, and on having one leg pulled up around his lover's hip, he doesn't hesitate to latch on, the other following suit before he even has time to think about what he's doing. The position in itself has him humming softly against Mettaton's lips, when the idol leans over and returns to them, a sound and thought interrupted by a sharp intake of breath at the drag of Mettaton's erection against him, the pressure against his own cock. His body twitches into it, finding it hard to keep still.
Mettaton was so good at leaving him impatient and wanting- neither being things he was at all used to experiencing. Not even something long dead or disused, but never provoked at all, and it was unsettling still to feel at all alive. An awareness that cycles back into emotional heat, an affection continually sustained by moments like this.
But Mettaton's cock was so close and so hard, and he longed to feel it even closer, to feel him so deeply, to be filled completely with him. His legs tighten around him for a moment, betraying that keenness- and clearly not caring about being blatant in his desire for him.]
Only- only just about acceptable....
[Voice more taut that he expected, his hands reach up to skim along Mettaton's sides, a light and warm stroke over skin.]
[Tone warm, the Puca brushes his lips against Emet-Selch's as he pays mind to the sensation of his hands along his side, warm and soft and pleasant against his skin. There's much to pay attention to, and much to do, more than he could pack into a single night, even. But this, right now, is "just about acceptable." That means...]
Wonderful. Then I'll work at... At winning your complete approval.
[And Mettaton knows he'll do it. There's no question: he's too confident and too decisive.
He kisses Emet-Selch once more and tries not to get too caught up in that, knowing he could kiss him to death once he was properly positioned. And looking forward to it, too. In this, his kiss, too, is a tease: firm, but fleeting, like a promise more than an actual fulfillment. He could kiss him and bite him and enjoy him more and more as the minutes passed, though the way his cock brushes against Emet-Selch's at all is enough to drive him mad, enough to nearly distract him for keeps when he almost reaches for their lengths. But he bites his tongue: he's reaching for lube, and has other work to do. An exhale.
Bracing his body upon his elbows and tensed muscle to remain above Emet-Selch's body, Mettaton gets to work. In his haste and with lube freshly on fingers, he decides to start with his own cock first — a mistake on a body too unaccustomed to temperature for him to grab his length with cold slickness when he's otherwise so hot. He jolts, and even yelps at the contact.]
Oh—! Ah... [Unpleasant. Mettaton meets Emet-Selch's eyes, wide-eyed and clearly shocked.] It's just— cold, I wasn't expecting that.
[A laugh: mildly embarrassed, but not terribly. And then, a flash of a smile. Because if he could endure that coldness, if he could keep working on himself... By the time he gets to preparing Emet-Selch, he'll have only warmed fingers and lube to spare for his Bonded. His smile becomes heated, and he comes up with another brilliant idea.
With Emet-Selch's legs still locked around his hips, he rears up enough for his body to be visible to the man lying before him. His body, from hips to shoulders, is bared for Emet-Selch to see entirely, and lube drips down the shaft of his arousal where he'd made contact but flinched away. Mettaton grips onto his own cock, eyes locked with Emet-Selch's as he decides to allow his Bonded to watch him work: a graphic sort of show to put on in preparation for his lover. His fingers drag along the length of his arousal, leaving behind a slick sheen in his ministrations. Mettaton sighs, dazed and hungry in the way he regards the other man while he prepares his length. As his fingers warm against skin and the temperature of the lube begins to warm with the friction, he can only exhale shakily as he gives himself a few more pulls of his hand, biting his lower lip to stay with it and keep focused even while gasps turn to breathy, soft moans and his gaze veers drunk on feeling. Fingers crest over the head and coat the tip liberally, thumb and forefinger meeting to run a circle over the tip.
His fingers travel down the underside of his length and disappear lower, past his own body, smile mischievous as his warmed fingers suddenly press against Emet-Selch's entrance, completely slick as he rubs a digit into him to start with. He hums, taking stock of his Bonded's response to this surprise switch.]
[Kissing that was so easy to get lost in, and impossible to ever get enough of. And when Mettaton pulls back from it, it hardly felt sufficient at all. He still had breath to lose to him, bites and licks to give and receive, the drag of their cocks together a more than enticing backdrop for it all.
But Emet-Selch doesn't protest when Mettaton pulls back, knowing that this small, necessary patience would be worthwhile, would lead to greater (if still ultimately temporary) satisfaction.
So he watches, breathes while he still has some sort of attention to spare for that sort of thing. But Mettaton's startled response to unexpected cold draws a startle from him as well, though it quickly translates into slight amusement, a quirk of lips at his minor discomfiture. A look that becomes slightly questioning as the idol leans up, becoming visible from cock upwards- though the sight of that alone seems to explain things.
Though his gaze rakes over the entirety of what he could see, the Ascian's attention is naturally drawn back down to his Bonded's erection, lubrication dripping a shining line down the shaft of it. And to the idol's fingers, as they begin to stroke over himself, in a manner that was clearly as much about pleasure as it was practical considerations. And then his eyes flicker up as well, to Mettaton's face- to witness each expression and drawn breath as he responded to each stroke over his cock. Responded to being watched, to having his lover's attention on the sight of him pleasuring himself, hunger clear in his expression.
It's a combination of imagery that has the Ascian's body tighten in sympathy, his own cock aching for contact, while also wishing he could reach to touch him as well, to stroke and pull over increasingly slick flesh. His breath catches at Mettaton's own moans, the sounds he was making the only things he could hear, biting his own lip as he watches the other man drag fingers over the tip of his cock, the particular attention to the head of it. To how much of his arousal was nearly glistening in the low light, a contrast to the matte texture of the rest of his body. And how much he wanted to touch him and take him, with a need that nearly frustrated--
So focused on the sight and imagined feelings, that when Mettaton's hand drifts lower, fingers pressing so intimately to his body instead, that Emet-Selch startles with a surprised gasp, a sharper hiss of breath that turns into a louder groan as he feels his lover's slick finger pressing inside of him. A sensation and awareness that has him twitch, tensing briefly before forcing himself to relax with a deliberate breath. Though his eyes close for a few seconds as he tries to adjust to the odd-but-not-uncomfortable sensation of the other's finger, they open again to stare up at his face, slightly accusatory but mostly wanting.]
[All Mettaton could ask for is someone reactive to him, with full authenticity in response. As much as he delights in being watched and craved, witnessing Emet-Selch's reactions to him fulfills him deeply, smile growing as a deep-seated warmth takes root in his heart. Just as he was both pleasuring and preparing, Mettaton's both interested and priming, learning about his beloved's body so intimately. The Monster leans his body closer in such a manner that has muscles tense, ready to move onto the next step while soaking in this moment for all it's worth.
His eyelid drops a mark and he hums, wanting to kiss him stupid again... But, business first. Untangled as they are, his own gaze follows Emet-Selch's body prostrate before him with a critical eye, yet entirely approving of what he sees: a slight tilt of his head backwards and an edge to his smile that suggests pride, of all things.
Relentlessly, however, his finger works at him. It's only one to begin with, but he pushes in and draws back, only to repeat, slow drags and application of lubricant where he can. Coupled with curl a finger, ever so slight. And he pulls back, barely pulling his fingertip out from him when he presses a second fingertip in next, a gradual shifting and massaging of his body to coax him to allow another slick digit: this one with a focus on coating his entrance.
His free hand reaches for Emet-Selch's cock, teasing his length with a brush of fingertips along its length. Following him from root, to tip: and there, at the glans, he gently pinches him between forefinger and thumb. It's all in the name of his teasing: he doesn't do much more beyond this save for apply increasing pressure to the head of his lover's arousal, a tender sort of rub that grows more firm as the seconds pass. None of it nearly enough to get off on or lose himself to, but all of it a suggestion, a priming for more.]
You... are exactly how I want to see you, Hades-darling. Deciding how I want you most of all. That's the h... hard part, in this.
[There are a couple of hard parts. But that's in a more literal sense.
Releasing Emet-Selch's arousal from under Mettaton's thumb, his fingers skim along his Bonded's inner thigh. Mettaton's other hand continue to work at Emet-Selch, trying to get him to take to the intrusion of his fingers. It's only when he begins to feel him relax at all that he withdraws, suddenly and without warning. A low, scarcely restrained growl leaks from Mettaton's throat as he grips down on the girth of his own arousal and leans forward, free hand coaxing Emet-Selch's leg to return to wrapping securely around his hip.
The Puca guides the slick head of his cock to the Ascian's entrance this time, pushing with urgency against his lover — almost enough to sink in.
It's clear this is because he can hardly take waiting any longer. His breathing is hard, and Mettaton towers over Emet-Selch, hands upon his hips — and gripping down, anchoring him in place, the suggestion of a thrust clear in the tensing of every muscle in his body. A thrust intended to penetrate. And with his hands where they are, he could only force him down upon him with more power, if he wanted. His gaze is possessive and desirous, unrestrained as he swallows around all that he wants.
But he spares these moments to measure his Bonded's response, his absolute craving for everything about him clear as day in their Bond. His body, his essence, his blood, his lips, his attention, his magic, his soul, and his love, all wanted and demanded by the robot.]
[Emet-Selch can imagine what Mettaton must be seeing- himself, spread around him and exposed, receptive and yielding into his touch, leaning into the leading press of the idol's finger. The hint of blood and bruising at his neck, body sprawled out before him, cock arcing upward and achingly stiff. His gaze, unfocused but intent on him, lips slightly parted as he breathes. Swallows thickly, reacting to the curl and smooth drag of Mettaton's finger with a faint shudder, to the sheer intimacy of his touch, every reaction to him immediate, without reserve. Each response was another thing to give to him, but then- every part of his body and soul was available for his lover's attention. He was completely at his mercy, with nothing to hold back, and no desire to, every aspect of himself for potential display.
Among them: a softer inhalation at the suggestion of another finger, slick and warm against him. More pressure for his body to give into, and the hint of a moan escapes on his exhalation. Mentally there was no resistance, and physically, his body begins to adapt. Accept what was expected of it. Intense arousal certainly helped.
And gradually that tension eases. Pressing into the movement of Mettaton's fingers quickens the Ascian's breath, as the sensation begins to become actively pleasant, rather than only strange or tolerable. A sensation that didn't even begin to satisfy his needs though, was as teasing as the hand on his cock, a pressure that still helped to stoke and distract from any discomfort. And another thing to drag a moan from him, the focus to the head of his erection making it hard to concentrate on anything other than just wanting more of it all. Something better than fingers inside of him, and to feel his own cock pressed between them, rubbing up against his lover's body with each of his thrusts. The focus on impending pleasure made it easier to relax around his fingers, for all that the rest of his body felt tense with expectations.
He still makes a louder noise- half-protest, half-startle- at the abrupt loss of Mettaton's fingers, a sound he swallows back as he wraps legs around him again, thighs twitching in their anticipation. Pulse uncomfortably fast, he can't take his eyes from him, watching his lover's own chest heaving from the force of his breathing, the intensity of his gaze and wanting sharp enough to cut him. Emet-Selch gasps, both from that, and at the tip of Mettaton's cock pressing so firmly against his entrance. Able to feel the tension in the other's body behind it, the threat of movement behind it. The promise it brought. His gaze narrows as his focus does, though with intensity rather than irritation- intensity of love, of lust, of yearning.]
Take--
[All of that desire and desperation for him is something starkly apparent in Emet-Selch's voice and through Bond, a word choked off with a sharper breath, a whine in his throat as he fights for a few moments more of patience. He couldn't think of anything else, only Mettaton, only his need to be filled by him immediately. To feel taken and claimed, for all that he already was.]
All of you- all of--
[It's not particularly coherent, what he does manage, voice low and tense, body shifting restlessly in place, shivering at the smallest drag of the head of Mettaton's cock against him, how smooth and warm he felt, and how empty he was without him.]
[Transfixed upon his form, Mettaton captures the quality of Emet-Selch's voice as if desperate to replay it later, this thorough wanting of him that extends beyond his body and form, even if it targets such. Because really, he's an entity beyond all of these shapes he takes. He's never liked to consider that even for a moment, and it's always made him feel misaligned. Somehow, he's gained a power that allows him to really transcend physical form, making him into a truly malleable entity. Somehow, he's made a friend who could make him feel he's beyond any of it, and to be at home in that knowledge more than anything. Any body he could take is his, after all.
Through his ecstasy he has room in his heart for this fondness he feels for the Ascian, and it softens the edges of his smile even while he craves what he can take out of Emet-Selch's body. What it means to this man to take him so thoroughly and to give his own essence back, some way to prove that he sees him and is with him. His fingers grip down, and Mettaton uses the leverage of his position to push his length inside of his Bonded.
It's nowhere near the same as without lubricant, he notices first and foremost. On the Puca's end of things, his cock, slick and positioned just right, has the ability to push well beyond the head in one firm motion: not hurried or harsh, but Mettaton takes advantage of Emet-Selch's body and the smooth access by sliding as much of his length inside of him as his body will allow from him in one pass. It knocks the wind out of him, and Mettaton stutters over sound, settling on a sharp inhale followed by a sigh of a moan. Giving him this much of his length in one go was to give as much of his body to Emet-Selch as possible, at first. But the very moment Mettaton felt his lover's body tight around the head of his cock, it quickly devolved into a heady, primal desire to have the whole of his arousal squeezed, urgently.
And he nearly closes his eyes under the pressure of it, lips parted and not quite realizing that he keeps gasping, only to let what air he's regained slip from him in a pleasurable noise. But he can't look away from the Ascian. The very addition of his pleasurable craving compounded upon has him ending his first plunge into his body with a sharp thrust of his hips to sink deeper yet. Mettaton's upper body sways with the sheer delight of the feeling, mouthing a weak moan that robs him of whatever air he has left in his lungs. But he can't look away.
With Emet-Selch tight around much of his length, he unhands his hips and drops his forearms closer to his upper body, taking a shuddering breath. He wants nothing more than to kiss him for all he's worth.]
H... Hades, H... Oh...
[He's still trying to gasp for air, but that doesn't mean he's regained any sense. Arousal stuffed inside of his Bonded, he tries to kiss him and misses his lips in the dizzying pleasure of sensation - and in the dizzying loss of air and neglect to take any of it back. He finally takes in one good suck of air by reflex alone, but it's immediately converted into a moan of pleasure and desire.
He shifts his hips and stutters around the sensation, kissing Emet-Selch's cheek desperately.]
[Though it would be only briefly, life existed now in individual moments. Individual impressions: Mettaton's hands clutching at his hips, the dig of his fingers, the sight of his face and form, the nudge from the tip of his cock against a body that yearned for it. When that nudge finally became a thrust, the head of his erection shoved fully and deeply within the Ascian's body, his voice escapes on a sigh, the sound barely distinguishable from a moan, conscious of both relief and an intensifying need for more.
While it wasn't strictly comfortable, it wasn't painful either, to feel his body stretch to accommodate. More than anything it was intense in every way, from the steady give of his flesh around his lover's girth- far more than that of his fingers, and far better of a claim, and so slick. How right he felt, and how easily his body responded to that knowledge with a heady pang of arousal, the sort to steal both breath and thought, to leave him dizzied and aching. But the pleasure prevented pain, which made it an easy thing to not clench defensively around him, to not lock up.
The sound of Mettaton's voice as he first entered him, the way he looked- it was something that Emet-Selch had to struggle to keep his eyes open to witness. They kept wanting to close, overwhelmed. His own cry is choked off, body arching underneath him, legs tightening around Mettaton with a heavy shudder. All of it to draw him closer, to press him deeper, to receive the whole of his length within him.
The Bond surely helped, Emet-Selch thought without words, the awareness simply settling into him; Mettaton's own pleasure reflected onto him, sinking into him as thoroughly and easily as his cock, experiencing it as though it were his own. Or was it his, that satisfaction, that hunger? With as tangled up and as open as they were, did it even matter who's pleasure was who's, in the end? When they possessed the whole of each other, what distinction could apply?
Another thrust. Another gasp on his part, twisted partway into another moan, low and ecstatic. For every bit more of him that he felt, the more that he wanted, both his cock and his love, though the latter was the only part that hurt, this time. But he wanted it still, demanded it, for all that it burned him to touch.]
M-- Mettaton, I....
[A voice made soft from more than just a lack of air to power it, a murmur of a name for his lover's attention only.
And it feels that much harder to breathe somehow, when Mettaton leans closer to him, eclipsing further everything he could see, anything he could feel. Sound as well: there were his lover's gasps and moans- and more distantly, the struggled noises coming from his own throat- and nothing more. Nothing else to hear, nothing else worth hearing, so close to his ear. His arms move to wrap around his body, warm and firm, a stroke of hands along his back, caressing skin that didn't used to be there.
Wanting to be kissed, but also lacking the coordination to do much about it, Emet-Selch presses his cheek against Mettaton's lips without thinking of it, shuddering another breath. Tries to cry out, but little sound emerges when the idol's hips move, every motion on his part resonating deeper within him.]
[He hums against skin, that moment of reprieve where he takes stock of his lover and listens to his every sound and feels for his every movement and lets his feelings wash over him. And what he gleans of him earns Emet-Selch a kiss (or three) against his cheek: he's pleased at all of his want and every sense the Ascian can cloud of his with himself, shifting closer with a shiver.
A shiver, because the tightening of Emet-Selch's legs draws his body closer and forces his muscles to contract, causes his body to set off into a series of short, gentle thrusts even as he tries for stillness. As foreign and new as this form is to him (and for as appropriate as it is in feeling), it knows what it needs to get Mettaton the sensuality he desires. And can Mettaton fault himself? So he succumbs at least to those slight jerks of his hips even while he tries to regard his Bonded, a short laugh at his own neediness the only apology he has to spare on the front of his slip in control. An allowance of some measure to tide himself over while he tries for composure.
Not composure for no reason. Mettaton pushes himself up from Emet-Selch's cheek to smile down at him, a response to his cries and his name on a tone so desperate. Hair sticks to his forehead, body hot and face flushed as he breathes hard, pulse thudding in his hunger. One of his arms adjusts itself, bracing himself against his lover so that he can run his thumb from his temple, toward the back of his head. There's something about him in this moment that Mettaton can't place that fills him with an even deeper fondness than before, as if he needed it to run any deeper. The depth of their entwined bodies and hearts? The sheer amount of care his Bonded will spare for his sake? The amount he'd spare for his? No, he can't quite figure it all out... But Mettaton's content to just love him.
And with that strength of feeling, he gains at least the wherewithal to properly press his lips to Emet-Selch's. A fortune, since he can only resist losing himself to his body for only so long.
He sighs against his lips and exacts a kiss. Soft but heavy, full of heat and tenderness both.]
There. And... Do tell me. Your cravings. I want them. [His smile against his lips turns into a grin.] If you can manage...
[Because really, if he's having a hard time speaking, what of Emet-Selch? He wants to say that he aims to please, as he usually does, but he doesn't. Because of course he does, but he's also here for his own pleasure. Pleasing him is his pleasure, and he can tell every time he succumbs to his own pleasure, that it's Emet-Selch's pleasure in return. What a dangerous feedback cycle, he considers, with the feeble shreds of higher thinking he has to spare on such things.
Because one kiss only begs for another, and another only begs for something deeper, deeper yet, before Mettaton finds himself ravenous. A long, firm kiss causes him to close his arms in on his Bonded's form, hips pressing more firmly against Emet-Selch's body at the urging of his tightening legs. He groans into a kiss, feels the way his arousal sinks into the heat of Emet-Selch's body with more definition than ever before, and he trembles then, full-bodied and enough to make him break his kiss and pant.
His voice breaks, on a dazed hum that veers desperate.]
You're- hot, it's... Gh—
[In case Emet-Selch didn't know that his body temperature is warm, Mettaton has to tell him, new to it all as he is. And the admission of such has his thrusts intensified quite suddenly, as though he's pulled all restraints from his deepest cravings as he tenses muscle and pushes the whole of his length in with one firm thrust, choking on the feeling of his hips flush to his body. He muffles himself by kissing his Bonded madly, shoving his tongue between his lips as his hips take on a tempo: a quick pull back, and a slower, firmer slide back in as deeply as he can sink his cock. He seeks claim on his taste and his body, just as a primer. He wants the whole of him.]
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There's something enchanting about having his body touched by somebody who exhibits signs of transparent love for him. Mettaton feels he's completely worthy of the attention, but when turning into a human hangs in the balance, it charms him all the more that Emet-Selch would always fascinate himself over his long-awaited body. It's evident in his fingers and his deliberation. His attention follows the path of his fingers, too, even as his own travel down Emet-Selch's sternum and move to handle his chest with both hands, pressing into him with both fingertips and palms. Their kiss is a delectable focus: mutually, he tastes for his Bonded and knows that, given their history, this is a taste that'll soon be lost to his own mouth in due time. He hums around his lover's tongue, fingers and claws subconsciously curling into his skin as if attempting to grip onto him. He slides his tongue against the other man's, the entirety of his action enough to give Mettaton a good shiver.
The feeling of his thumb taking such a gentle path around the remnant shape of his eye is unique, something he feels just about as often as Emet-Selch regards it at all, which is rare. But it's reassuring: Mettaton's tactile in affection. It soothes him, all while serving to remind him of tangibility. It's always a problem with that, in the end: what's present, and what's disturbingly not.
And he's very present, in all senses of the word. Drinking in the way Emet-Selch asserts himself, the way his fingers trace over his chest, takes further claim upon his mouth (something Mettaton's sure they'll be doing plenty of to come, he can feel it and it sparks like electricity to consider), and to take his cue for touch. Mettaton's fingers trace over his skin, one hand pressing firmly into his torso while the other flicks one of his nipples before rubbing, and it's another point toward just wanting, all of it.
He wants to experience this. The idol doesn't see why he can't have his way. He wants Emet-Selch in every way possible, and this is one of those absurd possibilities afforded to him, after all. He opens his eye. Focuses on Emet-Selch's face, even from this close proximity. He wants to impress him, but he also wants to have him in every way. And, he wants Emet-Selch to have him in return.
So he shifts. It's all of him, all at once, a drastic change in texture and tenderness. Emet-Selch's fingers trace over skin now, a body built and lean and decently toned. Skin warm, perhaps warmer than a human's should be, it's a forgivable mistake coming from his own perceptions of temperature. Mettaton's claws are gone, replaced by proper fingers (though he still envisions the wrong number of them); and though his eyes are closed, they're dark as his hair, the perfect image of what Mettaton would have been if he were made human instead of machine.
Importantly, there aren't any nightmarish mistakes. No missing pieces or exposed insides, no disfigurement or dripping blood. Only benign hiccups, like too-hot temperatures and too-few fingers.
And he knows it's worked: he has an actual pulse, and he feels it jump in his throat. Real functional lungs he could be rendered breathless with. And he emits a noise of pleasure at the way the air chills against his naked body — it's not as though he was wearing anything to act as a buffer against it. He jolts in place before he wraps his arms around his Bonded's back, hungrily drawing him close to his body: for contact, for love, and for warmth, even though he feels feverishly hot already. Hot, and already aroused.
The contact of pulling Emet-Selch to his body shocks him. He gasps at the feeling, and he's forced to break the kiss in his excitement. He takes a gulp of air, delirious.]
Ah— Hades...! I...
[There's a lot for the idol to focus on. His success, first of all. But the sudden sensation of the Ascian's body pulled flush to his own, his arousal shoved against his figure... Mettaton's eye's wide, lips parted, hips automatically grinding into his lover as muscle tenses.]
no subject
But it was still something of a startle, when the tracing of fingers across the firmness of metal became the differing firmness of skin. A solidity that yields to the reflexive tensing of his hands, a brief clutching at Mettaton's face and chest. At a skin too warm, perhaps, but not unpleasantly so; a fever that matched the idol's own nature.
If Mettaton hadn't broken the kiss from his own reaction, Emet-Selch would've been forced to in his stead, eyes flashing open again to stare, fascinating himself over everything he could see at this close distance. What he could make out of his face and upper torso, meeting his gaze when the idol's own eyes reopen. He'd found out that a puca's eyes were yellow; this darker violet then was Mettaton's original- or rather, his intended color, that detail standing out even amongst the overwhelming rest of him. And while he liked the gold in itself (a small point they had in common), he would admit that purple, perhaps, suited him better....
Unwilling (and once he's pulled closer again, unable) to get a full look at him yet, sensation would have to do in its place, but sensation was more than enough. His chest was pressed to the heat and texture of skin, something far easier to meld himself to. His Bonded's arms provide a similar sensation, and he shivers at his awareness of it. His own arms end up dropping to wrap around Mettaton in turn, smoothing quickly along the expanse of his back, getting an impression of muscle that just- hadn't been there before. The sign of organic strength rather than that from a machine. And of course, the clear feeling of the idol's erection pressing against his body, a hardness that has his own pulse leap, hips grinding back against him, taking an obvious pleasure at having that obvious sign of his lover's desire for him pressed to his body. Though his own was still clothed, the shape and increasing stiffness of it is more than evident as he shifts, to rub it against Mettaton's exposed cock.]
See? There-- [Breathless again for a moment, he brushes a brief kiss to his Bonded's lips. His voice is low, satisfaction- perhaps even excitement- writ into it.] There was no chance of failure.
[His breath becomes a shuddering sigh, as he dips his head to press lips along the idol's throat, learning and tasting this new texture of him, enticed by what he could feel of a pulse underneath skin. And, on curiosity, his mouth closes around a patch of his neck, wondering if he could suck a mark onto him for once.]
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The way Emet-Selch shifts his hips so he can feel that hard line beneath clothes has Mettaton's grip tightening, breath catching on an exhale, making short work of a moan as he pushes forward his hips again, wanting greater contact with the Ascian's body. His body, shirtless, which is still something warm and pleasant even against his own: he grips onto him, just as delighted by that sensation as he imagined he'd be. Though built curvy in his own right with a narrow waist, it's nowhere near the dramatic angles and curves of his robotic figure, and Emet-Selch fits against him perfectly with the mutual give of their bodies. Even something that minute doesn't escape Mettaton's notice, and he hums, tugging him close.
His kiss is met with an electricity, even as he shudders. Mettaton stops focusing on his body for a moment to instead focus on Emet-Selch, his words filling him to the brim with adoration as his fleeting kiss is yet another way to fill him up. His hips roll into Emet-Selch, a movement almost brazen if it weren't that he was already completely revealed and completely hard to compare. It couldn't get more brazen than that.]
I take it you're... You like what you feel... Oh—!
[Emet-Selch moves to his throat and Mettaton predicts what he's going to do seconds before he does it, taking a preparatory gasp as he swallows hard. He can't even brace himself for the sensation, which is different than how it feels on his regular body: his moan has an edge of pain to it, but it softens into one of pleasure as soon as he acknowledges that this is how it feels. Mettaton bares his neck, granting access to his Bonded with a perverse excitement for the impending marks to be left behind, more things he's coveted desperately finally given to him.
His arms further entwine around the Ascian, shifting to his upper back as he pulls him in, demanding his complete attentions upon his body. His pulse thrums under Emet-Selch's attentions, and as Mettaton can feel the beat of it under the pressure of his lips. He shudders and clings, shoving his hips into him further, unashamed to show the full of his want. A rub against the form of his lover's arousal, the feeling of it and knowledge of it pleasurable in its own right. Mettaton closes his eyes to better appreciate the feeling of Emet-Selch at his neck.]
Yesss, Hades... I want to see... What you do me...
[It's terrible that he still wants to mark him up in return, with just as much fervor as he did in their dream. The lingering memory of blood entices him too much for him to leave it at brusies. But Mettaton is filled with every manner of want: a dizzying amount, and he exhales shakily at it all.]
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But the physical pleasure of it was nothing for him to discount either, noticing as well how more closely their bodies matched, the softness of the chest pressed to his, and Emet-Selch shivers again at the thought of having their bodies fully entwined like this. Flush and giving and excessively warm; he bites at Mettaton's neck to stave off a moan. Drawing back just enough to observe the mark he'd successfully left behind has his breathing catch anew- and then is caught again by the thrust of hips against his, the sudden pang of need leaving him shuddering, aching deeply for him. His eyes close again as he licks over the bruise he'd left behind, breath heavy as he trails to another spot on his neck, closing in on it with lips and teeth and pressure. Spurred on further by the sound of Mettaton's voice, unsurprised but still- rather touched to hear that the idol shared in his desire to leave some manner of reminder upon his skin. For all that it would only last as long as the transformation did, but- Emet-Selch didn't want to think about that.
They would both know that it had been there, for all that such demonstrations of possession weren't necessary to start.
And he had no doubt that Mettaton would be eager to return the favor, the thought of taking those marks from him again, now that they were no longer in a dream and would linger appropriately, has him biting harder again. Yes: a visual sort of claim that they could share in for a time, and he ached for his imagining of it.
But with such access to his lover's throat, Emet-Selch was disinclined to leave it yet, leaving a damp line over heated and vulnerable skin as he mouthed across it. Moaning softly against his skin at the blatant desire from the other man, the way they were rubbing their erections against one another, separated by only a few pieces of inconvenient fabric. Even with the constriction that he felt around his own, there was more a sense of anticipation rather than frustration. The knowledge of how soon and how easily they could press to one another, skin against skin, leaves his legs feeling almost weak. There was- so much that he wanted, something that he was still unused to feeling. There had been duty and naught else, but now--
To look forward to something so much- to want something so dearly. To want someone so dear to him: it has his breath trembling, hands kneading a slow path along his lover's spine, feeling as though he had to learn his body all over again, but not at all minding the prospect.]
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This isn't the first time Mettaton's attempted shapeshifting into a human, but it's the first time it's felt so correct. It's always felt right, but every part of this form responds to Emet-Selch's touches as it should, every nerve firing off just right, every prod and lick a different texture and sensation beyond even what he's been granted in his EX body.
He can feel all of the same by touch now, but who knew that the ability to feel temperature would change so much? Emet-Selch's mouth is so warm, he knew that. But to feel it on his neck, his tongue and teeth and lips, only to feel him drift elsewhere for his work to be left to chill... It leaves Mettaton shaking, clutching onto Emet-Selch with yet another shuddering breath. Wetness in itself feels entirely different, and the pressure of sucking on his skin and the subsequent bruising has him gasping some more, soft noises of pleasure accompanying each new kiss and mark. It's a needling sort of pain that blooms purple, at first mere pain before being converted immediately into raw pleasure. Signs of Emet-Selch's ardor, reciprocated by Mettaton entirely.
Being bitten down upon, harder this time, has Mettaton crying out. He squirms, pulls more tightly on the Ascian's body before hiccuping over his own breath, an interruption spared for the way his erection presses so firmly against his lover's.
Fixating so hard on how different everything feels has Mettaton's embrace tightening as his knees wobble, though his thighs remain taut as he continues to rub his cock against the impression of Emet-Selchs through fabric, unable to control his craving for more now that he's been given a taste. He exhales a particularly hard breath to accompany a tremble, sucking in air as he bites his lip at the sensation of both his lover at his neck and the way his hands travel down his back.
From chills of a psychological nature to the impression of air against saliva, to a lack of clothes and the suggestion of his lover's arousal and what it means for their immediate future, he has every reason in the book to shiver.
Mettaton's hands pet along Emet-Selch's back encouragingly. It's so nice to feel the press of skin against skin, the embrace in itself bringing a unique satisfaction in its warmth and softness. A softness bodies like these have that still expresses the passion he harbors. Mettaton can hardly stand it: it's surreal, holding his Bonded like this, and it feels like every time before is just as surreal and wonderful. He smiles. While Emet-Selch busies himself with his shoulders and his neck, Mettaton takes a chance to rub his cheek against the Ascian's head with a particular longing, full of love, aching and overfull at his attention and care and the want he feels from him.
The result of their entire relationship is that Mettaton loves him after all, for as much as he taunted him with it many months ago. Aside from the pain that comes of love, he could never hurt him. No matter what, he doubts he could. He doesn't have it in him, completely prone. He sighs, nuzzling him harder.]
Hades... Bed. Y... You're doing a number on me.
[That is, if both of them keep feeling weak-kneed, something ridiculous is bound to happen. It should be obvious that Mettaton's already made some of his weight Emet-Selch's responsibility. Taking his own weight back somewhat, one of his hands ventures down automatically to tease at the band of Emet-Selch's pants, pulling at the front with a finger before letting go. Flirting with the desire to strip him down, once he gets the chance.]
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The nuzzling provokes a low, rumbling noise of pleasure from him, deep in his own throat, the sensation joining all else that he could feel and hear. The way he was pulled closer, each interruption to Mettaton's breathing, the trembling of skin against his providing the most delicate of friction. The far less delicate shove of the idol's cock against his body, and everything that it meant. The teasing suggestion offered by the brief tug at the front of his pants, though Emet-Selch can only sigh at the resulting throb of his arousal, how immediate his response was to even the thought of having his lover's hands and body pressing over sensitive flesh. How primed he was to react to him, to even the suggestion of him, the sound of his sighs and tone of his voice.]
Ah- yes....
[And the reminder it brought that they were still standing, and another suggestion worth heeding. Though it's with some reluctance that he has to lift his head slightly from Mettaton's neck- leaving it for the moment with another swipe of tongue against a most satisfactory bruised patch- in order to reorient himself in an unfamiliar room. To remember where the bed was, to make sure there was nothing in the way as his hold on his Bonded adjusts, to press and guide him back towards it. Even Mettaton moving to not lean on him to the same degree leaves him off-balance, and with as unsteady as they both were, it was both the most sensible and most comfortable option.
But apart from noting their surroundings out of necessity, Emet-Selch's gaze and attention is pulled back to Mettaton almost immediately, an inexorable pull towards his Bonded. And from looking at him, eyes flitting over his neck, his face, it became just as necessary to kiss him again, leaning up to capture his lips with... altogether more gentleness than he expected. But it's no less intense for it, that longing for him that much more evident, perhaps, in contrast to the soft deliberation in which he presses to his mouth.
...How completely prone they were to each other, he thought. An awareness that weighs heavily upon him, that dragged him under. But it's nothing that he would've changed, even if he could, even if it would be the more sensible thing- to not care, to not be so attached. Shifting a hand up again, he's drawn to touch his face once more, with the same feeling behind it as the kiss: soft but intense.]
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His kiss feels undeniable, an expression of his depths that Mettaton can only respond to with his own heights, arms once more encircling his body, fingers and palms pressing into his back. To appreciate his body, to memorize his dimensions, and to brand him with his touch, all in one.
Any manner of intensity is one that Mettaton will step up to and match in his own right. This is no different: it draws from an emotional reserve that grows deeper and deeper by the day for Emet-Selch, impossibly. He feels so alive in this moment between himself and his lover that the potency of his feeling leaves him forgetting to breathe or to even try, kiss gentle but likewise intense. He feels the heat of his own body warming the space between them. It's space he wants to close, Mettaton decides. Obscene, in the way that he wants so much. He could nearly succumb to his primal desire and pull him to the floor as he is, ravish him and take him there, and he shudders at the thought. His cock aches; his craving for the Ascian's body burns hot enough to sear him.
Just before he loses himself in the kiss, Mettaton breaks it with the same tenderness that it's built upon, exhaling whatever breath he has left as his body forgets how to respond at all. Such gentleness paid toward him, an obvious desire amidst an obvious care. His awareness is static, nothing more. He couldn't remove his arms from Emet-Selch if he tried.
But they still have a destination, and Mettaton remembers what it means to take a shallow breath, at least. He does, and immediately expels it in a short, dizzy laugh, lovestruck and heartsick both. Ultimately drunk, and wanting to slip further into intoxication. His voice is mildly teasing, incredibly flirtatious, and low with his desire. He leans his forehead into Emet-Selch's for some added stability. His entire world is within this room, right now.]
Oh, my. Aren't you distracting. You can have it all, darling. Every bit of me... You know patience.
[Mettaton takes initiative on unsteady feet, urging his Bonded along: if he's going to be so distracted by Mettaton, which he should be, he can finish guiding him to where he can indulge fully in this distraction he loves to provide. The idol lures him forward by stepping backwards toward the bed, and once he feels its edge against the backs of his legs, he slides onto it, pulling Emet-Selch down with him.
It's just as soon as they make it there, as soon as Emet-Selch edges onto the bed after Mettaton's body that Mettaton takes his turn to lunge for him, pulling Emet-Selch into a deep kiss with as much intensity as before, but with a touch of his unrestrained fever. A gentleness with a passion. The taste of his Bondmate has Mettaton moaning into their kiss, and he nips at his lower lip as his hands drop to the fastenings of his trousers, the ache he feels in his entire body suggestive to him of both adoration and carnal desire. He makes a soft noise into his kiss, a contented sigh to finally be somewhere he could fall. Somewhere they could both fall.]
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With an equal refusal when it came to separating from his body, Emet-Selch matches him for steps, moving with him as he closes in on the bed. That lurking intensity on Mettaton's part was a hard thing to miss, that awareness only feeding into his own, returning it back to him in a repeated building of pressure; it felt like skirting along a knife edge, softness and gentleness barely masking the passion underneath. Not really masking it at all, but tempering just the smallest degree, the barest amount, when any sudden move on either of their parts could lead to it snapping- a dragging down onto whatever surface was closest, to burn and tear and love without reserve. His breath still shudders at the strain of it, and he swallows heavily. Follows after without pause, crawling onto the bed and Mettaton, noting the sensation of both with a mild relief. If it was inevitable to collapse somewhere, this would at least be a more comfortable spot.
He did know patience. It was difficult, a painful thing, when he wanted something so much, had it dangled in front of him like this. A desire both stoked and soothed when he's dragged back against Mettaton's lips, an attempted breath choked off, pushed back, disappearing fully into that kiss. There was an adoration here that could burn, that was deep enough to cut, and Emet-Selch pushed back the pain too, nuzzling forward against his Bonded's lips with a small sound. And his hips jerk forward, unable to stop himself, at the promise Mettaton's hands brought him, his trousers feeling more constrictive by the moment. An ache that joined all the others, caused by a truly excessive amount of affection. Eventually, reluctantly, he has to breathe.]
Patience- is highly overrated. Or do you think you're any more prone to it?
[Words and the accompanying thought are interrupted by another sigh, another kiss- so light to keep from snapping down. Eyes half-open to keep an impression of Mettaton's face in mind, he trails a hand along neck and shoulder, digging in with the tips of his fingers, still becoming accustomed to the unfamiliar give to him. Where muscles attached, where blood (presumably) ran underneath.
And how warm; it wasn't as though his robotic shell had been cold, had contained a great deal of heat really, that just needed to be brought to the surface. But now that warmth was just there, completely available to bask in, a lure that he wanted to give into entirely.]
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Instead of hearing him at first, Mettaton's attention is dragged down to the front of his pants, pleased that there's light enough for him to see it all — and for him to be seen in return. He loves being watched. He spares a glance to Emet-Selch's face again, noting his half-lidded gaze, before he brazenly fixates upon the work of his hands with an impatience for clothes and a hunger he wouldn't bother to disguise. His own hips shift impotently, sympathetic for his Bonded's desires and his captivity, even though he's never felt what it's like to be aroused beneath fabric. No, his sympathy comes from the feeling of being aroused and having nothing to show for it.
He practically tears Emet-Selch's fly open and yanks his pants down, increasingly feverish as his breaths become shorter and harder. His eye nearly glazes over just as he reveals his lover's cock, watching bounce to upright attention as he pulls it from its confines. And then, Mettaton moans in sympathy: there's no contact, nothing at all, just the sight and all of his craving, the way that being watch feels as if it intensifies even his own experiences. He exhales breath he almost has none of, finding it hard to take in anything more in the heights and heat of his appetite. He has no room in his body for air. He wants to fill himself with Emet-Selch instead.
The idol opens his mouth to speak as his hands reflexively grab onto Emet-Selch's hips. Something about patience, he thinks. It is overrated, and when he thinks about his Bonded's experience with it... This man has scarcely known reward from patience. It brings Mettaton to smile at him when he thinks about how he can be rewarded for a lack of it through indulgence, and he finally pries his attention from the coveted sight of Emet-Selch's cock to meet his lover's eyes, squirming against the bed as he resumes breathing, short and shallow as though to keep enough room in his body for everything else.]
I know it. [Patience. He... says he knows patience, all while unable to stay still and wait for anything at all. His hands are on Emet-Selch's hips, attempting to pull the other man onto his wanting, trembling body.] And... we don't need it. I-
[Dazed. Lusting. He can't think, gazing upon Emet-Selch's body in such a position slightly above his own after having crawled almost atop him on their way to bed. Mettaton realizes he has too much spit in his mouth, and he swallows thickly.]
I need-
[Greedy. He needs all of him at once. Not one position will do. Not one method of claim will do. The idol's eyes narrow, and a mark of frustration etches itself onto his features, a merge of libidinous irritation at the fact that he can't just... fuck him, be fucked, suck him off, be kissed from tip to toe, hold him close, force his lover to watch him pleasure himself... All of it at once.
This indecent list is endless, and it's enough to get Mettaton to lunge for Emet-Selch's neck in his impatience for it all. He sinks his perfect teeth into his neck without reserve: his blood is for him to take, and he immediately breaks out into a heavy moan at the taste. It's better tasting than he remembers, his blood...
Mettaton knows patience, but if he doesn't have to be, he doesn't see the point.]
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When their eyes finally meet again, his pulse leaps, breath stalling, all of that yearning plain in his expression. Agreeing with absolute conviction that they had no need for patience. Not between them. Not for this.
Too many (if such a thing were possible) needs at once made it hard to position himself for anything. Instead, his mind restlessly shifts between concepts and imaginings, along similar lines as Mettaton's. How much he wanted to take and touch and suck and simply be with him, to have enough of himself carved out and consumed so that he could never be abandoned.
But at the moment his requirements were to be closer and- not much of anything else. So closer he tries to press, encouraged by Mettaton's own drag at him, while a hand drops to the hem of his opened pants, shoving them still lower, even if he can't work out the coordination to kick himself free of them entirely just yet. He'd thought, for a fleeting moment earlier, that he'd be able to keep some measure of calm, to be able to take in the full sight of his lover's transformed body with deliberation, to explore him with hands and lips, but he knew there was no chance for that now. Not yet, not when they were both completely unsated and impatient, lusting for everything at once.
But right now, what he wants most of all is teeth in his throat- something Emet-Selch realized and decided on the moment Mettaton lunged for it, when he felt the pain of the bite blossoming outward from the points of impact. A gasping cry passes his lips as he bares his neck instinctively towards him; an absurd instinct to have, but a demand in the gesture, as though expecting to be torn open. The sharp sting let him know that skin had been successfully broken, and he shudders, the ache of his cock turning the pain into a point of simple intensity.
His hands fall back to Mettaton's own body, seeking some sort of purchase there, fingers digging into skin, in a tense and irregular kneading at it.
Patience was for things that required it. There was no reason to suffer it otherwise.]
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His grip on the Ascian firms. The muscles in his body all tense at once, and his hands slide to wrap around both his back and his waist before he rolls their figures over so that Emet-Selch is the one on his back. Mettaton's lips remain at his neck, ready to continue his work as he pulls his arms out from underneath the other man. Loathe to pull his body away from his, he remains pressed full-bodily to Emet-Selch, a satisfied groan slipping from his throat at the mere sensation of his figure sinking into the body beneath him. Sinking and pressing, hips locked together, chests flush, and the hardness of their erections nestled up against each other firmly.
His hips shudder at the realization of contact, and Mettaton takes another deep bite of Emet-Selch's neck as he rocks his hips. Pleasure escapes from his throat at the friction, at the fizzy taste of metallic blood that coats his lips and tongue. It's a viciousness not born of jealousy against abstract constructs this time, but a viciousness born of the gravity of his want and the craving for all of him, in every form.
And both situations remain laden heavy with love.
Even as his teeth sink deep, his tongue runs along his skin from the confines of his mouth. He withdraws, kisses enough to tint his lips, and licks, tongue broad and firm as he tries to clean all evidence of wound from his shoulder. His sigh is shuddering as his arms, flanking either side of Emet-Selch's, tremble against the mattress.
He sighs again. Breathes in his scent that mingles with blood and the scent of himself, the way he's claimed his lover so often that he can catch the hints of himself on his Bonded even after a time away. A thorough job at possession, but not yet enough. Primal claim takes him, and he grips down onto Emet-Selch, rolling his hips into the other man. His arousal is so firm against his own, and as his vision darkens, he wonders if he's remembering to breathe...?
So he takes a sharp inhale. That's better.
The Puca trails kisses along his jaw, lips still decorated in blood. He raises his body enough to look Emet-Selch in the eye, a grin pulling on his features as he consumes not just his skin and his blood, but his the way he looks beneath him. His voice is low and breathless, interrupted by gasps for air. Breathing has to happen, but in his indulgence, he scarcely remembers to do it save for on reflex to... live, basically.]
I've decided... Yes. Since. You're here. I may as well make you... You belong to me. Everything.
[Mettaton's finger traces his neck. He has so much more yet to do. So much more skin available to mark. His thighs, his shoulders, his hips... Everywhere for everyone to see. Everywhere hidden is entirely for Emet-Selch, a private reminder of what's Mettaton's. His visage darkens hungrily at the notion of claim. Mettaton decides then and there that he's going to fill his lover with his cock: a claim by filling, by sinking into him with more than just teeth.]
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A hum that translates smoothly into a groan at the heady combination of teeth sinking into his skin and the drag of their erections together. Two different sorts of hardness, each enhancing the other. Both were something he struggled to press into, with a jerk of hips and twist of neck. Ineffectual but determined, he shudders at the movement of Mettaton's own hips practically pinning him to the bed, feeling the stiffness of their cocks rubbing so enticingly against one another, prodded hard against each other's bodies.
His own hands fall to Mettaton's hips to help drag him closer, for all that it makes his own attempts to thrust upward that much more impossible. Shivers again as a bite turns again to a lick, the tease of tongue and feeling of his lover's breath and lips on skin. The small wounds were points of heat, sharper than the rest of his body, but surrounded by points of chill, where saliva had been left behind, any smear of blood that escaped immediate claim.
And alert to its presence, Emet-Selch notes the faint scent of blood in the air, the traces of it that Mettaton must be leaving along his jaw, feeling the mix of slicknesses left on his neck. Stirred further by the brush of Mettaton's finger along it, he swallows as he feels it pass over, eyes fixed upwards. Locked upon his face, memorizing the sight of him like this- so appropriately predatory, complete with the Ascian's blood at his lips. An attractive look for the idol, he thought, his own lips slightly parted, as though he could taste it himself, could breathe it in.]
Everything--
[He repeats, caught on that word, dwelling on the solidity and weight of it. It was easy, perhaps, to be lost so wholly to passion, to say and claim anything in the heat of the moment. Not that Emet-Selch thought they ever did, never said anything they didn't entirely mean- but he's clearly alert and focused, intent on Mettaton's words. The feeling of them, what it meant to belong to someone. To want to be marked by them, completely and utterly, both visibly and indelibly, to be filled completely. To let himself go entirely, and receive all of Mettaton in return.
How long had he felt so hollow? Could Mettaton even begin to fill him? The Ascian's own look is no less hungered, a despairing and demanding sort of love, the threat- or promise- that he was no less possessed in turn. Mettaton may be filling him, but Emet-Selch would be taking him, keeping him, expecting the whole of his essence.]
All of myself, then... for all of you.
[Voice soft and deep, Emet-Selch keeps his eyes open as he leans his head up, attempting to reach those bloodied lips with his own, in one more affirmation.
Everything.]
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But for the most fleeting of moments, the weight of his Bonded's demand interrupts Mettaton's spiraling fever, a madness provoked by blood and pleasure both. For it to jar him from that, at least, means he's being forced to examine its weight. His pulse spikes.]
All...
[His voice is carried on a breath between them, his body instinctively, habitually pressing into Emet-Selch. And when he takes stock of that, of everything his Bonded means to him... What a thing to consider. But he'd been thinking it all night and for longer than that, hadn't he? The only difference is the weight of the suggestion. The desire to be seen and known and that invitation on the idols part For Emet-Selch to keep him and use him and distract him and consume him.
Yes, it's easy to want the whole of Emet-Selch, to have and to fill with himself, to know every bit of him and have his soul. But having that desire returned in such concrete terms, that hunger and demand evident on his Bonded's expression...
Mettaton takes a sharp breath. He drinks in the sight of him beneath him, that threat balanced perfectly with the love of it, and he wonders if this manner of panic is anything like the way Emet-Selch felt when Mettaton told him he loved him. There's a fleeting notion to bounce and flee... As though the notion of keeping him is some kind of confinement. But why would he flee? Where would he go? Right back to Emet-Selch, because against sense, he loves him.
Panic is swallowed up by the heat of that desire and love, incinerated completely. He knows Emet-Selch, and he knows Mettaton. And they love each other. It's reassuring. His smile blooms.
Time resumes, and Mettaton's body reacts even before his mind can catch up, knowing best of all what he wants. Mettaton leans for his Bonded with his smile renewed, still sensual but loving. His intuition has already decided for him: Emet-Selch has the whole of him. Not even a minute or two ago, he guaranteed every bit of himself to this man, didn't he? He says this all the time, and Mettaton speaks his heart, even when he doesn't realize it. He has no reason to doubt himself. He knows himself and knows that there isn't a person out there who could match this intensity, and this is something worth breaking his heart over. Something worth losing himself to. If Mettaton wants to mark Emet-Selch as raw and deep as he desires, it would only take the whole of his very soul to do it. It would take submitting to this solidity that Emet-Selch presents before him.
His exhale this time is shaky as he teases his lips against Emet-Selch's, half-lidded and finding himself intoxicated this time on... possession. Refocusing on their Bond, he feels that expectation and demand that mingles with his despair. This close to his lover, their Bond is so open that he can feel the pressure of his soul bound to his own.
Mettaton's voice is as heavy but soft, just for Emet-Selch to hear.]
All of me... for all of you.
[His own intensity flares to life to match this depth he hears in Emet-Selch's voice. A depth to his heights. He's made to pay special attention to the press of their bodies, the way he can feel his own heartbeat thudding in his throat, his breathing hard from their mounting passion, and a mirror of it from his Bonded's body. Though he hovers close to Emet-Selch's lips, he waits for his move after running this tongue along his lower lip, fingers digging into skin, a note of pleasure slipping from his throat as his hips shift again. To press his weight into him for reassertion of that claim upon his body and soul. To claim Emet-Selch now is to give himself over, after all.]
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And now they were here: in this place, at this time, with this person. It felt as a reaffirmation of their original Bond- or rather, it blooming into an honest, personal vow. Not a tying together for survival or to fulfill a bargain, but something done deliberately, with the knowledge of each other behind it.
He didn't think that Mettaton would leave him now, at this juncture. That this would be the moment to give him pause, or a reason to reconsider. Emet-Selch doesn't let himself even accept that as a possibility, and though his breathing takes on a trembling cant, it's from intensity rather than concern. A waiting for his demand to be accepted- because of course it would be, he didn't need the words to know. While he couldn't tell at what point it had become true, had become something inescapable, there was no question of it now.
When Mettaton finally replies (it hadn't been long, and yet time had slowed, had lost all meaning--), there's a sense of finality to it. The Ascian's hold on him tightens, then softens. This was it, then- there was no escape. There hadn't been for some time- but dwelling on it like this- dragging it into the conscious mind where it could be illuminated by thought and examined- added a measure of seriousness to it.
Both fear and comfort filled him, mixed in his heart. In giving himself, in having all of him, to keep and love and protect- he wasn't alone, was he?
And yet, if he lost him now....
But he didn't have to think about that part of it, not now. Not- now, when he still had Mettaton's voice in his ears, and his weight on his body, his taste at his lips. His soul, so close.
...And how much he wanted him. To express even a measure of the torrent coursing through him, a fraction of that devotion and affection. It's a feeling, a necessity that has his eyes close, shivering as it runs through him without truly leaving, tasting Mettaton's lips and his mouth and his own blood. In a kiss not gentle, but not reaching towards roughness either, he slips his tongue back against Mettaton's own lip, tracing along it before edging between, chasing after his Bonded's own tongue. A noise in his throat is more vibration than sound, reacting to the closer press of Mettaton's body, any shifting of hips enough to steal air that he didn't have to start. A rub that he tries to match, though he already felt so hard that it nearly hurt.
Reaching a hand back up, he cups the back of his lover's head, fingers burrowing into hair, stroking along his scalp. Feeling, oddly, nearly on the verge of tears, a reaction to sheer emotional intensity. Swallowing it back, he forces a sharp breath against his lips, a harder nuzzle. There was no chance of speech on his part, but their Bond was as clear and as open as it could be- did he need to say anything more?]
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And there's an eagerness to the star's manner, even in regard to these terrifying new depths of his Bonded's vulnerability. Mettaton closes his eyes and indulges in that kiss, a firm yet fragile thing, gladly letting Emet-Selch keep his head close to his lips. Mettaton kisses in patterns, finding his own breathing is too shallow for him to kiss him until he suffocates.
The way he presses his lips to Emet-Selch's, however, is with a manner of reassurance. He feels it all: a pain, but a comfort found. His Bonded usually feels in such duality, and he wants nothing more but to maximize that feeling of comfort. He reciprocates that nuzzle with an ascending hum, warm and filling ever more with love and affection as he probes the new dimension of their feelings for one another — feelings already there, but laid out more openly. He sighs, smitten and dreamy.
He feels like he's on fire with how hot his body burns. He shifts, squirms, restless and wanting, even as he sighs into soft, fleeting kisses that begin to drift to other parts of Emet-Selch's face in his love for him. He moves enough for his arm to frame the side of the Ascian's head, sliding fingers through locks of hair as he kisses along Emet-Selch's temple and drifts to his hairline. More attempts to reassure and comfort when he feels hurt through their connection, and an attempt to take his lover's soul with his own. Stability and a brimming presence are what Mettaton offers in this moment, his fingers tangling firm in his hair.
Drifting back to his lips, Mettaton plants a kiss there with a smile.]
I love... you.
[His voice is syrupy, slurred and hot. Without meaning to, his hips rock gently as he covets more and more, even as he focuses on his Bonded's well-being over all else. It causes him to take a shaky breath, a soft, slight moan escaping from his lips at his slipping control.]
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But alongside it, reassurance. Mettaton giving off a steadiness of self that Emet-Selch wanted to wrap himself in; a presence bright enough to blot out all else. Relying on him in a way unknown to the Ascian, feeling that lightness of Mettaton's remaining, despite being repeatedly exposed to ever more of the core of him. That Mettaton could stand him without giving up or becoming damaged or demanding him to be someone else. A feeling that has his touch gentle, fingers trailing through strands of hair, a thorough and repetitive petting. Feeling both guilty and grateful to him, as he nuzzles back with a soft noise and an unsteady breath.
Focuses on the comfort, the fingers through his own hair, and the softness of Mettaton's lips on his face. Each sensation coupled intrinsically with the matching emotion. Hurt remained, and it probably always would- but Emet-Selch tries not to focus on that part of it. To not hide or restrict it, as it was an unfortunate part of who he was- but to not try to drown Mettaton in it. He could do that much for him, couldn't he? With all that Mettaton was providing for him, it would only be faint recompense. But it helped knowing that even if he did fail, that Mettaton wouldn't be lost to it....
But instead, there were the good parts of affection. The way his pulse leapt at each roll of hips, the security of his lover's body shifting over his, and the solidity of it pressing him into the bed. A warmth that was already piercing him. That they could match each other like this, that they wanted to; each squirm on Mettaton's part invited a similar sort of restlessness. To press closer, to feel more, even if they could never express everything they wanted to.
Which was reassurance again, to want something so endlessly.
And how quickly they veered between aggressive necessity and aching vulnerability, but Emet-Selch didn't think they were fundamentally too far apart. Each could feed into the other, were both variations on a theme of intensity, a way of demonstrating the same feeling. The words, the tone of Mettaton's voice has his breath hitch, then shudder. Kisses back while his lips are still close, feeling that small moan as much as he could hear it. Kisses him again, with more than an edge of need. His hand slips from Mettaton's hair forward to his face, touching and stroking it with the same sort of soft urgency.]
I love you too.
[A low tone, barely a murmur that escapes his lips, whispered directly against Mettaton's. It never got any easier to say, despite it being no secret, no surprise. It would never be a casual thing, to him.]
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Humming a laugh, his own mood brightens. It's okay that they're on such different wavelengths: it's not an act intended to be offensive, that Mettaton himself swings toward pleased and energetic while Emet-Selch lingers with his usual hurt, but just his own state. And really, he loves him. And each sound Emet-Selch makes even beyond his voice feeds Mettaton, an upsurge in his desire desire for the Ascian when it was already difficult to ignore the pulse of his arousal.
The delectable blend of lust and love he feels at the quality of his voice and the feeling of his fingertips upon his face against all else... Who could he attain these peaks of intensity with? No, more than that: who would he want this with more than him?
Passion ignited further than good sense should allow, Mettaton's body aches for him to pay attention to more than just emotional satisfaction, though that drives his method and deliberation. He takes his Bonded in another kiss, one firm and betraying his feeling in overflow as he takes his lower lip and gives it a suck, then a swipe of his tongue. He shifts his leg, forcibly breaking from the kiss with a hiss from the ache he feels for him, and though he's trying to reach for a bedside table, the monster gets distracted by... Emet-Selch's neck again.
His blood's been set to dry, but he leans down to lick his shoulder up to his neck anyway, taking what he can. Even the suggestion of taste makes his head spin, and he hungers for it... but it's a good thing that he can only access this much, at least to keep his head clear.
Mettaton gropes for lube without looking, attention entirely on Emet-Selch. He's prepared this time, as suggested. His tone remains sweet but low, always carried on a voice impossibly smooth.]
And since you're mine... I'll see to it. That you're taken care of.
[Regrettably, Mettaton has to shift from his spot pressed flush to Emet-Selch's body. He realizes that he didn't entirely succeed in getting his pants all the way off, which is seconds worth of frustration spent pulling them the rest of the way off. Not a big loss, in any sense, especially for the result. With that matter settled, Mettaton hums, smiling down upon Emet-Selch as he hikes up one of his legs to encourage him to wrap it around his hip.
The other could follow once Emet-Selch gets the hint.
Before he gets to any kind of work on preparing them (a sorely needed step, he recalls), he teases his intent by showing Emet-Selch how he envisions their bodies by shifting up to give him another kiss. His erection slides against skin, and Mettaton maneuvers himself to press directly against his lover's cock. Whenever he gets both of his legs wrapped around his hips, access would be easy, and the idol knows it.]
What do you think? Is this... hah... [Well, what Mettaton thinks of this position is evident. His hips jerk impatiently.] A... Agreeable, darling?
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Since for all of his own hurt, it didn't grate on him to hear Mettaton's voice carried on a laugh, the sounds he made when cheerful and pleased; that was just how he usually was, and Emet-Selch loved him for that too. Even when it could annoy, this wasn't one of those contexts, and he appreciated instead the way the idol took all of this emotional intensity, how he treated and interpreted it. Even when it led to responses that he could never hope to understand.
The resulting lust, though, they could share- a demonstration of ever more insistent physical desire, a more immediate way of demonstrating love. Being kissed like that only reminded him of it, his moan low against Mettaton's mouth, swiping back at his own lip with his tongue before the idol pulls back, only to be distracted once more.
A distraction that was in itself satisfactory; Mettaton licking at his shoulder brought a dull sting with it, the injury only mildly peeved at being prodded, though the reminder of its existence has Emet-Selch shiver again. Even if any witch's blood was delectable to monsters, he wondered how that flavor registered, what magic tasted like to them. And he fully expected that Mettaton would prefer his own over any other's, despite that being an absurd thing to assume or want.
The brief rustling and shifting as Mettaton feels for lube has Emet-Selch glancing to the side, muscles tensing, his exhalation heavy as he realized what he was reaching for. Attention flitting back to the other man's face at the sound of his voice, he's both pleased and a bit touched that Mettaton had planned at all ahead, as the Ascian had expected to have to conjure up something appropriate. Nothing that would've even qualified as a hassle, but he appreciated the anticipation inherent in the gesture.
And of just... being cared for. It's enough to make his heart hurt again.
It's also enough to sustain him for those unfortunate few moments when Mettaton needed to move away from him enough to get his pants the rest of the way off, the Ascian doing his best to shift hips and wriggle legs in a helpful and encouraging manner. Fortunately, success is quickly attained, and on having one leg pulled up around his lover's hip, he doesn't hesitate to latch on, the other following suit before he even has time to think about what he's doing. The position in itself has him humming softly against Mettaton's lips, when the idol leans over and returns to them, a sound and thought interrupted by a sharp intake of breath at the drag of Mettaton's erection against him, the pressure against his own cock. His body twitches into it, finding it hard to keep still.
Mettaton was so good at leaving him impatient and wanting- neither being things he was at all used to experiencing. Not even something long dead or disused, but never provoked at all, and it was unsettling still to feel at all alive. An awareness that cycles back into emotional heat, an affection continually sustained by moments like this.
But Mettaton's cock was so close and so hard, and he longed to feel it even closer, to feel him so deeply, to be filled completely with him. His legs tighten around him for a moment, betraying that keenness- and clearly not caring about being blatant in his desire for him.]
Only- only just about acceptable....
[Voice more taut that he expected, his hands reach up to skim along Mettaton's sides, a light and warm stroke over skin.]
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[Tone warm, the Puca brushes his lips against Emet-Selch's as he pays mind to the sensation of his hands along his side, warm and soft and pleasant against his skin. There's much to pay attention to, and much to do, more than he could pack into a single night, even. But this, right now, is "just about acceptable." That means...]
Wonderful. Then I'll work at... At winning your complete approval.
[And Mettaton knows he'll do it. There's no question: he's too confident and too decisive.
He kisses Emet-Selch once more and tries not to get too caught up in that, knowing he could kiss him to death once he was properly positioned. And looking forward to it, too. In this, his kiss, too, is a tease: firm, but fleeting, like a promise more than an actual fulfillment. He could kiss him and bite him and enjoy him more and more as the minutes passed, though the way his cock brushes against Emet-Selch's at all is enough to drive him mad, enough to nearly distract him for keeps when he almost reaches for their lengths. But he bites his tongue: he's reaching for lube, and has other work to do. An exhale.
Bracing his body upon his elbows and tensed muscle to remain above Emet-Selch's body, Mettaton gets to work. In his haste and with lube freshly on fingers, he decides to start with his own cock first — a mistake on a body too unaccustomed to temperature for him to grab his length with cold slickness when he's otherwise so hot. He jolts, and even yelps at the contact.]
Oh—! Ah... [Unpleasant. Mettaton meets Emet-Selch's eyes, wide-eyed and clearly shocked.] It's just— cold, I wasn't expecting that.
[A laugh: mildly embarrassed, but not terribly. And then, a flash of a smile. Because if he could endure that coldness, if he could keep working on himself... By the time he gets to preparing Emet-Selch, he'll have only warmed fingers and lube to spare for his Bonded. His smile becomes heated, and he comes up with another brilliant idea.
With Emet-Selch's legs still locked around his hips, he rears up enough for his body to be visible to the man lying before him. His body, from hips to shoulders, is bared for Emet-Selch to see entirely, and lube drips down the shaft of his arousal where he'd made contact but flinched away. Mettaton grips onto his own cock, eyes locked with Emet-Selch's as he decides to allow his Bonded to watch him work: a graphic sort of show to put on in preparation for his lover. His fingers drag along the length of his arousal, leaving behind a slick sheen in his ministrations. Mettaton sighs, dazed and hungry in the way he regards the other man while he prepares his length. As his fingers warm against skin and the temperature of the lube begins to warm with the friction, he can only exhale shakily as he gives himself a few more pulls of his hand, biting his lower lip to stay with it and keep focused even while gasps turn to breathy, soft moans and his gaze veers drunk on feeling. Fingers crest over the head and coat the tip liberally, thumb and forefinger meeting to run a circle over the tip.
His fingers travel down the underside of his length and disappear lower, past his own body, smile mischievous as his warmed fingers suddenly press against Emet-Selch's entrance, completely slick as he rubs a digit into him to start with. He hums, taking stock of his Bonded's response to this surprise switch.]
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But Emet-Selch doesn't protest when Mettaton pulls back, knowing that this small, necessary patience would be worthwhile, would lead to greater (if still ultimately temporary) satisfaction.
So he watches, breathes while he still has some sort of attention to spare for that sort of thing. But Mettaton's startled response to unexpected cold draws a startle from him as well, though it quickly translates into slight amusement, a quirk of lips at his minor discomfiture. A look that becomes slightly questioning as the idol leans up, becoming visible from cock upwards- though the sight of that alone seems to explain things.
Though his gaze rakes over the entirety of what he could see, the Ascian's attention is naturally drawn back down to his Bonded's erection, lubrication dripping a shining line down the shaft of it. And to the idol's fingers, as they begin to stroke over himself, in a manner that was clearly as much about pleasure as it was practical considerations. And then his eyes flicker up as well, to Mettaton's face- to witness each expression and drawn breath as he responded to each stroke over his cock. Responded to being watched, to having his lover's attention on the sight of him pleasuring himself, hunger clear in his expression.
It's a combination of imagery that has the Ascian's body tighten in sympathy, his own cock aching for contact, while also wishing he could reach to touch him as well, to stroke and pull over increasingly slick flesh. His breath catches at Mettaton's own moans, the sounds he was making the only things he could hear, biting his own lip as he watches the other man drag fingers over the tip of his cock, the particular attention to the head of it. To how much of his arousal was nearly glistening in the low light, a contrast to the matte texture of the rest of his body. And how much he wanted to touch him and take him, with a need that nearly frustrated--
So focused on the sight and imagined feelings, that when Mettaton's hand drifts lower, fingers pressing so intimately to his body instead, that Emet-Selch startles with a surprised gasp, a sharper hiss of breath that turns into a louder groan as he feels his lover's slick finger pressing inside of him. A sensation and awareness that has him twitch, tensing briefly before forcing himself to relax with a deliberate breath. Though his eyes close for a few seconds as he tries to adjust to the odd-but-not-uncomfortable sensation of the other's finger, they open again to stare up at his face, slightly accusatory but mostly wanting.]
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His eyelid drops a mark and he hums, wanting to kiss him stupid again... But, business first. Untangled as they are, his own gaze follows Emet-Selch's body prostrate before him with a critical eye, yet entirely approving of what he sees: a slight tilt of his head backwards and an edge to his smile that suggests pride, of all things.
Relentlessly, however, his finger works at him. It's only one to begin with, but he pushes in and draws back, only to repeat, slow drags and application of lubricant where he can. Coupled with curl a finger, ever so slight. And he pulls back, barely pulling his fingertip out from him when he presses a second fingertip in next, a gradual shifting and massaging of his body to coax him to allow another slick digit: this one with a focus on coating his entrance.
His free hand reaches for Emet-Selch's cock, teasing his length with a brush of fingertips along its length. Following him from root, to tip: and there, at the glans, he gently pinches him between forefinger and thumb. It's all in the name of his teasing: he doesn't do much more beyond this save for apply increasing pressure to the head of his lover's arousal, a tender sort of rub that grows more firm as the seconds pass. None of it nearly enough to get off on or lose himself to, but all of it a suggestion, a priming for more.]
You... are exactly how I want to see you, Hades-darling. Deciding how I want you most of all. That's the h... hard part, in this.
[There are a couple of hard parts. But that's in a more literal sense.
Releasing Emet-Selch's arousal from under Mettaton's thumb, his fingers skim along his Bonded's inner thigh. Mettaton's other hand continue to work at Emet-Selch, trying to get him to take to the intrusion of his fingers. It's only when he begins to feel him relax at all that he withdraws, suddenly and without warning. A low, scarcely restrained growl leaks from Mettaton's throat as he grips down on the girth of his own arousal and leans forward, free hand coaxing Emet-Selch's leg to return to wrapping securely around his hip.
The Puca guides the slick head of his cock to the Ascian's entrance this time, pushing with urgency against his lover — almost enough to sink in.
It's clear this is because he can hardly take waiting any longer. His breathing is hard, and Mettaton towers over Emet-Selch, hands upon his hips — and gripping down, anchoring him in place, the suggestion of a thrust clear in the tensing of every muscle in his body. A thrust intended to penetrate. And with his hands where they are, he could only force him down upon him with more power, if he wanted. His gaze is possessive and desirous, unrestrained as he swallows around all that he wants.
But he spares these moments to measure his Bonded's response, his absolute craving for everything about him clear as day in their Bond. His body, his essence, his blood, his lips, his attention, his magic, his soul, and his love, all wanted and demanded by the robot.]
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Among them: a softer inhalation at the suggestion of another finger, slick and warm against him. More pressure for his body to give into, and the hint of a moan escapes on his exhalation. Mentally there was no resistance, and physically, his body begins to adapt. Accept what was expected of it. Intense arousal certainly helped.
And gradually that tension eases. Pressing into the movement of Mettaton's fingers quickens the Ascian's breath, as the sensation begins to become actively pleasant, rather than only strange or tolerable. A sensation that didn't even begin to satisfy his needs though, was as teasing as the hand on his cock, a pressure that still helped to stoke and distract from any discomfort. And another thing to drag a moan from him, the focus to the head of his erection making it hard to concentrate on anything other than just wanting more of it all. Something better than fingers inside of him, and to feel his own cock pressed between them, rubbing up against his lover's body with each of his thrusts. The focus on impending pleasure made it easier to relax around his fingers, for all that the rest of his body felt tense with expectations.
He still makes a louder noise- half-protest, half-startle- at the abrupt loss of Mettaton's fingers, a sound he swallows back as he wraps legs around him again, thighs twitching in their anticipation. Pulse uncomfortably fast, he can't take his eyes from him, watching his lover's own chest heaving from the force of his breathing, the intensity of his gaze and wanting sharp enough to cut him. Emet-Selch gasps, both from that, and at the tip of Mettaton's cock pressing so firmly against his entrance. Able to feel the tension in the other's body behind it, the threat of movement behind it. The promise it brought. His gaze narrows as his focus does, though with intensity rather than irritation- intensity of love, of lust, of yearning.]
Take--
[All of that desire and desperation for him is something starkly apparent in Emet-Selch's voice and through Bond, a word choked off with a sharper breath, a whine in his throat as he fights for a few moments more of patience. He couldn't think of anything else, only Mettaton, only his need to be filled by him immediately. To feel taken and claimed, for all that he already was.]
All of you- all of--
[It's not particularly coherent, what he does manage, voice low and tense, body shifting restlessly in place, shivering at the smallest drag of the head of Mettaton's cock against him, how smooth and warm he felt, and how empty he was without him.]
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Through his ecstasy he has room in his heart for this fondness he feels for the Ascian, and it softens the edges of his smile even while he craves what he can take out of Emet-Selch's body. What it means to this man to take him so thoroughly and to give his own essence back, some way to prove that he sees him and is with him. His fingers grip down, and Mettaton uses the leverage of his position to push his length inside of his Bonded.
It's nowhere near the same as without lubricant, he notices first and foremost. On the Puca's end of things, his cock, slick and positioned just right, has the ability to push well beyond the head in one firm motion: not hurried or harsh, but Mettaton takes advantage of Emet-Selch's body and the smooth access by sliding as much of his length inside of him as his body will allow from him in one pass. It knocks the wind out of him, and Mettaton stutters over sound, settling on a sharp inhale followed by a sigh of a moan. Giving him this much of his length in one go was to give as much of his body to Emet-Selch as possible, at first. But the very moment Mettaton felt his lover's body tight around the head of his cock, it quickly devolved into a heady, primal desire to have the whole of his arousal squeezed, urgently.
And he nearly closes his eyes under the pressure of it, lips parted and not quite realizing that he keeps gasping, only to let what air he's regained slip from him in a pleasurable noise. But he can't look away from the Ascian. The very addition of his pleasurable craving compounded upon has him ending his first plunge into his body with a sharp thrust of his hips to sink deeper yet. Mettaton's upper body sways with the sheer delight of the feeling, mouthing a weak moan that robs him of whatever air he has left in his lungs. But he can't look away.
With Emet-Selch tight around much of his length, he unhands his hips and drops his forearms closer to his upper body, taking a shuddering breath. He wants nothing more than to kiss him for all he's worth.]
H... Hades, H... Oh...
[He's still trying to gasp for air, but that doesn't mean he's regained any sense. Arousal stuffed inside of his Bonded, he tries to kiss him and misses his lips in the dizzying pleasure of sensation - and in the dizzying loss of air and neglect to take any of it back. He finally takes in one good suck of air by reflex alone, but it's immediately converted into a moan of pleasure and desire.
He shifts his hips and stutters around the sensation, kissing Emet-Selch's cheek desperately.]
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While it wasn't strictly comfortable, it wasn't painful either, to feel his body stretch to accommodate. More than anything it was intense in every way, from the steady give of his flesh around his lover's girth- far more than that of his fingers, and far better of a claim, and so slick. How right he felt, and how easily his body responded to that knowledge with a heady pang of arousal, the sort to steal both breath and thought, to leave him dizzied and aching. But the pleasure prevented pain, which made it an easy thing to not clench defensively around him, to not lock up.
The sound of Mettaton's voice as he first entered him, the way he looked- it was something that Emet-Selch had to struggle to keep his eyes open to witness. They kept wanting to close, overwhelmed. His own cry is choked off, body arching underneath him, legs tightening around Mettaton with a heavy shudder. All of it to draw him closer, to press him deeper, to receive the whole of his length within him.
The Bond surely helped, Emet-Selch thought without words, the awareness simply settling into him; Mettaton's own pleasure reflected onto him, sinking into him as thoroughly and easily as his cock, experiencing it as though it were his own. Or was it his, that satisfaction, that hunger? With as tangled up and as open as they were, did it even matter who's pleasure was who's, in the end? When they possessed the whole of each other, what distinction could apply?
Another thrust. Another gasp on his part, twisted partway into another moan, low and ecstatic. For every bit more of him that he felt, the more that he wanted, both his cock and his love, though the latter was the only part that hurt, this time. But he wanted it still, demanded it, for all that it burned him to touch.]
M-- Mettaton, I....
[A voice made soft from more than just a lack of air to power it, a murmur of a name for his lover's attention only.
And it feels that much harder to breathe somehow, when Mettaton leans closer to him, eclipsing further everything he could see, anything he could feel. Sound as well: there were his lover's gasps and moans- and more distantly, the struggled noises coming from his own throat- and nothing more. Nothing else to hear, nothing else worth hearing, so close to his ear. His arms move to wrap around his body, warm and firm, a stroke of hands along his back, caressing skin that didn't used to be there.
Wanting to be kissed, but also lacking the coordination to do much about it, Emet-Selch presses his cheek against Mettaton's lips without thinking of it, shuddering another breath. Tries to cry out, but little sound emerges when the idol's hips move, every motion on his part resonating deeper within him.]
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A shiver, because the tightening of Emet-Selch's legs draws his body closer and forces his muscles to contract, causes his body to set off into a series of short, gentle thrusts even as he tries for stillness. As foreign and new as this form is to him (and for as appropriate as it is in feeling), it knows what it needs to get Mettaton the sensuality he desires. And can Mettaton fault himself? So he succumbs at least to those slight jerks of his hips even while he tries to regard his Bonded, a short laugh at his own neediness the only apology he has to spare on the front of his slip in control. An allowance of some measure to tide himself over while he tries for composure.
Not composure for no reason. Mettaton pushes himself up from Emet-Selch's cheek to smile down at him, a response to his cries and his name on a tone so desperate. Hair sticks to his forehead, body hot and face flushed as he breathes hard, pulse thudding in his hunger. One of his arms adjusts itself, bracing himself against his lover so that he can run his thumb from his temple, toward the back of his head. There's something about him in this moment that Mettaton can't place that fills him with an even deeper fondness than before, as if he needed it to run any deeper. The depth of their entwined bodies and hearts? The sheer amount of care his Bonded will spare for his sake? The amount he'd spare for his? No, he can't quite figure it all out... But Mettaton's content to just love him.
And with that strength of feeling, he gains at least the wherewithal to properly press his lips to Emet-Selch's. A fortune, since he can only resist losing himself to his body for only so long.
He sighs against his lips and exacts a kiss. Soft but heavy, full of heat and tenderness both.]
There. And... Do tell me. Your cravings. I want them. [His smile against his lips turns into a grin.] If you can manage...
[Because really, if he's having a hard time speaking, what of Emet-Selch? He wants to say that he aims to please, as he usually does, but he doesn't. Because of course he does, but he's also here for his own pleasure. Pleasing him is his pleasure, and he can tell every time he succumbs to his own pleasure, that it's Emet-Selch's pleasure in return. What a dangerous feedback cycle, he considers, with the feeble shreds of higher thinking he has to spare on such things.
Because one kiss only begs for another, and another only begs for something deeper, deeper yet, before Mettaton finds himself ravenous. A long, firm kiss causes him to close his arms in on his Bonded's form, hips pressing more firmly against Emet-Selch's body at the urging of his tightening legs. He groans into a kiss, feels the way his arousal sinks into the heat of Emet-Selch's body with more definition than ever before, and he trembles then, full-bodied and enough to make him break his kiss and pant.
His voice breaks, on a dazed hum that veers desperate.]
You're- hot, it's... Gh—
[In case Emet-Selch didn't know that his body temperature is warm, Mettaton has to tell him, new to it all as he is. And the admission of such has his thrusts intensified quite suddenly, as though he's pulled all restraints from his deepest cravings as he tenses muscle and pushes the whole of his length in with one firm thrust, choking on the feeling of his hips flush to his body. He muffles himself by kissing his Bonded madly, shoving his tongue between his lips as his hips take on a tempo: a quick pull back, and a slower, firmer slide back in as deeply as he can sink his cock. He seeks claim on his taste and his body, just as a primer. He wants the whole of him.]
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