[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.]
[If Mettaton had a hard time controlling those small jerks to his hips, the Ascian had a hard time dealing with the result of them, sensitive to each shift, shivering softly through them, only remembering to breathe again when they pause. Something that he'd have to figure a way to work around, if any movement on Mettaton's part had him forgetting the requirements for air....
If it's not quite composure that he regains when Mettaton shifts enough to meet his eyes, his face so close- it's a different shade of attentiveness. Taking in the sight of him like that, skin hot and hair in disarray, the effects of his continued passion obvious. And- the gentleness of the hand touching his face, stroking through similarly damp hair. His breathing goes shallow, as though not to disturb the moment, stilling as he memorizes this instant, both in sight and touch. Appreciating the contrasts that could exist simultaneously: the explicit, demanding needs imposed by their bodies, the desire to bite and consume and possess, as well as softness and gentleness, smaller touches that felt no less intimate. Care was expressed through both, and fondness, and Emet-Selch still didn't know how it was possible to have all of this at once--
A shuddered breath; his thoughts are scattered--
And a kiss that felt... right. That oriented him anew, settled him in a strange way, for all that it couldn't calm the needs of his body, or the ache of his heart. A press of lips that he answers, focused on the firm softness of Mettaton's against his, the hint of breath and damp, the warmth of his face. And then his words, nearly a taunt, if a friendly one- provokes a huff of a sound from him, a note of amusement in it.]
How... nosy you are.
[Though if Mettaton wanted more of an answer to his words, he certainly wasn't making it easy. Thought collecting was one thing: a challenge in itself, to put words to things the Ascian knew, and felt. A level of consciousness required that Emet-Selch would've assumed to be distracting, a detraction from the experience it in order to think about it... but if anything, he realized he felt that much more aware of it all in his attempt. Near-mindless reactivity and thoughtful assessment- both had their appeal and advantages, he reconsidered.
Or what passed for thoughtfulness, in any case, which kept trying to veer into the straightforward and simple demands of his body for more, for this feeling to continue as endlessly as it could. Leaning into his kiss, Emet-Selch gasps sharply around his tongue at being so suddenly filled in entirety, his lover's hips pressed tight to his body, cock shoved fully within him. A hardness he could feel so distinctly, every detail of him- a sensation he wasn't even starting to get used to when Mettaton began to move, and he shuddered with each thrust, legs tensing with each inward push. Each time he could feel the whole of his length, a claim repeated.
Sucking back on his tongue, he's aware of having two parts of Mettaton inside him at once, a thought that has him moan again, for all that it's mostly lost between their mouths. And for all that Emet-Selch attempts to hang onto words, there was a limit to what he was physically capable of expressing, at the moment. The one drawback to kissing him. Leaving the idol's tongue with a drag of teeth, he finally breaks the kiss with a hiss of breath and effort. If Mettaton wanted a reply, he'd have to manage one, despite the movements of his lover's cock, taking him, his own body rocking up to meet him, to press him somehow deeper still--]
H... Harder. I want- to feel you after- to... to remember--
[And not in the way of pain or damage like the first time, but the more congenial sort of soreness that came with having a body well used, fully taken and possessed.]
[How could Mettaton make it easy when he wants Emet-Selch to deliver his desires through his desperation? Desperation finds a way, and he has faith that if he has cravings to voice, he'll fight to make them known. It's the liveliness of the ordeal, after all.
And does he deliver. Mettaton's a step ahead in processing his words, as if he can read his mind before he can even finish the thought, and by the time the word remember escapes from Emet-Selch's lips, the idol's already further unshackling from his basest desires. The desire to overwhelm and mark. His imagination paints such vivid pictures of Emet-Selch in their near future: dripping with his come, gasping for air, body bitten and kissed to excess, exhausted in a way quite unlike anything else atop his bed, in his arms, golden eyes scarcely able to focus and body trembling from exertion.
For Mettaton to fantasize about the future while he's so thoroughly enjoying the present... An odd mix, but one so fulfilling. A goal. Teeth clenched, he moans from deep in his throat at all he thinks and feels.
And his thrusts firm up. Each draw back is half of his cock, and each push in is a complete filling of him with the addition of a further rub, the head pushed as deeply as he can manage as he shoves his hips into Emet-Selchs body. It's not a frenzied, careless sort of thrust, but one with an odd amount of deliberation, each push into Emet-Selch's body accompanied by the complete tensing of Mettaton's abdomen as he curves into his lover's body.
The thought of doing him until the Ascian was forced to feel the echo of him after the fact is too tantalizing not to aim for, at any cost. The Puca quite clearly wants this prize: he's not just hungry for him, he's starved, a life of wanting with a culmination of feeling to outshine all else.
And he gasps, sighs of pleasure accompanying each thrust as the deliberate, passionate rhythm proves hypnotizing. His thrusts grow less pushy as he adjusts to find what he finds most pleasurable and, upon finding a rhythm where he's constantly moving at the same speed, Mettaton moans loud and broken. Deep, even thrusts, there isn't a moment where he's not dragging the tip of his cock against the body of his Bonded, so deeply.]
Hades, ohhh, y-you—
[He considers just how pleasurable the squeeze of his lover's body is, and how enticing he looks beneath him. It's too much for Mettaton to handle, mind swimming.
And his eyes alight to reflect just how starved for his Bonded he truly is. The desire to lose his mind entices him, and he lunges for Emet-Selch's neck again, sinking his teeth into his shoulder in perfect time with a good, full sinking of his cock, one with a shudder of his hips even as he's pushed in to the base of it. His is a graphic display of passion, and Emet-Selch, his Bonded, gets front row seats to the sheer amount of urgent desire he feels for him, body and soul.
Drawing blood, Mettaton cries out into the taste of it, head spinning, addiction well established. To everything his Bonded has to offer him, all of it is his. Funny, how even as he sucks and bites and tongues and kisses his beloved, prone beneath him, he fantasizes about the taste of his mouth and of filling his mouth with his come, more ways to taste his Bonded. He wants it all.]
Edited (the fuck is some of this grammar...) 2020-05-10 21:41 (UTC)
[It seemed like an approval, he thought- though Emet-Selch hadn't expected otherwise. Assumed that they wanted much the same thing, were working for the same result. A cooperation in obscenity; how matched they were in excess. As though a life of deprivation needed to be made up for, and each other's bodies were the only thing that could begin to satisfy. And so, they feasted.
It wasn't as though he'd never been fucked before, but to be taken so completely, to give himself so entirely over to it, to someone, was- new. It should've been disturbing or alarming, but it didn't feel that way; he wanted this. To be marked over by Mettaton completely, bitten to bleeding and smeared with his come, in a primitive yet unmistakable gesture of possession. To find a strange sort of fulfillment in that, a security, a comfort, as though this were something that would be allowed to remain with him. If he gave himself over, he wouldn't be alone; if he were stained excessively, he'd never be able to forget it. Neither of them would: every part of his body could be a reminder.
It was strange to know that even this, the pleasure that was currently choking him, leaving his breath a pant, his voice turned desperate and wordless, crying out each time he receives the fullness of his lover's cock- that this would never be enough. Even were he spent to excess, dripping and sticky all over from the mix of their fluids, unable to move. Only to cling, perhaps, broken in a different way. That he'd still be left wanting him ever more in the end.
But he'd take Mettaton down with him. He did love him, after all.
Emet-Selch wasn't thinking of that, though, not in words. There was the now, there was the way his lover's arousal felt, stroking him from the inside, so thick and hot within him. His hands dig hard into Mettaton's back, a clawing grasp of fingers, and his thighs tremble and tense around him, jolted by the firmness of each thrust, losing even more of himself to the rhythm of it. His own cock, rubbed up against Mettaton's body with each movement, ached in time with his pulse- a speed that meant he never stopped aching.]
Ah-- yes...
[And there was satisfaction in Mettaton's response in itself. To be witness to his desperation, for him, to be part of such a thing alongside him- he drank it in, reveled in it. And was grateful for it, too- that every demand, every expectation- all of it was matched, exceeded by the puca; it would've been impossible to let himself go so far with anyone else. To be so wanton with him; to want to show him exactly the sort of effect he was having, from the arching of his body, to his breath, to the instability of his voice. And to drown in all of the same from him, each moan and twitch and bite.
--Especially his bite, the piercing sensation, the wetness of blood on his skin, to drip into his lover's mouth- it's enough to set him writhing. Or was it from the depth of Mettaton's cock? Pinioned between the two sensations, his voice is sharp and desperate, ecstatic and pleading, interrupted only by a choked gasp for air. He ached and he stung, and for all that he wanted to take all of Mettaton's essence from him, the thought of his blood in the idol's mouth also satisfied, in his desire to fill him in any way that he could. The more ways they could mix, the better.]
[The hand he used before to stroke through dark locks of hair, from temple to crown, entangles itself there as Mettaton lets up on his bite, kissing and licking at his newest wound in his heat. He even kisses a mark against freshly bitten skin like a brand, a delightful noise slipping from his throat as he drinks his Witch's blood, all of it becoming a part of his experience, a rush for the senses.
He can hear his own blood pounding in his ears too keenly, but it's nowhere enough to distract from each and every gasp and plead carried on Emet-Selch's voice. Noises to remind him of what he does to him, sounds he prescribes to memory in hopes of keeping them forever. It registers to him there how vulnerable the Ascian makes himself before the Puca. Beyond his lust-driven madness, he finds an overflowing of love for him, a reservoir of it intended only for Emet-Selch. Somewhere deeper in his brain, these sounds are ones he wants to always be there. Impossibilities set before his mind's eye, visions of turning to him in his darkest moments and sharing with him his brightest sights. Experiencing the world at his side, showing him his accomplishments and relishing his.
He squeezes his eyes shut and lunges for his throat. His teeth graze down the very front of it, somewhere he could easily tear his windpipe from if he were determined, but his energy's quickly translated into wet, sloppy kisses and a whine that carries the note of desperation. He releases him; exhales a shaky breath, heart swollen with his feelings.
When Mettaton moves to suck another mark into his lover's neck, he does it because he wants to remind Emet-Selch of this, rather than to prove to anybody else who he belongs to. And feverishly, when he switches to the other side of his neck, the next bite is administered with this same intent: it's not a snap of his jaws this time, but a press of his lips, a sloppy kiss that widens into the slide of teeth and the damp of his mouth, then pressure until he breaks him. The idol shudders, every muscle in his body tensing at the taste of magic and copper on his tongue, a delightful groan slipping from his throat, releasing him quickly to better lap up the blood he's drawn from his lover through harsh pants.
All the while, Mettaton's thrusting continues: a constant, a backdrop to his indulgence of his Bonded's blood and being.
As the robot reaches for greater heights of pleasure, his body begins to slip into a carnal mode where he's determined to extract all of the ecstasy he can from his Bonded's body. His thrusts grow firmer again and his abdomen tenses, knees sliding apart as he fucks him with more fervor than before. The hike in pleasure he feels forces Mettaton to unclench his teeth as he cries out, shuddering so severely that he's made to slip against his Bonded's shoulder, muscle giving way. But he continues thrusting, harder and faster than before.]
Hades, you, you, I-I— nnn... need— love—
[Scarcely realizing that he's saying anything at all against his latest claim of teeth, Mettaton's thrusts don't cease. He pounds into his beloved, his fingers moving to grip onto Emet-Selch's upper arms as he tries desperately to bite back down upon his shoulders. But every time he does, he's interrupted by a cry of absolute euphoria as he each slide of his cock grows more blindingly erotic than the last. The feeling of Emet-Selch's body against the too-sensitive tip of his arousal and the way his body tightens around his shaft every time he stuffs him full, and the way his body seems to protest it when he withdraws, has Mettaton shuddering, panting and unable to open his eyes.
But he tries, desperately. No longer could he hope to stop so close to reaching his climax as Mettaton lifts his head, drool and blood smeared down from his lip and across his jaw as he stares down upon his Bonded's face before he loses the control for even that. Mettaton tries to take him into a sloppy kiss, interrupted by his own cries of pleasure as his muscles tense, curling inward on his Bonded and clutching him close as if trying to take him into his body.]
[Held in place, between the hand in his hair, and the lips at his neck, a brief, low hum rumbles in his throat at even this. His throat was so available to his Bonded; a more directly vulnerable state, his panting carried through it, his blood lying just beneath skin. But Emet-Selch doesn't think about any danger when it comes to offering it to him; would having it torn out lead to an impossibly deep, if unrepeatable, sense of gratification? Or simply panic and pain as he passed quickly into death?
It's fortunate then that Emet-Selch doesn't need to find out, shivering only at the wetness of Mettaton's kisses against the warmth of his throat, the drag of teeth not even registering as a threat, but mere sensation, a line of pressure that he wanted to remember. A sucking pressure at his neck that carried the same feeling, the same extra note of intimacy (as though having their bodies joined as they were wasn't intimate enough). A personal gesture for them both to remember, each bruise and torn bit of skin, even after they healed. Even after new ones were inevitably applied, to be equally learned.
The slow burn of a kiss-turned-bite-turned-piercing-bite has his breath catch, then release in a trembling exhalation, a small sense of relief when building pressure broke the skin. The resulting shift to wet swipes of a tongue over the new wound barely even registered as pain in his current state of hazy, sharpened arousal, pleased again when he could no longer able to tell what was the dampness of blood, and what was his lover's saliva dripping against his skin.
The moments slid together into one continuous instant. Each retreat of Mettaton's cock carried with it a sense of anticipation- a sense satisfied by each inward stroke, each time he was stuffed full of him again. And when full, his lover's hips flush to his body, anticipation then for the drag of his length outward, and from there the impending push, of having the whole of him once more. How well his body yielded now to that rigidity, aching only from his desire for it, tensing around him only due to that pleasure, the wanting to keep him, rather than from discomfort or pain. Each time he felt the head of the idol's cock reaching its deepest point, he shuddered, body rolling into it, as though he could force him deeper still, wrest every bit of contact that he could from him, squeezing around him from tip to base.
His legs also tighten in response to those thrusts, spread around him and clinging on, muscles quivering from the repeated effort. There was no part of his body that was spared investment in his desperation, nothing that wasn't working to increase it, nothing left behind.
At some point his eyes had closed; there was no chance of recalling when. But when Mettaton lifts his head from his neck, they flicker open for a few fleeting seconds, only long enough to see the robot closing in, blood on his face. And then, the taste of it is on his own lips, mingled with that of Mettaton's mouth. Around his own struggled breaths, Emet-Selch tries to deepen the kiss, but mostly slides against wet lips. His tongue laps across him, picking up that mixture of blood and spit, and not leaving him any less damp in the process. A dizzying combination (or was that from insufficient oxygen, again?), as though he felt no particular effect from the taste of his own blood, knowing that it was the result of Mettaton eagerly drawing it from him made it an appealing flavor when accompanied by that of his Bonded's mouth.
It was all too much. From the sound of his lover's voice carried on its mix of pants and ecstatic cries, from the softness of his skin and the hardness of his cock pounding into him, the scent of blood and taste of it. From how closely he was held, how they were holding each other, clinging so frantically as though they could somehow merge even further. Both in body and spirit, and in commingled pleasure.
When inevitability arrived, Emet-Selch doesn't fight it. Climax hits him with a different kind of relief in his voice, soft and fragile and nearly lost entirely, even as his body shook with the force of his release, as well as from that of Mettaton's thrusts. A movement that served to spread his come between their bodies. A moment that dragged on indefinitely, extended with each press of his Bonded's cock, tightening around him even as his awareness briefly darkened. But he continued to cling to Mettaton throughout: the only thing he still knew how to do.]
[It can't be helped that Mettaton pays so much attention not only to his own body and what he can do and feel with it, but the way Emet-Selch responds to his every movement. Hearing his breathing stutter, his body appeal for deeper thrusts, the frequent tension around the whole of his cock, and the trembling of his muscle and tightening of his legs could only bring him to searing levels of enjoyment. Emet-Selch's body does so much for him: it's for his pleasure, his indulgence, his inspiration, and at the heart of the matter, it's what bears the soul he loves.
While nearly the whole of Mettaton is savage - the tear of teeth, the plunge of his cock, the force of his muscle, the frenzy of his kisses - his fingers can only softly curl against skin. He spares a moment to nuzzle Emet-Selch softly. The bend of his shoulders is slight, and his arms try to hold him gently. Actions easily swallowed up in passion, but ones that precede orgasm, that carry some of the burden of emotional expression. Mettaton will capitalize on everything he has to express his feelings to the truest degree, after all.
And his fervor remains, especially when Emet-Selch succumbs to orgasm. His voice doesn't carry the same immediate descent into sorrow, and Mettaton feels lit aflame in his craving for it. A life set before him for him to consume in his release, and his thrusts grow deeper, shorter, the head of his cock rubbing into his lover so intimately, a new constant. Reluctant to pull from him, but wanting to be deeper with him. The Ascian's body tightens around him in turn, a mutual claim, a mutual consumption.
Mettaton's dazed, enchanted, drawn to all he sees and hears and feels. And in this pre-orgasmic stage, he senses everything with such vivid, heightened awareness, all of it enough to take him under and do him in. The rub of his lover's cock against his abdomen, come ejaculated not only upon his front but Emet-Selch's as well, the absolute relief of his body right down to the tremble of muscle, and the way he clings to him despite his loss of sense. And, of course, the way his body feels so belonging to him, and his in turn. Mettaton sucks in a breath, the texture of his thrusts different with the increasing squeeze of his Bonded's body around his erection — a form of marking him, of taking him while he takes back.
When he cries out, it's on a voice smooth and unbroken in his climax, lagging just behind his lover. And he's thankful for it, that ability to drink in the feeling of him in release and to feed off of his pleasure.
If Emet-Selch clings to Mettaton, the force of his release has him taking Emet-Selch's body into his arms with a ferocity, all of his softness and love converted into starvation and claim. His nails dig into skin and he curls further upon his Bonded, bringing his head back down to his neck as he tucks his chin there. Every muscle tenses, closing in on the other man as he pulls him into himself and, in turn, shoves his length so deeply into his Bonded that he's made to almost lift his body onto himself with each curl of his hips. His feelings veer so quickly toward an impossible, eternal claim, the want for Emet-Selch to belong to him and to crave him always, beyond sense and beyond anyone else. He could never be sated enough, and the feeling of Emet-Selch's grip upon his back has Mettaton all but lifting his Bonded enough to slide his own arms around him, squeezing him in his arms.
All while he pounds away at him, the pleasure of his strokes compounded upon by the tightness of his Bonded's body. Raw though it may be, Mettaton uses all of his lover's body for what it gives and rubs his cock against his heat, pleasing himself on him. More moans, more cries of pleasure, come thick and hot and breathing harsh. The crush of his body is for want of more, for a never-ending session of pleasure that only Emet-Selch could bring him, and the wish for this pleasure to never end. He loves him so, and he smiles.
But it does end, and the first indication of it is a softer voice carried on Emet-Selch's name. His muscles slacken, his world spins, energy robbed from him and spent on his lover. Taken completely, just as Emet-Selch hoped. His hips gradually still, and Mettaton gasps and pants, collapsing upon his Bonded even while his arms cling to him in an embrace.]
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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.]
no subject
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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If it's not quite composure that he regains when Mettaton shifts enough to meet his eyes, his face so close- it's a different shade of attentiveness. Taking in the sight of him like that, skin hot and hair in disarray, the effects of his continued passion obvious. And- the gentleness of the hand touching his face, stroking through similarly damp hair. His breathing goes shallow, as though not to disturb the moment, stilling as he memorizes this instant, both in sight and touch. Appreciating the contrasts that could exist simultaneously: the explicit, demanding needs imposed by their bodies, the desire to bite and consume and possess, as well as softness and gentleness, smaller touches that felt no less intimate. Care was expressed through both, and fondness, and Emet-Selch still didn't know how it was possible to have all of this at once--
A shuddered breath; his thoughts are scattered--
And a kiss that felt... right. That oriented him anew, settled him in a strange way, for all that it couldn't calm the needs of his body, or the ache of his heart. A press of lips that he answers, focused on the firm softness of Mettaton's against his, the hint of breath and damp, the warmth of his face. And then his words, nearly a taunt, if a friendly one- provokes a huff of a sound from him, a note of amusement in it.]
How... nosy you are.
[Though if Mettaton wanted more of an answer to his words, he certainly wasn't making it easy. Thought collecting was one thing: a challenge in itself, to put words to things the Ascian knew, and felt. A level of consciousness required that Emet-Selch would've assumed to be distracting, a detraction from the experience it in order to think about it... but if anything, he realized he felt that much more aware of it all in his attempt. Near-mindless reactivity and thoughtful assessment- both had their appeal and advantages, he reconsidered.
Or what passed for thoughtfulness, in any case, which kept trying to veer into the straightforward and simple demands of his body for more, for this feeling to continue as endlessly as it could. Leaning into his kiss, Emet-Selch gasps sharply around his tongue at being so suddenly filled in entirety, his lover's hips pressed tight to his body, cock shoved fully within him. A hardness he could feel so distinctly, every detail of him- a sensation he wasn't even starting to get used to when Mettaton began to move, and he shuddered with each thrust, legs tensing with each inward push. Each time he could feel the whole of his length, a claim repeated.
Sucking back on his tongue, he's aware of having two parts of Mettaton inside him at once, a thought that has him moan again, for all that it's mostly lost between their mouths. And for all that Emet-Selch attempts to hang onto words, there was a limit to what he was physically capable of expressing, at the moment. The one drawback to kissing him. Leaving the idol's tongue with a drag of teeth, he finally breaks the kiss with a hiss of breath and effort. If Mettaton wanted a reply, he'd have to manage one, despite the movements of his lover's cock, taking him, his own body rocking up to meet him, to press him somehow deeper still--]
H... Harder. I want- to feel you after- to... to remember--
[And not in the way of pain or damage like the first time, but the more congenial sort of soreness that came with having a body well used, fully taken and possessed.]
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And does he deliver. Mettaton's a step ahead in processing his words, as if he can read his mind before he can even finish the thought, and by the time the word remember escapes from Emet-Selch's lips, the idol's already further unshackling from his basest desires. The desire to overwhelm and mark. His imagination paints such vivid pictures of Emet-Selch in their near future: dripping with his come, gasping for air, body bitten and kissed to excess, exhausted in a way quite unlike anything else atop his bed, in his arms, golden eyes scarcely able to focus and body trembling from exertion.
For Mettaton to fantasize about the future while he's so thoroughly enjoying the present... An odd mix, but one so fulfilling. A goal. Teeth clenched, he moans from deep in his throat at all he thinks and feels.
And his thrusts firm up. Each draw back is half of his cock, and each push in is a complete filling of him with the addition of a further rub, the head pushed as deeply as he can manage as he shoves his hips into Emet-Selchs body. It's not a frenzied, careless sort of thrust, but one with an odd amount of deliberation, each push into Emet-Selch's body accompanied by the complete tensing of Mettaton's abdomen as he curves into his lover's body.
The thought of doing him until the Ascian was forced to feel the echo of him after the fact is too tantalizing not to aim for, at any cost. The Puca quite clearly wants this prize: he's not just hungry for him, he's starved, a life of wanting with a culmination of feeling to outshine all else.
And he gasps, sighs of pleasure accompanying each thrust as the deliberate, passionate rhythm proves hypnotizing. His thrusts grow less pushy as he adjusts to find what he finds most pleasurable and, upon finding a rhythm where he's constantly moving at the same speed, Mettaton moans loud and broken. Deep, even thrusts, there isn't a moment where he's not dragging the tip of his cock against the body of his Bonded, so deeply.]
Hades, ohhh, y-you—
[He considers just how pleasurable the squeeze of his lover's body is, and how enticing he looks beneath him. It's too much for Mettaton to handle, mind swimming.
And his eyes alight to reflect just how starved for his Bonded he truly is. The desire to lose his mind entices him, and he lunges for Emet-Selch's neck again, sinking his teeth into his shoulder in perfect time with a good, full sinking of his cock, one with a shudder of his hips even as he's pushed in to the base of it. His is a graphic display of passion, and Emet-Selch, his Bonded, gets front row seats to the sheer amount of urgent desire he feels for him, body and soul.
Drawing blood, Mettaton cries out into the taste of it, head spinning, addiction well established. To everything his Bonded has to offer him, all of it is his. Funny, how even as he sucks and bites and tongues and kisses his beloved, prone beneath him, he fantasizes about the taste of his mouth and of filling his mouth with his come, more ways to taste his Bonded. He wants it all.]
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It wasn't as though he'd never been fucked before, but to be taken so completely, to give himself so entirely over to it, to someone, was- new. It should've been disturbing or alarming, but it didn't feel that way; he wanted this. To be marked over by Mettaton completely, bitten to bleeding and smeared with his come, in a primitive yet unmistakable gesture of possession. To find a strange sort of fulfillment in that, a security, a comfort, as though this were something that would be allowed to remain with him. If he gave himself over, he wouldn't be alone; if he were stained excessively, he'd never be able to forget it. Neither of them would: every part of his body could be a reminder.
It was strange to know that even this, the pleasure that was currently choking him, leaving his breath a pant, his voice turned desperate and wordless, crying out each time he receives the fullness of his lover's cock- that this would never be enough. Even were he spent to excess, dripping and sticky all over from the mix of their fluids, unable to move. Only to cling, perhaps, broken in a different way. That he'd still be left wanting him ever more in the end.
But he'd take Mettaton down with him. He did love him, after all.
Emet-Selch wasn't thinking of that, though, not in words. There was the now, there was the way his lover's arousal felt, stroking him from the inside, so thick and hot within him. His hands dig hard into Mettaton's back, a clawing grasp of fingers, and his thighs tremble and tense around him, jolted by the firmness of each thrust, losing even more of himself to the rhythm of it. His own cock, rubbed up against Mettaton's body with each movement, ached in time with his pulse- a speed that meant he never stopped aching.]
Ah-- yes...
[And there was satisfaction in Mettaton's response in itself. To be witness to his desperation, for him, to be part of such a thing alongside him- he drank it in, reveled in it. And was grateful for it, too- that every demand, every expectation- all of it was matched, exceeded by the puca; it would've been impossible to let himself go so far with anyone else. To be so wanton with him; to want to show him exactly the sort of effect he was having, from the arching of his body, to his breath, to the instability of his voice. And to drown in all of the same from him, each moan and twitch and bite.
--Especially his bite, the piercing sensation, the wetness of blood on his skin, to drip into his lover's mouth- it's enough to set him writhing. Or was it from the depth of Mettaton's cock? Pinioned between the two sensations, his voice is sharp and desperate, ecstatic and pleading, interrupted only by a choked gasp for air. He ached and he stung, and for all that he wanted to take all of Mettaton's essence from him, the thought of his blood in the idol's mouth also satisfied, in his desire to fill him in any way that he could. The more ways they could mix, the better.]
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He can hear his own blood pounding in his ears too keenly, but it's nowhere enough to distract from each and every gasp and plead carried on Emet-Selch's voice. Noises to remind him of what he does to him, sounds he prescribes to memory in hopes of keeping them forever. It registers to him there how vulnerable the Ascian makes himself before the Puca. Beyond his lust-driven madness, he finds an overflowing of love for him, a reservoir of it intended only for Emet-Selch. Somewhere deeper in his brain, these sounds are ones he wants to always be there. Impossibilities set before his mind's eye, visions of turning to him in his darkest moments and sharing with him his brightest sights. Experiencing the world at his side, showing him his accomplishments and relishing his.
He squeezes his eyes shut and lunges for his throat. His teeth graze down the very front of it, somewhere he could easily tear his windpipe from if he were determined, but his energy's quickly translated into wet, sloppy kisses and a whine that carries the note of desperation. He releases him; exhales a shaky breath, heart swollen with his feelings.
When Mettaton moves to suck another mark into his lover's neck, he does it because he wants to remind Emet-Selch of this, rather than to prove to anybody else who he belongs to. And feverishly, when he switches to the other side of his neck, the next bite is administered with this same intent: it's not a snap of his jaws this time, but a press of his lips, a sloppy kiss that widens into the slide of teeth and the damp of his mouth, then pressure until he breaks him. The idol shudders, every muscle in his body tensing at the taste of magic and copper on his tongue, a delightful groan slipping from his throat, releasing him quickly to better lap up the blood he's drawn from his lover through harsh pants.
All the while, Mettaton's thrusting continues: a constant, a backdrop to his indulgence of his Bonded's blood and being.
As the robot reaches for greater heights of pleasure, his body begins to slip into a carnal mode where he's determined to extract all of the ecstasy he can from his Bonded's body. His thrusts grow firmer again and his abdomen tenses, knees sliding apart as he fucks him with more fervor than before. The hike in pleasure he feels forces Mettaton to unclench his teeth as he cries out, shuddering so severely that he's made to slip against his Bonded's shoulder, muscle giving way. But he continues thrusting, harder and faster than before.]
Hades, you, you, I-I— nnn... need— love—
[Scarcely realizing that he's saying anything at all against his latest claim of teeth, Mettaton's thrusts don't cease. He pounds into his beloved, his fingers moving to grip onto Emet-Selch's upper arms as he tries desperately to bite back down upon his shoulders. But every time he does, he's interrupted by a cry of absolute euphoria as he each slide of his cock grows more blindingly erotic than the last. The feeling of Emet-Selch's body against the too-sensitive tip of his arousal and the way his body tightens around his shaft every time he stuffs him full, and the way his body seems to protest it when he withdraws, has Mettaton shuddering, panting and unable to open his eyes.
But he tries, desperately. No longer could he hope to stop so close to reaching his climax as Mettaton lifts his head, drool and blood smeared down from his lip and across his jaw as he stares down upon his Bonded's face before he loses the control for even that. Mettaton tries to take him into a sloppy kiss, interrupted by his own cries of pleasure as his muscles tense, curling inward on his Bonded and clutching him close as if trying to take him into his body.]
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It's fortunate then that Emet-Selch doesn't need to find out, shivering only at the wetness of Mettaton's kisses against the warmth of his throat, the drag of teeth not even registering as a threat, but mere sensation, a line of pressure that he wanted to remember. A sucking pressure at his neck that carried the same feeling, the same extra note of intimacy (as though having their bodies joined as they were wasn't intimate enough). A personal gesture for them both to remember, each bruise and torn bit of skin, even after they healed. Even after new ones were inevitably applied, to be equally learned.
The slow burn of a kiss-turned-bite-turned-piercing-bite has his breath catch, then release in a trembling exhalation, a small sense of relief when building pressure broke the skin. The resulting shift to wet swipes of a tongue over the new wound barely even registered as pain in his current state of hazy, sharpened arousal, pleased again when he could no longer able to tell what was the dampness of blood, and what was his lover's saliva dripping against his skin.
The moments slid together into one continuous instant. Each retreat of Mettaton's cock carried with it a sense of anticipation- a sense satisfied by each inward stroke, each time he was stuffed full of him again. And when full, his lover's hips flush to his body, anticipation then for the drag of his length outward, and from there the impending push, of having the whole of him once more. How well his body yielded now to that rigidity, aching only from his desire for it, tensing around him only due to that pleasure, the wanting to keep him, rather than from discomfort or pain. Each time he felt the head of the idol's cock reaching its deepest point, he shuddered, body rolling into it, as though he could force him deeper still, wrest every bit of contact that he could from him, squeezing around him from tip to base.
His legs also tighten in response to those thrusts, spread around him and clinging on, muscles quivering from the repeated effort. There was no part of his body that was spared investment in his desperation, nothing that wasn't working to increase it, nothing left behind.
At some point his eyes had closed; there was no chance of recalling when. But when Mettaton lifts his head from his neck, they flicker open for a few fleeting seconds, only long enough to see the robot closing in, blood on his face. And then, the taste of it is on his own lips, mingled with that of Mettaton's mouth. Around his own struggled breaths, Emet-Selch tries to deepen the kiss, but mostly slides against wet lips. His tongue laps across him, picking up that mixture of blood and spit, and not leaving him any less damp in the process. A dizzying combination (or was that from insufficient oxygen, again?), as though he felt no particular effect from the taste of his own blood, knowing that it was the result of Mettaton eagerly drawing it from him made it an appealing flavor when accompanied by that of his Bonded's mouth.
It was all too much. From the sound of his lover's voice carried on its mix of pants and ecstatic cries, from the softness of his skin and the hardness of his cock pounding into him, the scent of blood and taste of it. From how closely he was held, how they were holding each other, clinging so frantically as though they could somehow merge even further. Both in body and spirit, and in commingled pleasure.
When inevitability arrived, Emet-Selch doesn't fight it. Climax hits him with a different kind of relief in his voice, soft and fragile and nearly lost entirely, even as his body shook with the force of his release, as well as from that of Mettaton's thrusts. A movement that served to spread his come between their bodies. A moment that dragged on indefinitely, extended with each press of his Bonded's cock, tightening around him even as his awareness briefly darkened. But he continued to cling to Mettaton throughout: the only thing he still knew how to do.]
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While nearly the whole of Mettaton is savage - the tear of teeth, the plunge of his cock, the force of his muscle, the frenzy of his kisses - his fingers can only softly curl against skin. He spares a moment to nuzzle Emet-Selch softly. The bend of his shoulders is slight, and his arms try to hold him gently. Actions easily swallowed up in passion, but ones that precede orgasm, that carry some of the burden of emotional expression. Mettaton will capitalize on everything he has to express his feelings to the truest degree, after all.
And his fervor remains, especially when Emet-Selch succumbs to orgasm. His voice doesn't carry the same immediate descent into sorrow, and Mettaton feels lit aflame in his craving for it. A life set before him for him to consume in his release, and his thrusts grow deeper, shorter, the head of his cock rubbing into his lover so intimately, a new constant. Reluctant to pull from him, but wanting to be deeper with him. The Ascian's body tightens around him in turn, a mutual claim, a mutual consumption.
Mettaton's dazed, enchanted, drawn to all he sees and hears and feels. And in this pre-orgasmic stage, he senses everything with such vivid, heightened awareness, all of it enough to take him under and do him in. The rub of his lover's cock against his abdomen, come ejaculated not only upon his front but Emet-Selch's as well, the absolute relief of his body right down to the tremble of muscle, and the way he clings to him despite his loss of sense. And, of course, the way his body feels so belonging to him, and his in turn. Mettaton sucks in a breath, the texture of his thrusts different with the increasing squeeze of his Bonded's body around his erection — a form of marking him, of taking him while he takes back.
When he cries out, it's on a voice smooth and unbroken in his climax, lagging just behind his lover. And he's thankful for it, that ability to drink in the feeling of him in release and to feed off of his pleasure.
If Emet-Selch clings to Mettaton, the force of his release has him taking Emet-Selch's body into his arms with a ferocity, all of his softness and love converted into starvation and claim. His nails dig into skin and he curls further upon his Bonded, bringing his head back down to his neck as he tucks his chin there. Every muscle tenses, closing in on the other man as he pulls him into himself and, in turn, shoves his length so deeply into his Bonded that he's made to almost lift his body onto himself with each curl of his hips. His feelings veer so quickly toward an impossible, eternal claim, the want for Emet-Selch to belong to him and to crave him always, beyond sense and beyond anyone else. He could never be sated enough, and the feeling of Emet-Selch's grip upon his back has Mettaton all but lifting his Bonded enough to slide his own arms around him, squeezing him in his arms.
All while he pounds away at him, the pleasure of his strokes compounded upon by the tightness of his Bonded's body. Raw though it may be, Mettaton uses all of his lover's body for what it gives and rubs his cock against his heat, pleasing himself on him. More moans, more cries of pleasure, come thick and hot and breathing harsh. The crush of his body is for want of more, for a never-ending session of pleasure that only Emet-Selch could bring him, and the wish for this pleasure to never end. He loves him so, and he smiles.
But it does end, and the first indication of it is a softer voice carried on Emet-Selch's name. His muscles slacken, his world spins, energy robbed from him and spent on his lover. Taken completely, just as Emet-Selch hoped. His hips gradually still, and Mettaton gasps and pants, collapsing upon his Bonded even while his arms cling to him in an embrace.]
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