[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.]
[It didn't strike Emet-Selch as strange at all, how clearly Mettaton's fondness could be felt in both the snapping of jaws and the consideration of hands. Whether in grips to tear or to stroke, the sentiment was the same. Neither was more or less true than the other, both were a natural expression, different forms of intensity that they both seemed to share, that they both responded to. Even without the openness of their Bond relaying each emotion, he didn't think there would be any mistaking it.
When Mettaton succumbs to orgasm, the softness of his hold turning into a sharpened grasp, a stab of fingers and tensely huddled form, the Ascian's own hold on him only gentles. Hands slowly caress the skin of his back, seeming even warmer than before, muscles taut underneath the surface. Not even to sooth, but just to touch, overtaken by the awareness of his own affection for the other man. Still riding the sense of his own climax, the shuddering pang he gets from Mettaton's feels like another part of his own, an aftershock of it, his body jolted by the frenzied motion of his lover's hips. He can't help but continue to tighten around his length in sympathy, his voice taken by a low, rapturous moan at the unmistakable heat and wetness, the distinct sensation of his lover's come filling him, wanting to squeeze every bit of it from his cock.
Mettaton's voice still loud in his ears, his panting an echo of his own, he continues the tender stroke of his back. Dwelling on each twitch and shudder, the way his Bonded's cock felt, still buried inside him, maintaining that connection. The way tension gives way to weakness, the satisfaction of Mettaton having sated himself on his body, however temporarily. How he felt sated in turn by that knowledge, and in the pleasure Mettaton's own body provided him. The intimate rub of his cock and the press of his arms, the sharpness of teeth and softness of tongue and taste of his mouth. Everything that was his- and Emet-Selch couldn't imagine ever wanting anyone else in this way. Neither to give nor to take.
Shivers still occasionally wrack his body, trembles to muscles that were only beginning to learn how to relax, only starting to realize that they were no longer moving. Though his legs sink lower from their place wrapped around Mettaton's body, they remain bent and leaning against him. The side of his head rubs against his, nuzzling at whatever part of him he could reach, the embrace of his arms clearly not enough in his need to demonstrate that attachment.]
Mettaton....
[A low tone- the only sort of tone he could manage, with his breathing still struggling to settle. His body felt heavy, languid and drained, warmth suffusing his limbs. Warmth suffusing the whole of him, really, soothing in its heat. In the solidity of his Bonded's presence, inescapable.]
...I love you.
[--No, it still wasn't any easier to say, even now, like this, lost and spent and consumed. But it was a little easier to feel, at least for a little while.]
[It feels as though he's been stolen from his own body, yet tethered to the scene regardless. In his stupor, he nuzzles him back on developed instinct. More claim, even after he's transformed away from a Puca's anatomy and any of its scent-marking features. Anything he could to to ensure that Emet-Selch never doubts where he belongs.
What an impossibility, this all is. What an impossibility, the Bond is. Being a Monster. Having this man. This body. His body. It's staggering.
Scarcely a thing to consider, for the monster's attention is reeled back in to focus on the Ascian's neck and the scent of him, mingling with blood and, well, Mettaton. Between them, the smell and feeling of their sex and heat, the cool of the air on his skin and the warmth of the body beneath him. Slickness, stickiness, wetness, all new textures to overwhelm him while he's already so taken by it all.
Taking stock of his body, he can feel the throb of his cock as he recovers from his show of passion... But it's accompanied by the pulse of his lover. It surprises him to feel his pulse so intimately, but it becomes instantly addictive, even as his erection diminishes. For all that he still lacks any coordination to pull out. He lies there, arms and legs both completely useless.
His gasps for air turn into a rapturous sigh, and he nuzzles so deeply into Emet-Selch's neck, curling into him, that he'll no doubt rise with smattering of blood up to the corner of his eye.
Another sense is demanded: aural, to the sound of his name upon his lover's low voice. Mettaton presses his ear to his throat then, still able to hear him clearly with the other but taking it in in multiple dimensions. The idol shivers. A wave of complicated yet clear emotion overcomes him, a love so elated and brilliant that he smiles against his shoulder. Thankfulness, next: that he'd have this and him and this entire opportunity, all from meeting him, from a sickly sweet sort of transparency shared between them.
How does he handle it all. The intensity of his own, the intensity of his lover's. A weight so immense that Mettaton is gladly crushed under it. So overcome that he exhales all of the air he has in his lungs, and fails to take in another breath.
Their Bond is so terrifyingly open and vulnerable that he doesn't even have to put in the effort to feel the massive presence of his Bonded's soul, and to feel already that he's so close to him. Mettaton takes a sharp, shaky inhale, shivering still. He talks against his shoulder.]
I... I love you. Hades.
[He'd been trying to say it earlier, and the sentiment glows more brightly than before, lit by the afterglow. Mettaton kisses his skin. Whatever's against his face will do. The urge to express his love in ways beyond his capabilities grips him, and he shifts futilely. He settles on trying to tighten his embrace.
More firmly against his skin, perhaps veering into muttering territory and on a sluggish voice, airy and scarcely audible:]
You make me... so happy.
[None of his despair could hope to overshadow his natural inclination toward positivity, and Emet-Selch brings him this.]
[How raw he felt like this, stripped to nothing, Mettaton's sentiment settling on top of his own so completely, as warmly and securely as his body did. It went beyond pain, into something the Ascian didn't know how to describe.
Sensation, though. Their shared weakness, shared attempts at an embrace, the brush of souls. The firmer grip, as though this instant itself could be held onto, forced to remain; that it was possible to express everything somehow, rather than only pieces.]
Ah....
[Love was one thing, and that was difficult enough to endure. But a statement like that as well, mumbled against his skin, indistinct and sincere, just has him holding Mettaton that bit tighter. Closer, somehow, even though all of his senses were already occupied by him, filled completely.
It wasn't a sentiment he could echo, he didn't think. And just saying he was pleased for him didn't seem appropriate. Nor was returning it with something half-hearted like claiming his company wasn't completely terrible. As direct as their connection was, only complete sincerity would do. But, with his eyes opening to stare directly upwards, towards the ceiling, Emet-Selch was not sure how to quantify what he was feeling. Just trying to apply thought to it had the unhappiness creeping back, but he was too- content, perhaps?- for it to do more than stain the edges. His hands stroke slowly along Mettaton's back, though one breaks off the movement to shift upward, to touch his hair, rest against his head.
The confusion to his thoughts (as slow and listless as they were) is likely evident through Bond, interrupted and mixed through with pangs of affection, need. He didn't understand it at all. Not feelings, not how his choices (or lack of choice) had led him to this moment: on his back, in someone else's bed, immediately post-sex, with his lover's gradually softening cock still inside him, contemplating sentiment, of all things. How he felt about any of this, in addition to all that he could sense physically.
Which was a lot, and Emet-Selch wasn't sure if it helped or not that there wasn't a clear distinction between emotion and physicality, one being a manifestation of the other, in either direction.
So he just holds him, and loves him, feeling each shiver and breath. The mix of their scents, the security and fragility of the moment.]
[Sensation is so raw to him, and he pays such sharp attention to it, finding even the cold of the air and the way it chills him to shivers to be pleasant somehow. It brings him to focus more intentionally on the body beneath him and all of that heat. And the addition of a hand against his hair has Mettaton nuzzling him again, a soft hum escaping from his throat.
It isn't hard to sense his lover's mood, and how confusion claws to the surface, following an obvious attempt to rationalize, perhaps. Emet-Selch is the kind to try to make sense of emotion, for all that it's senseless, but the Puca finds that his sense for Emet-Selch is rendered equally confused. He couldn't at all liken it to the way he feels and processes this moment... Which is fine. An interesting dimension to add to this moment, Mettaton thinks. Emet-Selch trends in this direction. That he'd make this progress toward a halting of unhappiness brings him a sense of contentment as well, and he wonders if it's the work of a similar afterglow to his own.
Mettaton doesn't verbalize his observations, but there's a longing and caring added to his own bliss. A longing to help, to see his lover understand himself. Caring to find him peace with it, regardless of what it is. Overall compassion, that he'd struggle with it at all.
The idol kisses his shoulder, over and over, finding strength enough now to continue moving. He drifts along and upwards to his neck, though he finds it irresistible if ever he chances upon blood he could lick... which only sets him to shivering some more. Magic, that which he can convert directly into the body he holds so easily in the presence of his lover with the magic he can draw. He exhales against skin through his mouth, a shaky thing in how overwhelmed he becomes all over again. Dizzied to drunkness so simply, post-coital bliss no doubt part of the culprit. While all things of Mettaton's are transparent through their Bond, this is, too. Bad decisions, a descent into addiction to Witch's blood — an addiction to his Bonded, more accurately. Everything else would pale in comparison to this delicacy.
He doesn't quite consider that he's just indulging again, already. Instead, he focuses on his curiosities.]
How do you feel...? Right now. About this.
[Close to his ear as he kisses closer to it, nuzzling into one of his usual spots there. It's a question about their sex, these circumstances, Mettaton's body, Emet-Selch's feelings, living close by, whatever comes to his mind, Mettaton wants to hear it. An open-ended question. Mettaton inhales and falls into Emet-Selch with closed eyes, enjoying that his sense can be overtaken in sensory input by his Bonded.]
[If there's an extra component to Mettaton's interest in his neck and its supply of blood, it's too early for it to occur to him. Monsters did like witch blood... and it was natural that Mettaton would favor his specifically... so with it available, why not indulge? Yes, this was all a healthy interest in Emet-Selch's mind; the idol could drain him quite considerably before any alarm was raised (and even then... would it?). As it was, he could appreciate the attention, the sensation of warm lips and tongue against his skin; even the brushing over of raw injuries felt pleasant under the circumstance, a touch that was only stronger, rather than painful.
That Mettaton would feel so desirous of it... that was normal, right? That was just how his Bonded was, with him. And Emet-Selch liked the intimacy of it. This was clearly something to encourage, and a quiet hum works in his throat, underneath the other's lips.
Equally as familiar by now was that sense of caring from the man, though the Ascian didn't really know the shape or scope of it. Which made it somewhat easier to accept, now that he was regularly having to tolerate such things like 'fondness' and 'affection' as well. Now that he was regularly returning the damned things, while being aware of it.
What was unfamiliar was to feel the idol shivering- or rather, for it to be seemingly the result of temperature, rather than arousal. And while Mettaton may have found the new sensation to be a pleasant one, Emet-Selch just considers that he must be getting cold, and briefly unhands the idol's back to cast about with his arm for some manner of blanket or cover. Fortunately, there seems to be something in reach, and he tugs it over, to toss at least part of it over Mettaton's body. Better than nothing, he supposed, and all he could really do from his position, as he returned his arm to his back, tightening around him once more.
It was all something to distract himself with, when Mettaton's attention turns towards his ear, the heat of his face comfortable against his neck, but his words less so. A question so open-ended is in itself hard to answer. Because Emet-Selch can also think of any number of things that could be referred to, most of them more than a little complicated, emotions unusual and unlabeled.]
What part of it?
[Is his eventual reply, as though to buy himself more time to think on it, fingers smoothing through his hair, leaning gently against his face. But he does add an actual answer after a moment.]
...Comfortable. With you. Like this.
[Even that was open-ended of a reply, unsure exactly what he was referring to. Their physical position? Emotional connection? Both, he supposed, for all that the latter was more complicated. But he was at ease with him. Trusted him. The arm around Mettaton's body squeezes at him for a moment.]
--But what of you? Fully transformed as you are.
[Mettaton's way of processing things was just as mysterious to him.]
[Emet-Selch would be right: Mettaton's shivering because he's cold, but doesn't quite realize it. It's pleasant because it's new, and because he likes to feel. When he reaches for a blanket (objectively pretty ridiculous that a robot would possess so many soft things like pillows and blankets in excess, textures galore, but Mettaton likes them, no arguments) to pull it over the two, he only helps to drape it over their bodies. Obviously with the help of his leg, as he so often does.
It's nice to have his arm tight around his back, to be under the slight pressure of a blanket, to be pressed atop his Bonded's body, and Mettaton's overcome with a streak of possessiveness then. It's the lingering taste of blood and the smell of them together, the memory and obvious signs of having fucked Emet-Selch... He, too, squeezes him back with his arms, shifting his body slightly — before realizing the strangeness of sensation, still being inside of Emet-Selch. It's not bad, however, since Mettaton doesn't find many sensations to be bad or even unpleasant. Therefore, there's no reason to do anything about it save for not disturb this lingering reminder. So he settles back down.
Emet-Selch's answer is acceptable. Comfortable is a good way to feel with him, and he feels similarly. Very comfortable. He imagines he could sleep with him here, in fact, but he's more awake than he has any right to be. To demonstrate his agreement, he kisses his neck again and rests his head, facing his neck.]
I'm... also comfortable. I feel so... [He sighs. An actual sigh, and one sorely needed to remember to breathe.] It's always better than I imagine.
I'm excited. That I can do this now, and it works so well... [He grins, even if Emet-Selch can't see him do it.] Apparently, even Puca have to understand the anatomy of their end product. As an... inorganic being, I have a severe disadvantage. Do you know how much work this took me? Months.
[Here, his voice dips more sensual, deliberately skimming his lips around the shell of Emet-Selch's ear as if he were flirting.]
But I think that, without your body to observe so intimately... I would have spent far longer.
[He presses his face into Emet-Selch's neck while he clutches him tighter, drinking in the sensation of warmth as his shivers begin to die down into isolated tremors. He notices this, too, and realizes he was shivering because of the cold. This is a delightful notion to him, and only fuels the emotion conveyed by his voice as he continues.]
Anything else, I had to study. It took entirely too much patience! I wanted to do this like, forever ago. [A snort.] Some of my earliest attempts were ridiculous, in retrospect. But I think it's perfect, now. Don't you think so?
[Opening the floor for criticism, but any reasonable criticism is up for debate by Mettaton, who thinks he understands it all now.]
[It was, perhaps, not wholly comfortable to have Mettaton remaining inside of him like this. The one thing Emet-Selch could think of that wasn't comfortable, really. But it was still tolerable, for the time being, so he says nothing about it, only sighing inwardly as his lover shows no signs of pulling free. Still, the memory it gave him, that extra bit of closeness, was worth the slight discomfort.
The chattiness of Mettaton's reply- a thoroughly expected thing- draws a brief smile of his own, and another, more pleased-sounding hum. Satisfied at Mettaton's own satisfaction? But it was nice- a good thing- to see how his efforts had paid off. The culmination of extensive study, and a result he could personally appreciate. And with Mettaton's starting point being so far behind that of a human or similar entity, he was that bit more impressed that he'd created something so accurate.
But mostly, he just... wanted him to be happy, even if he couldn't be himself.
It's a thought that has the hand in Mettaton's hair slow, to just massaging his scalp with his fingertips. It was a strange thing to have to realize, to think about in so many words: that he wanted someone he loved to be happy, and by virtue of that, felt vicarious pride in Mettaton for achieving something so important to him.
But the sound of Mettaton's voice in his ear pulls a faint shiver- and not one that had anything to do with chill, considering the body covering him, and the blanket covering them both. The idea of being watched like that, and to such fine result... the Ascian had never thought having someone's attention to be so appealing.]
Mm... I admit, my chances to observe the whole of you have been limited, thus far, with my attention drawn to certain areas....
[A low tone, hardly a murmur towards the end, as his fingers knead small circles into his Bonded's upper back.]
But I've not noticed anything out of place. Were I not otherwise informed, I would assume this to be your natural form. You've certainly learned how to use it... effectively. Disturbingly so.
[On top of just being incredibly prone to him... to a degree that still surprised the Ascian, sometimes.
Though there was one small detail he supposed he could mention.]
Your temperature, is, perhaps, slightly too hot. I would think you feverish- but 'tis not unpleasant. Were it Winter still, I'd claim it a benefit.
Ah, he thinks I'm too hot. Hot enough for fever... Isn't that appropriate for a man so sexy?
[Mettaton licks his neck. Fever, because he's diseased.
But he's pleased to hear that he appears natural, besides a perceived temperature flaw that he decides is of no consequence, and requires no correcting. He's a slightly warmer human, and that can't be bad. He also doubts that he's too warm, because if he were, why is he so cold? (Somebody around here may not understand temperature.) A disturbingly effective transformation. It brings him such satisfaction that he feels it overwhelm his body from head to toe, a spark of delight that has him shudder — or maybe it's because the Ascian trembles first, mild though it was.
Emet-Selch's fingers against his scalp is nice, and he melts further into him, holding him with a secure, firm grip as he closes his eyes. His sigh carries a soft note on it, pleased both with himself and, strangely enough, with the reception of his Bonded. He's not typically the type to seek out approval, and were he not to receive it, he's sure he would've been perfectly fine regardless. But he can feel that the pleasure of his effort goes both ways.
Mettaton's energy is largely returned to him, but not due to any sort of actual human recovery. Willpower, mostly, and focused almost entirely on his vanity. His excitement he mentioned earlier is another great contributor toward his sprightliness. Though he remains relaxed in Emet-Selch's grasp, his lively spirit's a part of his bearing in the moment.]
Well. I haven't gotten a chance to see this fully-formed me yet, either. At its best. Ooh, and marked up, I'm sure...
[Mettaton shifts a bit, raising his head to give Emet-Selch a look, suggestive and accusatory all at once — but in a contented manner, rather than upset. But he quickly brightens up, another shift of limbs. It's a movement indicative of his intent to rise and escape the blanket, despite his comfort. He's possessed by this notion.]
[Emet-Selch is not even remotely surprised at Mettaton's way of interpreting fever. He'd shake his head at it, but doesn't want to disturb the face at his neck, so he settles for sighing instead. Still, the Ascian didn't see it as an actual flaw himself, and so long as Mettaton was satisfied with the result, that was the important part. He'd agree entirely that anyone else's approval was unnecessary; nice to have, perhaps (and he supposed having the specific approval of someone important to him was a different thing; the Ascian certainly considered his own opinion to be of more value than anyone else's), but not required for personal satisfaction.
And how entirely satisfying, then, that they both agreed on the result; a sense that has his current contentment holding relatively stable. Breathing in the moment for all that it was, relaxed and comfortable with each other, arms holding warmly on, melded together in the current afterglow.
Relaxed enough on his part, if not sleepy or excessively drained (and what a change that was from the past month, he was still getting used to it), Emet-Selch doesn't even mind when Mettaton leans up a bit to look at him, seems preparing to pounce outward to make a complete appraisal of himself. The enthusiasm was endearing (that odd feeling again), the look he was given moreso, and his gaze fixes back on him with light amusement. Though before replying, he's struck by the need to lean up enough to press a kiss to one of those marks, and on an afterthought, a small lick. There were hardly enough, he felt, but the ones that were did seem to stand out on his skin.
Leaning back again, he meets Mettaton's eyes (Though his attention also takes in the traces of blood left on the idol's face, from all that time spent pressed against his bitten neck; why seeing his own blood decorating someone else was appealing, he wasn't sure. Some sort of claim, perhaps.). Resists the impulse to kiss his lips as well. Or to lick at those smears of blood.]
You've certainly the mirrors to take a proper look... you might as well.
[And it would give him his own chance to really see the entirety of him at once.
It would also mean Mettaton would pull out of him, which was probably a good idea at this point.]
[Thank goodness that he'll do one normal human thing, which is pull out when he's done instead of find weird satisfaction in strangeness.
A grin spreading across his features, Mettaton shifts again, this time pulling out from Emet-Selch for real. He straddles his hips for just a moment long enough to take him by the back of his head and pull him into a kiss, a charge he needs to expel from his earlier kiss upon his neck, against an area that feels tender. (And therefore, surely a mark.)
From here, he springs from Emet-Selch's body and onto the floor, a weird shift of leg shapes over the course of his life: from none, to a wheel, to heels as a constant which he only got to enjoy for four months of his life at most, then onward to rabbit-shaped legs and the strange orientation of those. Strangely, however, he does not stumble upon landing. Equally as strange, he takes to these properly human-shaped legs with grace. Perhaps not as strange is how little he cares for decency, completely nude as he is yet possessing of all the same confidence. (He's in the room with his lover, it's fine! And even if he weren't Mettaton's the kind of human who would randomly start showing too much skin unbidden and unwanted...)
The idol doesn't hesitate to take to the mirror. He expects that what he sees will take him by surprise, yet it manages to shock him just how strongly it captivates him. He faces away from Emet-Selch, but his reflection's angled, making it easy to behold him from two angles at once.
In this transformed body of his own making, he stands just as tall as he usually does. Eye wide, Mettaton carries the sort of bearing one might have when they're meeting a familiar face for the first time in a long time. His fingers do all of the obvious prodding of his face, before he runs a hand through his hair, pushing dark, full locks away from his face, exposing the whole of his expression.
...He's mirrored Emet-Selch's scarring. It was easier (and far nicer) to do than whatever result he had before, and he reaches to feel it. It's agreeable, at least, but he'll have to work on aspiring for a form without this, he notes. But it doesn't earn any displeasure. He lets his hair cascade over his features again.
Mettaton pays some attention to the blood on his face, wiping at it a little with the side of his thumb as he expels a laugh, turning over his shoulder to face Emet-Selch. He doesn't quite succeed in wiping any of it clean off.]
You were going to leave me to find that, I see.
[His fingers move next to his neck. He leans in, taking in a long breath while pressing at bites of deep purple, of which there aren't many — but there's enough to arrest his attention, fingers skimming over shoulders and neck to finger each one. His eyelids drop a little, lips parting in his appreciation for what he sees there, and he sighs. He stares again at his face some more, which he's managed to get right: he doesn't want to forget what this looks like, instead of whatever the product was that caused him to spill blood all over the floor. (To see it some more, he tucks some of his bangs behind his ear. Some strands of hair cascade over his forehead still, but he can at least make eye contact with that hidden half of his face.)
His chest does not bear the same light marks as Emet-Selch's does, a body otherwise pristine of marks. The rest of his figure earns the same sort of extreme, careful deliberation, and he twists before the mirror to look at himself at multiple angles. Every part of this form earns a run-over with his hands, as though claiming this body as his own. For as dark as his eyes are, they remain just as bright as when they're golden.]
I did it... I really... This is what I wanted. I was struggling so much just a week ago...
[His hands run over his waist and over the curve of his hips, drinking in the sight of his impressively long legs as he postures them with an excitable smile, practically groping himself in how he takes in his own form.
Still prodding his body, fingers and palms picking up detail and grabbing at himself unabashedly, from his waist to his calves to his chest to his ass, Mettaton spares a moment of regard for his Bonded. His sheer dedication to his own body borders on pornographic, even when he's doing something as simple as admiring his chest.]
[Somehow, he manages to hold back a sigh of relief when Mettaton does, at last, pull himself out from him, and while Emet-Selch felt a bit emptier without him, it was certainly more comfortable. And the kiss was more than enough to counter any slight regret, reacting to the energy with a glimmer of his own, a firm reply and press of lips before Mettaton bounds away to inspect the results of his study.
His Bonded's continued grace in movement doesn't surprise him, though the Ascian supposed it probably should, thinking on the different configurations of limbs (and lack thereof) that the idol possessed. But he seemed to have a preternaturally good sense of balance and awareness of his own body... even when it suddenly differed from before. It was hard to imagine him ever appearing truly awkward.
Pushing himself up into a sitting position, Emet-Selch wraps the discarded blanket about his own legs for warmth (without the robot's excessive heat on top of him, he knew he'd become chilled soon enough), and watches as Mettaton began the extensive process of taking himself in.
And what a lot there was to take in, the Ascian also using this opportunity to stare him down, equally as unabashed in the idol's shameless nudity. The time for modesty had long since passed- if it had ever been a relevant subject to start. But having ascertained that his initial impression of Mettaton's transformation had been accurate, with no obvious mistakes, Emet-Selch is more taken by watching his Bonded's own reactions, his fixation and focus, how his gaze absorbs every detail reflected back to him. Mettaton wasn't just brimming with satisfaction, but overflowing with it. A complete mess of satisfaction, able to only be expressed through extensive prodding and posing, every aspect of his body worth the attention.
Though Emet-Selch was a bit surprised to note the scarring around the more hidden of Mettaton's eyes (though at least he had a proper two of them now), he realized after a moment that it matched his own. Considering how pristine the rest of the puca's body was, the Ascian doubted it was a specific choice- but then, if he'd needed to regard his face with particular focus, a detail like that might've bled into his visualization. A harmless flaw, in any case.
Without realizing, his own manner softens slightly in his observation, Mettaton making even a self-inspection appear as a series of deliberate poses, designed to appeal. How bright he looked, as his success gradually seemed to be sinking in- touching himself with such keenness that the Ascian wondered what it was like to be that excited about something. A thought that has him humming quietly to himself.
And he was reminded suddenly of that wistful ghost, pale and translucent, so simple in form, and completely separate from the material world. An entity easy to overlook. That he was looking upon the same person felt remarkable- how much more of himself, his Bonded seemed.
When Mettaton finally looks back to him again, Emet-Selch's response is simple, but given with a serious sort of sincerity. There's nothing glib or flippant or casual about it at all.]
You're beautiful.
[Not that he hadn't been before, really- but Mettaton's excessive self-admiration and pleasure in what he'd obtained... added something. A subtle shift in comfort and rightness, in appearing almost precisely as wanted.]
["Thank you. Yes, I'm devilishly handsome..." It occurs to him to give any such response, and he even opens his mouth to do it. It's on the tip of his tongue. He has all of the air he needs to reply, but the compliment itself somehow penetrates deeper than he imagined it would, rendering him speechless.
The shapeshifted Puca draws his attention back to the mirror, where he beholds himself again. He possesses a radiance about himself that is undeniable even to his own eyes, a loveliness that enchants him even when his smile's dropped. Beyond skin and hair and physicality. He searches his own face and can't help but smile, which only makes him smile brighter. And, absurdly, heat washes over his body, flustered by his own euphoria.
He's beautiful, and it suffuses him soul-deep, bringing flushed vitality to his cheeks where he might have otherwise looked so unaffected by a compliment. Or maybe it's his soul that permeates, rather than the perception of his beauty.]
I am.
[So he can express that he agrees, but he does it in fewer words with less embellishment. Fingers pressed to his neck again, he can feel his heart pounding under his touch, the slight way his heated skin prickles under the cool air, even as he's warmed under his own perception, under Emet-Selch's gaze.
Eyes belonging to somebody so close to him, someone who's seen him so thoroughly, attention taken and forced to perceive him down to his core even while he lacks his sight for souls. A gaze he doesn't shrink under, but thrives under. He gives his reflection a thoroughly pleased expression, a smile brimming with satisfaction and love for himself, before turning back to his Bonded the same way, the love redirected. He breaks away from his reflection to rejoin him on the bed, eyes locked with his all the while.
The idol crawls onto the mattress, shifting to hover over Emet-Selch's body. He remains on his knees but sits back enough to give him a better, more personal view of his body, as though proudly putting it on for display and appraisal. But he steals him into an unrestrained kiss, long and passionate but still tasteful for all it is, his tongue only flirting with the prospect of plunging past his lips. He tastes at the suggestion of him, laps at his lower lip as he tilts his head forward, a play of confidence and undeniable presence and want. A smooth, soft note of contentment slides from deep within him, carrying with it just a touch of the desire he feels, the currents of electric love and attraction he feels for his Bonded.]
[It's enough to leave Emet-Selch a trace breathless. Both feeling and watching Mettaton express such joy at himself. It wasn't vanity alone (though even in that regard, his shameless confidence was something the Ascian could appreciate; it wasn't unwarranted, far better than false modesty, and nor was it based on the tearing down of others), but something that permeated the entirety of him. Someone that comfortable with himself could only be beautiful, he thought.
While Emet-Selch wasn't one for words of flowery sentiment, the feeling of his attachment is evident through Bond, through the deliberation of touch. From the way his gaze trailed over him as Mettaton returned to the bed, that ease of movement still apparent, even in small things like slipping back into place before him. From knees and thighs to hips, along his abdomen up to his chest and neck, and onto his face. All things he'd seen at a distance, and were now within easy grasp.
And when Mettaton settles in with a kiss, that's what he does. His hands slip to the idol's shoulders, curving along the shape of them, the texture of the skin underneath his hands, the thoroughly living warmth and structure to him. While one hand then moves up to rest against Mettaton's neck, feeling the suggestion of a pulse as he leans into the kiss, his other continues its re-learning of his body. His fingers trace along the delicate shape of a clavicle, before smoothing downward onto his chest. A broader, firm stroke of his entire hand, still appreciating the heat of his body, the slight give of muscle underneath his fingers. Brushing over a nipple, he lingers there for the moment, touch lightening as he rolls it between two fingers.
At the same time, Emet-Selch's attention remains on the kiss, the intensity of each other's wanting unmistakable, firm and undeniable, for all that they lingered at the level of lips. The suggestion of pressing deeper without committing to it; the trail of tongue across his lip leaves a line of damp, his press back against the other's mouth becoming slightly slick. His own tongue flicks out, barely grazing him, eyes closing as he focuses in on the sensations under his lips and hands. The sound Mettaton produced, the small mingling of breath- all of it causes his pulse to lift.
And even then, he still thinks on how happy Mettaton had looked when observing himself. A thought that has him wanting to press closer, feeling that much more affection towards him. Possessiveness as well as protectiveness; wanting Mettaton to always be so fulfilled. And perhaps, if he observed him enough, closely and intimately, he could begin to understand what it was like to feel that way.]
[Mettaton lets his eyes close, slipping into the sensation of Emet-Selch's hands against his figure and finding even something so simple as his fingers against his neck to be worthy of another wave of heat, a current of electricity coursing through his body. It's the same manner of touch he might've performed on himself, but when Emet-Selch's the one doing it, it has him responding immediately. Alert and inclined, his sensory experience being given so willingly to the other man for his consideration.
Fingers follow his shoulders, his neck, and his chest. The texture of sensation is different yet, his very own body yielding under the Ascian's touch even while his fingers are soft, too. And he loves it, he loves it all more than he can describe, loves the touch of his lover and the taste of his lips; he shifts ever-so-slightly closer. He's reminded of those moments just prior to his transformation where Emet-Selch had been touching metal instead, a similar, exploratory thoroughness even while his body was metal instead of this. The way it registers in feeling and the fact that his Bonded would continue to love his body has another noise escaping his throat, another sigh with an edge of desperation to it. The idol slips his arms around Emet-Selch's shoulders, resting a hand against the back of his head to reinforce their kiss.
The feeling of his nipple pinched lightly between fingers has him leaning further into his touch, slipping into another sigh. It reminds him of all the moments he ever took to explore Emet-Selch's body, or even the times Emet-Selch took to understand his coveted, robotic one, but the dimension of their exploration only continues. Even when he learns every aspect of both of their bodies combined, Mettaton can't imagine he'll be anything but continuously enticed by the way they feel together.
His thighs set to shivering with the sensation, but he braces himself, taking control of his body. It's too soon to collapse, and he has the possession of restraint when it comes to receiving more.
Daring, his tongue slips deeper as though in response to his lover's, like an invitation. A heavy focus placed on Emet-Selch's lower lip, which he captures between his own to provide a short suck before releasing, a shaky sigh forcing him to do so. His eyelid rises, just enough for him to see Emet-Selch before him, a reminder of the realness of it all. His fingers slide against the back of his head affectionately.]
[Was his skin more sensitive, or was he only more conscious of it? More attuned to nearness in itself, Emet-Selch shivers faintly despite the warmth. The capture and release of his lip stills his breath, and when he finally remembers to restart it several moments after, there's a shake to it- and when a brief opening of his eyes has them meeting purple, it's not a sight that makes it any easier to steady himself. Did it still count as anticipation when he was already indulging?
Gaze lowering again, he takes Mettaton's lower lip between his teeth, providing a slow scrape from one side to the other, firm and with the tension of a bite that never quite comes. Instead he takes a breath, sharp and brief, both soothed and enticed by the familiar taste of his Bonded's mouth, the hand buried in his hair.
His own hand at the idol's neck moves gradually upward, fingers taking in the line of his jaw, to trail along the shape of an ear, tucking a few strands of hair back behind it. And from there to his face: the ridge of an eyebrow, the shape of an eye, the smoothness of his cheek. The slightest variations in textures, in the give of skin: it was a learning through touch alone. Though- not entirely alone, he realized after a moment, taking in the sound of their breathing, the lingering scent of sex, the way his lover tasted against his tongue. Every aspect was associated with one another, tied together in his thoughts. And each one he wanted more of, while knowing that he'd never be able to get enough of any of them.
But it's a thought that has his tongue finally press further past Mettaton's lips with a hitch to his breath. And though there's a certain inherent need to his movement, to the way his hands firm, cupping his Bonded's face with his hand- it's neither rushed, nor forced. It's still a deliberate expression of his want for him, of appreciation and affection, love and even adoration. The sort of thing that hurt to surround himself with, but that he couldn't bear to part from.
A low sound accompanies the feeling, low enough that it barely escapes his throat at all. The hand he has at Mettaton's chest continues toying with his nipple, giving it a few harder squeezes between fingers, before leaving it with a drag of thumb and continuing to trace lower, a caress over the muscles of his abdomen. So different entirely than all the shapes and consistencies that he was used to, with each version important, and worthy of loving by virtue of who it belonged to.]
[How frantic he feels, but how measured it is nonetheless. Mettaton observes it: Emet-Selch's expression is perfectly read, a craving insatiable, an indulgence in him, a demonstration of his love. It leaves Mettaton feeling weak, giving Emet-Selch full access to his body as his fingers curl in hair and he parts his lips for his tongue. The warmth of his hand is enough for him to want to lean into, if he weren't preoccupied by tongue and taste and teeth and the urgency for it all. His pulse is a high, fluttering thing, leaving him dizzy in a pleasant sense. A bodily reaction to love.
A body that responds like this to the feeling of adoration is a novelty to him, but he recognizes it easily for what it is. Charmed, he kisses back with the same sort of immediacy and need.
The firmer squeeze of his chest has him jolting in place as he leans in further yet, neediness and desire unshackled. Even his kiss grows more ardent, sliding his tongue along Emet-Selch's and giving it a gentle suck, claiming. A demonstration of his welcomeness in his mouth. Welcomeness to the whole of him, touching or penetrating or taking him to his pleasure. His body responds in whole, alertness getting the better of him, the hints of arousal already possessing him so readily. He muses to himself that Emet-Selch always has a way about him to pull such responses from his body, robotic or not. Even thinking back upon a time where he didn't have what it took to shapeshift, this man still brought him deep, heady pleasure. He had what it took to connect with him on an unprecedented level of sensuality, and he only continues to bring him to new heights of it.
And it only intensifies the more he gets to know him, which fascinates the Puca. The intimacy of their bond runs deeper than he could have ever known, and... Even this knowledge leaves Mettaton shuddering, a short, soft noise emitted from his throat, a noise of contentment and need simultaneously.
The desire to demonstrate his comfort with his Bonded overwhelms him. Humming into the kiss, sliding his tongue wherever he can fit, Mettaton shifts his legs enough to pull back the blanket enough so that when he sits, he can do so directly upon Emet-Selch's lap. Relaxing tense muscles, Mettaton first nudges his filling cock against Emet-Selch's abdomen before shifting his body back, settling himself firmly upon hips, flesh-to-flesh. He's positioned just so, so that his shaft would press into his Bonded's. Here, he deliberately and contentedly shifts his hips, as though attempting to proudly sink into this spot as his own.]
[The trust was nearly palpable, every feeling open and available to be shared. Something that should've been daunting was instead addictive, a pushing towards greater heights, greater depths, and an overall encouragement towards reckless insatiability.
And even more reckless affection.
The attention to his tongue only continues to heighten his senses, stirring him to more alertness than the Ascian generally manifested. Or wanted to manifest. As he licks back against Mettaton's tongue, he briefly considers this, still surprised at what his body was apparently capable of feeling. That it could respond so powerfully to someone... that the idol could do this to him with such seeming ease. That they would match each other so well, and yet, should never have met at all... was something that unsettled him sometimes. That he could discover something so precious by sheer chance made it seem that much more fragile. That it could be snatched away from him just as suddenly and unexpectedly- it's a thought that has him pressing back, holding tighter.
But it was a little easier than it had once been to not focus excessively on that fear. To drown himself in touch and taste and sound instead, Mettaton's very self so very, very close to his own. How could he lose him when he could feel him so well?
And the feeling of Mettaton shifting himself into his lap was thoroughly welcomed, a hint of that pleasure audible in the quiet hum that escapes him. A greater hint is the gradual hardening of his own cock, a natural response to the depth of their kiss, their emotions; Mettaton's presence itself was a tease, at times. And with him in reach, so warm and available and sinking closer, there was no chance of resisting him. So he basked in the awareness of his own body's reaction to him, the clear sign of his attraction to his Bonded, as well as on the promise of having that arousal eventually sated. And in the process, appreciating Mettaton's body with such intimacy.
But it's the feeling of Mettaton's own hardness brushing against his body that has his kiss finally stall, on an intake of breath that he forgets to expel. And then there's his lover's filling erection pressing to the sensitive flesh of his own, with a bit of extra friction from the shifting of Mettaton's hips- and he's forced to break the kiss with a moaning exhale against his lips. His own hips twitch underneath him, on automatic, and he glances down, eyes opening to witness their bodies close, their cocks able to rub up against one another. A vision that has him shuddering, both hands falling to grasp at Mettaton's hips, to stroke over the top of his thighs.
But his lips stay close to his Bondmate's, sliding over his with a degree less control, but with no reduction in affection. Yet as close as they were, they weren't near enough, weren't flush entirely with one another, weren't as close as they could be. As he wanted to be, as though his body needed to express what was already known through sentiment. And he's taken by the thought of Mettaton sitting on his cock, feeling it sink into the excessive heat of his body. Of being able to watch him like that, riding him. It's an image that has the Ascian moan again, insufficiently stifling it by nipping at Mettaton's lower lip, more sharply than intended. Briefly sucking at it afterward, he shivers, fingers digging into his lover's thighs.]
[The only rush they have is the tempo of their own need: as far as Mettaton's concerned, this could last and last. This is their present. All they have to do is focus on their bodies and the enjoyment they could encourage in one another. But there's a dimension added to it all, the deeper their bond runs: even sitting before Emet-Selch, Mettaton reflects upon their history together. It heats him up, and he twists his fingers into his hair some more, feeling the way silky strands slide and curl around digits. Even though he's learned so much about Emet-Selch's form and the depths to his feelings and cravings, it never stops him from finding him more and more enticing to indulge in. To indulge in return. Is there anything more pleasant than seeing his Bonded be so fulfilled, than to do it while he, too, reaches unknown levels of pleasure?
Hearing Emet-Selch succumb to such deep-seated want, a situation yet to occur and beyond them both, piques Mettaton's interest and excitement, has his breath stutter in sympathy. A shorter moan, a greater ache, and a full-body shudder flooding him with even more heat.
Mettaton knew that he was getting aroused and suspected the same of Emet-Selch, but it never fails to intensify his own feelings for the other man when he actually feels it. Though it's so carnal and driven by passion, there's so much unprecedented sentiment behind every touch and every taste they have for each other that it sets him to a further ache, an ache that comes from his chest and yet pulses in his ever-hardening arousal. Lip taken by Emet-Selch, he pays attention to every sensation of heat and pressure, every texture of firm and soft, and the feeling of his lover's fingers digging into his thighs. He could live off of touches to his legs, he decides. It's delightful, and he gives Emet-Selch a firm rub against his cock as if to express his approval for all he does in this moment.
Breaking away from his lips for just a moment, MTT exhales against his Bonded, pressing his forehead against his in order to pull himself together.]
Hades... Hah... [He swallows, but it's not quick enough: head tilted down like this, he drools. He withdraws his unoccupied hand to wipe it up quickly. It's not something he's quite gotten accustomed to, all of these organic processes.] I hope you feel how much I want you.
[That arm he withdrew slides back around his lover's shoulders, taking him into something of an embrace as he leans forward, shifting his body to press into him. He adjusts his weight atop the other man. Part-way riding up onto Emet-Selch's arousal with his body, still frotting against him with short pushes of his hips, his cock is nestled up against the side of Emet-Selch's and given a firm, pleasant pressure against the base of it with the contact. Mettaton exhales, a light sigh that carries a note of deep pleasure, continuing to shift his hips in short strokes to encourage Emet-Selch to want him more, to sate his own desires for the sensation of Emet-Selch's erection. How he wants to appreciate that thickness and heat, how he wants to suck him, to stuff him full of his arousal, to feel the heat of his mouth, to just rub against his body... And, increasingly, to sit upon his length, to have him sink so deeply into him. The suggestion of it, straddling his hips, is encouragement in that direction. It has Mettaton shivering anew.
He kisses the corner of his lips, then drifts toward his ear, voice dipping lower and softer. For all of his control, a note of longing decorates his tone, a heaviness he can't disguise.]
[Though Emet-Selch attempts to use the break from their kiss in order to collect himself, or at least, to collect some air, Mettaton wasn't making it remotely easy for him. Every sound, every hint of skin was a distraction- though did it really count as such, when all of his attention was tied up in his lover's presence, and his own reaction to him?
Rubbing his forehead just a little against his, he manages to breathe, if shakily, taking stock of all he was feeling, and all that he had felt. The small, sharp pains whenever he moved his neck, serving to remind him of the marks that lay there, the memory of those bites. The memory of Mettaton's cock filling him, a feeling he could recall with each tensing of his hips, and even when he was still. Not pain, but an ache regardless.
That alone would've been enough to arouse him, he thought, considering how each encounter only led to further desires- for more of the same, for more of something else, each experience fostering further wants rather than reducing them. The more they had of each other, the more they wanted- as there was always something more to learn, or to view from a different angle, or to be reminded of. A reassurance that left his pulse even faster, and his cock achingly stiff.
Though it tries to be even, pitched lower and with enough breath behind it, there's an edge of strain to the Ascian's voice regardless. Of desire controlled but immense, eyes closed as he leans his forehead back against Mettaton's for the moment.]
...It would be a hard thing to miss.
[Hard in multiple ways, even, the press of their erections alongside one another only the most explicit expression of that want. But it was clear in every other gesture as well, from the touch of arms and hands, to the echo of his lips that he could still feel, the hint of damp that remained on his own. Each shudder that passed between them, as though spurred on by the awareness of the other's lust, and the longing to increase it further.
It was something of a cycle again. In response to pleasure, Mettaton shifts forward, his length nestled so enticingly against the Ascian's, a firm pressure at the base that's rubbed with each movement of his hips. In response to that, Emet-Selch's hands grab onto the other man's thighs with more urgency, a moan caught in his throat, as though needing to hold onto something in the wake of the pulse of arousal. A kneading grasp of leg, fingers trailing along the crease where limb met the rest of his body, to stroke and fondle downward, along his inner thigh. Actions to only encourage more shifts on Mettaton's part, more attention to their cocks, more grasps and shivers and pleasured exhalations.
And just one want was never enough, was it? Mettaton's voice so low to his ear, words meant for him alone, has his breathing quiet, not wanting to miss a syllable, a note of it. Attuned to not only the words, but every other aspect of it, able to feel the layers of his want. Recognize them reflected in himself. Anticipation so heavy he could taste it, a flavor that was coincidentally quite similar to that of the idol's mouth. He swallows back a sigh, leaning his head against his.]
[Once again, it becomes difficult to ignore any part of Emet-Selch — even if it's an affectionate sort of gesture. Or perhaps, especially if it's an affectionate gesture. The lean of his head against his has Mettaton nuzzling into him, finding that his heart skips a beat at the way his Bonded presses into him. Even if Emet-Selch doesn't view this body as his own, Mettaton considers how it's his manner that is so attractive to him, and he thinks this with a great deal of fondness. Enough to overwhelm him, to catch his breath in his throat.
Again, he's made to swallow, smiling silly at this sudden realization despite his attempts at conveying a more sensual presence.
It's hardly a distraction from the rest of it all, however. What is a distraction is Emet-Selch's fingers pushing into his thighs, a fondle of firm, yet pliant tissue, until he's venturing dangerously close to his erection. Sure enough, the intent to encourage his movement is only rewarded: the closeness, the tease has Mettaton pressing more deeply into his lover's cock, a craving for raw stimulation to tide him over. A short, broken moan slips from his lips, carried on a shuddering breath to accompany quick, short strokes of his hips, rubbing his engorged cock against his Bonded deliriously.
Being pushed to startling levels of pleasure before he's even vocalized his craving makes it both harder and simpler to air it, if only he had the air and control for it.]
Nnnh... [How could he? The sound and the heat of Emet-Selch's breath and the delightful firmness of his cock-- it sets the mood for his desires, which overwhelm him.] You're so hard, Hades... Ah...
[He inhales sharply, trying to catch up with his need for air through his plentiful sighs and gasps. It might've made it difficult to pull away from him, but he knows he can continue to have his arousal, thick and pulsing, in ways beyond pressing against his cock. Mettaton slides his body further atop Emet-Selch's length, squeezing his thighs closer to Emet-Selch's body in an attempt to encourage his Bonded's pressing and prodding of his legs. So simply, touches upon his legs push him beyond sense, and he leans into his lover with another moan and shudder.
Everything he's said has been against his neck, close to his jaw and his ear as he fixes on his pleasure.]
You're so- god, Hades, I...
[His thrusts increase in speed with the sound of his own voice, as though pushing himself to greater heights of frantic desire just by trying to speak his needs into air. But then he pulls back, taking a soft inhale as he pushes himself up on his knees. He shifts his hips, taking one of his hands and reaching between his legs.
Though Emet-Selch isn't lubed up or ready, Mettaton teases the notion of him. He grabs his cock and guides the glans to press against his entrance, where he bears down upon him with a squirm and sigh.]
Ohhhh... This. I want this. I want to hear my name between your gasps... I want to feel you pushing yourself, warm and thick, inside of me...
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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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When Mettaton succumbs to orgasm, the softness of his hold turning into a sharpened grasp, a stab of fingers and tensely huddled form, the Ascian's own hold on him only gentles. Hands slowly caress the skin of his back, seeming even warmer than before, muscles taut underneath the surface. Not even to sooth, but just to touch, overtaken by the awareness of his own affection for the other man. Still riding the sense of his own climax, the shuddering pang he gets from Mettaton's feels like another part of his own, an aftershock of it, his body jolted by the frenzied motion of his lover's hips. He can't help but continue to tighten around his length in sympathy, his voice taken by a low, rapturous moan at the unmistakable heat and wetness, the distinct sensation of his lover's come filling him, wanting to squeeze every bit of it from his cock.
Mettaton's voice still loud in his ears, his panting an echo of his own, he continues the tender stroke of his back. Dwelling on each twitch and shudder, the way his Bonded's cock felt, still buried inside him, maintaining that connection. The way tension gives way to weakness, the satisfaction of Mettaton having sated himself on his body, however temporarily. How he felt sated in turn by that knowledge, and in the pleasure Mettaton's own body provided him. The intimate rub of his cock and the press of his arms, the sharpness of teeth and softness of tongue and taste of his mouth. Everything that was his- and Emet-Selch couldn't imagine ever wanting anyone else in this way. Neither to give nor to take.
Shivers still occasionally wrack his body, trembles to muscles that were only beginning to learn how to relax, only starting to realize that they were no longer moving. Though his legs sink lower from their place wrapped around Mettaton's body, they remain bent and leaning against him. The side of his head rubs against his, nuzzling at whatever part of him he could reach, the embrace of his arms clearly not enough in his need to demonstrate that attachment.]
Mettaton....
[A low tone- the only sort of tone he could manage, with his breathing still struggling to settle. His body felt heavy, languid and drained, warmth suffusing his limbs. Warmth suffusing the whole of him, really, soothing in its heat. In the solidity of his Bonded's presence, inescapable.]
...I love you.
[--No, it still wasn't any easier to say, even now, like this, lost and spent and consumed. But it was a little easier to feel, at least for a little while.]
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What an impossibility, this all is. What an impossibility, the Bond is. Being a Monster. Having this man. This body. His body. It's staggering.
Scarcely a thing to consider, for the monster's attention is reeled back in to focus on the Ascian's neck and the scent of him, mingling with blood and, well, Mettaton. Between them, the smell and feeling of their sex and heat, the cool of the air on his skin and the warmth of the body beneath him. Slickness, stickiness, wetness, all new textures to overwhelm him while he's already so taken by it all.
Taking stock of his body, he can feel the throb of his cock as he recovers from his show of passion... But it's accompanied by the pulse of his lover. It surprises him to feel his pulse so intimately, but it becomes instantly addictive, even as his erection diminishes. For all that he still lacks any coordination to pull out. He lies there, arms and legs both completely useless.
His gasps for air turn into a rapturous sigh, and he nuzzles so deeply into Emet-Selch's neck, curling into him, that he'll no doubt rise with smattering of blood up to the corner of his eye.
Another sense is demanded: aural, to the sound of his name upon his lover's low voice. Mettaton presses his ear to his throat then, still able to hear him clearly with the other but taking it in in multiple dimensions. The idol shivers. A wave of complicated yet clear emotion overcomes him, a love so elated and brilliant that he smiles against his shoulder. Thankfulness, next: that he'd have this and him and this entire opportunity, all from meeting him, from a sickly sweet sort of transparency shared between them.
How does he handle it all. The intensity of his own, the intensity of his lover's. A weight so immense that Mettaton is gladly crushed under it. So overcome that he exhales all of the air he has in his lungs, and fails to take in another breath.
Their Bond is so terrifyingly open and vulnerable that he doesn't even have to put in the effort to feel the massive presence of his Bonded's soul, and to feel already that he's so close to him. Mettaton takes a sharp, shaky inhale, shivering still. He talks against his shoulder.]
I... I love you. Hades.
[He'd been trying to say it earlier, and the sentiment glows more brightly than before, lit by the afterglow. Mettaton kisses his skin. Whatever's against his face will do. The urge to express his love in ways beyond his capabilities grips him, and he shifts futilely. He settles on trying to tighten his embrace.
More firmly against his skin, perhaps veering into muttering territory and on a sluggish voice, airy and scarcely audible:]
You make me... so happy.
[None of his despair could hope to overshadow his natural inclination toward positivity, and Emet-Selch brings him this.]
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Sensation, though. Their shared weakness, shared attempts at an embrace, the brush of souls. The firmer grip, as though this instant itself could be held onto, forced to remain; that it was possible to express everything somehow, rather than only pieces.]
Ah....
[Love was one thing, and that was difficult enough to endure. But a statement like that as well, mumbled against his skin, indistinct and sincere, just has him holding Mettaton that bit tighter. Closer, somehow, even though all of his senses were already occupied by him, filled completely.
It wasn't a sentiment he could echo, he didn't think. And just saying he was pleased for him didn't seem appropriate. Nor was returning it with something half-hearted like claiming his company wasn't completely terrible. As direct as their connection was, only complete sincerity would do. But, with his eyes opening to stare directly upwards, towards the ceiling, Emet-Selch was not sure how to quantify what he was feeling. Just trying to apply thought to it had the unhappiness creeping back, but he was too- content, perhaps?- for it to do more than stain the edges. His hands stroke slowly along Mettaton's back, though one breaks off the movement to shift upward, to touch his hair, rest against his head.
The confusion to his thoughts (as slow and listless as they were) is likely evident through Bond, interrupted and mixed through with pangs of affection, need. He didn't understand it at all. Not feelings, not how his choices (or lack of choice) had led him to this moment: on his back, in someone else's bed, immediately post-sex, with his lover's gradually softening cock still inside him, contemplating sentiment, of all things. How he felt about any of this, in addition to all that he could sense physically.
Which was a lot, and Emet-Selch wasn't sure if it helped or not that there wasn't a clear distinction between emotion and physicality, one being a manifestation of the other, in either direction.
So he just holds him, and loves him, feeling each shiver and breath. The mix of their scents, the security and fragility of the moment.]
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It isn't hard to sense his lover's mood, and how confusion claws to the surface, following an obvious attempt to rationalize, perhaps. Emet-Selch is the kind to try to make sense of emotion, for all that it's senseless, but the Puca finds that his sense for Emet-Selch is rendered equally confused. He couldn't at all liken it to the way he feels and processes this moment... Which is fine. An interesting dimension to add to this moment, Mettaton thinks. Emet-Selch trends in this direction. That he'd make this progress toward a halting of unhappiness brings him a sense of contentment as well, and he wonders if it's the work of a similar afterglow to his own.
Mettaton doesn't verbalize his observations, but there's a longing and caring added to his own bliss. A longing to help, to see his lover understand himself. Caring to find him peace with it, regardless of what it is. Overall compassion, that he'd struggle with it at all.
The idol kisses his shoulder, over and over, finding strength enough now to continue moving. He drifts along and upwards to his neck, though he finds it irresistible if ever he chances upon blood he could lick... which only sets him to shivering some more. Magic, that which he can convert directly into the body he holds so easily in the presence of his lover with the magic he can draw. He exhales against skin through his mouth, a shaky thing in how overwhelmed he becomes all over again. Dizzied to drunkness so simply, post-coital bliss no doubt part of the culprit. While all things of Mettaton's are transparent through their Bond, this is, too. Bad decisions, a descent into addiction to Witch's blood — an addiction to his Bonded, more accurately. Everything else would pale in comparison to this delicacy.
He doesn't quite consider that he's just indulging again, already. Instead, he focuses on his curiosities.]
How do you feel...? Right now. About this.
[Close to his ear as he kisses closer to it, nuzzling into one of his usual spots there. It's a question about their sex, these circumstances, Mettaton's body, Emet-Selch's feelings, living close by, whatever comes to his mind, Mettaton wants to hear it. An open-ended question. Mettaton inhales and falls into Emet-Selch with closed eyes, enjoying that his sense can be overtaken in sensory input by his Bonded.]
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That Mettaton would feel so desirous of it... that was normal, right? That was just how his Bonded was, with him. And Emet-Selch liked the intimacy of it. This was clearly something to encourage, and a quiet hum works in his throat, underneath the other's lips.
Equally as familiar by now was that sense of caring from the man, though the Ascian didn't really know the shape or scope of it. Which made it somewhat easier to accept, now that he was regularly having to tolerate such things like 'fondness' and 'affection' as well. Now that he was regularly returning the damned things, while being aware of it.
What was unfamiliar was to feel the idol shivering- or rather, for it to be seemingly the result of temperature, rather than arousal. And while Mettaton may have found the new sensation to be a pleasant one, Emet-Selch just considers that he must be getting cold, and briefly unhands the idol's back to cast about with his arm for some manner of blanket or cover. Fortunately, there seems to be something in reach, and he tugs it over, to toss at least part of it over Mettaton's body. Better than nothing, he supposed, and all he could really do from his position, as he returned his arm to his back, tightening around him once more.
It was all something to distract himself with, when Mettaton's attention turns towards his ear, the heat of his face comfortable against his neck, but his words less so. A question so open-ended is in itself hard to answer. Because Emet-Selch can also think of any number of things that could be referred to, most of them more than a little complicated, emotions unusual and unlabeled.]
What part of it?
[Is his eventual reply, as though to buy himself more time to think on it, fingers smoothing through his hair, leaning gently against his face. But he does add an actual answer after a moment.]
...Comfortable. With you. Like this.
[Even that was open-ended of a reply, unsure exactly what he was referring to. Their physical position? Emotional connection? Both, he supposed, for all that the latter was more complicated. But he was at ease with him. Trusted him. The arm around Mettaton's body squeezes at him for a moment.]
--But what of you? Fully transformed as you are.
[Mettaton's way of processing things was just as mysterious to him.]
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It's nice to have his arm tight around his back, to be under the slight pressure of a blanket, to be pressed atop his Bonded's body, and Mettaton's overcome with a streak of possessiveness then. It's the lingering taste of blood and the smell of them together, the memory and obvious signs of having fucked Emet-Selch... He, too, squeezes him back with his arms, shifting his body slightly — before realizing the strangeness of sensation, still being inside of Emet-Selch. It's not bad, however, since Mettaton doesn't find many sensations to be bad or even unpleasant. Therefore, there's no reason to do anything about it save for not disturb this lingering reminder. So he settles back down.
Emet-Selch's answer is acceptable. Comfortable is a good way to feel with him, and he feels similarly. Very comfortable. He imagines he could sleep with him here, in fact, but he's more awake than he has any right to be. To demonstrate his agreement, he kisses his neck again and rests his head, facing his neck.]
I'm... also comfortable. I feel so... [He sighs. An actual sigh, and one sorely needed to remember to breathe.] It's always better than I imagine.
I'm excited. That I can do this now, and it works so well... [He grins, even if Emet-Selch can't see him do it.] Apparently, even Puca have to understand the anatomy of their end product. As an... inorganic being, I have a severe disadvantage. Do you know how much work this took me? Months.
[Here, his voice dips more sensual, deliberately skimming his lips around the shell of Emet-Selch's ear as if he were flirting.]
But I think that, without your body to observe so intimately... I would have spent far longer.
[He presses his face into Emet-Selch's neck while he clutches him tighter, drinking in the sensation of warmth as his shivers begin to die down into isolated tremors. He notices this, too, and realizes he was shivering because of the cold. This is a delightful notion to him, and only fuels the emotion conveyed by his voice as he continues.]
Anything else, I had to study. It took entirely too much patience! I wanted to do this like, forever ago. [A snort.] Some of my earliest attempts were ridiculous, in retrospect. But I think it's perfect, now. Don't you think so?
[Opening the floor for criticism, but any reasonable criticism is up for debate by Mettaton, who thinks he understands it all now.]
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The chattiness of Mettaton's reply- a thoroughly expected thing- draws a brief smile of his own, and another, more pleased-sounding hum. Satisfied at Mettaton's own satisfaction? But it was nice- a good thing- to see how his efforts had paid off. The culmination of extensive study, and a result he could personally appreciate. And with Mettaton's starting point being so far behind that of a human or similar entity, he was that bit more impressed that he'd created something so accurate.
But mostly, he just... wanted him to be happy, even if he couldn't be himself.
It's a thought that has the hand in Mettaton's hair slow, to just massaging his scalp with his fingertips. It was a strange thing to have to realize, to think about in so many words: that he wanted someone he loved to be happy, and by virtue of that, felt vicarious pride in Mettaton for achieving something so important to him.
But the sound of Mettaton's voice in his ear pulls a faint shiver- and not one that had anything to do with chill, considering the body covering him, and the blanket covering them both. The idea of being watched like that, and to such fine result... the Ascian had never thought having someone's attention to be so appealing.]
Mm... I admit, my chances to observe the whole of you have been limited, thus far, with my attention drawn to certain areas....
[A low tone, hardly a murmur towards the end, as his fingers knead small circles into his Bonded's upper back.]
But I've not noticed anything out of place. Were I not otherwise informed, I would assume this to be your natural form. You've certainly learned how to use it... effectively. Disturbingly so.
[On top of just being incredibly prone to him... to a degree that still surprised the Ascian, sometimes.
Though there was one small detail he supposed he could mention.]
Your temperature, is, perhaps, slightly too hot. I would think you feverish- but 'tis not unpleasant. Were it Winter still, I'd claim it a benefit.
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[Mettaton licks his neck. Fever, because he's diseased.
But he's pleased to hear that he appears natural, besides a perceived temperature flaw that he decides is of no consequence, and requires no correcting. He's a slightly warmer human, and that can't be bad. He also doubts that he's too warm, because if he were, why is he so cold? (Somebody around here may not understand temperature.) A disturbingly effective transformation. It brings him such satisfaction that he feels it overwhelm his body from head to toe, a spark of delight that has him shudder — or maybe it's because the Ascian trembles first, mild though it was.
Emet-Selch's fingers against his scalp is nice, and he melts further into him, holding him with a secure, firm grip as he closes his eyes. His sigh carries a soft note on it, pleased both with himself and, strangely enough, with the reception of his Bonded. He's not typically the type to seek out approval, and were he not to receive it, he's sure he would've been perfectly fine regardless. But he can feel that the pleasure of his effort goes both ways.
Mettaton's energy is largely returned to him, but not due to any sort of actual human recovery. Willpower, mostly, and focused almost entirely on his vanity. His excitement he mentioned earlier is another great contributor toward his sprightliness. Though he remains relaxed in Emet-Selch's grasp, his lively spirit's a part of his bearing in the moment.]
Well. I haven't gotten a chance to see this fully-formed me yet, either. At its best. Ooh, and marked up, I'm sure...
[Mettaton shifts a bit, raising his head to give Emet-Selch a look, suggestive and accusatory all at once — but in a contented manner, rather than upset. But he quickly brightens up, another shift of limbs. It's a movement indicative of his intent to rise and escape the blanket, despite his comfort. He's possessed by this notion.]
I need to see. I've waited long enough.
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And how entirely satisfying, then, that they both agreed on the result; a sense that has his current contentment holding relatively stable. Breathing in the moment for all that it was, relaxed and comfortable with each other, arms holding warmly on, melded together in the current afterglow.
Relaxed enough on his part, if not sleepy or excessively drained (and what a change that was from the past month, he was still getting used to it), Emet-Selch doesn't even mind when Mettaton leans up a bit to look at him, seems preparing to pounce outward to make a complete appraisal of himself. The enthusiasm was endearing (that odd feeling again), the look he was given moreso, and his gaze fixes back on him with light amusement. Though before replying, he's struck by the need to lean up enough to press a kiss to one of those marks, and on an afterthought, a small lick. There were hardly enough, he felt, but the ones that were did seem to stand out on his skin.
Leaning back again, he meets Mettaton's eyes (Though his attention also takes in the traces of blood left on the idol's face, from all that time spent pressed against his bitten neck; why seeing his own blood decorating someone else was appealing, he wasn't sure. Some sort of claim, perhaps.). Resists the impulse to kiss his lips as well. Or to lick at those smears of blood.]
You've certainly the mirrors to take a proper look... you might as well.
[And it would give him his own chance to really see the entirety of him at once.
It would also mean Mettaton would pull out of him, which was probably a good idea at this point.]
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A grin spreading across his features, Mettaton shifts again, this time pulling out from Emet-Selch for real. He straddles his hips for just a moment long enough to take him by the back of his head and pull him into a kiss, a charge he needs to expel from his earlier kiss upon his neck, against an area that feels tender. (And therefore, surely a mark.)
From here, he springs from Emet-Selch's body and onto the floor, a weird shift of leg shapes over the course of his life: from none, to a wheel, to heels as a constant which he only got to enjoy for four months of his life at most, then onward to rabbit-shaped legs and the strange orientation of those. Strangely, however, he does not stumble upon landing. Equally as strange, he takes to these properly human-shaped legs with grace. Perhaps not as strange is how little he cares for decency, completely nude as he is yet possessing of all the same confidence. (He's in the room with his lover, it's fine! And even if he weren't Mettaton's the kind of human who would randomly start showing too much skin unbidden and unwanted...)
The idol doesn't hesitate to take to the mirror. He expects that what he sees will take him by surprise, yet it manages to shock him just how strongly it captivates him. He faces away from Emet-Selch, but his reflection's angled, making it easy to behold him from two angles at once.
In this transformed body of his own making, he stands just as tall as he usually does. Eye wide, Mettaton carries the sort of bearing one might have when they're meeting a familiar face for the first time in a long time. His fingers do all of the obvious prodding of his face, before he runs a hand through his hair, pushing dark, full locks away from his face, exposing the whole of his expression.
...He's mirrored Emet-Selch's scarring. It was easier (and far nicer) to do than whatever result he had before, and he reaches to feel it. It's agreeable, at least, but he'll have to work on aspiring for a form without this, he notes. But it doesn't earn any displeasure. He lets his hair cascade over his features again.
Mettaton pays some attention to the blood on his face, wiping at it a little with the side of his thumb as he expels a laugh, turning over his shoulder to face Emet-Selch. He doesn't quite succeed in wiping any of it clean off.]
You were going to leave me to find that, I see.
[His fingers move next to his neck. He leans in, taking in a long breath while pressing at bites of deep purple, of which there aren't many — but there's enough to arrest his attention, fingers skimming over shoulders and neck to finger each one. His eyelids drop a little, lips parting in his appreciation for what he sees there, and he sighs. He stares again at his face some more, which he's managed to get right: he doesn't want to forget what this looks like, instead of whatever the product was that caused him to spill blood all over the floor. (To see it some more, he tucks some of his bangs behind his ear. Some strands of hair cascade over his forehead still, but he can at least make eye contact with that hidden half of his face.)
His chest does not bear the same light marks as Emet-Selch's does, a body otherwise pristine of marks. The rest of his figure earns the same sort of extreme, careful deliberation, and he twists before the mirror to look at himself at multiple angles. Every part of this form earns a run-over with his hands, as though claiming this body as his own. For as dark as his eyes are, they remain just as bright as when they're golden.]
I did it... I really... This is what I wanted. I was struggling so much just a week ago...
[His hands run over his waist and over the curve of his hips, drinking in the sight of his impressively long legs as he postures them with an excitable smile, practically groping himself in how he takes in his own form.
Still prodding his body, fingers and palms picking up detail and grabbing at himself unabashedly, from his waist to his calves to his chest to his ass, Mettaton spares a moment of regard for his Bonded. His sheer dedication to his own body borders on pornographic, even when he's doing something as simple as admiring his chest.]
Well? Do I catch your eye, darling?
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His Bonded's continued grace in movement doesn't surprise him, though the Ascian supposed it probably should, thinking on the different configurations of limbs (and lack thereof) that the idol possessed. But he seemed to have a preternaturally good sense of balance and awareness of his own body... even when it suddenly differed from before. It was hard to imagine him ever appearing truly awkward.
Pushing himself up into a sitting position, Emet-Selch wraps the discarded blanket about his own legs for warmth (without the robot's excessive heat on top of him, he knew he'd become chilled soon enough), and watches as Mettaton began the extensive process of taking himself in.
And what a lot there was to take in, the Ascian also using this opportunity to stare him down, equally as unabashed in the idol's shameless nudity. The time for modesty had long since passed- if it had ever been a relevant subject to start. But having ascertained that his initial impression of Mettaton's transformation had been accurate, with no obvious mistakes, Emet-Selch is more taken by watching his Bonded's own reactions, his fixation and focus, how his gaze absorbs every detail reflected back to him. Mettaton wasn't just brimming with satisfaction, but overflowing with it. A complete mess of satisfaction, able to only be expressed through extensive prodding and posing, every aspect of his body worth the attention.
Though Emet-Selch was a bit surprised to note the scarring around the more hidden of Mettaton's eyes (though at least he had a proper two of them now), he realized after a moment that it matched his own. Considering how pristine the rest of the puca's body was, the Ascian doubted it was a specific choice- but then, if he'd needed to regard his face with particular focus, a detail like that might've bled into his visualization. A harmless flaw, in any case.
Without realizing, his own manner softens slightly in his observation, Mettaton making even a self-inspection appear as a series of deliberate poses, designed to appeal. How bright he looked, as his success gradually seemed to be sinking in- touching himself with such keenness that the Ascian wondered what it was like to be that excited about something. A thought that has him humming quietly to himself.
And he was reminded suddenly of that wistful ghost, pale and translucent, so simple in form, and completely separate from the material world. An entity easy to overlook. That he was looking upon the same person felt remarkable- how much more of himself, his Bonded seemed.
When Mettaton finally looks back to him again, Emet-Selch's response is simple, but given with a serious sort of sincerity. There's nothing glib or flippant or casual about it at all.]
You're beautiful.
[Not that he hadn't been before, really- but Mettaton's excessive self-admiration and pleasure in what he'd obtained... added something. A subtle shift in comfort and rightness, in appearing almost precisely as wanted.]
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The shapeshifted Puca draws his attention back to the mirror, where he beholds himself again. He possesses a radiance about himself that is undeniable even to his own eyes, a loveliness that enchants him even when his smile's dropped. Beyond skin and hair and physicality. He searches his own face and can't help but smile, which only makes him smile brighter. And, absurdly, heat washes over his body, flustered by his own euphoria.
He's beautiful, and it suffuses him soul-deep, bringing flushed vitality to his cheeks where he might have otherwise looked so unaffected by a compliment. Or maybe it's his soul that permeates, rather than the perception of his beauty.]
I am.
[So he can express that he agrees, but he does it in fewer words with less embellishment. Fingers pressed to his neck again, he can feel his heart pounding under his touch, the slight way his heated skin prickles under the cool air, even as he's warmed under his own perception, under Emet-Selch's gaze.
Eyes belonging to somebody so close to him, someone who's seen him so thoroughly, attention taken and forced to perceive him down to his core even while he lacks his sight for souls. A gaze he doesn't shrink under, but thrives under. He gives his reflection a thoroughly pleased expression, a smile brimming with satisfaction and love for himself, before turning back to his Bonded the same way, the love redirected. He breaks away from his reflection to rejoin him on the bed, eyes locked with his all the while.
The idol crawls onto the mattress, shifting to hover over Emet-Selch's body. He remains on his knees but sits back enough to give him a better, more personal view of his body, as though proudly putting it on for display and appraisal. But he steals him into an unrestrained kiss, long and passionate but still tasteful for all it is, his tongue only flirting with the prospect of plunging past his lips. He tastes at the suggestion of him, laps at his lower lip as he tilts his head forward, a play of confidence and undeniable presence and want. A smooth, soft note of contentment slides from deep within him, carrying with it just a touch of the desire he feels, the currents of electric love and attraction he feels for his Bonded.]
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While Emet-Selch wasn't one for words of flowery sentiment, the feeling of his attachment is evident through Bond, through the deliberation of touch. From the way his gaze trailed over him as Mettaton returned to the bed, that ease of movement still apparent, even in small things like slipping back into place before him. From knees and thighs to hips, along his abdomen up to his chest and neck, and onto his face. All things he'd seen at a distance, and were now within easy grasp.
And when Mettaton settles in with a kiss, that's what he does. His hands slip to the idol's shoulders, curving along the shape of them, the texture of the skin underneath his hands, the thoroughly living warmth and structure to him. While one hand then moves up to rest against Mettaton's neck, feeling the suggestion of a pulse as he leans into the kiss, his other continues its re-learning of his body. His fingers trace along the delicate shape of a clavicle, before smoothing downward onto his chest. A broader, firm stroke of his entire hand, still appreciating the heat of his body, the slight give of muscle underneath his fingers. Brushing over a nipple, he lingers there for the moment, touch lightening as he rolls it between two fingers.
At the same time, Emet-Selch's attention remains on the kiss, the intensity of each other's wanting unmistakable, firm and undeniable, for all that they lingered at the level of lips. The suggestion of pressing deeper without committing to it; the trail of tongue across his lip leaves a line of damp, his press back against the other's mouth becoming slightly slick. His own tongue flicks out, barely grazing him, eyes closing as he focuses in on the sensations under his lips and hands. The sound Mettaton produced, the small mingling of breath- all of it causes his pulse to lift.
And even then, he still thinks on how happy Mettaton had looked when observing himself. A thought that has him wanting to press closer, feeling that much more affection towards him. Possessiveness as well as protectiveness; wanting Mettaton to always be so fulfilled. And perhaps, if he observed him enough, closely and intimately, he could begin to understand what it was like to feel that way.]
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Fingers follow his shoulders, his neck, and his chest. The texture of sensation is different yet, his very own body yielding under the Ascian's touch even while his fingers are soft, too. And he loves it, he loves it all more than he can describe, loves the touch of his lover and the taste of his lips; he shifts ever-so-slightly closer. He's reminded of those moments just prior to his transformation where Emet-Selch had been touching metal instead, a similar, exploratory thoroughness even while his body was metal instead of this. The way it registers in feeling and the fact that his Bonded would continue to love his body has another noise escaping his throat, another sigh with an edge of desperation to it. The idol slips his arms around Emet-Selch's shoulders, resting a hand against the back of his head to reinforce their kiss.
The feeling of his nipple pinched lightly between fingers has him leaning further into his touch, slipping into another sigh. It reminds him of all the moments he ever took to explore Emet-Selch's body, or even the times Emet-Selch took to understand his coveted, robotic one, but the dimension of their exploration only continues. Even when he learns every aspect of both of their bodies combined, Mettaton can't imagine he'll be anything but continuously enticed by the way they feel together.
His thighs set to shivering with the sensation, but he braces himself, taking control of his body. It's too soon to collapse, and he has the possession of restraint when it comes to receiving more.
Daring, his tongue slips deeper as though in response to his lover's, like an invitation. A heavy focus placed on Emet-Selch's lower lip, which he captures between his own to provide a short suck before releasing, a shaky sigh forcing him to do so. His eyelid rises, just enough for him to see Emet-Selch before him, a reminder of the realness of it all. His fingers slide against the back of his head affectionately.]
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Gaze lowering again, he takes Mettaton's lower lip between his teeth, providing a slow scrape from one side to the other, firm and with the tension of a bite that never quite comes. Instead he takes a breath, sharp and brief, both soothed and enticed by the familiar taste of his Bonded's mouth, the hand buried in his hair.
His own hand at the idol's neck moves gradually upward, fingers taking in the line of his jaw, to trail along the shape of an ear, tucking a few strands of hair back behind it. And from there to his face: the ridge of an eyebrow, the shape of an eye, the smoothness of his cheek. The slightest variations in textures, in the give of skin: it was a learning through touch alone. Though- not entirely alone, he realized after a moment, taking in the sound of their breathing, the lingering scent of sex, the way his lover tasted against his tongue. Every aspect was associated with one another, tied together in his thoughts. And each one he wanted more of, while knowing that he'd never be able to get enough of any of them.
But it's a thought that has his tongue finally press further past Mettaton's lips with a hitch to his breath. And though there's a certain inherent need to his movement, to the way his hands firm, cupping his Bonded's face with his hand- it's neither rushed, nor forced. It's still a deliberate expression of his want for him, of appreciation and affection, love and even adoration. The sort of thing that hurt to surround himself with, but that he couldn't bear to part from.
A low sound accompanies the feeling, low enough that it barely escapes his throat at all. The hand he has at Mettaton's chest continues toying with his nipple, giving it a few harder squeezes between fingers, before leaving it with a drag of thumb and continuing to trace lower, a caress over the muscles of his abdomen. So different entirely than all the shapes and consistencies that he was used to, with each version important, and worthy of loving by virtue of who it belonged to.]
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A body that responds like this to the feeling of adoration is a novelty to him, but he recognizes it easily for what it is. Charmed, he kisses back with the same sort of immediacy and need.
The firmer squeeze of his chest has him jolting in place as he leans in further yet, neediness and desire unshackled. Even his kiss grows more ardent, sliding his tongue along Emet-Selch's and giving it a gentle suck, claiming. A demonstration of his welcomeness in his mouth. Welcomeness to the whole of him, touching or penetrating or taking him to his pleasure. His body responds in whole, alertness getting the better of him, the hints of arousal already possessing him so readily. He muses to himself that Emet-Selch always has a way about him to pull such responses from his body, robotic or not. Even thinking back upon a time where he didn't have what it took to shapeshift, this man still brought him deep, heady pleasure. He had what it took to connect with him on an unprecedented level of sensuality, and he only continues to bring him to new heights of it.
And it only intensifies the more he gets to know him, which fascinates the Puca. The intimacy of their bond runs deeper than he could have ever known, and... Even this knowledge leaves Mettaton shuddering, a short, soft noise emitted from his throat, a noise of contentment and need simultaneously.
The desire to demonstrate his comfort with his Bonded overwhelms him. Humming into the kiss, sliding his tongue wherever he can fit, Mettaton shifts his legs enough to pull back the blanket enough so that when he sits, he can do so directly upon Emet-Selch's lap. Relaxing tense muscles, Mettaton first nudges his filling cock against Emet-Selch's abdomen before shifting his body back, settling himself firmly upon hips, flesh-to-flesh. He's positioned just so, so that his shaft would press into his Bonded's. Here, he deliberately and contentedly shifts his hips, as though attempting to proudly sink into this spot as his own.]
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And even more reckless affection.
The attention to his tongue only continues to heighten his senses, stirring him to more alertness than the Ascian generally manifested. Or wanted to manifest. As he licks back against Mettaton's tongue, he briefly considers this, still surprised at what his body was apparently capable of feeling. That it could respond so powerfully to someone... that the idol could do this to him with such seeming ease. That they would match each other so well, and yet, should never have met at all... was something that unsettled him sometimes. That he could discover something so precious by sheer chance made it seem that much more fragile. That it could be snatched away from him just as suddenly and unexpectedly- it's a thought that has him pressing back, holding tighter.
But it was a little easier than it had once been to not focus excessively on that fear. To drown himself in touch and taste and sound instead, Mettaton's very self so very, very close to his own. How could he lose him when he could feel him so well?
And the feeling of Mettaton shifting himself into his lap was thoroughly welcomed, a hint of that pleasure audible in the quiet hum that escapes him. A greater hint is the gradual hardening of his own cock, a natural response to the depth of their kiss, their emotions; Mettaton's presence itself was a tease, at times. And with him in reach, so warm and available and sinking closer, there was no chance of resisting him. So he basked in the awareness of his own body's reaction to him, the clear sign of his attraction to his Bonded, as well as on the promise of having that arousal eventually sated. And in the process, appreciating Mettaton's body with such intimacy.
But it's the feeling of Mettaton's own hardness brushing against his body that has his kiss finally stall, on an intake of breath that he forgets to expel. And then there's his lover's filling erection pressing to the sensitive flesh of his own, with a bit of extra friction from the shifting of Mettaton's hips- and he's forced to break the kiss with a moaning exhale against his lips. His own hips twitch underneath him, on automatic, and he glances down, eyes opening to witness their bodies close, their cocks able to rub up against one another. A vision that has him shuddering, both hands falling to grasp at Mettaton's hips, to stroke over the top of his thighs.
But his lips stay close to his Bondmate's, sliding over his with a degree less control, but with no reduction in affection. Yet as close as they were, they weren't near enough, weren't flush entirely with one another, weren't as close as they could be. As he wanted to be, as though his body needed to express what was already known through sentiment. And he's taken by the thought of Mettaton sitting on his cock, feeling it sink into the excessive heat of his body. Of being able to watch him like that, riding him. It's an image that has the Ascian moan again, insufficiently stifling it by nipping at Mettaton's lower lip, more sharply than intended. Briefly sucking at it afterward, he shivers, fingers digging into his lover's thighs.]
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Hearing Emet-Selch succumb to such deep-seated want, a situation yet to occur and beyond them both, piques Mettaton's interest and excitement, has his breath stutter in sympathy. A shorter moan, a greater ache, and a full-body shudder flooding him with even more heat.
Mettaton knew that he was getting aroused and suspected the same of Emet-Selch, but it never fails to intensify his own feelings for the other man when he actually feels it. Though it's so carnal and driven by passion, there's so much unprecedented sentiment behind every touch and every taste they have for each other that it sets him to a further ache, an ache that comes from his chest and yet pulses in his ever-hardening arousal. Lip taken by Emet-Selch, he pays attention to every sensation of heat and pressure, every texture of firm and soft, and the feeling of his lover's fingers digging into his thighs. He could live off of touches to his legs, he decides. It's delightful, and he gives Emet-Selch a firm rub against his cock as if to express his approval for all he does in this moment.
Breaking away from his lips for just a moment, MTT exhales against his Bonded, pressing his forehead against his in order to pull himself together.]
Hades... Hah... [He swallows, but it's not quick enough: head tilted down like this, he drools. He withdraws his unoccupied hand to wipe it up quickly. It's not something he's quite gotten accustomed to, all of these organic processes.] I hope you feel how much I want you.
[That arm he withdrew slides back around his lover's shoulders, taking him into something of an embrace as he leans forward, shifting his body to press into him. He adjusts his weight atop the other man. Part-way riding up onto Emet-Selch's arousal with his body, still frotting against him with short pushes of his hips, his cock is nestled up against the side of Emet-Selch's and given a firm, pleasant pressure against the base of it with the contact. Mettaton exhales, a light sigh that carries a note of deep pleasure, continuing to shift his hips in short strokes to encourage Emet-Selch to want him more, to sate his own desires for the sensation of Emet-Selch's erection. How he wants to appreciate that thickness and heat, how he wants to suck him, to stuff him full of his arousal, to feel the heat of his mouth, to just rub against his body... And, increasingly, to sit upon his length, to have him sink so deeply into him. The suggestion of it, straddling his hips, is encouragement in that direction. It has Mettaton shivering anew.
He kisses the corner of his lips, then drifts toward his ear, voice dipping lower and softer. For all of his control, a note of longing decorates his tone, a heaviness he can't disguise.]
Or should... I tell you? How I want...
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Rubbing his forehead just a little against his, he manages to breathe, if shakily, taking stock of all he was feeling, and all that he had felt. The small, sharp pains whenever he moved his neck, serving to remind him of the marks that lay there, the memory of those bites. The memory of Mettaton's cock filling him, a feeling he could recall with each tensing of his hips, and even when he was still. Not pain, but an ache regardless.
That alone would've been enough to arouse him, he thought, considering how each encounter only led to further desires- for more of the same, for more of something else, each experience fostering further wants rather than reducing them. The more they had of each other, the more they wanted- as there was always something more to learn, or to view from a different angle, or to be reminded of. A reassurance that left his pulse even faster, and his cock achingly stiff.
Though it tries to be even, pitched lower and with enough breath behind it, there's an edge of strain to the Ascian's voice regardless. Of desire controlled but immense, eyes closed as he leans his forehead back against Mettaton's for the moment.]
...It would be a hard thing to miss.
[Hard in multiple ways, even, the press of their erections alongside one another only the most explicit expression of that want. But it was clear in every other gesture as well, from the touch of arms and hands, to the echo of his lips that he could still feel, the hint of damp that remained on his own. Each shudder that passed between them, as though spurred on by the awareness of the other's lust, and the longing to increase it further.
It was something of a cycle again. In response to pleasure, Mettaton shifts forward, his length nestled so enticingly against the Ascian's, a firm pressure at the base that's rubbed with each movement of his hips. In response to that, Emet-Selch's hands grab onto the other man's thighs with more urgency, a moan caught in his throat, as though needing to hold onto something in the wake of the pulse of arousal. A kneading grasp of leg, fingers trailing along the crease where limb met the rest of his body, to stroke and fondle downward, along his inner thigh. Actions to only encourage more shifts on Mettaton's part, more attention to their cocks, more grasps and shivers and pleasured exhalations.
And just one want was never enough, was it? Mettaton's voice so low to his ear, words meant for him alone, has his breathing quiet, not wanting to miss a syllable, a note of it. Attuned to not only the words, but every other aspect of it, able to feel the layers of his want. Recognize them reflected in himself. Anticipation so heavy he could taste it, a flavor that was coincidentally quite similar to that of the idol's mouth. He swallows back a sigh, leaning his head against his.]
But... feel free to inform me of it all.
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Again, he's made to swallow, smiling silly at this sudden realization despite his attempts at conveying a more sensual presence.
It's hardly a distraction from the rest of it all, however. What is a distraction is Emet-Selch's fingers pushing into his thighs, a fondle of firm, yet pliant tissue, until he's venturing dangerously close to his erection. Sure enough, the intent to encourage his movement is only rewarded: the closeness, the tease has Mettaton pressing more deeply into his lover's cock, a craving for raw stimulation to tide him over. A short, broken moan slips from his lips, carried on a shuddering breath to accompany quick, short strokes of his hips, rubbing his engorged cock against his Bonded deliriously.
Being pushed to startling levels of pleasure before he's even vocalized his craving makes it both harder and simpler to air it, if only he had the air and control for it.]
Nnnh... [How could he? The sound and the heat of Emet-Selch's breath and the delightful firmness of his cock-- it sets the mood for his desires, which overwhelm him.] You're so hard, Hades... Ah...
[He inhales sharply, trying to catch up with his need for air through his plentiful sighs and gasps. It might've made it difficult to pull away from him, but he knows he can continue to have his arousal, thick and pulsing, in ways beyond pressing against his cock. Mettaton slides his body further atop Emet-Selch's length, squeezing his thighs closer to Emet-Selch's body in an attempt to encourage his Bonded's pressing and prodding of his legs. So simply, touches upon his legs push him beyond sense, and he leans into his lover with another moan and shudder.
Everything he's said has been against his neck, close to his jaw and his ear as he fixes on his pleasure.]
You're so- god, Hades, I...
[His thrusts increase in speed with the sound of his own voice, as though pushing himself to greater heights of frantic desire just by trying to speak his needs into air. But then he pulls back, taking a soft inhale as he pushes himself up on his knees. He shifts his hips, taking one of his hands and reaching between his legs.
Though Emet-Selch isn't lubed up or ready, Mettaton teases the notion of him. He grabs his cock and guides the glans to press against his entrance, where he bears down upon him with a squirm and sigh.]
Ohhhh... This. I want this. I want to hear my name between your gasps... I want to feel you pushing yourself, warm and thick, inside of me...
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