[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...
[Affection underwrote it all, he was realizing. From kissing to nuzzles, the gentle brush of a hand across skin, or the hard drag of a cock: it was affection the whole time. Fortunately, it's not a thought that inspires panic at this point, only another resurgence of fondness and care, and a kind of bewilderment that it was possible to share in something like this with another. To have him in both lust and love.
Mettaton pressing forward, thrusting against him has the Ascian continue clinging to his legs as a result, though he manages to drag his hands around to grip the back of his thighs instead, in a press too firm to be called a simple stroke. And from there, drifting up to his ass, squeezing him, pulling him closer still.
Though a small, disapproving sound begins to form in his throat when Mettaton sits up, separating the contact of their cocks, it never gets a chance to escape when he feels his length taken into his lover's hand instead- and all protest is forgotten the moment the sensitive head of his arousal is brought against the other man's entrance. A suggestion of movement, of pressure, and he craves it with that much more intensity in that instant, the rush of his need leaving him tense, shuddering. And with Mettaton's words layered on top, it's such an easy thing to imagine: to feel the tip of his cock disappear into him, to be surrounded by his heat, held with such complete intimacy. And from there, to grab onto Mettaton's hips and drag him lower, onto his body, to have him yield entirely around his length, taking him entirely. To have their bodies flush together, to feel and claim him in another way, to fill him with his cock, and eventually his come--]
Gods, Mettaton--
[It's more than enough to trigger a breathy sort of gasp, erection twitching up against him, so close to the promise of greater warmth, and his hands massage over Mettaton's ass, fingers drifting dangerously inward. Somehow, he was meant to reply in the midst of all of this, and his voice was certainly no less strained than before.]
How- how convenient. To want the same thing....
[But they were both unprepared, which has the Ascian reluctantly release his hold on the idol- with one hand, anyway, head turning, arm casting about where he thought he remembered Mettaton leaving the lubrication he'd thoughtfully acquired. A search that feels like it takes far longer than it probably does, especially when it comes to the demands from his cock. And though it takes some leaning and stretching on his part, he finally succeeds in snagging it and getting some onto his fingers.
And while he considered going first to his own arousal, he finds himself reaching for Mettaton's side of things instead. It might feel a bit chilled at first, but- temperature differences were still a novelty, right?
Tugging at his thigh with his less-occupied hand, an encouragement towards keeping his legs appropriately spread, Emet-Selch slips his other hand between them. Nudging his own cock out of the way, he replaces its pressure against Mettaton's entrance with that of slick fingers, giving it a slow, teasing sort of rub, before pushing one inside of him with a steady insistence.
Tilting his head forward, he presses a shaky kiss to the base of Mettaton's throat.]
[Every single time he hears Emet-Selch gasp, only to manage some kind of verbal response, it fills Mettaton with a heat so strong that he shivers, a contradictory response. His thighs tremble, leaving him tenuously above the tip of Emet-Selch's arousal upon unsteady legs, an idea that has him thrilled, heart pounding, even though it isn't as though losing his will to remain propped up wold mean that he'd penetrate him. (But it could once he took any length of him inside, he imagines; and he can barely do it, not having experienced the sensation at all. He's anticipatory.)
Mettaton bites at his lower lip as a noise of both satisfaction and untempered need escapes his throat, a bit more needy than he imagined it would sound on his smooth voice. He sucks in a breath, closing his eyes for a fleeting moment as he takes in the sensation, the suggestion of what's to come, the sound of Emet-Selch's voice and the sensation of his erection twitching into him, and he can feel his own cock, completely visible before his Bonded, throbbing with need.
Another moment dedicated toward unprecedented sensation. All of this... how could he have experienced it anywhere else? With anyone else? Were he to sleep with someone else, sure, he'd be unrestrained. But could they match him as Emet-Selch does? They'd never be him.
Then, he opens his eyes to watch Emet-Selch reach for lube, warm and melty and deeply in love. Their usual swing from heated, fervent, carnal passion to aching, blissful affection, and he finds that one of his hands has trailed to press over his own heart to feel it beat against his fingers. And how hard it does, under the weight of exertion and romance. He zones out a bit as Emet-Selch squeezes lube onto his fingers, even as he watches him with a smile, and regains his full awareness as Emet-Selch's reaching for their bodies again.
More anticipation: and why shouldn't Emet-Selch wish to prepare him first, cold as it is? Mettaton relishes the threat, then gasps at the reality of cold slickness applied to his entrance. His eyes blow wide and his smile brightens at the complete novelty of it all, the attention paid to his body. He's overwhelmingly eager.]
Ah—!
[Leaning forward farther, his throat would easily meet Emet-Selch's lips. The pressure is strange, he's unaccustomed to what this should feel like entirely... And it only gets stranger when he slips a finger inside of him. Mettaton exhales. Cherishes the newness of it, the coldness of it that sets his feverish body shivering.]
H-Hades...
[He tenses severely around Emet-Selch's single digit before any kind of relaxing can take place. Even then, he's one to keep shifting, tensing erratically, moving — how could he bring himself to stay still with all of this heat building in him? He leans pleasurably into Emet-Selch's kiss.]
[While every sound of need, each shiver, the trembling of Mettaton's legs- all of it serving to heighten his own anticipation, the throbbing of his arousal- he didn't feel at all impatient either. There was too much to fascinate him at each stage; every sound, every breath, the hardness of Mettaton's own cock and nearness of his body, the strength of the heat surrounding his finger. The thought of that same warmth engulfing his erection has him swallowing a moan, hips ineffectually shifting underneath his lover's body, yearning to be a part of him.
Though they close for a few seconds as he works through a shudder, his eyes open enough to glance down as he takes a breath, Emet-Selch noticing when Mettaton places a hand over his heart. What was it like to suddenly have a pulse, he wondered. A completely unfamiliar sensation... and how many of those Mettaton seemed to be achieving in these short few months. In these shorter few hours, and he felt oddly touched at being able to watch and feel his reactions, to provoke some of them, to generally be a part of it. Feelings that lead him to devote further attention towards kissing his neck, gentle for the moment, if too open-mouthed and wet to be anything like chaste.
For all of the Ascian's own experience, much of this was new to him as well. Not any individual act, which were all entirely familiar, but all of the attached emotions. His degree of comfort and openness of response. Before, he'd tended to view sex with a generalized indifference; a pleasant enough thing, to be sure, but while occasionally distracting, it did little for him in any kind of sustained way. Having complete contempt for any of his partners hadn't helped, on top of being fatally sentimental. And with detachment at the fore, no one able to engage with or even aware of his actual self... there had been no space for involvement. He'd always thought himself restrained by nature, but was coming to learn in Mettaton's presence that he'd just gone unprovoked.
And here he was now, aching and invested. Desperate for him, both soul and and body. Emet-Selch didn't think he could find this with anyone else. Not like this- not to this degree.
He swallows again, closing his eyes. Rests lips against damp skin. Breathes in his lover's nearness.
At the tensing around his finger, he neither presses deeper nor retreats, only rubbing slowly within him, though the Ascian assumes the response is borne more from an unfamiliarity with the sensation or simple eagerness, rather than discomfort. The constant moving on Mettaton's part serves to further lead to that conclusion- and while the idol always seemed to be moving in some way as his default, it was made that much more endearing now. Excitement that couldn't be contained, the positive sort of agitation.
Taking that into account, he begins to move his finger with a smooth, even gesture as soon as he senses any measure of relaxing- at least, as evenly as he can, considering the slight jostling provided by Mettaton's body. He pushes as deeply as he can reach before sliding part of the way out, unhurried, despite the arousal pulsing through his blood. It's without any pause or hesitation that on one of those drags inward, a second finger joins the first, not quite as cold at this point, and warming quickly.]
[The hand he had laced in Emet-Selch's hair moves down to rest against his shoulder, bracing himself as these open-mouthed kisses compound upon his affection, right down to the way the Ascian breathes him in. Mettaton expels all of the breath he has, his passion entwined with arousal to render him achingly sensitive, heat coursing through his thighs and groin both. It's hard to keep still when he wants so much of the man before him.
The sensation of his finger inside of him gradually becomes easier to accept. His inability to still, however, makes it so that he's continuously reminded of the size of it, made to tense spontaneously at the notice of it. The way his lover treats him to unhurried strokes of his digit, as deep within his body as he can reach before withdrawing slowly, is an energy quite unlike Mettaton's from earlier. Compared to his own needy fervency, an energy that compelled him to take to Emet-Selch's body with lusty haste, his manner is so much more deliberate, a dimension that feels as though he's soaking in the moment rather than leaping for immediate and complete gratification. MTT sighs yet more breath that he doesn't have, making room for an equally unhurried intake of air. Chest full even without oxygen, the robot's dazed by the consideration of his Bonded.
This bodily response is a sympathetic one to his lover's tempo, picking up on an even rhythm that only serves to entice him. An increasingly comfortable sensation, even as he tightens, or becomes too aware of this foreign intrusion in this foreign body.
But just as it's foreign, it aligns so right. This moment with Emet-Selch ranks among the most like himself he could ever possibly feel... And Mettaton doesn't think it's entirely because of this human form. It transcends it, a feeling like he's known completely. It warms him to his core.
Rewinding time, he wonders briefly if he was capable of relaxing solely in Emet-Selch's presence upon their first meeting because there was some sort of acknowledgement, deep down, that he could be this person who he trusts so deeply with the whole of him. And this trust makes it easier to tune into his pace, a measured stroke and a slow advancing, a pace intended to admire every step of the way. And so he does, paying mind to the way Emet-Selch's finger sinks into him. The way his own body tenses, the way he can feel the throb of pleasure in his own cock despite the lack of touch, the way he begins to relax and accept.
Emet-Selch's movements become rhythmic, a pushing and pulling that reminds him of what's to come. The idol couldn't possibly still, but his lower body relaxes just enough to welcome him inside of him entirely. His eyelid curtains as his hand presses more firmly to his heart, feeling for the way that his lungs expand and contract as he's forced to resume breathing. (He hadn't realized he was holding his breath until he began again, gasping for air, tensing again around his finger.)
It grows familiar. Easy to sink into. Addictive. Mettaton sighs, long and soft. His sigh, however, is interrupted by the suddenness of a second finger: he knows, because it's a slightly different temperature, a slightly thicker plunge, and he tightens all over again with a hitch of his breath, a note of surprise on his voice.
It doesn't hurt like he thought it would. No doubt, Emet-Selch takes meticulous care for the act of preparation, and Mettaton's thighs tremble. With this new introduction, he imagines with such vivid fascination the sensation of his cock, how soon he'll get to feel that sink hip-deep into his body. Mettaton fails to exhale, caught up in his fantasy as he is.
He squirms atop his fingers, panting, almost trying to shift his hips into his fingers, even with the surprising new addition. When he sighs, it carries a long, soft note of contentment, of fondness, and Mettaton pulls his throat away from Emet-Selch to trace his lips with his own, even as he pants, lips damp. Softly, he sucks at Emet-Selch's lower lip, purely infatuated.]
Edited (Caught my spelling errors for once. Fingers too fast brain too slow) 2020-05-16 07:16 (UTC)
[How could intense arousal be so comfortable, rather than frustrating? It was trust, he decided; mutual and without reserve. An implicit and complete cooperation, in pleasure and fulfillment both. His own careful efforts now weren't even the patience of necessity, but a satisfaction by degrees. A stoking of still-smoldering need, the longing to slip into it entirely remained, but as yet still able to temper it just slightly, just enough to shudder and absorb every instant. From the occasional glimpses he got of Mettaton's long-desired and much-loved body, shifting enticingly over his own, to the tension he could feel in himself, legs yearning to move, his cock to obtain that promised warmth and pressure. His free hand holds onto one of Mettaton's thighs, rubbing along the top of it.
Though he's occasionally tempted to pause whenever Mettaton tenses up, Emet-Selch decides ultimately to keep to the steady motion, a reliable, stable pressure. A predictable stroking of the inside of his body, the movement smooth, warm, and almost easy with the lubrication well-spread. But when Mettaton presses into his fingers, helping to drive them deeper, his breathing catches instantly- and then is made much harder to resume when he feels the other's mouth against his own, a gentle suck of his lip. A kiss he leans into with a small noise, and as though reacting to his need, his fingers begin to speed up. Barely lingering at their deepest point before withdrawing only slightly, then delving back again; a repetitive massage of his body from within.
And how he could feel Mettaton's pulse, along with his breath- and neither were things he could take for granted, that were precious and valuable not only because of their newness, but because of who they belonged to. Emet-Selch didn't think he'd ever get tired of listening to either, and he lets his tongue trail over his Bonded's lips with a shuddered sigh. Their mouths together felt nearly as slippery and warm as the thrusts of his hand, and it became easy to be lost in them both, in the combination. In both the anticipation of the moment, as well as what he already had in hand (or around fingers, more precisely).
Waiting until Mettaton seems to have adjusted to the intrusion of his fingers, Emet-Selch gradually slows down. And with his own breathing attempting to form into a pant, the throb of his cock getting ever harder to ignore, he finally decides to withdraw his hand while he could still do so carefully, while he still had control over it. Especially since he still needed to prepare himself, and the Ascian reaches over to obtain a bit more lubrication onto his fingers. Taking a careful breath, he wraps them around his own erection with a soft hiss, shivering from the contrasting chill of the substance against aching flesh.
While he had little inclination towards putting on any sort of display as Mettaton could do, the strokes over his own length weren't quite utilitarian either. A smoothing of fingers over skin with familiarity, and though it couldn't quite bring any sort of relief, it felt entirely too pleasant. Eyes closed, a soft moan slips out between breaths as his hand drags over skin that already felt too hot, a squeeze of fingers around the head while imagining the greater tightness of Mettaton's body. And even though it hadn't been part of his intent, knowing that he was doing this before his lover certainly added something, stole breath that he sorely needed.
But as nice as it felt, it wasn't enough to distract him from the purpose behind it, and it's not too long before he nips gently at Mettaton's lip as he guides his cock back into position with his hand, tugging a bit at his lover's hip with his other to help nudge him into place. He entirely can't help the twitch to his body, the noise in his throat, as he feels the very tip of his erection press against Mettaton's entrance. But apart from helping him to line up with his cock, Emet-Selch makes no attempt to drag him downward onto it, giving him control over how quickly he wanted to be penetrated.]
[Just as Mettaton begins to grow accustomed to the sensation of one, then two fingers massaging him into a state of receptiveness, Emet-Selch changes things up. That hypnotizing rhythm that he began timing short breaths to - not with, but close - speeds up in response to his greed. And why shouldn't it? A smooth, short moan is pulled from his throat, one that disappears into the air when he closes his eyes and gives into the new rhythm.
He aches, raw and deeply enticed, unable to do much but continue to swipe his tongue and suck upon his lover's lower lip to keep himself with it, even when he slips into open-mouthed pants and sighs with the increased rhythm of his fingers at work. But his pace slows some more all over again, and that change in speed paired with the press of fingers into his thigh has him sighing all over again. Whether fast or slow, Emet-Selch treats him to an addictive rhythm that he wants to sit upon... Which only brings him further anticipation, knowing he'll get that chance, for all that he can't tense his legs by will at this point.
Just as he sighs in relief at the fullness and increasing familiarity of it, the Ascian pulls out. Mettaton's eyes fly open. There's no disappointment to be had over what's lost, but forward-thinking, the understanding that his Bonded feels them ready to move on.
It happens faster than he can keep track of. The realization that he's dispensed more lubrication into his fingers, Mettaton can feel his pulse in his own arousal when he considers what Emet-Selch's about to do to himself. The hand he has over his heart moves south on reflex, wanting to get in on the action of his preparation, wanting to know if he couldn't see him pull slick fingers over heated flesh. But his lover surprises him with his show of want: the obvious pleasure he takes in preparing his arousal for his body has Mettaton swallowing, anticipatory, transfixed upon his beloved's expression, his stolen breath and lidded eyes. And, no doubt, his imagination.
What he'd do to get front row seats to his lover's thoughts, if his own was going wild. An imagination for the imminent future, a precognition more than a fantasy. Mettaton swallows thickly around a gasp of sympathy.
The hand he has on his lover's shoulder drifts to his neck, skimming lightly over one of his deep, reddened bite marks. He thumbs it fondly with a soft hum and a warm smile against Emet-Selch nipping his lip. Mettaton responds to it by capturing his Bonded in a firm, passionate kiss...
...one broken by the sudden nudging of his cock, hot and slick, flush to his entrance. Mettaton jumps.]
A... Ah... Oh—
[A sharp inhale. The tug of his hip. Guided to sit squarely against the press of his erection, the nudge of the tip suggestion enough of what's to come. He swallows again, locking wide eyes with his lover. A disposition that slips from fully aware and alarmed, and downward into sultry recognition and deep covetousness. Mettaton's lips part in sympathy, body trembling.
He can't disguise his eagerness if he tried. Emet-Selch likely knew he didn't have to do a thing to get Mettaton started, for he immediately rolls his hips with a firm press down, lit aflame the very instant he feels the further impression of the glans sliding into his body. His body's been worked on to accommodate his length, Mettaton realizes with a sick delight, each gyration of his hips working to sink his cock into his body. And delightful it is, the sensation of tight muscle being intruded upon by the perfectly shaped head of Emet-Selch's cock, Mettaton thinks.
Hungrily, he presses down. Desperate for that sensation of filling, of rhythm, of that massage he was enjoying out of his fingers. He rolls his hips some more, a moan spilling from him, his head lolling on his shoulders as he loses himself so early to imagination even while he's fulfilling these fantasies. He works the tip of Emet-Selch's cock deeper inside, already set to wanting him and wanting him deep, legs spread, arousal standing at full attention as Mettaton's hands move down to brace himself against his own thighs, giving himself better ability to work his hips.
A slip in his tense muscles has the head of Emet-Selch's cock popping inside — and how could he have anticipated the way the corona feels, a defined ridge to further massage himself against? Mettaton shudders with a moan, rolling his hips with even more brazen desire. Even this much of him stretches him more than his fingers did, the promise for a deeper rub set out before him.]
Ohh, H-Hades... I love you, this is... Hah...
[Mettaton bears down on him some more, seeking greater stimulation with the rocking of his hips. And each roll, accompanied by more of his weight, has him sinking down upon Emet-Selch's cock. He breathes against his face, a shuddering thing as he traces his lips against the Ascian's with an indelible fondness that soaks even his soft moans in the feeling.]
[Even now, with his heightened pulse and thrum of blood through his veins, all echoing the beat in his cock, Emet-Selch notices the feeling of a hand brushing over where he'd been bitten, the skin still tender, warmer than the surrounding area. A detail, the memory of his lover's teeth tearing his skin produce a softer sigh from him- or would have, had his mouth not been claimed, well occupied by a fiercer kiss. But when Mettaton pulls back from it, the quickened breath and startled reaction was worth the break, he thought, the Ascian's own eyes forcing themselves open again to watch him, as the puca's reaction shifts from sharp alert into understanding and lascivious anticipation. Sensation along with prospective sensation, feelings he could more than share with him.
So it's not surprising at all when that tightness begins to close around the tip of his erection, but it still produces a cry from him, soft but fervent, as both hands move to Mettaton's thighs, clinging onto them. Emet-Selch digs in with his fingers as though he's the one who needs to brace himself, a squeezing of his arousal that he could never truly prepare for, reality more than matching his imagination. His eyes remain open for a few moments more as he glances downward, to catch each shift of Mettaton's hips, the gradual lowering with each rock of them, the way he could distinctly feel the result, so very, very closely. The suggestive spread of the idol's legs around him, the tension evident in his abdomen and thighs, the stiffness of his cock between them a tempting sight in itself.
Breath shallow and fast, Emet-Selch still manages a harder moan when his lover's body takes in the full head of his cock, jolting sharply at the sensation concentrated on the most sensitive part of him, leaning closer to Mettaton as he pants, kissing him desperately amid breaths.]
Ah-- Mettaton, you....
[The slickened muscle constricting around the ridge of his cock, the way his body seemed perfectly made to hold him- how could he find words to express any of that? How hot he felt, how good he felt, without even being entirely inside him. The affection he felt for him then, on top of everything he already felt, almost daunted. And he only shudders when Mettaton continues to move, feeling his length sinking deeper into him, impossibly warm and close. Emet-Selch's legs tremble and twitch underneath him, trying to press upward without conscious thought. And he shudders again when Mettaton moans, when he feels his breath hot against him, a reminder of the hotness of the rest of his body. Licks back against his lips- or tries to, tongue flicking against some part of them, at least. But his determination to kiss him in some fashion is at least clear.]
I- I love you- I... you feel--
[Clearer than his words, which aren't terribly coherent, but no less determined. The noise he makes is almost frustrated, but only briefly so; how could he be too bothered by insufficient wordage when his lover was busy stuffing himself full of his cock?
And as Mettaton shifts lower, taking more of his shaft, the Ascian manages to let go of one of his Bonded's thighs with one hand, drawn to the memory of the idol's own cock between them, hard and engorged and something he couldn't resist wanting to touch. Feeling for him without looking, recently-lubricated fingers brush against, then wrap around the base of him, moaning a little at the heat evident here too, giving him a squeezing stroke upward, getting caught at the ridge of the glans and tightening that little bit more around it.]
[He should have figured that even if Emet-Selch was intending to hand over the control to him, he would try to press into him on his own accord, intentional or not. Drawn to each other, needing to be as close as their bodies will allow, Mettaton only stutters in response to feeling him press into his body some more, dazzled by his addition. On a drawn-out, shuddering breath, he can only give him a sigh of approval, carried on a note of warmth as he leans in again to kiss his Bonded. The desire to not only take his breath away, but this time, to leave them both breathless. A novelty, and one Mettaton craves, at that.
He's felt Emet-Selch's love for him only growing more and more, less restraint placed upon it over the course of this single night. His own, too, only blossoms. His compassion deepens, his hope for him shines brilliantly, his love is deep and sticky and fills him up. It's such a powerful emotion that feels as though he's not only connected with his soul, but taken it as his own, a connection unmistakable that he would be able to feel always. That immense, powerful spirit of his is Mettaton's to adore, to keep, to know. Though the robot doesn't actively consider it in this moment, in the haunts of his mind, he wonders if he'll always, always have the impression of his soul lingering in his heart. (And if it would suspend upon his extra-dimensional death.)
With Emet-Selch's hands pressing upon his thighs now, Mettaton returns his own arms to wrap around his lover's shoulders, a method of bracing himself for greater control while expending some of the affection he harbors for him.
But he has his method of pleasuring the both of them all set, he thinks. The gradual rocking of his hips, letting Emet-Selch sink into him by degrees, but he's not sure how he could will himself to go from empty, to full, to empty again. Not right now. So filling himself up is his focus, his body not only entirely new to him but new to this. All sensation takes on a degree of newness with tissue and muscle, giving and forgiving. Mettaton presses his cheek to Emet-Selch's for a moment, exhaling as he rocks hips back and forth as he focuses not only at the gradual filling of his body, but how pleasurable it is to feel groups of muscles contract while he's so wanting, arousal hard enough to ache. After having just found this fulfilling position, it takes him by complete surprise to feel his lover's slick fingers take to his cock. He first slips into the sensation with a protracted groan, the desire to thrust, or to be taken. Second, he bolts upright.]
Ah—!
[In his surprise, he both relaxes, and tightens. Relaxes his muscles enough for Emet-Selch's length to plunge deeper, then clamps down around him. A moment of discomfort for Mettaton, but one immediately relinquished at the sheer pleasure of having his pulsing arousal toyed with. The gain is greater than the cost.
His breathing shallows and he looks down to see his lover's fingers gliding so easily up the shaft, only to squeeze him just under the head. Mettaton bites down on his lower lip, thighs tensing as he fights to moan on air he lacks. Finally, he finds himself pulling off of the Ascian's arousal, only to drop himself back down upon it. That forces him to inhale, at least. But only to the end of letting it back out in a broken moan, overwhelmed, to his increasing pleasure.
Who needs plans when he can be blinded by stimulation? Mettaton's not sure what he was trying to do anymore. He decides to do whatever feels good. Right now, he brings his lips to Emet-Selch's to take his lover back into a sloppy kiss, working his legs so that he bobs up and down upon his Bonded's length all while he stuffs himself fuller and fuller with his cock come each downward thrust. On top of it all is the attention the Ascian pays to his cock, the memory of his fingers squeezing around the girth of it. How is he supposed to take this? Mettaton's mind all but blanks as he works some more on taking both of their breaths away: by slipping a tongue between his lips, by finding himself moaning into his kiss as he finally finds it in him to slide up and down on his erection, by being taken so thoroughly by the sensation of even his own cock being tended to. He can't help each attempted exhale being accompanied by notes of pleasure, and he doesn't even realize he's making them.]
Edited (au where mtt leans in to kill his bonded) 2020-05-16 20:23 (UTC)
[It's certainly an easy thing to lose his breath in Mettaton's presence. A voluntary suffocation, something Emet-Selch had never realized he could be prone to. Would there be any long-term health effects from being regularly prevented air? Surely not- and if so, he wouldn't regret a moment of it. Nor would he refrain from taking every opportunity he could to do the same to Mettaton: any time he happened to be in possession of lungs, the air within was his to claim.
As was the rest of him, and Mettaton's new form was indecently congenial when it came to demonstrating that claim, the Ascian barely swallowing back further moans when he feels the head of his cock stuffed ever more deeply. But even when it came to claim and possessiveness, it was tied up throughout with love and affection, protectiveness and caring, the desire to remain beside. How could either of them ever forget this, when their souls were joined, their bodies merged? Their intentions aligned, attentions combined, a fostering of excessiveness that had a strangely positive result. Intensive, invasive, and genuine, a composition that was more than any individual part. When Mettaton's cheek is against his, Emet-Selch leans back into it for the moment, in a gesture of simple fondness, that feeling in particular becoming the predominate one for so long as the contact lasted.
Mettaton's response to the hold on his cock was doubly gratifying. First, because of his Bonded's clear pleasure and surprise, the jolt to his body, the way he cried out despite the lack of air. And then, the way the Ascian can feel his own cock sink deeper, so snugly into that heat, a sensation that already has him groaning in satisfaction- only to have that pressure clench around him, choking off that sound with a tenser shiver. His hand around Mettaton's cock briefly tightens alongside it, thoughts scattered as the rush of that sensation runs through him. Almost too intense, really, in his heightened state, but that much more delectable for it, and the next sound he manages is more outright pleasured, if no more easily expressed.
Giving brief, firm kisses between each other's moans, his hand around Mettaton's arousal continues moving again, at first unconsciously, and then deliberately trying to time his strokes to match the rocking of his lover's hips. As though the idol was both thrusting and being penetrated at the same time. Even so, his hold tends to tighten closer to the head, occasionally rubbing a thumb over the very tip, before pulling his hand downward once more. Or his thumb will draw a line along the underside, from the base upward, dragging firm over the ridge. Just stroking over him like this, manipulating his hardness in his fingers, leaves the Ascian with ever more desires for it- to be fucked by him again, to suck him off until completion, to take his come that way as well- there was always more to want, which contrarily left him that much more enticed for all that he currently had. The way his lover's cock felt in his hand, the shape and stiffness of it was its own distinct pleasure, especially coupled with every sound and movement on Mettaton's part.
Most riveting at all, though, was the continued tight pressure around his own erection, the heat that dragged over much of his length, the endless rubbing welcoming him deeper. The way Mettaton's body gives way to him, squeezes and strokes him with each roll of hips, and he moans with ever more regularity at the sensation. Or tries to, on whatever air Emet-Selch managed to collect. His free arm clutches and kneads at Mettaton's thigh, helping to drag him lower, harder onto his cock with each roll downwards- though sometimes it only amounts to a tensing of fingers, digging in at the harder pulses of arousal, the pangs of want that leave him panting.
Even then, all he has ears for are the sounds coming from Mettaton, his voice sounding ever more lovely in its incoherence, noises that escape between their kiss. Lips parted to him, damply pressed to his Bonded's, he sometimes tries to suck at his tongue, but mostly gasps around it, his own stroking back at it.]
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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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Mettaton pressing forward, thrusting against him has the Ascian continue clinging to his legs as a result, though he manages to drag his hands around to grip the back of his thighs instead, in a press too firm to be called a simple stroke. And from there, drifting up to his ass, squeezing him, pulling him closer still.
Though a small, disapproving sound begins to form in his throat when Mettaton sits up, separating the contact of their cocks, it never gets a chance to escape when he feels his length taken into his lover's hand instead- and all protest is forgotten the moment the sensitive head of his arousal is brought against the other man's entrance. A suggestion of movement, of pressure, and he craves it with that much more intensity in that instant, the rush of his need leaving him tense, shuddering. And with Mettaton's words layered on top, it's such an easy thing to imagine: to feel the tip of his cock disappear into him, to be surrounded by his heat, held with such complete intimacy. And from there, to grab onto Mettaton's hips and drag him lower, onto his body, to have him yield entirely around his length, taking him entirely. To have their bodies flush together, to feel and claim him in another way, to fill him with his cock, and eventually his come--]
Gods, Mettaton--
[It's more than enough to trigger a breathy sort of gasp, erection twitching up against him, so close to the promise of greater warmth, and his hands massage over Mettaton's ass, fingers drifting dangerously inward. Somehow, he was meant to reply in the midst of all of this, and his voice was certainly no less strained than before.]
How- how convenient. To want the same thing....
[But they were both unprepared, which has the Ascian reluctantly release his hold on the idol- with one hand, anyway, head turning, arm casting about where he thought he remembered Mettaton leaving the lubrication he'd thoughtfully acquired. A search that feels like it takes far longer than it probably does, especially when it comes to the demands from his cock. And though it takes some leaning and stretching on his part, he finally succeeds in snagging it and getting some onto his fingers.
And while he considered going first to his own arousal, he finds himself reaching for Mettaton's side of things instead. It might feel a bit chilled at first, but- temperature differences were still a novelty, right?
Tugging at his thigh with his less-occupied hand, an encouragement towards keeping his legs appropriately spread, Emet-Selch slips his other hand between them. Nudging his own cock out of the way, he replaces its pressure against Mettaton's entrance with that of slick fingers, giving it a slow, teasing sort of rub, before pushing one inside of him with a steady insistence.
Tilting his head forward, he presses a shaky kiss to the base of Mettaton's throat.]
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Mettaton bites at his lower lip as a noise of both satisfaction and untempered need escapes his throat, a bit more needy than he imagined it would sound on his smooth voice. He sucks in a breath, closing his eyes for a fleeting moment as he takes in the sensation, the suggestion of what's to come, the sound of Emet-Selch's voice and the sensation of his erection twitching into him, and he can feel his own cock, completely visible before his Bonded, throbbing with need.
Another moment dedicated toward unprecedented sensation. All of this... how could he have experienced it anywhere else? With anyone else? Were he to sleep with someone else, sure, he'd be unrestrained. But could they match him as Emet-Selch does? They'd never be him.
Then, he opens his eyes to watch Emet-Selch reach for lube, warm and melty and deeply in love. Their usual swing from heated, fervent, carnal passion to aching, blissful affection, and he finds that one of his hands has trailed to press over his own heart to feel it beat against his fingers. And how hard it does, under the weight of exertion and romance. He zones out a bit as Emet-Selch squeezes lube onto his fingers, even as he watches him with a smile, and regains his full awareness as Emet-Selch's reaching for their bodies again.
More anticipation: and why shouldn't Emet-Selch wish to prepare him first, cold as it is? Mettaton relishes the threat, then gasps at the reality of cold slickness applied to his entrance. His eyes blow wide and his smile brightens at the complete novelty of it all, the attention paid to his body. He's overwhelmingly eager.]
Ah—!
[Leaning forward farther, his throat would easily meet Emet-Selch's lips. The pressure is strange, he's unaccustomed to what this should feel like entirely... And it only gets stranger when he slips a finger inside of him. Mettaton exhales. Cherishes the newness of it, the coldness of it that sets his feverish body shivering.]
H-Hades...
[He tenses severely around Emet-Selch's single digit before any kind of relaxing can take place. Even then, he's one to keep shifting, tensing erratically, moving — how could he bring himself to stay still with all of this heat building in him? He leans pleasurably into Emet-Selch's kiss.]
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Though they close for a few seconds as he works through a shudder, his eyes open enough to glance down as he takes a breath, Emet-Selch noticing when Mettaton places a hand over his heart. What was it like to suddenly have a pulse, he wondered. A completely unfamiliar sensation... and how many of those Mettaton seemed to be achieving in these short few months. In these shorter few hours, and he felt oddly touched at being able to watch and feel his reactions, to provoke some of them, to generally be a part of it. Feelings that lead him to devote further attention towards kissing his neck, gentle for the moment, if too open-mouthed and wet to be anything like chaste.
For all of the Ascian's own experience, much of this was new to him as well. Not any individual act, which were all entirely familiar, but all of the attached emotions. His degree of comfort and openness of response. Before, he'd tended to view sex with a generalized indifference; a pleasant enough thing, to be sure, but while occasionally distracting, it did little for him in any kind of sustained way. Having complete contempt for any of his partners hadn't helped, on top of being fatally sentimental. And with detachment at the fore, no one able to engage with or even aware of his actual self... there had been no space for involvement. He'd always thought himself restrained by nature, but was coming to learn in Mettaton's presence that he'd just gone unprovoked.
And here he was now, aching and invested. Desperate for him, both soul and and body. Emet-Selch didn't think he could find this with anyone else. Not like this- not to this degree.
He swallows again, closing his eyes. Rests lips against damp skin. Breathes in his lover's nearness.
At the tensing around his finger, he neither presses deeper nor retreats, only rubbing slowly within him, though the Ascian assumes the response is borne more from an unfamiliarity with the sensation or simple eagerness, rather than discomfort. The constant moving on Mettaton's part serves to further lead to that conclusion- and while the idol always seemed to be moving in some way as his default, it was made that much more endearing now. Excitement that couldn't be contained, the positive sort of agitation.
Taking that into account, he begins to move his finger with a smooth, even gesture as soon as he senses any measure of relaxing- at least, as evenly as he can, considering the slight jostling provided by Mettaton's body. He pushes as deeply as he can reach before sliding part of the way out, unhurried, despite the arousal pulsing through his blood. It's without any pause or hesitation that on one of those drags inward, a second finger joins the first, not quite as cold at this point, and warming quickly.]
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The sensation of his finger inside of him gradually becomes easier to accept. His inability to still, however, makes it so that he's continuously reminded of the size of it, made to tense spontaneously at the notice of it. The way his lover treats him to unhurried strokes of his digit, as deep within his body as he can reach before withdrawing slowly, is an energy quite unlike Mettaton's from earlier. Compared to his own needy fervency, an energy that compelled him to take to Emet-Selch's body with lusty haste, his manner is so much more deliberate, a dimension that feels as though he's soaking in the moment rather than leaping for immediate and complete gratification. MTT sighs yet more breath that he doesn't have, making room for an equally unhurried intake of air. Chest full even without oxygen, the robot's dazed by the consideration of his Bonded.
This bodily response is a sympathetic one to his lover's tempo, picking up on an even rhythm that only serves to entice him. An increasingly comfortable sensation, even as he tightens, or becomes too aware of this foreign intrusion in this foreign body.
But just as it's foreign, it aligns so right. This moment with Emet-Selch ranks among the most like himself he could ever possibly feel... And Mettaton doesn't think it's entirely because of this human form. It transcends it, a feeling like he's known completely. It warms him to his core.
Rewinding time, he wonders briefly if he was capable of relaxing solely in Emet-Selch's presence upon their first meeting because there was some sort of acknowledgement, deep down, that he could be this person who he trusts so deeply with the whole of him. And this trust makes it easier to tune into his pace, a measured stroke and a slow advancing, a pace intended to admire every step of the way. And so he does, paying mind to the way Emet-Selch's finger sinks into him. The way his own body tenses, the way he can feel the throb of pleasure in his own cock despite the lack of touch, the way he begins to relax and accept.
Emet-Selch's movements become rhythmic, a pushing and pulling that reminds him of what's to come. The idol couldn't possibly still, but his lower body relaxes just enough to welcome him inside of him entirely. His eyelid curtains as his hand presses more firmly to his heart, feeling for the way that his lungs expand and contract as he's forced to resume breathing. (He hadn't realized he was holding his breath until he began again, gasping for air, tensing again around his finger.)
It grows familiar. Easy to sink into. Addictive. Mettaton sighs, long and soft. His sigh, however, is interrupted by the suddenness of a second finger: he knows, because it's a slightly different temperature, a slightly thicker plunge, and he tightens all over again with a hitch of his breath, a note of surprise on his voice.
It doesn't hurt like he thought it would. No doubt, Emet-Selch takes meticulous care for the act of preparation, and Mettaton's thighs tremble. With this new introduction, he imagines with such vivid fascination the sensation of his cock, how soon he'll get to feel that sink hip-deep into his body. Mettaton fails to exhale, caught up in his fantasy as he is.
He squirms atop his fingers, panting, almost trying to shift his hips into his fingers, even with the surprising new addition. When he sighs, it carries a long, soft note of contentment, of fondness, and Mettaton pulls his throat away from Emet-Selch to trace his lips with his own, even as he pants, lips damp. Softly, he sucks at Emet-Selch's lower lip, purely infatuated.]
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Though he's occasionally tempted to pause whenever Mettaton tenses up, Emet-Selch decides ultimately to keep to the steady motion, a reliable, stable pressure. A predictable stroking of the inside of his body, the movement smooth, warm, and almost easy with the lubrication well-spread. But when Mettaton presses into his fingers, helping to drive them deeper, his breathing catches instantly- and then is made much harder to resume when he feels the other's mouth against his own, a gentle suck of his lip. A kiss he leans into with a small noise, and as though reacting to his need, his fingers begin to speed up. Barely lingering at their deepest point before withdrawing only slightly, then delving back again; a repetitive massage of his body from within.
And how he could feel Mettaton's pulse, along with his breath- and neither were things he could take for granted, that were precious and valuable not only because of their newness, but because of who they belonged to. Emet-Selch didn't think he'd ever get tired of listening to either, and he lets his tongue trail over his Bonded's lips with a shuddered sigh. Their mouths together felt nearly as slippery and warm as the thrusts of his hand, and it became easy to be lost in them both, in the combination. In both the anticipation of the moment, as well as what he already had in hand (or around fingers, more precisely).
Waiting until Mettaton seems to have adjusted to the intrusion of his fingers, Emet-Selch gradually slows down. And with his own breathing attempting to form into a pant, the throb of his cock getting ever harder to ignore, he finally decides to withdraw his hand while he could still do so carefully, while he still had control over it. Especially since he still needed to prepare himself, and the Ascian reaches over to obtain a bit more lubrication onto his fingers. Taking a careful breath, he wraps them around his own erection with a soft hiss, shivering from the contrasting chill of the substance against aching flesh.
While he had little inclination towards putting on any sort of display as Mettaton could do, the strokes over his own length weren't quite utilitarian either. A smoothing of fingers over skin with familiarity, and though it couldn't quite bring any sort of relief, it felt entirely too pleasant. Eyes closed, a soft moan slips out between breaths as his hand drags over skin that already felt too hot, a squeeze of fingers around the head while imagining the greater tightness of Mettaton's body. And even though it hadn't been part of his intent, knowing that he was doing this before his lover certainly added something, stole breath that he sorely needed.
But as nice as it felt, it wasn't enough to distract him from the purpose behind it, and it's not too long before he nips gently at Mettaton's lip as he guides his cock back into position with his hand, tugging a bit at his lover's hip with his other to help nudge him into place. He entirely can't help the twitch to his body, the noise in his throat, as he feels the very tip of his erection press against Mettaton's entrance. But apart from helping him to line up with his cock, Emet-Selch makes no attempt to drag him downward onto it, giving him control over how quickly he wanted to be penetrated.]
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He aches, raw and deeply enticed, unable to do much but continue to swipe his tongue and suck upon his lover's lower lip to keep himself with it, even when he slips into open-mouthed pants and sighs with the increased rhythm of his fingers at work. But his pace slows some more all over again, and that change in speed paired with the press of fingers into his thigh has him sighing all over again. Whether fast or slow, Emet-Selch treats him to an addictive rhythm that he wants to sit upon... Which only brings him further anticipation, knowing he'll get that chance, for all that he can't tense his legs by will at this point.
Just as he sighs in relief at the fullness and increasing familiarity of it, the Ascian pulls out. Mettaton's eyes fly open. There's no disappointment to be had over what's lost, but forward-thinking, the understanding that his Bonded feels them ready to move on.
It happens faster than he can keep track of. The realization that he's dispensed more lubrication into his fingers, Mettaton can feel his pulse in his own arousal when he considers what Emet-Selch's about to do to himself. The hand he has over his heart moves south on reflex, wanting to get in on the action of his preparation, wanting to know if he couldn't see him pull slick fingers over heated flesh. But his lover surprises him with his show of want: the obvious pleasure he takes in preparing his arousal for his body has Mettaton swallowing, anticipatory, transfixed upon his beloved's expression, his stolen breath and lidded eyes. And, no doubt, his imagination.
What he'd do to get front row seats to his lover's thoughts, if his own was going wild. An imagination for the imminent future, a precognition more than a fantasy. Mettaton swallows thickly around a gasp of sympathy.
The hand he has on his lover's shoulder drifts to his neck, skimming lightly over one of his deep, reddened bite marks. He thumbs it fondly with a soft hum and a warm smile against Emet-Selch nipping his lip. Mettaton responds to it by capturing his Bonded in a firm, passionate kiss...
...one broken by the sudden nudging of his cock, hot and slick, flush to his entrance. Mettaton jumps.]
A... Ah... Oh—
[A sharp inhale. The tug of his hip. Guided to sit squarely against the press of his erection, the nudge of the tip suggestion enough of what's to come. He swallows again, locking wide eyes with his lover. A disposition that slips from fully aware and alarmed, and downward into sultry recognition and deep covetousness. Mettaton's lips part in sympathy, body trembling.
He can't disguise his eagerness if he tried. Emet-Selch likely knew he didn't have to do a thing to get Mettaton started, for he immediately rolls his hips with a firm press down, lit aflame the very instant he feels the further impression of the glans sliding into his body. His body's been worked on to accommodate his length, Mettaton realizes with a sick delight, each gyration of his hips working to sink his cock into his body. And delightful it is, the sensation of tight muscle being intruded upon by the perfectly shaped head of Emet-Selch's cock, Mettaton thinks.
Hungrily, he presses down. Desperate for that sensation of filling, of rhythm, of that massage he was enjoying out of his fingers. He rolls his hips some more, a moan spilling from him, his head lolling on his shoulders as he loses himself so early to imagination even while he's fulfilling these fantasies. He works the tip of Emet-Selch's cock deeper inside, already set to wanting him and wanting him deep, legs spread, arousal standing at full attention as Mettaton's hands move down to brace himself against his own thighs, giving himself better ability to work his hips.
A slip in his tense muscles has the head of Emet-Selch's cock popping inside — and how could he have anticipated the way the corona feels, a defined ridge to further massage himself against? Mettaton shudders with a moan, rolling his hips with even more brazen desire. Even this much of him stretches him more than his fingers did, the promise for a deeper rub set out before him.]
Ohh, H-Hades... I love you, this is... Hah...
[Mettaton bears down on him some more, seeking greater stimulation with the rocking of his hips. And each roll, accompanied by more of his weight, has him sinking down upon Emet-Selch's cock. He breathes against his face, a shuddering thing as he traces his lips against the Ascian's with an indelible fondness that soaks even his soft moans in the feeling.]
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So it's not surprising at all when that tightness begins to close around the tip of his erection, but it still produces a cry from him, soft but fervent, as both hands move to Mettaton's thighs, clinging onto them. Emet-Selch digs in with his fingers as though he's the one who needs to brace himself, a squeezing of his arousal that he could never truly prepare for, reality more than matching his imagination. His eyes remain open for a few moments more as he glances downward, to catch each shift of Mettaton's hips, the gradual lowering with each rock of them, the way he could distinctly feel the result, so very, very closely. The suggestive spread of the idol's legs around him, the tension evident in his abdomen and thighs, the stiffness of his cock between them a tempting sight in itself.
Breath shallow and fast, Emet-Selch still manages a harder moan when his lover's body takes in the full head of his cock, jolting sharply at the sensation concentrated on the most sensitive part of him, leaning closer to Mettaton as he pants, kissing him desperately amid breaths.]
Ah-- Mettaton, you....
[The slickened muscle constricting around the ridge of his cock, the way his body seemed perfectly made to hold him- how could he find words to express any of that? How hot he felt, how good he felt, without even being entirely inside him. The affection he felt for him then, on top of everything he already felt, almost daunted. And he only shudders when Mettaton continues to move, feeling his length sinking deeper into him, impossibly warm and close. Emet-Selch's legs tremble and twitch underneath him, trying to press upward without conscious thought. And he shudders again when Mettaton moans, when he feels his breath hot against him, a reminder of the hotness of the rest of his body. Licks back against his lips- or tries to, tongue flicking against some part of them, at least. But his determination to kiss him in some fashion is at least clear.]
I- I love you- I... you feel--
[Clearer than his words, which aren't terribly coherent, but no less determined. The noise he makes is almost frustrated, but only briefly so; how could he be too bothered by insufficient wordage when his lover was busy stuffing himself full of his cock?
And as Mettaton shifts lower, taking more of his shaft, the Ascian manages to let go of one of his Bonded's thighs with one hand, drawn to the memory of the idol's own cock between them, hard and engorged and something he couldn't resist wanting to touch. Feeling for him without looking, recently-lubricated fingers brush against, then wrap around the base of him, moaning a little at the heat evident here too, giving him a squeezing stroke upward, getting caught at the ridge of the glans and tightening that little bit more around it.]
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He's felt Emet-Selch's love for him only growing more and more, less restraint placed upon it over the course of this single night. His own, too, only blossoms. His compassion deepens, his hope for him shines brilliantly, his love is deep and sticky and fills him up. It's such a powerful emotion that feels as though he's not only connected with his soul, but taken it as his own, a connection unmistakable that he would be able to feel always. That immense, powerful spirit of his is Mettaton's to adore, to keep, to know. Though the robot doesn't actively consider it in this moment, in the haunts of his mind, he wonders if he'll always, always have the impression of his soul lingering in his heart. (And if it would suspend upon his extra-dimensional death.)
With Emet-Selch's hands pressing upon his thighs now, Mettaton returns his own arms to wrap around his lover's shoulders, a method of bracing himself for greater control while expending some of the affection he harbors for him.
But he has his method of pleasuring the both of them all set, he thinks. The gradual rocking of his hips, letting Emet-Selch sink into him by degrees, but he's not sure how he could will himself to go from empty, to full, to empty again. Not right now. So filling himself up is his focus, his body not only entirely new to him but new to this. All sensation takes on a degree of newness with tissue and muscle, giving and forgiving. Mettaton presses his cheek to Emet-Selch's for a moment, exhaling as he rocks hips back and forth as he focuses not only at the gradual filling of his body, but how pleasurable it is to feel groups of muscles contract while he's so wanting, arousal hard enough to ache. After having just found this fulfilling position, it takes him by complete surprise to feel his lover's slick fingers take to his cock. He first slips into the sensation with a protracted groan, the desire to thrust, or to be taken. Second, he bolts upright.]
Ah—!
[In his surprise, he both relaxes, and tightens. Relaxes his muscles enough for Emet-Selch's length to plunge deeper, then clamps down around him. A moment of discomfort for Mettaton, but one immediately relinquished at the sheer pleasure of having his pulsing arousal toyed with. The gain is greater than the cost.
His breathing shallows and he looks down to see his lover's fingers gliding so easily up the shaft, only to squeeze him just under the head. Mettaton bites down on his lower lip, thighs tensing as he fights to moan on air he lacks. Finally, he finds himself pulling off of the Ascian's arousal, only to drop himself back down upon it. That forces him to inhale, at least. But only to the end of letting it back out in a broken moan, overwhelmed, to his increasing pleasure.
Who needs plans when he can be blinded by stimulation? Mettaton's not sure what he was trying to do anymore. He decides to do whatever feels good. Right now, he brings his lips to Emet-Selch's to take his lover back into a sloppy kiss, working his legs so that he bobs up and down upon his Bonded's length all while he stuffs himself fuller and fuller with his cock come each downward thrust. On top of it all is the attention the Ascian pays to his cock, the memory of his fingers squeezing around the girth of it. How is he supposed to take this? Mettaton's mind all but blanks as he works some more on taking both of their breaths away: by slipping a tongue between his lips, by finding himself moaning into his kiss as he finally finds it in him to slide up and down on his erection, by being taken so thoroughly by the sensation of even his own cock being tended to. He can't help each attempted exhale being accompanied by notes of pleasure, and he doesn't even realize he's making them.]
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As was the rest of him, and Mettaton's new form was indecently congenial when it came to demonstrating that claim, the Ascian barely swallowing back further moans when he feels the head of his cock stuffed ever more deeply. But even when it came to claim and possessiveness, it was tied up throughout with love and affection, protectiveness and caring, the desire to remain beside. How could either of them ever forget this, when their souls were joined, their bodies merged? Their intentions aligned, attentions combined, a fostering of excessiveness that had a strangely positive result. Intensive, invasive, and genuine, a composition that was more than any individual part. When Mettaton's cheek is against his, Emet-Selch leans back into it for the moment, in a gesture of simple fondness, that feeling in particular becoming the predominate one for so long as the contact lasted.
Mettaton's response to the hold on his cock was doubly gratifying. First, because of his Bonded's clear pleasure and surprise, the jolt to his body, the way he cried out despite the lack of air. And then, the way the Ascian can feel his own cock sink deeper, so snugly into that heat, a sensation that already has him groaning in satisfaction- only to have that pressure clench around him, choking off that sound with a tenser shiver. His hand around Mettaton's cock briefly tightens alongside it, thoughts scattered as the rush of that sensation runs through him. Almost too intense, really, in his heightened state, but that much more delectable for it, and the next sound he manages is more outright pleasured, if no more easily expressed.
Giving brief, firm kisses between each other's moans, his hand around Mettaton's arousal continues moving again, at first unconsciously, and then deliberately trying to time his strokes to match the rocking of his lover's hips. As though the idol was both thrusting and being penetrated at the same time. Even so, his hold tends to tighten closer to the head, occasionally rubbing a thumb over the very tip, before pulling his hand downward once more. Or his thumb will draw a line along the underside, from the base upward, dragging firm over the ridge. Just stroking over him like this, manipulating his hardness in his fingers, leaves the Ascian with ever more desires for it- to be fucked by him again, to suck him off until completion, to take his come that way as well- there was always more to want, which contrarily left him that much more enticed for all that he currently had. The way his lover's cock felt in his hand, the shape and stiffness of it was its own distinct pleasure, especially coupled with every sound and movement on Mettaton's part.
Most riveting at all, though, was the continued tight pressure around his own erection, the heat that dragged over much of his length, the endless rubbing welcoming him deeper. The way Mettaton's body gives way to him, squeezes and strokes him with each roll of hips, and he moans with ever more regularity at the sensation. Or tries to, on whatever air Emet-Selch managed to collect. His free arm clutches and kneads at Mettaton's thigh, helping to drag him lower, harder onto his cock with each roll downwards- though sometimes it only amounts to a tensing of fingers, digging in at the harder pulses of arousal, the pangs of want that leave him panting.
Even then, all he has ears for are the sounds coming from Mettaton, his voice sounding ever more lovely in its incoherence, noises that escape between their kiss. Lips parted to him, damply pressed to his Bonded's, he sometimes tries to suck at his tongue, but mostly gasps around it, his own stroking back at it.]
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