[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.]
[He doesn't realize it consciously, but his body does: to have each pull of his erection timed with the way he sinks down upon Emet-Selch's cock is a delectable reward. His mind goes as white hot as his body feels. If he rolls his hips more firmly, if he goes faster, if he sits upon him with complete dedication, will that hand around his length squeeze and hasten and follow his lead?
He decides this to be the case. Mettaton shivers, breathing hard and hot against the Ascian's lips as he holds onto him and struggles to kiss, gripping for something to brace himself against while he still tries to bear down on the whole of his length. He's still so tight, and Emet-Selch is so much thicker than fingers are, but it doesn't hurt — not in his revelry.
So Mettaton lifts his hips. He slides up his length, reminding himself what it's like to be made emptier, and finding it to be a shocking sensation. Shocking and needing to be filled.
Just at the ridge of his glans does he stop, hiccuping, tensing at the sudden sign to stop lest he find himself completely empty (intolerable), before he braces himself more solidly against his Bonded. He hasn't ever not been there for him, when he's needed him. He's always trusted him. He can use his body to brace himself in his curiosity to see just how far he can go with his body and his pleasure. He's his inspiration here, his motivation for these impossible heights and tantalizing depths. Somebody who has become so dear to him for all he is and isn't, a compliment to all he is and wants.
Mettaton raises his gaze and pulls back just enough from his lips to make eye contact. Deep, dark violet meets his golden eyes, and his expression impossibly softens some more. How he adores him, he thinks in this moment.
Shuddering in anticipation, Mettaton tries to relax his muscles. All he can think about is how badly he wants the squeeze of his arousal, the fullness of being fucked, and the sound of Emet-Selch's voice conveying his love for him. Muscles in his thighs slacken, and Mettaton finds himself, looser than before, sliding with more ease down the length of his cock. Gradually, bit by bit, being stuffed entirely, and he gasps without exhale all the way until he finds himself sitting upon his lover's hips.
There, he exhales in a full, loud moan. (More vocalizations. He's very vocal, really.) His body squeezes around him, and Mettaton's head lolls on his shoulders.]
Hades...! Oh...
[He almost jolts from his lap, but remains put. The hand around his cock is grounding, for all that it's teasing and pleasurable. Equally pleasurable, he realizes, is the sensation of being filled when he nearly lifts from his lap. He pushes himself back down upon him completely, filling his body with his lover's cock.]
You— I... have all of you. Hah.
[He tries to grin at him proudly. He manages, but he looks a bit dazed, love drunk, flushed, vision cloudy and body trembling. His body moves without him, attempting already to bob up and down upon his length, tensing and untensing in the process. The idol works his hips in short strokes from side to side, a light, blissful noise escaping his throat as he bears down on his hips as though trying to make himself right at home where he sits, Emet-Selch's length as deep inside him as it'll go. He sighs, long and shaky, before he begins to roll his hips again—
This time, his voice is thick, sultry, coming from somewhere deep to convey a sensation yet unknown. His eyelids curtain, and he exhales.]
Oh. Ohhh. You're- Ah...
[With these depths, the way he's found he can stroke himself with the firm head of Emet-Selch's cock... Mettaton's breath hitches, body tensing, before he suddenly begins to lose himself to a particular stroke. A particular pattern of rocking of his hips, up and down, gaze unfocused and strokes quickening as he begins to pant, wrapping his arms desperately around his shoulders again as his body takes over completely in his blinding pleasure. He's almost possessed by it in appearance, staring at Emet-Selch hungrily as his panting is accompanied by short gasps.]
[Kissing was ever more haphazard and damp, but that was alright. Intent mattered more than coordination, and any time their lips actually met served as a bonus to their efforts. And once started, it took little effort for Emet-Selch to match the movements of his hand with that of Mettaton's hips. It felt only natural, as though the only way he could respond to that rocking pressure around his length was by echoing it in his hand. The sensation under his fingers was slick and firm and hot, traits he knew his own erection possessed as it glided and rubbed along the interior of Mettaton's body. When he felt himself squeezed with particular energy, his hand tightened as well, pulling at him in long, heavy drags along the fullness of his length.
When Mettaton shifts upward, nearly pulling off of his cock entirely, Emet-Selch shivers, his erection feeling so chilled when not inside his lover's body, cold and slick and untouched. The sharp tensing around the head of his cock was some distraction though, and his hips twitch and tremble in response. But then Mettaton was bracing himself on him, and his pulse managed to somehow leap further when his Bonded begins pressing down again, with an intent that leaves him trembling in expectation. Of pleasure both current and impending.
Smooth, inexorable. A slide downward inch by inch, that he couldn't escape from: a feeling of both taking him and being taken, which was only fitting, Emet-Selch thought. How satisfied he was in that moment, despite his frenetic pulse and shaky breathing, despite the blinding ache in his cock- at having Mettaton sitting flush in his lap like this, legs spread around him, both of their composures a distant memory, fully in love and fully aware of it. He swallows thickly then at the sight of it, losing himself to the imagery of deep violet eyes and flushed skin, taut muscles and the rock of his body. The pride in Mettaton's face at taking the whole of his girth. The tightness of muscles that the Ascian couldn't see, but only feel, clenching around his erection as though to hold him there, as though to wring from him every noise, every cry and shudder.
Even the grip on Mettaton's cock trembles, then tightens, slowing with a rubbing grip around the head, thumb pressing into the slit with a steady pressure as the idol pauses in his lap, as though they were both taking stock of the sensations they were giving one another. The fullness, the constriction- both searingly hot. And when Mettaton continues moving--]
Ah-- M... Mettaton, I...
[The way he could feel the head of his cock rubbing Mettaton so intimately and repeatedly has his eyes fall shut again, body huddling as close as he could to him, breath a mindless panting. Still trying to thrust up into him, the movement of his wrist quickening to match each stroke, smooth and firm and incessant. He could barely hear his own sounds over those of Mettaton's, which were far more interesting regardless. Every gasp and pant, each pleased noise whenever the drag of his cock was particularly satisfying, he was enraptured by it all.]
I... I love you, please- please stay....
[He's not entirely aware of anything he says, but there's a brokenness to his voice that's not wholly from a lack of oxygen, briefly pressing his face to Mettaton's neck as he pants, nuzzling with a determination.]
[Continuing with his rhythmic rise and fall upon his lap, Mettaton arcs his back into the very sensation that brings him such exceptional pleasure, another breathless moan escaping from his throat when he feels this new sublime way that his cock massages his insides. Each bounce of his body is guaranteed by its fall, Emet-Selch's cock disappearing into Mettaton's body with every collapse unto his hips.
Mettaton is absolutely beside himself with the pleasure of it. One unique kind of pleasure, one that parallels how good it feels to pound into his lover. Another way to lay claim to his Bonded, and by virtue, leaving himself so prone. Everything is a rhythm now, all of it playing together to absolutely overwhelm his senses — and he gets the distinct sense that he's not the only one, Emet-Selch's pleasure his constant company all the way through. A presence undeniable in his very body, always tangible as he sits before him, taking his cock, feeling his soul in his body and wanting nothing more than to take that beloved spirit of his and keep it with him forever.
(The haunts of some event that isn't now are on the periphery of his thoughts, but Mettaton pushes it away. Focuses on now. It's easy to do.)
The idol can't hear himself when he says Emet-Selch's name over and over on gasping breaths, repeating his name like an enchantment. His Bonded curls into his body and speaks on a voice of fragile desperation, and Mettaton tries, on reflex, to wind metal arms around his person. He cannot, but that's just as well. His voice, regardless of its broken quality, possesses his name: he can hardly take the delight of it. His very human arms are flung around his body, where he grips down on him like a vice. His hand is pressed to the back of Emet-Selch's head, securing him in place, demanding that he nuzzle him and stay at his neck, even as Mettaton leans forward for himself to take a hearty bite of Emet-Selch's shoulder, teeth puncturing skin again for a final sort of claim, a final sort of pleasure. Thirsty for his blood in a way he's never been in his whole life, he laps at his fresh source of his lover's blood like it's ambrosia.
His entire being is something worth cherishing, for all he brings to Mettaton, and for all who he is. Company he's craved and didn't even realize it, proof to himself how nice it is to have somebody pulled aside like a secret. Somebody who knows.
The taste of his blood and the sound of his panting, so close to his ear, coupled with his body warm and secure against his own, fingers still wrapped around his cock even as he swallows up his arousal's lover, blinds him absolutely. Mettaton's voice is clear and loud, crying out without reserve, body rhythmically squeezing around the girth of Emet-Selch's cock in his climb to orgasm.
Mettaton nuzzles back into his neck in return, the only method of communication he has left to reassure his Bonded that he'll remain. He wants to remain. He wants Emet-Selch to stay with him, too. Kisses follow, peppered all over his neck and shoulder, painting Mettaton's lips a lovely crimson and leaving impressions of his fervor. His rhythmic thrusting continues, both into the Ascian's grip around his cock, and down upon the erection he takes into his feverishly hot body.
His abdomen spasms as Mettaton's climax hits him hard, a deeply pleasured moan coupling the eruption of come, all over Emet-Selch's huddled form.]
[Free arm wrapping around Mettaton's back, face pressed and held against his neck, Emet-Selch digs into him for purchase, or for safety- even though his Bonded is the source of all these intense feelings and excessive desires. And there was no calm at the eye of this storm, feeling himself only further battered by it. He could feel the efforts of Mettaton's body with each rise and fall, each time hips impacted his thighs, each time the full length of his cock was taken- and he could only hold on, press up, do anything he could to press deeper. To take him as thoroughly as he was being taken, to feel him completely.
The sound of his name in such a tone is something that the Ascian doubts he could ever forget, a reminder of identity that never failed to reassure. At least, not when hearing it from Mettaton. And how naturally it fell from his lips, that he had a hard time remembering what it was like to hear anything else from him. Nothing else would sound right. And it's only occasionally that his own voice even registers, noises that mingle with that of his lover's, combining in the same way as their bodies. A strange kind of harmony, his own tone still broken, half-muffled, half-gasping against the robot's neck, sometimes managing his name, sometimes only sounds, ecstatic and pleading.
Mettaton's throat is damp from his breaths right against it, wet kisses that were little more than a press of lips. But it felt like nothing compared to the piercing damp that blossomed from his own shoulder, the welling of blood and lapping of tongue causing him to jerk suddenly in response to the pain. His muscles spasmed, breath a sharp, quick inhale, tension and a quickened pulse causing the blood to flow that bit more freely against the other's mouth. But the pain was there for barely a flash before being converted back into pleasure, into intensity and gratification, that Mettaton was taking another part of him. The bloody kisses that followed over the area also struck him with deep fondness, able to imagine the smears left in his wake, the various degrees of mess that Mettaton was leaving him in.
And then there was another sense of wetness against his lower body, warm and thick and unmistakable as anything but his lover's ejaculate. The Ascian's hand slows as the orgasm passes through him, but doesn't stop immediately, grip even tightening, as though to wrest every drop of come from him. But his own cock was being equally squeezed, surrounded by heat and the clenching shudders of Mettaton's body, need fevered and desperate. So his own climax is squeezed from him moments after, moan nearly lost against Mettaton's throat, the sharp, pitched breaths that follow more noticeable, gasps for air that were choked by emotion more than anything else.
But the satisfaction was immense. To fill Mettaton with his come, to mark him like this- they were feelings that kept him huddled close, his hold around him tight. As much as his muscles wanted to give out, to collapse, holding onto him was more important. Covering Mettaton's shoulder and neck and jaw with kisses was more important. And though it finally relaxes, his other hand remains curled around his lover's cock for a few moments more, his stroke of it so slow it practically qualified as affectionate.]
[Post-climax, Mettaton doesn't slacken immediately by sheer will alone, though his body trembles with the exhaustion of energy. He holds Emet-Selch, clutching him close both out of consideration for his feelings and for his own satisfaction, continuing to lick and suck and kiss at his neck and throat around short, desperate moans delivered upon sighs. How overstimulated he is from the continued movement and grip about his cock, and how much he just doesn't care and delights in it regardless. Or perhaps he enjoys it that much more thank to it.
When he feels the first spurt of come fill his body, he yelps at the sensation. All of it's new to him, and Mettaton's body squeezes down on the full length of his cock as he moans in sympathy, ecstatic. He understands now, why this feels so much like a manner of claim to two partners entwined in the throes of passion, and he shudders at the notion with a contented smile. He squeezes Emet-Selch in his arms, defiant in the face of being spent and wanting to continue, or at the very least, to continue administering such affection upon his Bonded.
Body filled with Emet-Selch's cock and come, Mettaton exhales, paying attention to all of that sensation of hot fullness. And the way he continues to pull at his cock, too, is regarded with sensual affection: not a harsh sensation, but one that still sends chills up his spine with the knowledge of their passions combined. He wraps his lips around that bite mark he'd freshly created, sucking on it and tenderly lapping at it to supplement the heady delight of the moment with his Bonded's blood. When he lifts from that area of his shoulder, his body finally succumbs to a sort of warm, delectable fatigue, and he sighs, indulging in all of this. This body, this moment, this world, this man, his body, his soul, and the continued future he wants to share with him. Mettaton kisses his neck and sighs against his skin, infatuated completely.
It's all he can do to lean against the Ascian in his post-coital looseness. To lean into him, to continue focusing on every last feeling of his newly organic body, to catch his breath that he's felt so deprived of, and to relish the feeling of the other man in his arms. One of his hands trails lazily down Emet-Selch's spine, humming low and soft in his bliss.]
I love you too... so much, that it dazzles me. [Spoken on yet another sigh, a belated attempt to continuously reciprocate the love he feels for the man held in shivering arms.
He thinks only of them right here in each other's arms, in this moment. Someone live, who he can touch and hold and kiss and whose company he'd love to keep close. Mettaton breathes him in at his neck, complete with all of the smells he's come to expect on him: Emet-Selch, himself, and the smell of his blood lingering atop it all. He cares very little about getting blood on his face when he, too, buries his face into his neck.
Reflexively, his hips give a slight jerk at the sensation of such lazy, fond strokes over his increasingly flaccid cock. It reminds Mettaton of the lingering presence of his lover stuffed inside of him with all else he's filled him with, and he shifts upon his lap. Even as he does this, eyelids curtaining heavily, he thinks about every chance he got for a glimpse of his lover's countenance: his shuttered eyes, his parted lips and deep gasps, his flush, his striking gaze, each look imploring yet lost to pleasure. Every moan, every gasp, every movement.
He's suddenly so taken by every gesture and response he's pulled from Emet-Selch, and he feels his heart throb and his breath catch. What it feels like to be smitten by sight, he takes it.]
[As though there'd been any doubt, they were both claimed now, he thought. Another layer of taking and keeping, more than that of a bit of traded fluid (though that was a satisfying process in itself), but the more indelible marks left behind as well. What the Ascian knew he'd continue to feel, even after his bites healed and he could no longer feel the echo of the other man's cock inside him. What he assumed Mettaton would also feel, bound as they were. How could he ever lose him?
It was harder to imagine the possibility (the inevitability) in their current afterglow, and Emet-Selch doesn't try very hard to pierce that comfortable sensation for once. Time would do so on its own; it didn't require his help. But for now: there were gentle hands and heated skin, the scent of blood, Mettaton, and sex, a combination that was getting to be familiar. A combination that fit together. There was the languidness of limbs and the slow catching of breaths; the low, pleased sound that he makes when he feels the sucking at his shoulder, a bit more of himself tasted and taken.
With a last gentle squeeze of Mettaton's softened cock, Emet-Selch lets go of it in order to wrap that arm about his body as well, holding himself close, holding himself up, for that matter. Shivering faintly from the release of all of that collected tension, as well as from the hand drifting along his back, he feels otherwise warm. Warmed in ways that he didn't know could be warmed, not only by the heat that remained wrapped around his cock, but that of arms and lips, reaching deeper to the very core of himself. Touched not by any physical means but by sentiment itself. Something that he wanted to wrap himself in, something that could sustain him... if just a little. Just enough to keep going.
Mettaton's words of affection settle on him the same way, things that were still hard to take without a shiver, without reacting to the way it rested on the raw parts of his emotional state (which was most of it). But wanting to let it sink in as well, every breath and utterance that passed between them.
But that last compliment has him still, slightly puzzled by his own reaction, the lurch to his pulse, the brief tensing of his grip, the pause to his breath. He was oversensitive to everything at the moment, he supposed, every feeling applied so much more directly, without filter or defense.
Tilting his head slowly up, without losing contact with Mettaton's body, his lips trail a meandering line across his Bonded's face, though he becomes sidetracked by the taste of blood, licking gently at it as though to clean (and not doing a very good job of it, though). On reaching the corner of his mouth, he pauses, and despite the delay to try and collect his thoughts, words still felt woefully inefficient.]
...I love you. And- I'm grateful to you.
[A dissatisfying way to express much of anything, and he sighs very quietly against Mettaton's lips, following it with a small kiss, and a lean of his forehead against his. The Ascian had no practice at this.]
'Tis an unfamiliar feeling. There's any number of those, in your presence.
[At the rawness of his confession, Mettaton withdraws the hand venturing down his spine to cup his cheek, oddly touched at Emet-Selch's desire to express himself for all he can detect that it's inadequate by his standard. Upon contact, he's pleasantly surprised at how similar they are in temperature, palm to face, and both warm. The Puca leans into his venturing lips with a smile, though his fingers withdraw momentarily just to tuck his long bangs behind his ear, giving Emet-Selch's properly functioning eye his face to look at. Strangely, even Mettaton's "non-functioning" eye appears to focus on Emet-Selch somewhat though there's a clear level of struggle as he searches for some detail that he can't grasp. He shifts all attention back to his left eye.
The robot's smile reaches his eyes, and he nuzzles into his Bonded after that slight kiss, leaning back into Emet-Selch's forehead. His thumb runs along his cheek, their proximity such that he traces his features less by sight and more by touch. And Mettaton closes his eyes to focus on those feelings he deems unfamiliar, for all that his own are so excessive in their own right.
When the idol speaks, it's on a voice a bit more sluggish than usual as he comes down from his pleasure, voice an even, softer volume, dripping with his fondness and a touch breathless as a standard.]
The whole of this... It's unfamiliar for us both, in some way or another. From feelings... to impossible intimacy. B... But, who better to explore with than you?
[And, implicitly, with him. His smile grows at that.
He lets out a sigh, finding his muscles slackening so pleasantly, as though slipping off of the torrid high of his desire and into the gentler warmth of security and comfort. The kind of security found in this level of vulnerability, he thinks, continuing to stroke Emet-Selch's cheek with his thumb. A stable sort, the kind he'd always expect to find with his Bonded.]
If you're grateful... Then I take it these feelings I've evoked don't disappoint. [There's pride in his tone, yes. Of course Mettaton would take pride in being the catalyst for feelings unknown, especially as they run so romantic. But he softens some more.] The depths you've taken my own feelings... My. We're quite a pair, aren't we.
[New experiences, new heights, new depths, all of it intense. In this moment, at least, Emet-Selch is in so much better of a mood than he was when he first saw him tonight. Unwound, indulged, loved, cared for, taken into Mettaton's possession, distracted. All of which Mettaton finds gratifying, especially in its effect, their feelings both on tempo with one another's, for all that they usually find themselves in their opposite company. And still, perhaps, they are: similar feelings for each other, manifested differently. Mettaton can't help feeling so dreamy and light, but perhaps... the ache he feels in his chest, that's a feeling he's felt too rarely that he begins to feel more commonly with Emet-Selch. Love, he takes it. The kind of love that aches, in how it's blossomed into something so vibrant.
The arm he has about the Ascian's back tightens. He tries to shift his legs, finding them a unique kind of wobbly and stiff; he exhales in a cross between a sigh and a huff. Trying to shift at all gives him a window into how strange it feels to have Emet-Selch's cock still buried within him... not that Mettaton minds the strange terribly much. So he gives up. The robot relaxes again, not having what it takes to move yet. Bodies of flesh... are fickle.]
[The hand resting upon his cheek has his own eyes open, though there's little Emet-Selch can see through the one. Only the impression of a face: familiar to him and yet slightly different from what he'd gotten used to over these months, though not in the way of anything wrong or mistaken. As with the rest of his body, it was an easy thing to accept, and a pleasant thing to learn the details of.
When Mettaton's hand moves again to trail over his face, his eyes close again to better take in the sensation, as well as his voice, rather than the blurry, too-close imagery of like a quarter of his face which was the best his eye could discern for him. That their... relationship was a mutually new thing was of slight reassurance, if not particular surprise; even if they were coming at it from different angles, different reasons, neither of them had had the opportunity for this experience. This series of experiences, he corrected himself mentally. The layers that apparently went with affection.... Emet-Selch wasn't certain if it was by necessity complicated, or whether he made it so by virtue of it feeling extremely difficult. And dangerous, to leave himself so vulnerable to another.
And soft and warm; his hands run with deliberation along Mettaton's back, another bit of learning through touch. Still holding him close, not letting him fall away from him should his muscles continue to relax. Another thing Emet-Selch wondered about, distantly; what was it like to have a body that could 'fail' in this specific way? Not from a battery drain, or even mental fatigue (though mental state always played a part), but the way muscles felt when worked and were then allowed to rest? Thinking about what it must be like has him notice the way his own body felt in more specific ways than just 'pleasantly tired and generalized soreness I guess'. The specific ache to legs and shoulders, the more surprising one to his abdomen, everywhere he'd been tensing quite considerably, he realized. The result being a certain heaviness, though a satisfactory one.]
--Not exactly the difficulties we'd anticipated inflicting on one another, are they?
[Though even that optimism was something Emet-Selch felt he could appreciate on occasion now, even if he still didn't understand it. And Mettaton had taken his despair with far more grace than he'd thought anyone could. He follows the idol's sigh with one of his own, kissing him again afterward- as though this was something he could just do. That felt as though it should be normal. Whenever he thought about it, it surprised him. That he was yet capable of this, or that he wanted to be.]
But I've yet to be disappointed... as strange as it all is. [His tone is slow, thoughtful, hands slowing their stroking to rub small circles under Mettaton's shoulderblades.] To find this with anyone else is something I've difficulties imagining. How cruel, then, that only with someone from another world, that I....
[Or how fortunate, a more positive person might say, that insane, impossible and terrifying chance had led to this moment. But he's unable to see it that way, shaking his head at it finally, though it's only a slight movement, unwilling to move far from Mettaton's lips. Taking his lower one between his own, he sucks gently at it, taking in the taste of blood that remained; another gesture of affection that ought not to have existed, but which he was currently experiencing. But he didn't regret it.
When Mettaton shifts slightly, he almost lets go of his lip in the breath he reflexively takes, reminded of the warmth and contact that his cock remained surrounded by. Not uncomfortable, really, mostly odd- and, well, another occasion that he didn't mind leaving to Mettaton to decide when to disengage. This was a new experience, after all; he could feel it for as long as he wanted.]
[Mettaton would have to admit that when it came to his body, there's so, so much for him to focus on with regards to its changes even over the span of the last hour. And really, he regards it all as wonderful. Where he hadn't noticed any tension in his back, Emet-Selch's fingers move to rub him anyway. And how pleasant, that this affection isn't only sweet, but effective — muscles that yet possess a level of soreness lingering are pressed into by fingertips, and it warrants a sigh out of the robot. He'd felt somewhat what it was like to have muscles in his legs, but having a body made of it...
It isn't to discount his robotic form, which he also loves. That's his coveted body. But there's something so wildly fantastic about this that gives Mettaton so much of what he's always loved in a human's body. Right down to this inability to move. It warms him up from his core, thinking about what they've done to each other to reach such a point of succumbing.
So he sighs into that kiss. When Emet-Selch falters thanks to his movement, he takes control of it with a soft breath, taking his lower lip for himself with a contented hum. A reminder of his body, a reminder of their passion that persists, and... what he's found here, in Aefenglom.
Considering the chances at all has Mettaton deepening his kiss. He leans in, hungry for it as he slips a tongue against Emet-Selch's lip, feeling him as he applies a gentle sucking to his lip with another hum of pleasure. He breaks his longing kiss to respond, before he gets too distracted. He exhales an airy, blissful laugh alongside his sigh, smitten and charmed and in love. But not just that: loving Emet-Selch, wanting the best for him and wanting to see him flourish, however they can.]
A fantastic meeting. Somebody to indulge in all of this strange newness with, as raw and as intimate as you and I can combined. How I cherish it, that I'm sitting here before you now...
[On a smile, Mettaton's definitely on the more optimistic end of things. He feels overwhelmingly fortunate and grateful in this, grateful that Emet-Selch took to him as he did, grateful that he learned such crucial details about the Ascian when he did, and grateful that they met at all, even if their meeting was like a roulette that required being captured and tortured by humans to do it. Mettaton wouldn't trade that in for anything: it brought him perspective, it brought him sympathy, and more than anything else, it brought him Emet-Selch.
In his love, he takes Emet-Selch into another kiss. Such a familiar taste embellished by the blood lingering between them. More dizziness; more craving, for all of what Emet-Selch has to offer. His heartbeat itself feels thicker and harder in his passion lit anew, and he presses into that kiss, his love for the other man overcoming him.]
Oh, Hades. I love you...
[Said upon an exhale brief enough only to say as much, where the idol otherwise presses more deeply into this passionate, loving kiss.]
[A trading of licks and kisses, as though it were natural behavior, to respond to and appreciate each other like this.... It was distracting, a contemplation interrupted by sensation or sound, before falling back into noticing the pleasantness of Mettaton's laugh, and attempting to recall when he'd first recognized his voice as being an actual pleasure. Early on, he thought- whenever he'd heard him pitched low to his ears, for his attention alone. Intimate and close, even when he wasn't being deliberately suggestive. But how he'd come to appreciate the sound in itself, no matter his Bonded's tone. But Mettaton's voice when he was clearly happy about something... that was probably the best. What he wanted to hear the most of.
But to care this much for someone else's welfare.... In a sense, it wasn't strange. Emet-Selch would always prioritize the survival of Amaurot; any Amaurotine's well-being would be of importance, even if he weren't personally well-acquainted with them. That was how their society worked, how a society was meant to work. They would've done the same for him. But it wasn't- individual, as this was. A personal investment based on specific understanding. Even in Amaurot, Emet-Selch had never particularly... opened up to people. And in the world after, who was left to open to?
But Mettaton wasn't even of his own people. And this wasn't just a passing attachment to a mortal soon lost, and who never learned much of himself in the process. But he found that he wanted the best for him, took particular pleasure in Mettaton's own satisfaction with his transformative success, or in his eagerness regarding the re-legalization of theatre. To watch him live his life while the Ascian was only idling, waiting for nothing at all, existing. But there was something in existing alongside him, being a part of his life even if he didn't have anything left of his own.
To be cared for like this, so honestly....
He envied Mettaton's ability to speak his thoughts into being; the Ascian could do spite, and viciousness, arrogance and furious despair, but the softer side of vulnerability was so foreign. All he had were feelings: all of his own, and all he could feel from Mettaton, intensities of fascination that continued to feed on one another.
And this kiss. He had that, pressing into it with an emotional sort of hunger, as though he could make up for his other shortcomings in ways like this. One of his own hands ends up pressed to the side of Mettaton's face; he can't remember placing it there, but it helps to steady him- physically, at least. Mentally, he was far more a wreck- as though, with his guard so far removed, everything was able to pile onto him at once. Affection and need and grief, the terror of being left alone again, after he'd given himself away; the desire to see Mettaton's continued happiness, the wanting to do better for his sake, the guilt from so many sources. Resentment towards life, and the fear of death, and the not knowing--
But there was this kiss, his lover's pulse and breath and body. Emet-Selch tries desperately to focus on that alone. On the man in his arms in that moment, whose lips he was currently tasting, the love that he wanted to demonstrate to him. His throat felt too tight to speak, the only sound he could produce was something easily lost between their mouths. But he loved him; he knew that much. He didn't know much else.]
[The torrent of his Bonded's feelings don't go unnoticed by Mettaton, whose kiss remains passionate while also gentling: striking that perfect balance, a state they both seem to encourage out of each other. The strength of his legs returns enough for him to press his thighs against the side of Emet-Selch's body, his own hold on the Ascian firming up despite himself. His fingers trace around the curve of Emet-Selch's ear, rubbing gently around the back of it toward the base of his skull in small circles, a slight hum slipping from his throat even as he takes him in another easy, firm kiss.
Mettaton remains firmly grounded in the moment. He lets each sense of his take him, the warmth of his body against his thighs, the feeling of Emet-Selch's fingers against his cheek, the hold he keeps on Mettaton's body in return, the way that he remains on his lap, still filled with him. The knowledge that Emet-Selch's filled with him, too. The earthly desire for both, for all of his body in every regard, for giving himself in return. He strokes sensitive fingertips through his hair, relishing the newness of it that he can't quite pinpoint. Everything takes on a new dimension to Mettaton in this body, perhaps the temperature of it all the contributing factor.
The world around him feels colder than he imagined, but everything in his immediate presence is warm, hot, alluring enough to slip into like a bath. From his lover's arms to his mouth to his body, but also the current of his internal state, everything he can reach through their Bond.
Mettaton's hand skirts down from Emet-Selch's ear to rest over his heart, fingertips pressing firmly into bare skin. He stills. Stills enough to try to feel for a pulse, for all that it's not the best place for detecting a pulse. It's what Mettaton wants.
He breaks their kiss, but remains so close to his Bonded's lips that he speaks against them.]
I like to share my thoughts, as you know. But... You know I'll be here for you, too.
[It might be too difficult for him to even want to unravel such threads of complicated, built-up emotion, but his Bonded is terribly emotional. Mettaton learned that quickly. So much he feels, and he scarcely ever gives himself any outlets for it.
And yet, is physical expression not some manner of outlet? Mettaton pulls away from his face then, a glint in his eye. An invitation, a method of expression that could transcend words if it's impossible to untangle them for the linear restriction of speech. Mettaton has favor for expression even without words, after all. He rubs the spot over his chest with his thumb, his smile a natural part of his features that takes on a unique glow in his Bonded's presence. He leans in to Emet-Selch's neck, burying his nose just beneath his ear and breathing him in before giving him a firm kiss.
On a low, inquisitive tone, the Puca lets a few more kisses trail up to his jaw: a thorough job of delivering affection enough to break him and to mend him simultaneously on the horizon. He would take to him so intensely that it would have to suffuse him soul-deep, his body a conduit for the feelings Mettaton has for his lover at his very core. From his perpetual gloom to his keenness, from the agreeable to the disagreeable.]
[Another thing to be grateful to Mettaton for: his steadying presence. Something he never would've expected to find with him, considering his general level of activity, his extroversion and habits towards movement. And yet he felt stable, for all his intensity, and if it can't wholly settle his pitched emotional state, it provides him something to focus on, something current and available to him. Someone important that he could hold, but could also so easily lose--
Emet-Selch cuts that thought short too, returning to the holding, the now. The firmness of Mettaton's grip on him, the softness of fingers in his hair, the taste of his mouth, and the gradual way they began to taste of each other. Another way they could blend. From Bond to body, and everything that fell between.
Fingers trace to his heart, and he quiets a little, considers his own pulse, how close it was to Mettaton's hand, for all that it must be hard to feel. But the Ascian could well feel it, elevated still- if not from the throes of arousal, but an agitated emotional state. But it was a little grounding, somehow, the fingers that press to his skin. And the voice that followed, able to feel the words against his lips as much as hear them.
Swallowing them back, Emet-Selch tries to settle his breathing, hand stroking slowly at Mettaton's face before pausing when the man pulls back from his. His own expression is slightly cautious- not of his Bonded, but of everything else. Emotion that threatened to spill back over, something that was either suppressed or a tempest, nothing that he knew how to release gradually. But he's struck again by how lovely Mettaton looked when he smiled like that- when that expression was directed at him for some reason. A sight that was worth breaking a kiss over.
Arm moving around him again, his fingers brush along the back of Mettaton's neck as he feels his face pressed to his own. Takes in the sensation of breath near his ear, the dampness of kisses against his jaw that both comforted and provoked. Everything he felt for his Bonded was involved in his unstable emotional state, yet the man remained a reassurance. Companionship he so sorely needed, and so desperately wanted. An agitated consolation, knowing that Mettaton would be there for him, and finding that prospect yet unsettling. Good things were always lost.
Tilting his head into the path of his lips, his fingers rub very slowly at the back of his neck, at the soft strands of hair there. The question was another thing to focus his scattered thoughts around, but he feels a little steadier, at least.]
Other than the things I can't have, you mean.
[There was a long list. It's a statement that's followed with a quiet sigh, barely perceptible against skin or hair.]
[Said with a fervent emphasis, his tone itself suggesting how glad he is to express as much. It's both a confirmation and a description of just how much he possesses Mettaton, spoken directly against his skin. He places kiss to his throat as he travels back down his neck, wetter than anything he gave to his jaw as he finds himself decisive about what he wishes to communicate to his despairing Bonded. Through action, expression.]
You have me... always.
[Biting gently this time, Mettaton takes flesh between his lips and kisses hard, working a mark there with suction — the first of his image of complete allure, a ravished, ravaged Emet-Selch that exceeds even what they managed before the mirrors. Where he presses his lips, he can almost feel the haunts of what used to be there in some other time (or place, considering the dream), imagining kisses and bruises and bites that have long faded or haven't exactly existed at all, if one were to get technical about it.
But it doesn't change a thing: remembered or not, perceived or not, didn't Mettaton mark him up severely? That happened.
His thumb remains stroking over the Ascian's quick-beating heart, his lips against his pulse, his arm steady against his back in their reciprocal embrace. Uncertainty would always remain in this place, but Mettaton cares not for its rules, he's decided. Anything he does to him would be there forever, aware or not, dead or alive, present or absent. That's the nature of Mettaton's existence. If all else fades, Mettaton believes he will always persist. It's what he wants, anyhow.
A bruise, deep and contrasting so starkly against Emet-Selch's skin, is left behind. Mettaton regards it with satisfaction, a note of this evident on a hum. How could Emet-Selch ever question if he's ever had Mettaton if he can always envision these marks, even if they've faded? He won't let him doubt for a second their possession of each other, an enduring thing that Mettaton's so sure of wanting.
And so he shifts slightly, sinking his teeth into his neck with a paradoxical gentleness: a scrape, a decision, a mark, then the pressure, all the way up until his skin breaks and blood flows. This time, it's not only with Mettaton's insatiable appetite in mind, but his desire to communicate a message to his Bonded. He would never have to ask again if he has Mettaton, and if Mettaton has him.
For all that this mark is only a part of his artistic vision, Mettaton still groans at the taste of blood. It's becoming so familiar a taste, just as familiar as Emet-Selch's mouth. His emotions run concupiscent all over again, but a note of reassurance and deliberation combined.]
[What conviction. Though not a surprise, it's said with such clarity of intent that Emet-Selch was briefly taken aback by it. Saying things like that, claiming things like always; it'd be a cruel sort of tease if he weren't so convincing. If the Ascian didn't want to be convinced, to try and go along with Mettaton's absurd view of things. To trust that it would somehow work out, or that the present was all that they needed- that if they could keep extending this moment, there was no reason to fear the ending of it. That this, somehow, would remain, because they wanted it to.
Quickened pulse more evident in his throat as he bares it to him, the Ascian shivers as lips close on it, as he feels the tightness of skin being bruised under his Bonded's efforts. A visible sign that Mettaton had been there, that he could look at and touch in the days to come, and remember this moment. Even faded, it would remain in his memory with all the others. Layered on top of every previous image, how long would it take before he could see nothing else? Only record after record, all in a perpetual state of being renewed.]
Then-- I want to see how much you can take from me. How much... can you leave behind?
[An encouragement, however unnecessary, towards Mettaton's current efforts, expelled as a hiss between teeth, half-pained, half-simply intent. A response to the sinking of teeth into his neck, the deliberate breaking of skin. The love and even care that he could feel behind that damage, that struck him more deeply than any bite ever could. The strange consideration involved even when he was drinking his blood. How could he not trust Mettaton's judgement? He was so certain--
They possessed one another. But there was no harm in seeing that expressed. In feeling it written into his flesh, using the instruments of lips and teeth. His skin made to give way to Mettaton's intention, as though there could be any other outcome.
His hold on him tightens, fingertips kneading, body pressing to his and demanding his continued closeness. Closeness and claim and shared possession; how many markings could his body take? What records could Mettaton leave behind on him or in him; how much could he fit? It was an odd sort of curiosity to have, but a thought that was becoming quite captivating.
Much better than rational fears or uncertainties. There was a hand on his heart and teeth at his neck. A combination that felt like the most natural thing of all.]
[Emet-Selch's demand, something more of an invitation than anything, manages to heat his blood and push his own pulse to pounding. He never stopped being Mettaton or a Puca, for all that he appears perfectly human, leaving him prone to all of the same vices: Emet's blood, possession, and Emet-Selch himself. He tongues him roughly, dragging even his lips along his newest mark to drink him up as he takes a smaller point of that ring of teeth to suck a bruise into. It yields him more of a taste all the while, a delicacy unlike any other that sends a tremble through the robot's body. Anticipation's been there, it usually is, but this dials it up, setting him in a new frame of mind. He's maddened by this desire to prove how persistent his presence could truly be.
Mettaton shifts upon Emet-Selch's lap to facilitate this closeness, for all that he still hasn't lifted from his cock. And he doesn't see a reason to, if it doesn't bother him, though he envisions Emet-Selch reclining before, prostrate and vulnerable, in the near future. There's a part of Mettaton abundantly glad for the fact that there's no ritual of clothing removal whenever he has Emet-Selch already stripped, and he thinks to himself that for every time they sleep in the same bed, he'd like to preemptively rid him of clothes, for all that he enjoys attire. It's part of a ritual, but part of one that he'll just have to proudly take care of with immediacy. His thoughts are accompanied by his tireless covetousness, sating himself with more of Emet-Selch's blood, licking and sucking at his first mark while drifting over his pulse with his lips, spreading a line of red along his throat as he mouths him, a sudden awareness of how delicate his neck is.
And how prone Emet-Selch makes himself to him. It has Mettaton pressing into him in return, body flush to him as he angles his head down and buries himself in Emet-Selch's neck, having drifted to the other side as he leaves kisses and bruises in his wake. He's already bitten into this side of his neck, but it's not enough. This time, he doesn't hold back to start: Mettaton bites down hard, getting woozy off of the immediate gratification of fresh blood on his tongue, the magic of his Bonded exquisite. Irresistible.
He swallows, an excess of drool accompanying a tongue blood-drenched. He speaks against his neck, voice dark and velvety.]
With how delicious you taste... With how much I need you. You'll never escape it, how I intend to mark you up.
[A swipe of his tongue; another swallow. Every muscle in Mettaton's body is tensed, as if ready to pounce upon something he already has in his clutches. His fingers prod his chest, his palm rubs into him, all of it softer than the rest of him, all of it undeniably fueled by absolute attraction and reverence.]
Your whole body, by the way... That's what I'll be enjoying. Ha.
[Would Mettaton's recent fascination with his blood ever begin to strike him as excessive, unusual? It certainly wasn't unwelcome, from the taking of it, to the raw marks left behind in the process. It was nothing like the tidy (if also surprisingly pleasant) process of being fed on by a vampire; this was both painful and a bit of a mess. Neither were traits that he perceived as a detriment, any discomfort registering more as intensity. Or at the worst, the smallest of prices to pay for the resulting bruising and redness. For the feeling of blood and his lover's saliva mixing upon his skin, an experience too heady for him to even consider trying to discourage, much less limit.
Though really, if Emet-Selch ever realizes that Mettaton's getting himself addicted to his blood rather than simply appreciating it, his response would be, essentially: good. Another way he could never be left, if his Bonded required him for his fix.
Not that there seemed to be any risk of that, considering Mettaton's words, his posture, every act and word. And how comforting it was, rather than restrictive, to be faced with that level of intent, to not be permitted to leave. Not that he would ever try. But- their metaphorical claws were dug in regardless, a combined threat and promise, demand and reassurance.
His wounds were raw and warm, but the damp lines left in Mettaton's wake cooled very quickly, the contrast producing a shiver. His body in its entirety didn't feel warm enough at all, not when compared to the burn of injury or any place the puca was currently pressed against. Or around; his cock was currently quite warmed, still buried inside him for the moment. But it's a persistent contact that facilitates a response, particularly when paired with the next bite, the next release of blood into his lover's mouth. A gradual hardening that has his breath hitch, turning into a low moan at the thought of how that must feel. And how exposed he was in all aspects, that he wouldn't have been able to hide his burgeoning arousal from him, even if he'd wanted to.
And what else did he need blood for, in the end? It was there to either fill his cock, or Mettaton's mouth; any other purpose was of far lesser importance.
He shivers again, at the thought of being marked all over, unavoidably damaged, at the tautness to the other's body, as though he were only moments away from tearing him apart. How his own pulse races in response, muscles tensing as though responding to an impending threat- yet with no intention of trying to escape from it. He would dash himself against his lover's jaws and hands however he could, drive them deeper, in order to keep him from ever pulling free.]
Good.
[His voice is a hushed whisper, head tilting against Mettaton's, rubbing a bit against him, the scent of fresher blood becoming more distinct.]
I expect you'll be thorough.
[They were neither the sort to be satisfied with half-measures. A healthy combination.]
[His entire moment seems to close in on him with the sound of Emet-Selch's voice commending it all. And the sound of his moan, the sudden tensing of his body, the realization of his gradually filling cock——
Mettaton switches from tonguing to a firm bite into his shoulder, bracing himself against a harsh, unbridled moan, which he lets out against skin. Two wounds in Mettaton's wake to bleed out, a third to be consumed from. For now, he grips down onto his Bonded with his teeth as he licks and tastes experimentally at his body, head spinning from it all. The way they both desperately mash their bodies together as firmly as they can, the way Emet-Selch's grip on him is unforgiving but so tender, the way he can feel his heartbeat drum in his bite, blood pushing into his mouth. An association made, a neurological pathway forming itself to associate the taste of his blood with arousal, inebriating and necessary.
And his arousal, which begins to form itself into something firmer while he'd gotten accustomed his softness. Mettaton twitches on his lap, anticipatory of his impending erection, the realization that he'd get such an intimate experience of feeling his filling, a response to his body and his actions. He curves his back into him on reflex, rocking hips into his lap slightly, the suggestion that he welcomes and encourages the sensation he could spring upon him.
He pulls his teeth off of his Bonded and switches back to lapping up blood, cleaning him and kissing him all about his neck and shoulders, revisiting old wounds and licking sloppily at all he can ingest. All the while, he returns this gesture of ardor, slipping into a firm nuzzle of his Bonded appreciatively, possessively. A nuzzle that turns into a revisit of Emet-Selch's lips, the hints of a growl on his voice as he takes to a forceful kiss.
Mettaton sucks at his lover's lower lip before nipping him, a low, primal groan his expression for his need. His tongue explores his lip some more, searching for ways to make him that much more flushed, imagining his lip swollen to match the anticipated tinge of his cheeks. Imagining him fucked silly, imagining Mettaton taking to him over and over and bleeding him dry of anything he has to give: blood, sweat, come, tears, any of it, he'll take. Filled in its place with himself, he imagines so vividly. Emet-Selch beyond his senses, marked up and possessed entirely.
He tenses around his Emet-Selch's cock as he finds himself rousing, cock firming up. How could he deny himself the pleasure he feels from his beloved's body? Mettaton slips his tongue between his lips, pushing into his lover with the threat of toppling him down and into the mattress. Muscles still taut, still ready to lunge, ready to pin him down and screw him senseless at the slightest provocation — and it entices him to do so.]
[A new bite, left to ache in sympathy with the others, in time with the beat of his heart. And how his pulse was encouraging Mettaton's work, keeping blood flowing quickly to each new wound, the sort that could have easily escaped, to spill freely down his shoulder and chest, were it not for the tireless efforts of the idol's tongue. Not that his skin was left remotely clean from all this, and he shuddered to think what he would look like at the end of this. A thought that steals his breath and makes his cock hard, prodding the interior of Mettaton's body with greater structure. Penetrating him rather than merely being contained by him. The rocking from his lover's hips, the tightening around his length, further serve to speed that response, slightly dizzied by how quickly he could feel himself filling up.
But it was a satisfying realization. And a low, encouraging hum rumbles through the Ascian's throat at the licking and swiping of blood, from fresh marks to older ones, where easily-disturbed clots were attempting to form. With several points to draw from, and ever more blood lurking just beneath the surface, it would be hard to imagine ever running out of the substance. No matter where Mettaton turned, there would be something easily available for his consumption.
It was a rougher, more primal sort of affection, but no less affectionate for it. It's this that Emet-Selch is aware of when wet, reddened lips capture his, pushing forward against his face. A pressure he returns on instinct, licking back at him when he can, breath shivering at the suction to his lip, the suggestion of teeth in it. His own growl matches Mettaton's when his skin isn't pierced, briefly biting down on the puca's own lip as though threatening to snap through it instead.
Hand lowering to grip and dig into Mettaton's thigh, the Ascian groans around the tongue shoved into his mouth, a blood-soaked but familiar sensation, sucking hard at it with an added scraping of teeth. The metallic taste in itself didn't do much for him, but knowing that it was his was a strangely exciting experience, that such vitality was coating his lover's lips and tongue, that Mettaton had such fascination with obtaining it from him. That in itself made it an appealing thing to taste on him.
Despite the desire for being pushed back, his own tension doesn't relent, pressing back hard into the kiss, into his body. Arching forward, not in the remotest attempt to prevent him, but in its own sort of challenge. To be pressed back, held down and taken. The feeling of Mettaton's own hardening cock brushing against him was a deeply wanted sensation, to feel what he could do to the other man, to have that evidence of his attraction.
The chaotic mess of his own emotional state was still there, but with sheer physicality arresting his senses, it provided him a focus for it- or possibly, some manner of outlet. The intensity Mettaton could provide him, the primal taste of blood, their hardening erections and the rub of heated, sweaty skin. They could claw into each other with such love that there was no mistaking it, to leave wounds that couldn't heal.]
[Were he to pierce even his lip, he could have his blood and his mouth, Mettaton realizes. In a rush feverish enough to exceed his body temperature, his breath hitches. The challenge Emet-Selch poses to him in pressing so hard against his front, hard enough to make contact with his erection, is the only real catalyst he needs to do... whatever he wants, really. All recklessness is for him, and all indulgence is on his mind.
It happens in tandem. Mettaton pulls back his tongue, taking just Emet-Selch's lower lip between his teeth. He presses a sharper canine to the delicate, sensitive flesh and presses, hard, passion and craving making such a bite easy to do. How could Emet-Selch miss the sensation of his presence if even his lip was marred by him? And he bleeds, and Mettaton moans into the first spurt of blood, the taste of the Ascian's mouth mingling pleasantly with the metallic quality of blood. The Puca locks him in a deep kiss full of tongue, tasting, and suffocating. All while his muscles let go that pent-up inertia, intent to knock him onto his back in pure vulnerability.
He slides off of his cock, leaving it to the unforgiving air as he rises from his lap. His hand against his heart presses, the rest of his body taking Emet-Selch entirely against his own to manipulate him in his arm, relinquishing his hold on his lip if not just to avoid colliding with him in his ferocious tackle. Emet-Selch is pinned beneath Mettaton's body by his wrists as MTT's chest heaves hot, heavy gasps, dark locks of hair brushing the side of Emet-Selch's face as he hovers over him. Knees still on either side of Emet-Selch's hips, his hands clamp down on his lover's wrists with possessive intent, a hunger in his eye that nearly catches light even while he's in shadow.
He smiles down at him, face slathered in smears of red, a sloppy, but desired result. He sighs at the sight of Emet-Selch beneath him, a shockwave of hot pleasure coursing through him so intense that it could no doubt be felt even by the man before him, bound to his soul. He exhales in a tremulous sigh, attracted so desperately to the sight of his Bonded beneath him.
Leaning down to recapture his now-bleeding lip, Mettaton spares only a moment to speech, which he does flush against his lips.]
Already, you're matching my expectations... But having you set before me like this. Ah... B-better...
[Better than he imagined, he means to say. But he tastes blood, hot and seeping from even his lover's lip, forcing him to take action. He kisses him hard, pressing him firmly into the mattress. He leverages even his body against Emet-Selch's to pin him down with his weight, the heat of his skin a stark contrast to the mild air about them. But when he locks his hips against Emet-Selch's, the tenderness of his arousal causes him to lock up and moan into his kiss, a loosening of muscle in his back before it winds up taut again and he pushes his oversensitive erection against Emet-Selch's. A desire to show the other man what he's done to him, a slight rock of his hips, a nudge to make sure he's paying attention to what his body's responsible for — and what he'll inevitably satisfy.]
[Breath hot and blood even hotter, the sound Emet-Selch makes is short but in sharp approval, feeling the burst of pain in his lip as the delicate skin gives way to the inexorable pressure of Mettaton's canines. A few moments of crushing, piercing hurt and then his mouth was full of blood and Mettaton, moan harsh but mostly smothered by the other's lips, his searching tongue. His own assists, lapping back at the robot's, clearly reveling in the attention and even the thought of the wound. The way every kiss now would be a reminder of it, would put pressure on raw and bleeding skin, an injury that would be easy to constantly reopen, to drip further life between their mouths. And unlike the sores on his shoulders and neck, which could be mostly covered up by clothing, a swollen lip would be significantly harder to disguise.
Something that troubled the Ascian not at all- or it wouldn't, if he were capable of thinking beyond the moment or the immediately-impending future. There was the satisfaction of right now, his lover's tongue in his mouth, and the impression of teeth in his lip. The blood on both their faces, and the way his neck ached whenever he moved it. The different ache in his erection, so hard and hot except--
Even if the temperature of the air wasn't that low, his cock had been left in surroundings that were so much warmer for so long, that the sudden chill on his skin comes as something of a shock. To go from fully contained to fully exposed, Mettaton moving up from his lap felt a major loss. Hips twitching upward, as though to re-bury himself in that heat, Emet-Selch hisses a protest. Gold eyes open again in a flash, for all that he's immediately distracted from the cold by being shoved backwards, and the sensation of his back hitting the covers with what felt like enough force to knock the air from him- though that may have just been the Ascian forgetting to breathe again. Reflexively, he tries to shift back up, only to find himself pinned, wrists to his sides in Mettaton's firm grip, body over his.
But he feels security rather than frustration as he looks up at him- along with a rush of absolute wanting that he knew wasn't wholly his own, knowledge that has his heart lurch, his voice nearly taken by the sight, the sound of him.]
Mettaton, you....
[He'd thought him beautiful before, but this was beauty of a different sort. Predatory and ecstatic, hungry and desirous, blood in varying levels of dryness all over his lips and face, hair mussed as the result of passion, a pair of dark eyes gazing down at him. Knowing that Mettaton was witnessing all that he'd already done to him, and that he was watching the same thing. Feeling it as well, through their Bond, mirrors reflecting an endless amount of desire back and forth between them. Feeling the more direct pleasure of their cocks together, Mettaton's deliberate rub of them causing his own hips to jerk with a soft hiss. Though unfocused, his eyes remain open, watching every movement that he could, even when Mettaton descends on him for another kiss.
More stinging, more blood, and with the way he tries to press up, encouraging more of both. But there was a lot in his mouth already, and he has to swallow thickly a mix of saliva and blood to keep from choking on it, a broken moan slipping through broken lips. His arms still jerk in Mettaton's grasp, half to test his grip, half because his body was desperate to move somehow in response to the pleasure his Bonded was putting him through. To what he knew Mettaton was also feeling.]
[Into their kiss Mettaton groans again. It goes beyond the taste of blood or magic, but the taste of Emet-Selch, his lover and his Bonded and his friend, and all else he could imagine. He closes his eyes as he presses into his lips, enjoying the feeling of his Bondmate squirming and twitching beneath. He would have to stay put, and express all of that want through their kiss, through sound, through helpless squirming. Drown willingly in him. Mettaton's fingers grip tighter on his wrists, pressing his weight into his arms, too. There are no half-measures to be found here.
Every last sensation Mettaton detects in this body is once again cherished. The sensation of air cold against slightly damp skin, flushed in his heat, is completely new, as is the feeling of lingering come stuck between them, their sex a heady, stimulating scent that fuels blissful intoxication further yet. For the moment, Mettaton helplessly grinds into Emet-Selch, wanton neediness compelling him to shamelessly rub his cock into his Bonded's with another slip of a moan into his mouth. He sucks on his lip, his tongue, and drinks him in completely, the delicacy of heat and sweat and come all a contributing factor that brings him to shudder severely. But he refuses to weaken his grip: Emet-Selch would remain under him, subject to his whims.
He stills his hips and shifts back onto his knees, delaying his and Emet-Selch's direct avenue of pleasure if not for the overarching desires Mettaton has in store: he can't get himself too riled up if he wants to outlast Emet-Selch, for all he'll still permit himself the ability to lose himself in his lover. When he pulls away from this kiss, he gasps for air: Mettaton hadn't even realized just how lightheaded he was getting. He gazes down upon the Ascian with a hazy, drunken look, his own lip swollen from kissing so fiercely and features still marked up with his lover. He presses one last kiss between gasps to his lips, taking a moment to exclusively lick Emet-Selch's lips with a pleasant hum on a smooth voice.
With one final look spared for Emet-Selch, Mettaton licks his lips of blood before dipping down. Down further, down to Emet-Selch's chest, where he runs his tongue along skin. Kisses follow, deliberate and loving: Mettaton considers all this body's been for him, such an intimate window into something he's long coveted, somebody he's grown to adore so deeply, a body loved by himself so dearly. A body to express upon, to reach his Bonded in all ways. Each kiss is open-mouthed. For all that he's not biting carnivorously into flesh, that same level of fever is present regardless. There's a persistent ache to each one, a craving insatiable and immeasurable.
He drags his mouth, hot and wet, over his nipple, lightly teasing him between teeth before switching back to tongue. He swirls it around before kissing him, open-mouthed and passionate, providing him suction with more flicks of tongue. Shifting to a supple area of his chest, he takes even that between his lips and sucks a mark into him, all part of a plan to mark him up anywhere that strikes his fancy. He sucks hard before tonguing his work proudly, taking visual stock that he's marked him before moving along to another spot.
They both might be aching for direct gratification, but Mettaton has desires he needs to fulfill. Desires that leave him to further craving of his Bonded, desires he knows will, in the long term, give them both something to always remember. How could either of them forget the view of Emet-Selch's body after Mettaton takes him so thoroughly?]
[There was a lot of want to express, and with more limited means to do so, Emet-Selch presses that much harder into their kiss, licking and biting at him, sucking at his lip and tongue as though trying to devour him in turn. With other outlets restricted, he would focus the entirety of his need for him into this: the wet heat of their mouths, their mingled moans and rubbing cocks.
But then Mettaton moved, leaving their erections unstroked and their lips unoccupied (or rather, occupied by the lesser task of breathing). Chest heaving, he writhed fitfully between gasps, expression unguarded and clearly longing. Not only for the press of his body and taste of his mouth, but for Mettaton himself. For every part of him, every aspect- to have him in some intrinsic, absolute way.
But from losing the heat of Mettaton's body, to losing the drag of his erection against his, these were bleak times for the Ascian's cock. An ache so quickly inspired and then left hard and cold and wanting. But it was the kind of frustration he was looking for, for all that his hips twitched uselessly upward, his body yearning for his lover's cock with a fixation that still exasperated and surprised him a bit. To desire him so fiercely.... But how could he drown sufficiently, if he were rubbed off so easily?
Another kiss, however brief, served not as a balm, but a few seconds more of expressing how starved he was for him. Mettaton's gasps seemed to steal his own air, somehow, a process further aided by the sight of his face, and especially from every touch between swollen lips. When the puca's head dips lower, the Ascian's eyes attempt to stay on him for a time, for all that most of what he could see was dark hair and movement. But his mind can fill in the blanks when he feels warmth and wetness over his chest, and occasional suction. Damp places left to cool in Mettaton's wake, a path of attachment and claim, an impression of his presence left behind, even when there wasn't a bruise to show it.
His eyes close again, head relaxing back against the bed when Mettaton reaches a nipple. A low sigh that was three-quarters of the way to a moan escapes his lips, as his body attempts to lean upwards, into that attention. His muscles tighten with a shiver, arms still tensed, fighting Mettaton's grip with no actual desire to escape it. Breathing elevated, his exhalation carries another near-moan with it when the idol moves to more giving pastures on his chest, the heat of his mouth turning into clear pressure. Even without being able to see it for himself, he knows well enough how the skin must've turned underneath his treatment, body trembling between breaths as the suction turns into a lick, a softer, wetter swipe over sore skin.
His senses felt inundated, unable to focus on only one aspect of affairs. His body felt alert, oversensitive to each place Mettaton decided to press his mouth to, the slight tease of his bangs whenever they brushed across skin. The scent of sex and blood would've been overwhelming in itself, and he shuddered again at remembering how his lover's come remained spattered onto him. And inside of him, for that matter; both satisfying in different ways, and with Mettaton leaving marks on his chest, that would be another place not left bereft of his possession.]
[Mark after mark left all over his chest, each sound and shift and writhe another sort of pleasure to soak in. Something psychological to be converted into heat that courses through his muscles, But Emet-Selch's noises give him a different kind of pleasure, one that pools in his abdomen and feels like it only hardens in his cock, further neediness, an itch he needs to rub out. But he won't. Not out of any sense of patience, but the sense of anticipation instead.
Sucking a new mark so close to his nipple, Mettaton idly realizes what he's doing here. And that idle thought quickly turns into one arresting. In this brand new body, temporary though it may be, he's indulging in such carnal pleasures of flesh and blood with his beloved, a man who he's grown so desperately attached to over the months. Months that feel much longer and much shorter simultaneously: shorter because the experience with the Rathmores feels entirely too recent, and longer because of the Ascian and how fond he's become of him. How could he know someone this well in so short a time, and have him know him in return like this? Every conversation, every contact, every meeting of eyes and lips and fingers, so much of it is recorded somewhere precious in Mettaton's mind. Their vulnerability is staggering, he thinks, as he pulls away from skin to kiss at his newest red-purple mark.
He pays mind to how hard Emet-Selch breathes, kisses drifting over his chest until he reaches the side less touched, where he takes his nipple into a mouth hot beyond necessity and sucks again, harder and with firmer strokes of tongue. Letting him pop free, he flicks that nub with his tongue before mouthing him with his lips, something like a sloppy kiss. How much this feels like indulging in his Bonded's body to his inorganic heart's content overwhelms the robot, who remains awestruck by how soft and warm and receptive bodies like these are to the passion of sex. He couldn't get enough of this — specifically, Emet-Selch.
And he drifts slightly, takes unmarred skin between teeth and bites a bruise into him this time, switching so easily between tender to ravenous, the memory of Emet-Selch's furious kissing on the mind. And he hums into his latest claim, sucking hard enough for it to hurt his own mouth.
The idol pushes back somewhat, thumbs stroking the insides of Emet-Selch's wrists as he beholds the marks made on his lover's chest. Not nearly as many as his neck and shoulders, but the very sight has his eyes take on a cloudy sheen, cock absolutely throbbing with each beat of his heart. Emet-Selch's neck drips with blood both clotting and dried, upper body covered in reds and purples. It's hard to see a spot on his shoulder that doesn't have some manner of bruise, focused or extended otherwise, and even his lip is swollen with a cut so enticing that Mettaton licks at his own lips to keep from drooling. His chest is peppered in color, Mettaton appearing to take a special focus around each nipple: bruises, mostly, but a bite mark here and there that never sunk deep enough to break skin. Taken by the sight, the monster sighs, purely in love with the man whose visage he refocuses upon to the best of his ability.]
Oh... Already, I'm sure these will please you for time to come. I won't forget this look...
[Hungry for that punctured lip of his Bonded, Mettaton leans in to recapture it, to rebreak any healing that could've possibly taken place between Emet-Selch's gasps and writhes: blood flows anew, and Mettaton shivers, moans into the kiss, feels for how his blood itself feels molten hot. Next, he thinks, he absolutely needs to take his thighs and his abdomen. He decides it here: he'll suck Emet-Selch off once, then take to his recovering body thereafter with his own pounding arousal. The thought is delicious: Mettaton shudders again, this one full-bodied and harsh against the Ascian's lips.]
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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.]
no subject
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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He decides this to be the case. Mettaton shivers, breathing hard and hot against the Ascian's lips as he holds onto him and struggles to kiss, gripping for something to brace himself against while he still tries to bear down on the whole of his length. He's still so tight, and Emet-Selch is so much thicker than fingers are, but it doesn't hurt — not in his revelry.
So Mettaton lifts his hips. He slides up his length, reminding himself what it's like to be made emptier, and finding it to be a shocking sensation. Shocking and needing to be filled.
Just at the ridge of his glans does he stop, hiccuping, tensing at the sudden sign to stop lest he find himself completely empty (intolerable), before he braces himself more solidly against his Bonded. He hasn't ever not been there for him, when he's needed him. He's always trusted him. He can use his body to brace himself in his curiosity to see just how far he can go with his body and his pleasure. He's his inspiration here, his motivation for these impossible heights and tantalizing depths. Somebody who has become so dear to him for all he is and isn't, a compliment to all he is and wants.
Mettaton raises his gaze and pulls back just enough from his lips to make eye contact. Deep, dark violet meets his golden eyes, and his expression impossibly softens some more. How he adores him, he thinks in this moment.
Shuddering in anticipation, Mettaton tries to relax his muscles. All he can think about is how badly he wants the squeeze of his arousal, the fullness of being fucked, and the sound of Emet-Selch's voice conveying his love for him. Muscles in his thighs slacken, and Mettaton finds himself, looser than before, sliding with more ease down the length of his cock. Gradually, bit by bit, being stuffed entirely, and he gasps without exhale all the way until he finds himself sitting upon his lover's hips.
There, he exhales in a full, loud moan. (More vocalizations. He's very vocal, really.) His body squeezes around him, and Mettaton's head lolls on his shoulders.]
Hades...! Oh...
[He almost jolts from his lap, but remains put. The hand around his cock is grounding, for all that it's teasing and pleasurable. Equally pleasurable, he realizes, is the sensation of being filled when he nearly lifts from his lap. He pushes himself back down upon him completely, filling his body with his lover's cock.]
You— I... have all of you. Hah.
[He tries to grin at him proudly. He manages, but he looks a bit dazed, love drunk, flushed, vision cloudy and body trembling. His body moves without him, attempting already to bob up and down upon his length, tensing and untensing in the process. The idol works his hips in short strokes from side to side, a light, blissful noise escaping his throat as he bears down on his hips as though trying to make himself right at home where he sits, Emet-Selch's length as deep inside him as it'll go. He sighs, long and shaky, before he begins to roll his hips again—
This time, his voice is thick, sultry, coming from somewhere deep to convey a sensation yet unknown. His eyelids curtain, and he exhales.]
Oh. Ohhh. You're- Ah...
[With these depths, the way he's found he can stroke himself with the firm head of Emet-Selch's cock... Mettaton's breath hitches, body tensing, before he suddenly begins to lose himself to a particular stroke. A particular pattern of rocking of his hips, up and down, gaze unfocused and strokes quickening as he begins to pant, wrapping his arms desperately around his shoulders again as his body takes over completely in his blinding pleasure. He's almost possessed by it in appearance, staring at Emet-Selch hungrily as his panting is accompanied by short gasps.]
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When Mettaton shifts upward, nearly pulling off of his cock entirely, Emet-Selch shivers, his erection feeling so chilled when not inside his lover's body, cold and slick and untouched. The sharp tensing around the head of his cock was some distraction though, and his hips twitch and tremble in response. But then Mettaton was bracing himself on him, and his pulse managed to somehow leap further when his Bonded begins pressing down again, with an intent that leaves him trembling in expectation. Of pleasure both current and impending.
Smooth, inexorable. A slide downward inch by inch, that he couldn't escape from: a feeling of both taking him and being taken, which was only fitting, Emet-Selch thought. How satisfied he was in that moment, despite his frenetic pulse and shaky breathing, despite the blinding ache in his cock- at having Mettaton sitting flush in his lap like this, legs spread around him, both of their composures a distant memory, fully in love and fully aware of it. He swallows thickly then at the sight of it, losing himself to the imagery of deep violet eyes and flushed skin, taut muscles and the rock of his body. The pride in Mettaton's face at taking the whole of his girth. The tightness of muscles that the Ascian couldn't see, but only feel, clenching around his erection as though to hold him there, as though to wring from him every noise, every cry and shudder.
Even the grip on Mettaton's cock trembles, then tightens, slowing with a rubbing grip around the head, thumb pressing into the slit with a steady pressure as the idol pauses in his lap, as though they were both taking stock of the sensations they were giving one another. The fullness, the constriction- both searingly hot. And when Mettaton continues moving--]
Ah-- M... Mettaton, I...
[The way he could feel the head of his cock rubbing Mettaton so intimately and repeatedly has his eyes fall shut again, body huddling as close as he could to him, breath a mindless panting. Still trying to thrust up into him, the movement of his wrist quickening to match each stroke, smooth and firm and incessant. He could barely hear his own sounds over those of Mettaton's, which were far more interesting regardless. Every gasp and pant, each pleased noise whenever the drag of his cock was particularly satisfying, he was enraptured by it all.]
I... I love you, please- please stay....
[He's not entirely aware of anything he says, but there's a brokenness to his voice that's not wholly from a lack of oxygen, briefly pressing his face to Mettaton's neck as he pants, nuzzling with a determination.]
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Mettaton is absolutely beside himself with the pleasure of it. One unique kind of pleasure, one that parallels how good it feels to pound into his lover. Another way to lay claim to his Bonded, and by virtue, leaving himself so prone. Everything is a rhythm now, all of it playing together to absolutely overwhelm his senses — and he gets the distinct sense that he's not the only one, Emet-Selch's pleasure his constant company all the way through. A presence undeniable in his very body, always tangible as he sits before him, taking his cock, feeling his soul in his body and wanting nothing more than to take that beloved spirit of his and keep it with him forever.
(The haunts of some event that isn't now are on the periphery of his thoughts, but Mettaton pushes it away. Focuses on now. It's easy to do.)
The idol can't hear himself when he says Emet-Selch's name over and over on gasping breaths, repeating his name like an enchantment. His Bonded curls into his body and speaks on a voice of fragile desperation, and Mettaton tries, on reflex, to wind metal arms around his person. He cannot, but that's just as well. His voice, regardless of its broken quality, possesses his name: he can hardly take the delight of it. His very human arms are flung around his body, where he grips down on him like a vice. His hand is pressed to the back of Emet-Selch's head, securing him in place, demanding that he nuzzle him and stay at his neck, even as Mettaton leans forward for himself to take a hearty bite of Emet-Selch's shoulder, teeth puncturing skin again for a final sort of claim, a final sort of pleasure. Thirsty for his blood in a way he's never been in his whole life, he laps at his fresh source of his lover's blood like it's ambrosia.
His entire being is something worth cherishing, for all he brings to Mettaton, and for all who he is. Company he's craved and didn't even realize it, proof to himself how nice it is to have somebody pulled aside like a secret. Somebody who knows.
The taste of his blood and the sound of his panting, so close to his ear, coupled with his body warm and secure against his own, fingers still wrapped around his cock even as he swallows up his arousal's lover, blinds him absolutely. Mettaton's voice is clear and loud, crying out without reserve, body rhythmically squeezing around the girth of Emet-Selch's cock in his climb to orgasm.
Mettaton nuzzles back into his neck in return, the only method of communication he has left to reassure his Bonded that he'll remain. He wants to remain. He wants Emet-Selch to stay with him, too. Kisses follow, peppered all over his neck and shoulder, painting Mettaton's lips a lovely crimson and leaving impressions of his fervor. His rhythmic thrusting continues, both into the Ascian's grip around his cock, and down upon the erection he takes into his feverishly hot body.
His abdomen spasms as Mettaton's climax hits him hard, a deeply pleasured moan coupling the eruption of come, all over Emet-Selch's huddled form.]
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The sound of his name in such a tone is something that the Ascian doubts he could ever forget, a reminder of identity that never failed to reassure. At least, not when hearing it from Mettaton. And how naturally it fell from his lips, that he had a hard time remembering what it was like to hear anything else from him. Nothing else would sound right. And it's only occasionally that his own voice even registers, noises that mingle with that of his lover's, combining in the same way as their bodies. A strange kind of harmony, his own tone still broken, half-muffled, half-gasping against the robot's neck, sometimes managing his name, sometimes only sounds, ecstatic and pleading.
Mettaton's throat is damp from his breaths right against it, wet kisses that were little more than a press of lips. But it felt like nothing compared to the piercing damp that blossomed from his own shoulder, the welling of blood and lapping of tongue causing him to jerk suddenly in response to the pain. His muscles spasmed, breath a sharp, quick inhale, tension and a quickened pulse causing the blood to flow that bit more freely against the other's mouth. But the pain was there for barely a flash before being converted back into pleasure, into intensity and gratification, that Mettaton was taking another part of him. The bloody kisses that followed over the area also struck him with deep fondness, able to imagine the smears left in his wake, the various degrees of mess that Mettaton was leaving him in.
And then there was another sense of wetness against his lower body, warm and thick and unmistakable as anything but his lover's ejaculate. The Ascian's hand slows as the orgasm passes through him, but doesn't stop immediately, grip even tightening, as though to wrest every drop of come from him. But his own cock was being equally squeezed, surrounded by heat and the clenching shudders of Mettaton's body, need fevered and desperate. So his own climax is squeezed from him moments after, moan nearly lost against Mettaton's throat, the sharp, pitched breaths that follow more noticeable, gasps for air that were choked by emotion more than anything else.
But the satisfaction was immense. To fill Mettaton with his come, to mark him like this- they were feelings that kept him huddled close, his hold around him tight. As much as his muscles wanted to give out, to collapse, holding onto him was more important. Covering Mettaton's shoulder and neck and jaw with kisses was more important. And though it finally relaxes, his other hand remains curled around his lover's cock for a few moments more, his stroke of it so slow it practically qualified as affectionate.]
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When he feels the first spurt of come fill his body, he yelps at the sensation. All of it's new to him, and Mettaton's body squeezes down on the full length of his cock as he moans in sympathy, ecstatic. He understands now, why this feels so much like a manner of claim to two partners entwined in the throes of passion, and he shudders at the notion with a contented smile. He squeezes Emet-Selch in his arms, defiant in the face of being spent and wanting to continue, or at the very least, to continue administering such affection upon his Bonded.
Body filled with Emet-Selch's cock and come, Mettaton exhales, paying attention to all of that sensation of hot fullness. And the way he continues to pull at his cock, too, is regarded with sensual affection: not a harsh sensation, but one that still sends chills up his spine with the knowledge of their passions combined. He wraps his lips around that bite mark he'd freshly created, sucking on it and tenderly lapping at it to supplement the heady delight of the moment with his Bonded's blood. When he lifts from that area of his shoulder, his body finally succumbs to a sort of warm, delectable fatigue, and he sighs, indulging in all of this. This body, this moment, this world, this man, his body, his soul, and the continued future he wants to share with him. Mettaton kisses his neck and sighs against his skin, infatuated completely.
It's all he can do to lean against the Ascian in his post-coital looseness. To lean into him, to continue focusing on every last feeling of his newly organic body, to catch his breath that he's felt so deprived of, and to relish the feeling of the other man in his arms. One of his hands trails lazily down Emet-Selch's spine, humming low and soft in his bliss.]
I love you too... so much, that it dazzles me. [Spoken on yet another sigh, a belated attempt to continuously reciprocate the love he feels for the man held in shivering arms.
He thinks only of them right here in each other's arms, in this moment. Someone live, who he can touch and hold and kiss and whose company he'd love to keep close. Mettaton breathes him in at his neck, complete with all of the smells he's come to expect on him: Emet-Selch, himself, and the smell of his blood lingering atop it all. He cares very little about getting blood on his face when he, too, buries his face into his neck.
Reflexively, his hips give a slight jerk at the sensation of such lazy, fond strokes over his increasingly flaccid cock. It reminds Mettaton of the lingering presence of his lover stuffed inside of him with all else he's filled him with, and he shifts upon his lap. Even as he does this, eyelids curtaining heavily, he thinks about every chance he got for a glimpse of his lover's countenance: his shuttered eyes, his parted lips and deep gasps, his flush, his striking gaze, each look imploring yet lost to pleasure. Every moan, every gasp, every movement.
He's suddenly so taken by every gesture and response he's pulled from Emet-Selch, and he feels his heart throb and his breath catch. What it feels like to be smitten by sight, he takes it.]
You're... so lovely, Hades...
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It was harder to imagine the possibility (the inevitability) in their current afterglow, and Emet-Selch doesn't try very hard to pierce that comfortable sensation for once. Time would do so on its own; it didn't require his help. But for now: there were gentle hands and heated skin, the scent of blood, Mettaton, and sex, a combination that was getting to be familiar. A combination that fit together. There was the languidness of limbs and the slow catching of breaths; the low, pleased sound that he makes when he feels the sucking at his shoulder, a bit more of himself tasted and taken.
With a last gentle squeeze of Mettaton's softened cock, Emet-Selch lets go of it in order to wrap that arm about his body as well, holding himself close, holding himself up, for that matter. Shivering faintly from the release of all of that collected tension, as well as from the hand drifting along his back, he feels otherwise warm. Warmed in ways that he didn't know could be warmed, not only by the heat that remained wrapped around his cock, but that of arms and lips, reaching deeper to the very core of himself. Touched not by any physical means but by sentiment itself. Something that he wanted to wrap himself in, something that could sustain him... if just a little. Just enough to keep going.
Mettaton's words of affection settle on him the same way, things that were still hard to take without a shiver, without reacting to the way it rested on the raw parts of his emotional state (which was most of it). But wanting to let it sink in as well, every breath and utterance that passed between them.
But that last compliment has him still, slightly puzzled by his own reaction, the lurch to his pulse, the brief tensing of his grip, the pause to his breath. He was oversensitive to everything at the moment, he supposed, every feeling applied so much more directly, without filter or defense.
Tilting his head slowly up, without losing contact with Mettaton's body, his lips trail a meandering line across his Bonded's face, though he becomes sidetracked by the taste of blood, licking gently at it as though to clean (and not doing a very good job of it, though). On reaching the corner of his mouth, he pauses, and despite the delay to try and collect his thoughts, words still felt woefully inefficient.]
...I love you. And- I'm grateful to you.
[A dissatisfying way to express much of anything, and he sighs very quietly against Mettaton's lips, following it with a small kiss, and a lean of his forehead against his. The Ascian had no practice at this.]
'Tis an unfamiliar feeling. There's any number of those, in your presence.
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The robot's smile reaches his eyes, and he nuzzles into his Bonded after that slight kiss, leaning back into Emet-Selch's forehead. His thumb runs along his cheek, their proximity such that he traces his features less by sight and more by touch. And Mettaton closes his eyes to focus on those feelings he deems unfamiliar, for all that his own are so excessive in their own right.
When the idol speaks, it's on a voice a bit more sluggish than usual as he comes down from his pleasure, voice an even, softer volume, dripping with his fondness and a touch breathless as a standard.]
The whole of this... It's unfamiliar for us both, in some way or another. From feelings... to impossible intimacy. B... But, who better to explore with than you?
[And, implicitly, with him. His smile grows at that.
He lets out a sigh, finding his muscles slackening so pleasantly, as though slipping off of the torrid high of his desire and into the gentler warmth of security and comfort. The kind of security found in this level of vulnerability, he thinks, continuing to stroke Emet-Selch's cheek with his thumb. A stable sort, the kind he'd always expect to find with his Bonded.]
If you're grateful... Then I take it these feelings I've evoked don't disappoint. [There's pride in his tone, yes. Of course Mettaton would take pride in being the catalyst for feelings unknown, especially as they run so romantic. But he softens some more.] The depths you've taken my own feelings... My. We're quite a pair, aren't we.
[New experiences, new heights, new depths, all of it intense. In this moment, at least, Emet-Selch is in so much better of a mood than he was when he first saw him tonight. Unwound, indulged, loved, cared for, taken into Mettaton's possession, distracted. All of which Mettaton finds gratifying, especially in its effect, their feelings both on tempo with one another's, for all that they usually find themselves in their opposite company. And still, perhaps, they are: similar feelings for each other, manifested differently. Mettaton can't help feeling so dreamy and light, but perhaps... the ache he feels in his chest, that's a feeling he's felt too rarely that he begins to feel more commonly with Emet-Selch. Love, he takes it. The kind of love that aches, in how it's blossomed into something so vibrant.
The arm he has about the Ascian's back tightens. He tries to shift his legs, finding them a unique kind of wobbly and stiff; he exhales in a cross between a sigh and a huff. Trying to shift at all gives him a window into how strange it feels to have Emet-Selch's cock still buried within him... not that Mettaton minds the strange terribly much. So he gives up. The robot relaxes again, not having what it takes to move yet. Bodies of flesh... are fickle.]
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When Mettaton's hand moves again to trail over his face, his eyes close again to better take in the sensation, as well as his voice, rather than the blurry, too-close imagery of like a quarter of his face which was the best his eye could discern for him. That their... relationship was a mutually new thing was of slight reassurance, if not particular surprise; even if they were coming at it from different angles, different reasons, neither of them had had the opportunity for this experience. This series of experiences, he corrected himself mentally. The layers that apparently went with affection.... Emet-Selch wasn't certain if it was by necessity complicated, or whether he made it so by virtue of it feeling extremely difficult. And dangerous, to leave himself so vulnerable to another.
And soft and warm; his hands run with deliberation along Mettaton's back, another bit of learning through touch. Still holding him close, not letting him fall away from him should his muscles continue to relax. Another thing Emet-Selch wondered about, distantly; what was it like to have a body that could 'fail' in this specific way? Not from a battery drain, or even mental fatigue (though mental state always played a part), but the way muscles felt when worked and were then allowed to rest? Thinking about what it must be like has him notice the way his own body felt in more specific ways than just 'pleasantly tired and generalized soreness I guess'. The specific ache to legs and shoulders, the more surprising one to his abdomen, everywhere he'd been tensing quite considerably, he realized. The result being a certain heaviness, though a satisfactory one.]
--Not exactly the difficulties we'd anticipated inflicting on one another, are they?
[Though even that optimism was something Emet-Selch felt he could appreciate on occasion now, even if he still didn't understand it. And Mettaton had taken his despair with far more grace than he'd thought anyone could. He follows the idol's sigh with one of his own, kissing him again afterward- as though this was something he could just do. That felt as though it should be normal. Whenever he thought about it, it surprised him. That he was yet capable of this, or that he wanted to be.]
But I've yet to be disappointed... as strange as it all is. [His tone is slow, thoughtful, hands slowing their stroking to rub small circles under Mettaton's shoulderblades.] To find this with anyone else is something I've difficulties imagining. How cruel, then, that only with someone from another world, that I....
[Or how fortunate, a more positive person might say, that insane, impossible and terrifying chance had led to this moment. But he's unable to see it that way, shaking his head at it finally, though it's only a slight movement, unwilling to move far from Mettaton's lips. Taking his lower one between his own, he sucks gently at it, taking in the taste of blood that remained; another gesture of affection that ought not to have existed, but which he was currently experiencing. But he didn't regret it.
When Mettaton shifts slightly, he almost lets go of his lip in the breath he reflexively takes, reminded of the warmth and contact that his cock remained surrounded by. Not uncomfortable, really, mostly odd- and, well, another occasion that he didn't mind leaving to Mettaton to decide when to disengage. This was a new experience, after all; he could feel it for as long as he wanted.]
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It isn't to discount his robotic form, which he also loves. That's his coveted body. But there's something so wildly fantastic about this that gives Mettaton so much of what he's always loved in a human's body. Right down to this inability to move. It warms him up from his core, thinking about what they've done to each other to reach such a point of succumbing.
So he sighs into that kiss. When Emet-Selch falters thanks to his movement, he takes control of it with a soft breath, taking his lower lip for himself with a contented hum. A reminder of his body, a reminder of their passion that persists, and... what he's found here, in Aefenglom.
Considering the chances at all has Mettaton deepening his kiss. He leans in, hungry for it as he slips a tongue against Emet-Selch's lip, feeling him as he applies a gentle sucking to his lip with another hum of pleasure. He breaks his longing kiss to respond, before he gets too distracted. He exhales an airy, blissful laugh alongside his sigh, smitten and charmed and in love. But not just that: loving Emet-Selch, wanting the best for him and wanting to see him flourish, however they can.]
A fantastic meeting. Somebody to indulge in all of this strange newness with, as raw and as intimate as you and I can combined. How I cherish it, that I'm sitting here before you now...
[On a smile, Mettaton's definitely on the more optimistic end of things. He feels overwhelmingly fortunate and grateful in this, grateful that Emet-Selch took to him as he did, grateful that he learned such crucial details about the Ascian when he did, and grateful that they met at all, even if their meeting was like a roulette that required being captured and tortured by humans to do it. Mettaton wouldn't trade that in for anything: it brought him perspective, it brought him sympathy, and more than anything else, it brought him Emet-Selch.
In his love, he takes Emet-Selch into another kiss. Such a familiar taste embellished by the blood lingering between them. More dizziness; more craving, for all of what Emet-Selch has to offer. His heartbeat itself feels thicker and harder in his passion lit anew, and he presses into that kiss, his love for the other man overcoming him.]
Oh, Hades. I love you...
[Said upon an exhale brief enough only to say as much, where the idol otherwise presses more deeply into this passionate, loving kiss.]
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But to care this much for someone else's welfare.... In a sense, it wasn't strange. Emet-Selch would always prioritize the survival of Amaurot; any Amaurotine's well-being would be of importance, even if he weren't personally well-acquainted with them. That was how their society worked, how a society was meant to work. They would've done the same for him. But it wasn't- individual, as this was. A personal investment based on specific understanding. Even in Amaurot, Emet-Selch had never particularly... opened up to people. And in the world after, who was left to open to?
But Mettaton wasn't even of his own people. And this wasn't just a passing attachment to a mortal soon lost, and who never learned much of himself in the process. But he found that he wanted the best for him, took particular pleasure in Mettaton's own satisfaction with his transformative success, or in his eagerness regarding the re-legalization of theatre. To watch him live his life while the Ascian was only idling, waiting for nothing at all, existing. But there was something in existing alongside him, being a part of his life even if he didn't have anything left of his own.
To be cared for like this, so honestly....
He envied Mettaton's ability to speak his thoughts into being; the Ascian could do spite, and viciousness, arrogance and furious despair, but the softer side of vulnerability was so foreign. All he had were feelings: all of his own, and all he could feel from Mettaton, intensities of fascination that continued to feed on one another.
And this kiss. He had that, pressing into it with an emotional sort of hunger, as though he could make up for his other shortcomings in ways like this. One of his own hands ends up pressed to the side of Mettaton's face; he can't remember placing it there, but it helps to steady him- physically, at least. Mentally, he was far more a wreck- as though, with his guard so far removed, everything was able to pile onto him at once. Affection and need and grief, the terror of being left alone again, after he'd given himself away; the desire to see Mettaton's continued happiness, the wanting to do better for his sake, the guilt from so many sources. Resentment towards life, and the fear of death, and the not knowing--
But there was this kiss, his lover's pulse and breath and body. Emet-Selch tries desperately to focus on that alone. On the man in his arms in that moment, whose lips he was currently tasting, the love that he wanted to demonstrate to him. His throat felt too tight to speak, the only sound he could produce was something easily lost between their mouths. But he loved him; he knew that much. He didn't know much else.]
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Mettaton remains firmly grounded in the moment. He lets each sense of his take him, the warmth of his body against his thighs, the feeling of Emet-Selch's fingers against his cheek, the hold he keeps on Mettaton's body in return, the way that he remains on his lap, still filled with him. The knowledge that Emet-Selch's filled with him, too. The earthly desire for both, for all of his body in every regard, for giving himself in return. He strokes sensitive fingertips through his hair, relishing the newness of it that he can't quite pinpoint. Everything takes on a new dimension to Mettaton in this body, perhaps the temperature of it all the contributing factor.
The world around him feels colder than he imagined, but everything in his immediate presence is warm, hot, alluring enough to slip into like a bath. From his lover's arms to his mouth to his body, but also the current of his internal state, everything he can reach through their Bond.
Mettaton's hand skirts down from Emet-Selch's ear to rest over his heart, fingertips pressing firmly into bare skin. He stills. Stills enough to try to feel for a pulse, for all that it's not the best place for detecting a pulse. It's what Mettaton wants.
He breaks their kiss, but remains so close to his Bonded's lips that he speaks against them.]
I like to share my thoughts, as you know. But... You know I'll be here for you, too.
[It might be too difficult for him to even want to unravel such threads of complicated, built-up emotion, but his Bonded is terribly emotional. Mettaton learned that quickly. So much he feels, and he scarcely ever gives himself any outlets for it.
And yet, is physical expression not some manner of outlet? Mettaton pulls away from his face then, a glint in his eye. An invitation, a method of expression that could transcend words if it's impossible to untangle them for the linear restriction of speech. Mettaton has favor for expression even without words, after all. He rubs the spot over his chest with his thumb, his smile a natural part of his features that takes on a unique glow in his Bonded's presence. He leans in to Emet-Selch's neck, burying his nose just beneath his ear and breathing him in before giving him a firm kiss.
On a low, inquisitive tone, the Puca lets a few more kisses trail up to his jaw: a thorough job of delivering affection enough to break him and to mend him simultaneously on the horizon. He would take to him so intensely that it would have to suffuse him soul-deep, his body a conduit for the feelings Mettaton has for his lover at his very core. From his perpetual gloom to his keenness, from the agreeable to the disagreeable.]
Is there anything you want, Hades, darling...?
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Emet-Selch cuts that thought short too, returning to the holding, the now. The firmness of Mettaton's grip on him, the softness of fingers in his hair, the taste of his mouth, and the gradual way they began to taste of each other. Another way they could blend. From Bond to body, and everything that fell between.
Fingers trace to his heart, and he quiets a little, considers his own pulse, how close it was to Mettaton's hand, for all that it must be hard to feel. But the Ascian could well feel it, elevated still- if not from the throes of arousal, but an agitated emotional state. But it was a little grounding, somehow, the fingers that press to his skin. And the voice that followed, able to feel the words against his lips as much as hear them.
Swallowing them back, Emet-Selch tries to settle his breathing, hand stroking slowly at Mettaton's face before pausing when the man pulls back from his. His own expression is slightly cautious- not of his Bonded, but of everything else. Emotion that threatened to spill back over, something that was either suppressed or a tempest, nothing that he knew how to release gradually. But he's struck again by how lovely Mettaton looked when he smiled like that- when that expression was directed at him for some reason. A sight that was worth breaking a kiss over.
Arm moving around him again, his fingers brush along the back of Mettaton's neck as he feels his face pressed to his own. Takes in the sensation of breath near his ear, the dampness of kisses against his jaw that both comforted and provoked. Everything he felt for his Bonded was involved in his unstable emotional state, yet the man remained a reassurance. Companionship he so sorely needed, and so desperately wanted. An agitated consolation, knowing that Mettaton would be there for him, and finding that prospect yet unsettling. Good things were always lost.
Tilting his head into the path of his lips, his fingers rub very slowly at the back of his neck, at the soft strands of hair there. The question was another thing to focus his scattered thoughts around, but he feels a little steadier, at least.]
Other than the things I can't have, you mean.
[There was a long list. It's a statement that's followed with a quiet sigh, barely perceptible against skin or hair.]
And... I already have you, don't I...?
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[Said with a fervent emphasis, his tone itself suggesting how glad he is to express as much. It's both a confirmation and a description of just how much he possesses Mettaton, spoken directly against his skin. He places kiss to his throat as he travels back down his neck, wetter than anything he gave to his jaw as he finds himself decisive about what he wishes to communicate to his despairing Bonded. Through action, expression.]
You have me... always.
[Biting gently this time, Mettaton takes flesh between his lips and kisses hard, working a mark there with suction — the first of his image of complete allure, a ravished, ravaged Emet-Selch that exceeds even what they managed before the mirrors. Where he presses his lips, he can almost feel the haunts of what used to be there in some other time (or place, considering the dream), imagining kisses and bruises and bites that have long faded or haven't exactly existed at all, if one were to get technical about it.
But it doesn't change a thing: remembered or not, perceived or not, didn't Mettaton mark him up severely? That happened.
His thumb remains stroking over the Ascian's quick-beating heart, his lips against his pulse, his arm steady against his back in their reciprocal embrace. Uncertainty would always remain in this place, but Mettaton cares not for its rules, he's decided. Anything he does to him would be there forever, aware or not, dead or alive, present or absent. That's the nature of Mettaton's existence. If all else fades, Mettaton believes he will always persist. It's what he wants, anyhow.
A bruise, deep and contrasting so starkly against Emet-Selch's skin, is left behind. Mettaton regards it with satisfaction, a note of this evident on a hum. How could Emet-Selch ever question if he's ever had Mettaton if he can always envision these marks, even if they've faded? He won't let him doubt for a second their possession of each other, an enduring thing that Mettaton's so sure of wanting.
And so he shifts slightly, sinking his teeth into his neck with a paradoxical gentleness: a scrape, a decision, a mark, then the pressure, all the way up until his skin breaks and blood flows. This time, it's not only with Mettaton's insatiable appetite in mind, but his desire to communicate a message to his Bonded. He would never have to ask again if he has Mettaton, and if Mettaton has him.
For all that this mark is only a part of his artistic vision, Mettaton still groans at the taste of blood. It's becoming so familiar a taste, just as familiar as Emet-Selch's mouth. His emotions run concupiscent all over again, but a note of reassurance and deliberation combined.]
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Quickened pulse more evident in his throat as he bares it to him, the Ascian shivers as lips close on it, as he feels the tightness of skin being bruised under his Bonded's efforts. A visible sign that Mettaton had been there, that he could look at and touch in the days to come, and remember this moment. Even faded, it would remain in his memory with all the others. Layered on top of every previous image, how long would it take before he could see nothing else? Only record after record, all in a perpetual state of being renewed.]
Then-- I want to see how much you can take from me. How much... can you leave behind?
[An encouragement, however unnecessary, towards Mettaton's current efforts, expelled as a hiss between teeth, half-pained, half-simply intent. A response to the sinking of teeth into his neck, the deliberate breaking of skin. The love and even care that he could feel behind that damage, that struck him more deeply than any bite ever could. The strange consideration involved even when he was drinking his blood. How could he not trust Mettaton's judgement? He was so certain--
They possessed one another. But there was no harm in seeing that expressed. In feeling it written into his flesh, using the instruments of lips and teeth. His skin made to give way to Mettaton's intention, as though there could be any other outcome.
His hold on him tightens, fingertips kneading, body pressing to his and demanding his continued closeness. Closeness and claim and shared possession; how many markings could his body take? What records could Mettaton leave behind on him or in him; how much could he fit? It was an odd sort of curiosity to have, but a thought that was becoming quite captivating.
Much better than rational fears or uncertainties. There was a hand on his heart and teeth at his neck. A combination that felt like the most natural thing of all.]
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Mettaton shifts upon Emet-Selch's lap to facilitate this closeness, for all that he still hasn't lifted from his cock. And he doesn't see a reason to, if it doesn't bother him, though he envisions Emet-Selch reclining before, prostrate and vulnerable, in the near future. There's a part of Mettaton abundantly glad for the fact that there's no ritual of clothing removal whenever he has Emet-Selch already stripped, and he thinks to himself that for every time they sleep in the same bed, he'd like to preemptively rid him of clothes, for all that he enjoys attire. It's part of a ritual, but part of one that he'll just have to proudly take care of with immediacy. His thoughts are accompanied by his tireless covetousness, sating himself with more of Emet-Selch's blood, licking and sucking at his first mark while drifting over his pulse with his lips, spreading a line of red along his throat as he mouths him, a sudden awareness of how delicate his neck is.
And how prone Emet-Selch makes himself to him. It has Mettaton pressing into him in return, body flush to him as he angles his head down and buries himself in Emet-Selch's neck, having drifted to the other side as he leaves kisses and bruises in his wake. He's already bitten into this side of his neck, but it's not enough. This time, he doesn't hold back to start: Mettaton bites down hard, getting woozy off of the immediate gratification of fresh blood on his tongue, the magic of his Bonded exquisite. Irresistible.
He swallows, an excess of drool accompanying a tongue blood-drenched. He speaks against his neck, voice dark and velvety.]
With how delicious you taste... With how much I need you. You'll never escape it, how I intend to mark you up.
[A swipe of his tongue; another swallow. Every muscle in Mettaton's body is tensed, as if ready to pounce upon something he already has in his clutches. His fingers prod his chest, his palm rubs into him, all of it softer than the rest of him, all of it undeniably fueled by absolute attraction and reverence.]
Your whole body, by the way... That's what I'll be enjoying. Ha.
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Though really, if Emet-Selch ever realizes that Mettaton's getting himself addicted to his blood rather than simply appreciating it, his response would be, essentially: good. Another way he could never be left, if his Bonded required him for his fix.
Not that there seemed to be any risk of that, considering Mettaton's words, his posture, every act and word. And how comforting it was, rather than restrictive, to be faced with that level of intent, to not be permitted to leave. Not that he would ever try. But- their metaphorical claws were dug in regardless, a combined threat and promise, demand and reassurance.
His wounds were raw and warm, but the damp lines left in Mettaton's wake cooled very quickly, the contrast producing a shiver. His body in its entirety didn't feel warm enough at all, not when compared to the burn of injury or any place the puca was currently pressed against. Or around; his cock was currently quite warmed, still buried inside him for the moment. But it's a persistent contact that facilitates a response, particularly when paired with the next bite, the next release of blood into his lover's mouth. A gradual hardening that has his breath hitch, turning into a low moan at the thought of how that must feel. And how exposed he was in all aspects, that he wouldn't have been able to hide his burgeoning arousal from him, even if he'd wanted to.
And what else did he need blood for, in the end? It was there to either fill his cock, or Mettaton's mouth; any other purpose was of far lesser importance.
He shivers again, at the thought of being marked all over, unavoidably damaged, at the tautness to the other's body, as though he were only moments away from tearing him apart. How his own pulse races in response, muscles tensing as though responding to an impending threat- yet with no intention of trying to escape from it. He would dash himself against his lover's jaws and hands however he could, drive them deeper, in order to keep him from ever pulling free.]
Good.
[His voice is a hushed whisper, head tilting against Mettaton's, rubbing a bit against him, the scent of fresher blood becoming more distinct.]
I expect you'll be thorough.
[They were neither the sort to be satisfied with half-measures. A healthy combination.]
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Mettaton switches from tonguing to a firm bite into his shoulder, bracing himself against a harsh, unbridled moan, which he lets out against skin. Two wounds in Mettaton's wake to bleed out, a third to be consumed from. For now, he grips down onto his Bonded with his teeth as he licks and tastes experimentally at his body, head spinning from it all. The way they both desperately mash their bodies together as firmly as they can, the way Emet-Selch's grip on him is unforgiving but so tender, the way he can feel his heartbeat drum in his bite, blood pushing into his mouth. An association made, a neurological pathway forming itself to associate the taste of his blood with arousal, inebriating and necessary.
And his arousal, which begins to form itself into something firmer while he'd gotten accustomed his softness. Mettaton twitches on his lap, anticipatory of his impending erection, the realization that he'd get such an intimate experience of feeling his filling, a response to his body and his actions. He curves his back into him on reflex, rocking hips into his lap slightly, the suggestion that he welcomes and encourages the sensation he could spring upon him.
He pulls his teeth off of his Bonded and switches back to lapping up blood, cleaning him and kissing him all about his neck and shoulders, revisiting old wounds and licking sloppily at all he can ingest. All the while, he returns this gesture of ardor, slipping into a firm nuzzle of his Bonded appreciatively, possessively. A nuzzle that turns into a revisit of Emet-Selch's lips, the hints of a growl on his voice as he takes to a forceful kiss.
Mettaton sucks at his lover's lower lip before nipping him, a low, primal groan his expression for his need. His tongue explores his lip some more, searching for ways to make him that much more flushed, imagining his lip swollen to match the anticipated tinge of his cheeks. Imagining him fucked silly, imagining Mettaton taking to him over and over and bleeding him dry of anything he has to give: blood, sweat, come, tears, any of it, he'll take. Filled in its place with himself, he imagines so vividly. Emet-Selch beyond his senses, marked up and possessed entirely.
He tenses around his Emet-Selch's cock as he finds himself rousing, cock firming up. How could he deny himself the pleasure he feels from his beloved's body? Mettaton slips his tongue between his lips, pushing into his lover with the threat of toppling him down and into the mattress. Muscles still taut, still ready to lunge, ready to pin him down and screw him senseless at the slightest provocation — and it entices him to do so.]
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But it was a satisfying realization. And a low, encouraging hum rumbles through the Ascian's throat at the licking and swiping of blood, from fresh marks to older ones, where easily-disturbed clots were attempting to form. With several points to draw from, and ever more blood lurking just beneath the surface, it would be hard to imagine ever running out of the substance. No matter where Mettaton turned, there would be something easily available for his consumption.
It was a rougher, more primal sort of affection, but no less affectionate for it. It's this that Emet-Selch is aware of when wet, reddened lips capture his, pushing forward against his face. A pressure he returns on instinct, licking back at him when he can, breath shivering at the suction to his lip, the suggestion of teeth in it. His own growl matches Mettaton's when his skin isn't pierced, briefly biting down on the puca's own lip as though threatening to snap through it instead.
Hand lowering to grip and dig into Mettaton's thigh, the Ascian groans around the tongue shoved into his mouth, a blood-soaked but familiar sensation, sucking hard at it with an added scraping of teeth. The metallic taste in itself didn't do much for him, but knowing that it was his was a strangely exciting experience, that such vitality was coating his lover's lips and tongue, that Mettaton had such fascination with obtaining it from him. That in itself made it an appealing thing to taste on him.
Despite the desire for being pushed back, his own tension doesn't relent, pressing back hard into the kiss, into his body. Arching forward, not in the remotest attempt to prevent him, but in its own sort of challenge. To be pressed back, held down and taken. The feeling of Mettaton's own hardening cock brushing against him was a deeply wanted sensation, to feel what he could do to the other man, to have that evidence of his attraction.
The chaotic mess of his own emotional state was still there, but with sheer physicality arresting his senses, it provided him a focus for it- or possibly, some manner of outlet. The intensity Mettaton could provide him, the primal taste of blood, their hardening erections and the rub of heated, sweaty skin. They could claw into each other with such love that there was no mistaking it, to leave wounds that couldn't heal.]
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It happens in tandem. Mettaton pulls back his tongue, taking just Emet-Selch's lower lip between his teeth. He presses a sharper canine to the delicate, sensitive flesh and presses, hard, passion and craving making such a bite easy to do. How could Emet-Selch miss the sensation of his presence if even his lip was marred by him? And he bleeds, and Mettaton moans into the first spurt of blood, the taste of the Ascian's mouth mingling pleasantly with the metallic quality of blood. The Puca locks him in a deep kiss full of tongue, tasting, and suffocating. All while his muscles let go that pent-up inertia, intent to knock him onto his back in pure vulnerability.
He slides off of his cock, leaving it to the unforgiving air as he rises from his lap. His hand against his heart presses, the rest of his body taking Emet-Selch entirely against his own to manipulate him in his arm, relinquishing his hold on his lip if not just to avoid colliding with him in his ferocious tackle. Emet-Selch is pinned beneath Mettaton's body by his wrists as MTT's chest heaves hot, heavy gasps, dark locks of hair brushing the side of Emet-Selch's face as he hovers over him. Knees still on either side of Emet-Selch's hips, his hands clamp down on his lover's wrists with possessive intent, a hunger in his eye that nearly catches light even while he's in shadow.
He smiles down at him, face slathered in smears of red, a sloppy, but desired result. He sighs at the sight of Emet-Selch beneath him, a shockwave of hot pleasure coursing through him so intense that it could no doubt be felt even by the man before him, bound to his soul. He exhales in a tremulous sigh, attracted so desperately to the sight of his Bonded beneath him.
Leaning down to recapture his now-bleeding lip, Mettaton spares only a moment to speech, which he does flush against his lips.]
Already, you're matching my expectations... But having you set before me like this. Ah... B-better...
[Better than he imagined, he means to say. But he tastes blood, hot and seeping from even his lover's lip, forcing him to take action. He kisses him hard, pressing him firmly into the mattress. He leverages even his body against Emet-Selch's to pin him down with his weight, the heat of his skin a stark contrast to the mild air about them. But when he locks his hips against Emet-Selch's, the tenderness of his arousal causes him to lock up and moan into his kiss, a loosening of muscle in his back before it winds up taut again and he pushes his oversensitive erection against Emet-Selch's. A desire to show the other man what he's done to him, a slight rock of his hips, a nudge to make sure he's paying attention to what his body's responsible for — and what he'll inevitably satisfy.]
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Something that troubled the Ascian not at all- or it wouldn't, if he were capable of thinking beyond the moment or the immediately-impending future. There was the satisfaction of right now, his lover's tongue in his mouth, and the impression of teeth in his lip. The blood on both their faces, and the way his neck ached whenever he moved it. The different ache in his erection, so hard and hot except--
Even if the temperature of the air wasn't that low, his cock had been left in surroundings that were so much warmer for so long, that the sudden chill on his skin comes as something of a shock. To go from fully contained to fully exposed, Mettaton moving up from his lap felt a major loss. Hips twitching upward, as though to re-bury himself in that heat, Emet-Selch hisses a protest. Gold eyes open again in a flash, for all that he's immediately distracted from the cold by being shoved backwards, and the sensation of his back hitting the covers with what felt like enough force to knock the air from him- though that may have just been the Ascian forgetting to breathe again. Reflexively, he tries to shift back up, only to find himself pinned, wrists to his sides in Mettaton's firm grip, body over his.
But he feels security rather than frustration as he looks up at him- along with a rush of absolute wanting that he knew wasn't wholly his own, knowledge that has his heart lurch, his voice nearly taken by the sight, the sound of him.]
Mettaton, you....
[He'd thought him beautiful before, but this was beauty of a different sort. Predatory and ecstatic, hungry and desirous, blood in varying levels of dryness all over his lips and face, hair mussed as the result of passion, a pair of dark eyes gazing down at him. Knowing that Mettaton was witnessing all that he'd already done to him, and that he was watching the same thing. Feeling it as well, through their Bond, mirrors reflecting an endless amount of desire back and forth between them. Feeling the more direct pleasure of their cocks together, Mettaton's deliberate rub of them causing his own hips to jerk with a soft hiss. Though unfocused, his eyes remain open, watching every movement that he could, even when Mettaton descends on him for another kiss.
More stinging, more blood, and with the way he tries to press up, encouraging more of both. But there was a lot in his mouth already, and he has to swallow thickly a mix of saliva and blood to keep from choking on it, a broken moan slipping through broken lips. His arms still jerk in Mettaton's grasp, half to test his grip, half because his body was desperate to move somehow in response to the pleasure his Bonded was putting him through. To what he knew Mettaton was also feeling.]
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Every last sensation Mettaton detects in this body is once again cherished. The sensation of air cold against slightly damp skin, flushed in his heat, is completely new, as is the feeling of lingering come stuck between them, their sex a heady, stimulating scent that fuels blissful intoxication further yet. For the moment, Mettaton helplessly grinds into Emet-Selch, wanton neediness compelling him to shamelessly rub his cock into his Bonded's with another slip of a moan into his mouth. He sucks on his lip, his tongue, and drinks him in completely, the delicacy of heat and sweat and come all a contributing factor that brings him to shudder severely. But he refuses to weaken his grip: Emet-Selch would remain under him, subject to his whims.
He stills his hips and shifts back onto his knees, delaying his and Emet-Selch's direct avenue of pleasure if not for the overarching desires Mettaton has in store: he can't get himself too riled up if he wants to outlast Emet-Selch, for all he'll still permit himself the ability to lose himself in his lover. When he pulls away from this kiss, he gasps for air: Mettaton hadn't even realized just how lightheaded he was getting. He gazes down upon the Ascian with a hazy, drunken look, his own lip swollen from kissing so fiercely and features still marked up with his lover. He presses one last kiss between gasps to his lips, taking a moment to exclusively lick Emet-Selch's lips with a pleasant hum on a smooth voice.
With one final look spared for Emet-Selch, Mettaton licks his lips of blood before dipping down. Down further, down to Emet-Selch's chest, where he runs his tongue along skin. Kisses follow, deliberate and loving: Mettaton considers all this body's been for him, such an intimate window into something he's long coveted, somebody he's grown to adore so deeply, a body loved by himself so dearly. A body to express upon, to reach his Bonded in all ways. Each kiss is open-mouthed. For all that he's not biting carnivorously into flesh, that same level of fever is present regardless. There's a persistent ache to each one, a craving insatiable and immeasurable.
He drags his mouth, hot and wet, over his nipple, lightly teasing him between teeth before switching back to tongue. He swirls it around before kissing him, open-mouthed and passionate, providing him suction with more flicks of tongue. Shifting to a supple area of his chest, he takes even that between his lips and sucks a mark into him, all part of a plan to mark him up anywhere that strikes his fancy. He sucks hard before tonguing his work proudly, taking visual stock that he's marked him before moving along to another spot.
They both might be aching for direct gratification, but Mettaton has desires he needs to fulfill. Desires that leave him to further craving of his Bonded, desires he knows will, in the long term, give them both something to always remember. How could either of them forget the view of Emet-Selch's body after Mettaton takes him so thoroughly?]
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But then Mettaton moved, leaving their erections unstroked and their lips unoccupied (or rather, occupied by the lesser task of breathing). Chest heaving, he writhed fitfully between gasps, expression unguarded and clearly longing. Not only for the press of his body and taste of his mouth, but for Mettaton himself. For every part of him, every aspect- to have him in some intrinsic, absolute way.
But from losing the heat of Mettaton's body, to losing the drag of his erection against his, these were bleak times for the Ascian's cock. An ache so quickly inspired and then left hard and cold and wanting. But it was the kind of frustration he was looking for, for all that his hips twitched uselessly upward, his body yearning for his lover's cock with a fixation that still exasperated and surprised him a bit. To desire him so fiercely.... But how could he drown sufficiently, if he were rubbed off so easily?
Another kiss, however brief, served not as a balm, but a few seconds more of expressing how starved he was for him. Mettaton's gasps seemed to steal his own air, somehow, a process further aided by the sight of his face, and especially from every touch between swollen lips. When the puca's head dips lower, the Ascian's eyes attempt to stay on him for a time, for all that most of what he could see was dark hair and movement. But his mind can fill in the blanks when he feels warmth and wetness over his chest, and occasional suction. Damp places left to cool in Mettaton's wake, a path of attachment and claim, an impression of his presence left behind, even when there wasn't a bruise to show it.
His eyes close again, head relaxing back against the bed when Mettaton reaches a nipple. A low sigh that was three-quarters of the way to a moan escapes his lips, as his body attempts to lean upwards, into that attention. His muscles tighten with a shiver, arms still tensed, fighting Mettaton's grip with no actual desire to escape it. Breathing elevated, his exhalation carries another near-moan with it when the idol moves to more giving pastures on his chest, the heat of his mouth turning into clear pressure. Even without being able to see it for himself, he knows well enough how the skin must've turned underneath his treatment, body trembling between breaths as the suction turns into a lick, a softer, wetter swipe over sore skin.
His senses felt inundated, unable to focus on only one aspect of affairs. His body felt alert, oversensitive to each place Mettaton decided to press his mouth to, the slight tease of his bangs whenever they brushed across skin. The scent of sex and blood would've been overwhelming in itself, and he shuddered again at remembering how his lover's come remained spattered onto him. And inside of him, for that matter; both satisfying in different ways, and with Mettaton leaving marks on his chest, that would be another place not left bereft of his possession.]
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Sucking a new mark so close to his nipple, Mettaton idly realizes what he's doing here. And that idle thought quickly turns into one arresting. In this brand new body, temporary though it may be, he's indulging in such carnal pleasures of flesh and blood with his beloved, a man who he's grown so desperately attached to over the months. Months that feel much longer and much shorter simultaneously: shorter because the experience with the Rathmores feels entirely too recent, and longer because of the Ascian and how fond he's become of him. How could he know someone this well in so short a time, and have him know him in return like this? Every conversation, every contact, every meeting of eyes and lips and fingers, so much of it is recorded somewhere precious in Mettaton's mind. Their vulnerability is staggering, he thinks, as he pulls away from skin to kiss at his newest red-purple mark.
He pays mind to how hard Emet-Selch breathes, kisses drifting over his chest until he reaches the side less touched, where he takes his nipple into a mouth hot beyond necessity and sucks again, harder and with firmer strokes of tongue. Letting him pop free, he flicks that nub with his tongue before mouthing him with his lips, something like a sloppy kiss. How much this feels like indulging in his Bonded's body to his inorganic heart's content overwhelms the robot, who remains awestruck by how soft and warm and receptive bodies like these are to the passion of sex. He couldn't get enough of this — specifically, Emet-Selch.
And he drifts slightly, takes unmarred skin between teeth and bites a bruise into him this time, switching so easily between tender to ravenous, the memory of Emet-Selch's furious kissing on the mind. And he hums into his latest claim, sucking hard enough for it to hurt his own mouth.
The idol pushes back somewhat, thumbs stroking the insides of Emet-Selch's wrists as he beholds the marks made on his lover's chest. Not nearly as many as his neck and shoulders, but the very sight has his eyes take on a cloudy sheen, cock absolutely throbbing with each beat of his heart. Emet-Selch's neck drips with blood both clotting and dried, upper body covered in reds and purples. It's hard to see a spot on his shoulder that doesn't have some manner of bruise, focused or extended otherwise, and even his lip is swollen with a cut so enticing that Mettaton licks at his own lips to keep from drooling. His chest is peppered in color, Mettaton appearing to take a special focus around each nipple: bruises, mostly, but a bite mark here and there that never sunk deep enough to break skin. Taken by the sight, the monster sighs, purely in love with the man whose visage he refocuses upon to the best of his ability.]
Oh... Already, I'm sure these will please you for time to come. I won't forget this look...
[Hungry for that punctured lip of his Bonded, Mettaton leans in to recapture it, to rebreak any healing that could've possibly taken place between Emet-Selch's gasps and writhes: blood flows anew, and Mettaton shivers, moans into the kiss, feels for how his blood itself feels molten hot. Next, he thinks, he absolutely needs to take his thighs and his abdomen. He decides it here: he'll suck Emet-Selch off once, then take to his recovering body thereafter with his own pounding arousal. The thought is delicious: Mettaton shudders again, this one full-bodied and harsh against the Ascian's lips.]
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