[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.]
[Not knowing when a particular bit of attention would lead to a new bruise leaves him perpetually tensing at the prospect. Yet even the ones that were 'only' kissings were hardly a disappointment. Partially, because they were a necessary piece of the whole experience, of leaving him unsteady with anticipation and always wanting more. But mostly because it was still the work of his lover's mouth, attention he was bestowing over this shell of a host, over scars healed and unwanted. Anything he did was a fascination, and a sign of his care. He didn't know how it was possible to keep being so touched from being touched, but Mettaton somehow managed it.
Every lick and bite and sentiment alike felt as though they had a direct line to his cock, a thought that keeps Emet-Selch from lying still underneath him. There's little control in the way he shifts restlessly, both seeking relief and almost fearing it, not wanting any of these sensations to end.
A desire underscored when Mettaton focuses again over a sensitive nipple, one not yet dampened by lips, the area suddenly much hotter. A loud, ragged breath is the Ascian's first response to such intent suction, followed by a hard shiver, his fingers digging into his hands as his arms continue trying to press upward. The sensation turning from satisfyingly hard into mere flicking and mouthing felt horribly teasing, and he could almost laugh, breathlessly and frustrated at how well Mettaton could produce these reactions from him. They were so prone to each other that he had a hard time understanding it.
But while his nipple may have been left slightly frustrated, Emet-Selch's desire for more force was at least satisfied elsewhere on his chest, tauter trembling and soft gasps of approval matching the times he felt skin pulled, bitten, turned dark. He was having a hard time keeping track of them all: what was the soreness of a bruise, and what was only tender and damp. The closer to his neck, the harder it was to determine, the ratio swinging sharply in favor of damage.
It certainly had the Ascian's favor, to be made so colorful. And how fortunate a palette, that fresh bruises took to reds and purples- shades that Mettaton already seemed to be drawn to.
(Later on, much later, he'd have to take advantage of Mettaton's mirror to see the extent of it all. The robot pulling back to look down on him only made him more sure of it.)
There really wasn't much opportunity for healing in his lip, considering the force of his own breathing, and for that matter, the way his own tongue kept wanting to investigate it. Aggravate it. As though it weren't sore enough. But new bleeding is quite easily provoked once Mettaton returns to claim it, and Emet-Selch latches onto that kiss with determination. Acting as if it were providing air rather than taking it, mistaking suffocation for freedom. Needing the taste of his lips to sustain him (even while simultaneously missing the pressure of them against his chest, sucking marks for later perusal), and needing even more the way all of Mettaton shuddered over him, in a vibration of warmth. As though he needed any more awareness of the satisfaction Mettaton took in this, in him, in using his body so fully, without reservation.
[A parting lick: the Puca drags his tongue along Emet-Selch's lower lip, firm and full. This body is so fully his that he has no reservations about treating it to any pleasure, tease, damage, indulgence, marking, or otherwise. Their bodies each are possessions, and Emet-Selch's soul is his, too; it follows that his body should be the least of his concerns, though it ranks among Mettaton's top concerns. Concluding this harsh drag of tongue, Mettaton can't help himself when he smiles down at him and gives him a kiss (or three), pressing into him solidly with each. A short, giddy laugh falls upon his exhale: for all that Mettaton's riled up beyond belief in an erotic desire for his Bonded, each kiss is so laden by his love and fuels it in the process that it's an endless loop of experiencing and expending that love, leaving him dizzy with it and smiling further.
As he ducks back down again, he does it with a dreamy sigh. A few kisses spared to his chest, practically following the haunts of that incision down his middle, down his belly, and ending up above Emet-Selch's hips.
The first thing Mettaton feels is the presence of Emet-Selch's erection, painfully aroused as he is, poking directly into his neck. Mettaton hums, drawn to it instantly; his fingers tighten around wrists as his thumbs continue to work into the soft underside of them in fond circles. The idol tips his head somewhat and captures the very tip of his lover's cock between his lips, a slight smacking noise from the way he sucks a small kiss into him. It's an example of how he'll tease his body to his heart's content, too, and Mettaton hums affectionately at how much he knows the gesture will only serve to frustrate. And he's pleased with that, as he gets to work on other parts of his body.
Starting from his hip, Mettaton kisses and kisses, shifting just above the bony protrusion to take more pliant tissue into his mouth. Once more, the idol sucks a bruise into him, one after the other, intent on leaving him with as many as possible while each exhale of his is accompanied by a note of pleasurable fondness. As time goes on, the painful ache of his cock is translated into a controlled heat, one that, were he to feel any sort of direct stimulation, he knows would lead to a slippery descent into voracious hunger. An unstoppable, incurable thirst for contact, one he's only been able to scrape the surface of over this past year, the majority of it concentrated into just a number of months, baring all of this want and need and craving before Emet-Selch. He trembles at the thought of a time before this. And how sympathetic and knowing Emet-Selch was when he first came clean about it... It still has his breath hitching.
So much to catch up on, even to this day. So much he wants to do, to lavish his love upon this body so that it might reach the soul within. To ravish him for his own pleasure, to watch the Ascian come undone. They both have such an expansive build-up of... need, Emet-Selch's taking on a form different than his own for certain. But Mettaton knows how desperate he is for any of this. How deeply he craves it, how much deeper it gets when it has to do with his Bonded more than anything else. He described it once as a pandora's box, and that proves to be true. To never be satisfied, to always want more, and worst of all, to keep acting up on that want endlessly.
He sighs, expelling all of the breath in his lungs that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He trembles again, overwhelmed, oversensitive, and terribly, terribly hard.
With a hum, Mettaton drifts to tissue softer yet: he drifts lower along his abdomen, close enough for the head of Emet-Selch's cock to graze his cheek when he smiles, to feel heat radiating from his skin, and Mettaton eagerly takes tissue here into a kiss that marks. When he switches over to kneading the area with a press of tongue, he finds himself smiling fondly and tilting his head, once more bumping against the tip of his arousal with his cheek.]
Ah.
[Mettaton turns toward his cock, deliberately parting his lips close enough to breathe on him, close enough to tease, and intentionally close enough for any thrust to be rewarded with his mouth. He can almost anticipate the shape of his head pushing between, the way his lips would be forced to ride over a smooth curve and just barely pop over the ridge of his glans. And were he to do that, Mettaton knows he'd reward him further yet with a hard suck: he almost prepares for it, wondering if Emet-Selch would give into temptation. He should: Mettaton almost wills him to, in his mind.]
[To feel love from a bite, a kiss, from any gesture they chose to impart to one another, no matter how gentle or rough- was an experience he still felt very weak to. That actions could be so laden down by it.... In an abstract sense it didn't strike him as impossible, perhaps not even unusual for some people. But it's something he'd never thought to receive himself, never thought he was capable of expressing. Though he'd found Mettaton attractive early enough on, despite their opposed views, and the idol's oft' irritating persona, that didn't explain how provocative he found him. Yet very quickly the Ascian had been able to relax with Mettaton, had responses of greater openness and strength enticed from him. Though he'd considered the time he'd recognized his love for the other man to be the point of no return, he wondered if it had happened even earlier....
To not feel alone was a difficult thing, a thing Emet-Selch despaired over. A thing that wasn't solved by an evening's company, wasn't solved by a kind word or a touch. He was a void of misery that nothing could influence, and nothing could budge. And yet. And yet, this had an effect... something he could somehow feel in the midst of the tragedy of all else. But not anyone's company would do, only this had worked, only him- someone who he could trust and adore, who wouldn't leave, who wouldn't forget him, he promised--
They both... had a lot to catch up on.
Taking each kiss as deeply as he could, the weight of his own love weighed Emet-Selch down more than even the vice-like grip over his wrists, but it was there and unmistakable for anything else. And he could only marvel in his continued observation of Mettaton's version of the emotion, so different yet still recognizable- as well as how they could both express their variations on a feeling through contact. That they could meet so effectively this way, despite how different they were.
It's a reverie that has him swallowing heavily, and shivering faintly as Mettaton moves lower on his body once more. But there's a moment's surprise when an incidental brush against his cock turns into a suck over the tip of it, a soft, needy sound startled out of him, eyes opening, head tilting up to get a glimpse of it- only in time to see Mettaton sliding off from him, moving onward.
An action that has his body twitching up in protest, as though it could force additional suction despite Mettaton having drifted over to his hip instead. An effective tease, and how susceptible he was to it- though feeling the pressure of his lover's mouth applied to the soft parts around his hip was an equally effective consolation. Though he couldn't see the results of his work very well like this, he could feel them, the areas around his erection especially sensitive to such treatment. Either because they were genuinely more sensitive, or whether they only felt as such because of how close he knew Mettaton was to his cock, Emet-Selch didn't know. It also didn't matter, not when his Bonded kept nudging against his length, in scraps of contact he refused to believe were accidental.
But each brush sent a corresponding wave of arousal through him, enough to disrupt his breathing, hot skin against equally hot skin, aching and tender. The muscles in his abdomen tense hard from the feeling of a wet tongue swiping over it, over skin made newly tender and bruised, and even moreso by the hint of contact against his cock.
A hint that became... almost more than a suggestion, as Mettaton's face finally turns, to breathe and focus on his length specifically. But there he pauses, as if waiting, and Emet-Selch looks down at him, the man's parted lips hovering so close to the tip of his erection. The tension in his hips indicates a desire to thrust, one that he bites his own bitten lip in order to restrain- before deciding, why? Why hold back when his mouth was so inviting and so there for the taking--
It's not much of a decision in the end, really; his hips jerk sharply upwards even before his mind has really accepted this course of action. But there's immediate satisfaction, crying out as he pushes the ridge of the head past Mettaton's lips, feels the prize of heat and wet around it, his noise turned into a protracted moan. It's barely that he's able to keep watching at all.]
[The pleasure he experiences in sympathy from Emet-Selch's indulgence is immense, enough to turn his world on its head as his eyelids flutter shut, a somatic response to such commanding desire. Mettaton moans into his mouthful of cock, sucking on him with more passion than even he expected out of himself. His tongue rubs against the slit while it tries to adjust for this intrusion, both an intentional and entirely automatic gesture, before it slides against the underside of his erection in an attempt to accommodate. The experience in itself has his own abdominal muscles tensing, his excitement skyrocketing as he sucks some more, losing himself to this desire too soon, even while he has desires yet unmet.
Of course Emet-Selch's supposed to take this opportunity and milk it for all it's worth. Mettaton acknowledges it wholly: his body, his lips and his mouth are for him to conquer just as much as his is for Mettaton to captivate and overtake. They shouldn't have to hold back around each other unless it's with some greater intention in mind. And if this isn't a delightful sensation for them both. Absolutely worth it, Mettaton thinks, as he soaks in the sound of Emet-Selch's voice on a cry of unrestrained pleasure. He takes a deep, shaky breath through his nose even while he suckles on the end of his arousal, taking that same energy he puts forth toward bruises and kisses and directing it here, upon his lover's sensitive cock.
He lets go of the head after a few good, hard sucks, another smack of his lips as he releases it to the air, only to push his lips against the slit again, to slide the heat of his mouth over him once more. (This time, it's because he himself can't resist the temptation; the Puca shivers, sighing a note of lust even as he mouths his cock.) Mettaton's tongue rhythmically rubs from slit to ridge, following along the underside of it as a low hum slips from his throat as he imagines the sensation of his arousal pressed to the back of his mouth. He releases him again to give him a few more luscious laps of his tongue, the kind of passionate mouthing belonging to someone deeply aroused by his partner and equally as wanting.
But he pulls away, not nearly finished with his body. He glances up to give Emet-Selch a knowing narrow of his eyes and a smirk, aware that he's given him an inch... But he has to wait, suggested by a soft kiss to his hip, maintained eye contact with his Bonded's face, a dark, simmering desire burning in his gaze. His fingers grip down upon his wrists.]
You'll have more of that, dear... Keep enjoying me, in the meantime.
[It's not a matter of being patient or holding off on this more direct pleasure. Mettaton wants Emet-Selch to have this whole experience and take it the way he does, no matter how wound up he is, or perhaps especially because of how wound up he is.
He dips even lower, arms laying over the other's thighs while he keeps him pressed to the bed as he buries his face into the inside of Emet-Selch's thigh, leaving a warm, wet kiss there. Teasingly close to his groin, the robot slides his tongue along skin before biting down against such tender, supple flesh, finding a spot he wants to mark with teeth this time: and he does, hard enough not to break skin (yet), only to bruise, to mark him with teeth. He groans at this release in his jaw, his jaw which aches preemptively — less for any exertion, and more for how he wants to be exerted.]
[The reward of being sucked upon was of immense relief, and an even more immense stoking of already considerable burning. Small sounds escape with each breath, as his hips continue trying to press upward, to force himself deeper, to take more of his mouth. His eyes close again as his head arches back when Mettaton's tongue glides over the slit, then curls along the underside. Each suck was another pulse of pleasure, a stark increase that Emet-Selch wasn't remotely prepared for, and which he was helpless to keep from attempting to thrust into.
The brief moment when Mettaton slides away from his cock turns the Ascian's breath into an immediate whine- and then a just as immediate groan at the softness of lips against his slit, the way his lover's mouth parted around the glans, sliding him so snugly inside once again. His tongue felt so soft and so wet, and the way it seemed to mold along the underside of the head, stroking him so intimately from ridge to slit was all he could think about, and he was certain that he could be held and rubbed to climax this way, and it wouldn't even be difficult--
But then there was no heat wrapped around him, no suction, only Mettaton's tongue lapping at him, as deeply pleasant a tongue as it was. And even in the midst of his yearning, Emet-Selch felt ever more connected to Mettaton with each lick, each sound and hot breath. That it was the man he loved doing this to him, taking him apart like this- while knowing Mettaton was taking his own pleasure in every action, and that the only way things could end was with both of them satisfied--
By the time Mettaton finally pulls back from him, the Ascian is panting, gaze unfocused, desperate. Aching for that suction to continue, for that tongue to canvass every inch of his length, to be engulfed in that warmth. He was so cold without him....
But despite the need written in his face, his body, there's no irritation at the pause; even his frustration was of the worthwhile sort, the kind that he knew would only enhance the moment when Mettaton finally returned to attending to his cock, when he was permitted some manner of release. Emet-Selch trusted he wouldn't leave him like this (or at all), which made it possible to enjoy both the pain of arousal, and the new, teasing sensation along his inner thigh.]
I don't- have much choice in that, do I....
[The words come only with difficulty, forcing himself to take in enough air to speak something with any kind of coherence. Even this much is broken up by a gasp when teeth dig into sensitive flesh, legs practically quivering from the attention. Where the trailing of a tongue has him shiver, moaning, the harder pressure turns it into a shudder. As though the sight of the rest of his bruises wouldn't be enough of a turn-on in the days to come, the ones left on his thighs, so close to his cock, he knew would be a source of intense arousal. To remember his lover between his legs, sucking those marks there, sucking his erection itself- the images and sensations were already connected in his mind, as it wasn't exactly a very far leap between them.]
[Further nuzzling his face between his legs, Mettaton takes care not to make too much contact with his arousal as he sucks yet another bruise into his thigh. The knowledge that there's so much room to mark up is a consideration he makes, a beat of satisfaction overcoming him that has him sounding a noise of contentment into his kiss at the prospect: the thought of his lover later being able to regard himself a mess of purples and reds is a favorable one. If he's not sucking, he's kissing, open mouthed and entirely too close to his cock. He imagines what it must feel like, having his mouth tend to his thighs and so very close to his ache, but offset, the point of focus close enough to taste. He smiles into his next claim, humming in his approval.
A bruise kissed here, the pattern of teeth there, and here, the puncture of a canine: Mettaton tastes blood and he relishes it, as small as the wound is for him to lick from. He sighs, enchanted by this access and the way that the flavor of him feels electric across his scalp, Monster that he is. It encourages him into a firmer bite, one that may have been deep enough to sink in far were it not for these blunted human teeth. At this, Mettaton emits a loud, unchecked noise of delight, succumbing to its influence over his body. A slip in control overwhelms him.
Blood leaks from this mark and he sucks at it, bruises to accompany punctures, driving the Puca all the more wild in his manner. He sucks in air between licks of blood out of reflex. MTT's quickly able to calm, however: such magic from his Bonded Witch could sedate, please, pleasure, or entice him, and it does all of the above.
With a heavy exhale against his skin, a line of drool drips from Mettaton's lips and onto Emet-Selch's thighs, where it mingles with blood as he zones back into the moment. His manner is nearly drunken off of magic with how much he's taken over the night, unaccustomed and newly hooked as he is, atop all of the physical contact that charges him otherwise. The robot settles his body and regards his work, a mess of purples and reds already along his thighs.
What a sight he is, he thinks. If it were himself beholding so much color upon his legs, he'd be incapable of not recalling the moments responsible for such dedication — and Mettaton's sure he'll get to see it for himself in days to come. How could he resist this look of claim on his Bonded? Mettaton gives into more want, shoving his face against his cock with a fierce sort of yearning, pressing lips to his balls and angling his face to push against his shaft. He tongues a hard line from his balls to the base of his arousal, nuzzling into him with a groan of satisfaction as his eyelids shutter closed. He kisses, rubs, stakes further claim upon him, absolutely shameless. A gasp of bliss accompanies his kisses, and with how much he clearly indulges, it would be impossible to make him feel humiliated over such brazenness. He mouths him some more, burying his face deeply between the Ascian's legs, breathing him in, feeling his heat, testing textures against his lips.
Speaking against the base of his cock, Mettaton presses a kiss there with a hum.]
Hades... I hope you think of this every time you look down.
[He glances up in the midst of his dedicated ministrations, hoping to see that Emet-Selch's watching him. He should be, he thinks. He's a sight to behold, and what better way to associate the acts of bruising and biting than to watch him take him apart?]
[There was a lot of ground to cover, Emet-Selch thought. For as much as he longed for Mettaton to return to sating the needs of his cock, the Ascian still found himself enraptured by the thought of such efforts being applied to his thighs. How much more would he feel it, when he wrapped his legs around him? The soreness of muscle worked and the tenderness of skin wounded, pierced and colorized. How would its shades develop in the days to come, how much would the process entice the both of them? What a pity for it to eventually fade....
It's a thought that has him push himself up what little that he could, to lift his head to watch as much of the process that remained. And in just that brief period of not watching him, so much had blossomed; the sight of it, and Mettaton in the middle of it, stalled his breath and tightened his muscles. How fortunate, Emet-Selch considered, that so long as he stayed here, he doubted he'd get much of a chance to heal. What was soreness on top of soreness, damage on damage? It would be an easy thing, for one or the other of them to drag their partner into a renewal. Just the sight of the bruising would be enough of a suggestion.
(Then again, whenever he did have the misfortune to heal in more entirety (like whenever he escapes back to his other household), it wouldn't change the knowledge of what had been there. And, he supposed, there could be a different sort of satisfaction in marring up a fresh slate, now and again.
That was the sort of future that was worth considering.)
Thoughts captured by the sight of himself- from the warm ache of fresh bruising, to the contrast of cooling saliva running down his thigh, along with the similarly-cooling patches of wetness that made those purples and reds appear to glisten- when Mettaton presses his face back against his cock, he nearly startles. Muscles clench, hips twitch into the contact, and his gaze struggles to focus on the man nuzzling up against his balls and shaft, surrounded by a sea of color. Taking it all in was overwhelming, particularly when paired with the lines drawn by Mettaton's tongue, a slick claim that made it impossible to think of much else.]
Ah--
[The surprise at briefly meeting Mettaton's eyes serves as a reminder that it was worth keeping them open, no matter how easy it would be for them to drift shut, to lose himself in sensation and sound and scent alone. Even taste, with the blood in his mouth from his sluggishly bleeding lip. But sight was an important sense, and if he was going to be overwhelmed, it might as well be by everything.
Which made it considerably harder to speak, looking down at his lover with his erection against his face, able to feel every word and breath and gasp against skin too hot and unbearably hard. The idea that there could be anything at all humiliating in what they were doing would never even occur to him; when such intensity was felt, why wouldn't it be expressed in as indecently blatant a manner as possible? Watching Mettaton demonstrate his attraction to his cock only reminded him of how much he loved him. And nor did he think less of himself for giving himself over to any of this; the Ascian's only surprise in that he was at all capable of it.]
I doubt... that there's any risk of my forgetting it....
[Words, how about that, he managed some. And though there's something of a shaky breath behind them, they're even coherent.]
[(As if returning to his other house would guarantee safety from Mettaton's break-ins.)
When he meets his lover's eyes in the heat of his own dizzying passion, lust parts for a heady bout of absolute love for the man sitting before him, who speaks on words unsteady. Captivated by his eyes, Mettaton might describe his state. His breath's caught in his throat at the sight of him and his battered and bruised neck, a damage wrought by himself, a love so immense that it could hurt even himself.
Oddly enough, it registers to him somewhat like pain in this moment. Earlier on, no feeling of his crush on the Ascian registered as ache or longing or any manner of sorrow... And even still, Mettaton's own sort of love shines brighter than all else. He smiles so warmly at Emet-Selch, cheek pressed to his erection, but he thinks about how... deep his feelings run now. How much just loving him leaves him sore. It's not in any anticipation of losing anything, but rather, that there's so much love he feels that he yearns to demonstrate it all: the feeling of a love so swollen that there's no expression sufficient enough to make it adequately known all at once. Only in increments. In a body like this one, it's a love that tangles itself messily with his body, the bridging of an emotional-physical experience: the beat of his heart and the inhalation of lungs are weighted down, and he wonders if Emet-Selch's pain in attachment feels like this. How different is the pain of impending loss to the ache of excessive love? Is this simply the feeling of excessiveness in general?
Moments spent staring lovestruck, zoning out of the moment completely. Even with the heat of an erection pressed to his flushed cheek, breathing shallow and violet eyes taking on a syrupy fondness. Spacing out seems to be something Mettaton does sometimes, a more private trait that he reserves for his lonesome... Or for special company. Emet-Selch qualifies as special company.
Mettaton comes back around and blinks, smile warming yet at the sound of Emet-Selch's voice.]
Good. [He trails kisses up the length of the shaft with a breathy exhale, a silvery hum accompanying his affection.] For me to occupy your thoughts if ever you find yourself wanting... I'd be delighted.
[Finally. Satisfied beyond belief at his handiwork manifested in Emet-Selch's body, the Puca kisses the tip of his arousal, sloppy and with a dedication to first slipping his lips over the tip of his cock. It's a kiss he provides some suction into, a kiss he reapplies, but this time for longer. The robot unhands Emet-Selch's wrists then, dragging his fingertips along his midriff, warm and soft. The smack of a kiss has Mettaton slipping the head between his lips, sucking with such amorous intent that he sighs in relief.
A relief, he supposes, found in being able to express this want: he sucks hard, suction accompanied by the ambitious stroke of his tongue, even while his own hard-on throbs painfully in his sympathy. But he refuses to acknowledge it, not yet. He'll have his turn after he sucks his lover off, when Emet-Selch's spent, when Mettaton deems him needing to be overwhelmed with his expression of want. Sucking him off isn't enough to express this love of his that crushes him, not if he wants to inundate him totally. He groans softly into his mouthful of cock, throat open as he unhands Emet-Selch's wrists to slip his hands under his thighs. He gives his upper leg a firm squeeze, a satisfied sigh slipping from his throat as he sucks ardently.
He spares a moment to release his cock from his mouth again, a line of saliva following his tongue as he exposes the glistening head to the air. He regards him amorously, hungrily; he licks his lips, even.]
God, Hades... [He speaks on a collapsing sigh, parted lips pressed to the slickness of his glans. He glances up at his lover, eyes half-lidded and wanting.]
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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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Every lick and bite and sentiment alike felt as though they had a direct line to his cock, a thought that keeps Emet-Selch from lying still underneath him. There's little control in the way he shifts restlessly, both seeking relief and almost fearing it, not wanting any of these sensations to end.
A desire underscored when Mettaton focuses again over a sensitive nipple, one not yet dampened by lips, the area suddenly much hotter. A loud, ragged breath is the Ascian's first response to such intent suction, followed by a hard shiver, his fingers digging into his hands as his arms continue trying to press upward. The sensation turning from satisfyingly hard into mere flicking and mouthing felt horribly teasing, and he could almost laugh, breathlessly and frustrated at how well Mettaton could produce these reactions from him. They were so prone to each other that he had a hard time understanding it.
But while his nipple may have been left slightly frustrated, Emet-Selch's desire for more force was at least satisfied elsewhere on his chest, tauter trembling and soft gasps of approval matching the times he felt skin pulled, bitten, turned dark. He was having a hard time keeping track of them all: what was the soreness of a bruise, and what was only tender and damp. The closer to his neck, the harder it was to determine, the ratio swinging sharply in favor of damage.
It certainly had the Ascian's favor, to be made so colorful. And how fortunate a palette, that fresh bruises took to reds and purples- shades that Mettaton already seemed to be drawn to.
(Later on, much later, he'd have to take advantage of Mettaton's mirror to see the extent of it all. The robot pulling back to look down on him only made him more sure of it.)
There really wasn't much opportunity for healing in his lip, considering the force of his own breathing, and for that matter, the way his own tongue kept wanting to investigate it. Aggravate it. As though it weren't sore enough. But new bleeding is quite easily provoked once Mettaton returns to claim it, and Emet-Selch latches onto that kiss with determination. Acting as if it were providing air rather than taking it, mistaking suffocation for freedom. Needing the taste of his lips to sustain him (even while simultaneously missing the pressure of them against his chest, sucking marks for later perusal), and needing even more the way all of Mettaton shuddered over him, in a vibration of warmth. As though he needed any more awareness of the satisfaction Mettaton took in this, in him, in using his body so fully, without reservation.
And how sorely he wanted that use.]
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As he ducks back down again, he does it with a dreamy sigh. A few kisses spared to his chest, practically following the haunts of that incision down his middle, down his belly, and ending up above Emet-Selch's hips.
The first thing Mettaton feels is the presence of Emet-Selch's erection, painfully aroused as he is, poking directly into his neck. Mettaton hums, drawn to it instantly; his fingers tighten around wrists as his thumbs continue to work into the soft underside of them in fond circles. The idol tips his head somewhat and captures the very tip of his lover's cock between his lips, a slight smacking noise from the way he sucks a small kiss into him. It's an example of how he'll tease his body to his heart's content, too, and Mettaton hums affectionately at how much he knows the gesture will only serve to frustrate. And he's pleased with that, as he gets to work on other parts of his body.
Starting from his hip, Mettaton kisses and kisses, shifting just above the bony protrusion to take more pliant tissue into his mouth. Once more, the idol sucks a bruise into him, one after the other, intent on leaving him with as many as possible while each exhale of his is accompanied by a note of pleasurable fondness. As time goes on, the painful ache of his cock is translated into a controlled heat, one that, were he to feel any sort of direct stimulation, he knows would lead to a slippery descent into voracious hunger. An unstoppable, incurable thirst for contact, one he's only been able to scrape the surface of over this past year, the majority of it concentrated into just a number of months, baring all of this want and need and craving before Emet-Selch. He trembles at the thought of a time before this. And how sympathetic and knowing Emet-Selch was when he first came clean about it... It still has his breath hitching.
So much to catch up on, even to this day. So much he wants to do, to lavish his love upon this body so that it might reach the soul within. To ravish him for his own pleasure, to watch the Ascian come undone. They both have such an expansive build-up of... need, Emet-Selch's taking on a form different than his own for certain. But Mettaton knows how desperate he is for any of this. How deeply he craves it, how much deeper it gets when it has to do with his Bonded more than anything else. He described it once as a pandora's box, and that proves to be true. To never be satisfied, to always want more, and worst of all, to keep acting up on that want endlessly.
He sighs, expelling all of the breath in his lungs that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He trembles again, overwhelmed, oversensitive, and terribly, terribly hard.
With a hum, Mettaton drifts to tissue softer yet: he drifts lower along his abdomen, close enough for the head of Emet-Selch's cock to graze his cheek when he smiles, to feel heat radiating from his skin, and Mettaton eagerly takes tissue here into a kiss that marks. When he switches over to kneading the area with a press of tongue, he finds himself smiling fondly and tilting his head, once more bumping against the tip of his arousal with his cheek.]
Ah.
[Mettaton turns toward his cock, deliberately parting his lips close enough to breathe on him, close enough to tease, and intentionally close enough for any thrust to be rewarded with his mouth. He can almost anticipate the shape of his head pushing between, the way his lips would be forced to ride over a smooth curve and just barely pop over the ridge of his glans. And were he to do that, Mettaton knows he'd reward him further yet with a hard suck: he almost prepares for it, wondering if Emet-Selch would give into temptation. He should: Mettaton almost wills him to, in his mind.]
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To not feel alone was a difficult thing, a thing Emet-Selch despaired over. A thing that wasn't solved by an evening's company, wasn't solved by a kind word or a touch. He was a void of misery that nothing could influence, and nothing could budge. And yet. And yet, this had an effect... something he could somehow feel in the midst of the tragedy of all else. But not anyone's company would do, only this had worked, only him- someone who he could trust and adore, who wouldn't leave, who wouldn't forget him, he promised--
They both... had a lot to catch up on.
Taking each kiss as deeply as he could, the weight of his own love weighed Emet-Selch down more than even the vice-like grip over his wrists, but it was there and unmistakable for anything else. And he could only marvel in his continued observation of Mettaton's version of the emotion, so different yet still recognizable- as well as how they could both express their variations on a feeling through contact. That they could meet so effectively this way, despite how different they were.
It's a reverie that has him swallowing heavily, and shivering faintly as Mettaton moves lower on his body once more. But there's a moment's surprise when an incidental brush against his cock turns into a suck over the tip of it, a soft, needy sound startled out of him, eyes opening, head tilting up to get a glimpse of it- only in time to see Mettaton sliding off from him, moving onward.
An action that has his body twitching up in protest, as though it could force additional suction despite Mettaton having drifted over to his hip instead. An effective tease, and how susceptible he was to it- though feeling the pressure of his lover's mouth applied to the soft parts around his hip was an equally effective consolation. Though he couldn't see the results of his work very well like this, he could feel them, the areas around his erection especially sensitive to such treatment. Either because they were genuinely more sensitive, or whether they only felt as such because of how close he knew Mettaton was to his cock, Emet-Selch didn't know. It also didn't matter, not when his Bonded kept nudging against his length, in scraps of contact he refused to believe were accidental.
But each brush sent a corresponding wave of arousal through him, enough to disrupt his breathing, hot skin against equally hot skin, aching and tender. The muscles in his abdomen tense hard from the feeling of a wet tongue swiping over it, over skin made newly tender and bruised, and even moreso by the hint of contact against his cock.
A hint that became... almost more than a suggestion, as Mettaton's face finally turns, to breathe and focus on his length specifically. But there he pauses, as if waiting, and Emet-Selch looks down at him, the man's parted lips hovering so close to the tip of his erection. The tension in his hips indicates a desire to thrust, one that he bites his own bitten lip in order to restrain- before deciding, why? Why hold back when his mouth was so inviting and so there for the taking--
It's not much of a decision in the end, really; his hips jerk sharply upwards even before his mind has really accepted this course of action. But there's immediate satisfaction, crying out as he pushes the ridge of the head past Mettaton's lips, feels the prize of heat and wet around it, his noise turned into a protracted moan. It's barely that he's able to keep watching at all.]
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Of course Emet-Selch's supposed to take this opportunity and milk it for all it's worth. Mettaton acknowledges it wholly: his body, his lips and his mouth are for him to conquer just as much as his is for Mettaton to captivate and overtake. They shouldn't have to hold back around each other unless it's with some greater intention in mind. And if this isn't a delightful sensation for them both. Absolutely worth it, Mettaton thinks, as he soaks in the sound of Emet-Selch's voice on a cry of unrestrained pleasure. He takes a deep, shaky breath through his nose even while he suckles on the end of his arousal, taking that same energy he puts forth toward bruises and kisses and directing it here, upon his lover's sensitive cock.
He lets go of the head after a few good, hard sucks, another smack of his lips as he releases it to the air, only to push his lips against the slit again, to slide the heat of his mouth over him once more. (This time, it's because he himself can't resist the temptation; the Puca shivers, sighing a note of lust even as he mouths his cock.) Mettaton's tongue rhythmically rubs from slit to ridge, following along the underside of it as a low hum slips from his throat as he imagines the sensation of his arousal pressed to the back of his mouth. He releases him again to give him a few more luscious laps of his tongue, the kind of passionate mouthing belonging to someone deeply aroused by his partner and equally as wanting.
But he pulls away, not nearly finished with his body. He glances up to give Emet-Selch a knowing narrow of his eyes and a smirk, aware that he's given him an inch... But he has to wait, suggested by a soft kiss to his hip, maintained eye contact with his Bonded's face, a dark, simmering desire burning in his gaze. His fingers grip down upon his wrists.]
You'll have more of that, dear... Keep enjoying me, in the meantime.
[It's not a matter of being patient or holding off on this more direct pleasure. Mettaton wants Emet-Selch to have this whole experience and take it the way he does, no matter how wound up he is, or perhaps especially because of how wound up he is.
He dips even lower, arms laying over the other's thighs while he keeps him pressed to the bed as he buries his face into the inside of Emet-Selch's thigh, leaving a warm, wet kiss there. Teasingly close to his groin, the robot slides his tongue along skin before biting down against such tender, supple flesh, finding a spot he wants to mark with teeth this time: and he does, hard enough not to break skin (yet), only to bruise, to mark him with teeth. He groans at this release in his jaw, his jaw which aches preemptively — less for any exertion, and more for how he wants to be exerted.]
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The brief moment when Mettaton slides away from his cock turns the Ascian's breath into an immediate whine- and then a just as immediate groan at the softness of lips against his slit, the way his lover's mouth parted around the glans, sliding him so snugly inside once again. His tongue felt so soft and so wet, and the way it seemed to mold along the underside of the head, stroking him so intimately from ridge to slit was all he could think about, and he was certain that he could be held and rubbed to climax this way, and it wouldn't even be difficult--
But then there was no heat wrapped around him, no suction, only Mettaton's tongue lapping at him, as deeply pleasant a tongue as it was. And even in the midst of his yearning, Emet-Selch felt ever more connected to Mettaton with each lick, each sound and hot breath. That it was the man he loved doing this to him, taking him apart like this- while knowing Mettaton was taking his own pleasure in every action, and that the only way things could end was with both of them satisfied--
By the time Mettaton finally pulls back from him, the Ascian is panting, gaze unfocused, desperate. Aching for that suction to continue, for that tongue to canvass every inch of his length, to be engulfed in that warmth. He was so cold without him....
But despite the need written in his face, his body, there's no irritation at the pause; even his frustration was of the worthwhile sort, the kind that he knew would only enhance the moment when Mettaton finally returned to attending to his cock, when he was permitted some manner of release. Emet-Selch trusted he wouldn't leave him like this (or at all), which made it possible to enjoy both the pain of arousal, and the new, teasing sensation along his inner thigh.]
I don't- have much choice in that, do I....
[The words come only with difficulty, forcing himself to take in enough air to speak something with any kind of coherence. Even this much is broken up by a gasp when teeth dig into sensitive flesh, legs practically quivering from the attention. Where the trailing of a tongue has him shiver, moaning, the harder pressure turns it into a shudder. As though the sight of the rest of his bruises wouldn't be enough of a turn-on in the days to come, the ones left on his thighs, so close to his cock, he knew would be a source of intense arousal. To remember his lover between his legs, sucking those marks there, sucking his erection itself- the images and sensations were already connected in his mind, as it wasn't exactly a very far leap between them.]
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A bruise kissed here, the pattern of teeth there, and here, the puncture of a canine: Mettaton tastes blood and he relishes it, as small as the wound is for him to lick from. He sighs, enchanted by this access and the way that the flavor of him feels electric across his scalp, Monster that he is. It encourages him into a firmer bite, one that may have been deep enough to sink in far were it not for these blunted human teeth. At this, Mettaton emits a loud, unchecked noise of delight, succumbing to its influence over his body. A slip in control overwhelms him.
Blood leaks from this mark and he sucks at it, bruises to accompany punctures, driving the Puca all the more wild in his manner. He sucks in air between licks of blood out of reflex. MTT's quickly able to calm, however: such magic from his Bonded Witch could sedate, please, pleasure, or entice him, and it does all of the above.
With a heavy exhale against his skin, a line of drool drips from Mettaton's lips and onto Emet-Selch's thighs, where it mingles with blood as he zones back into the moment. His manner is nearly drunken off of magic with how much he's taken over the night, unaccustomed and newly hooked as he is, atop all of the physical contact that charges him otherwise. The robot settles his body and regards his work, a mess of purples and reds already along his thighs.
What a sight he is, he thinks. If it were himself beholding so much color upon his legs, he'd be incapable of not recalling the moments responsible for such dedication — and Mettaton's sure he'll get to see it for himself in days to come. How could he resist this look of claim on his Bonded? Mettaton gives into more want, shoving his face against his cock with a fierce sort of yearning, pressing lips to his balls and angling his face to push against his shaft. He tongues a hard line from his balls to the base of his arousal, nuzzling into him with a groan of satisfaction as his eyelids shutter closed. He kisses, rubs, stakes further claim upon him, absolutely shameless. A gasp of bliss accompanies his kisses, and with how much he clearly indulges, it would be impossible to make him feel humiliated over such brazenness. He mouths him some more, burying his face deeply between the Ascian's legs, breathing him in, feeling his heat, testing textures against his lips.
Speaking against the base of his cock, Mettaton presses a kiss there with a hum.]
Hades... I hope you think of this every time you look down.
[He glances up in the midst of his dedicated ministrations, hoping to see that Emet-Selch's watching him. He should be, he thinks. He's a sight to behold, and what better way to associate the acts of bruising and biting than to watch him take him apart?]
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It's a thought that has him push himself up what little that he could, to lift his head to watch as much of the process that remained. And in just that brief period of not watching him, so much had blossomed; the sight of it, and Mettaton in the middle of it, stalled his breath and tightened his muscles. How fortunate, Emet-Selch considered, that so long as he stayed here, he doubted he'd get much of a chance to heal. What was soreness on top of soreness, damage on damage? It would be an easy thing, for one or the other of them to drag their partner into a renewal. Just the sight of the bruising would be enough of a suggestion.
(Then again, whenever he did have the misfortune to heal in more entirety (like whenever he escapes back to his other household), it wouldn't change the knowledge of what had been there. And, he supposed, there could be a different sort of satisfaction in marring up a fresh slate, now and again.
That was the sort of future that was worth considering.)
Thoughts captured by the sight of himself- from the warm ache of fresh bruising, to the contrast of cooling saliva running down his thigh, along with the similarly-cooling patches of wetness that made those purples and reds appear to glisten- when Mettaton presses his face back against his cock, he nearly startles. Muscles clench, hips twitch into the contact, and his gaze struggles to focus on the man nuzzling up against his balls and shaft, surrounded by a sea of color. Taking it all in was overwhelming, particularly when paired with the lines drawn by Mettaton's tongue, a slick claim that made it impossible to think of much else.]
Ah--
[The surprise at briefly meeting Mettaton's eyes serves as a reminder that it was worth keeping them open, no matter how easy it would be for them to drift shut, to lose himself in sensation and sound and scent alone. Even taste, with the blood in his mouth from his sluggishly bleeding lip. But sight was an important sense, and if he was going to be overwhelmed, it might as well be by everything.
Which made it considerably harder to speak, looking down at his lover with his erection against his face, able to feel every word and breath and gasp against skin too hot and unbearably hard. The idea that there could be anything at all humiliating in what they were doing would never even occur to him; when such intensity was felt, why wouldn't it be expressed in as indecently blatant a manner as possible? Watching Mettaton demonstrate his attraction to his cock only reminded him of how much he loved him. And nor did he think less of himself for giving himself over to any of this; the Ascian's only surprise in that he was at all capable of it.]
I doubt... that there's any risk of my forgetting it....
[Words, how about that, he managed some. And though there's something of a shaky breath behind them, they're even coherent.]
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When he meets his lover's eyes in the heat of his own dizzying passion, lust parts for a heady bout of absolute love for the man sitting before him, who speaks on words unsteady. Captivated by his eyes, Mettaton might describe his state. His breath's caught in his throat at the sight of him and his battered and bruised neck, a damage wrought by himself, a love so immense that it could hurt even himself.
Oddly enough, it registers to him somewhat like pain in this moment. Earlier on, no feeling of his crush on the Ascian registered as ache or longing or any manner of sorrow... And even still, Mettaton's own sort of love shines brighter than all else. He smiles so warmly at Emet-Selch, cheek pressed to his erection, but he thinks about how... deep his feelings run now. How much just loving him leaves him sore. It's not in any anticipation of losing anything, but rather, that there's so much love he feels that he yearns to demonstrate it all: the feeling of a love so swollen that there's no expression sufficient enough to make it adequately known all at once. Only in increments. In a body like this one, it's a love that tangles itself messily with his body, the bridging of an emotional-physical experience: the beat of his heart and the inhalation of lungs are weighted down, and he wonders if Emet-Selch's pain in attachment feels like this. How different is the pain of impending loss to the ache of excessive love? Is this simply the feeling of excessiveness in general?
Moments spent staring lovestruck, zoning out of the moment completely. Even with the heat of an erection pressed to his flushed cheek, breathing shallow and violet eyes taking on a syrupy fondness. Spacing out seems to be something Mettaton does sometimes, a more private trait that he reserves for his lonesome... Or for special company. Emet-Selch qualifies as special company.
Mettaton comes back around and blinks, smile warming yet at the sound of Emet-Selch's voice.]
Good. [He trails kisses up the length of the shaft with a breathy exhale, a silvery hum accompanying his affection.] For me to occupy your thoughts if ever you find yourself wanting... I'd be delighted.
[Finally. Satisfied beyond belief at his handiwork manifested in Emet-Selch's body, the Puca kisses the tip of his arousal, sloppy and with a dedication to first slipping his lips over the tip of his cock. It's a kiss he provides some suction into, a kiss he reapplies, but this time for longer. The robot unhands Emet-Selch's wrists then, dragging his fingertips along his midriff, warm and soft. The smack of a kiss has Mettaton slipping the head between his lips, sucking with such amorous intent that he sighs in relief.
A relief, he supposes, found in being able to express this want: he sucks hard, suction accompanied by the ambitious stroke of his tongue, even while his own hard-on throbs painfully in his sympathy. But he refuses to acknowledge it, not yet. He'll have his turn after he sucks his lover off, when Emet-Selch's spent, when Mettaton deems him needing to be overwhelmed with his expression of want. Sucking him off isn't enough to express this love of his that crushes him, not if he wants to inundate him totally. He groans softly into his mouthful of cock, throat open as he unhands Emet-Selch's wrists to slip his hands under his thighs. He gives his upper leg a firm squeeze, a satisfied sigh slipping from his throat as he sucks ardently.
He spares a moment to release his cock from his mouth again, a line of saliva following his tongue as he exposes the glistening head to the air. He regards him amorously, hungrily; he licks his lips, even.]
God, Hades... [He speaks on a collapsing sigh, parted lips pressed to the slickness of his glans. He glances up at his lover, eyes half-lidded and wanting.]
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