[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.]
[With as open as they were in their Bond, getting an impression of Mettaton's own feelings is not an unusual or difficult thing to achieve. If it even counted as achieving when it was just allowed to happen; anything else would mean deliberately holding back, for some reason. But the ache involved in Mettaton's emotions at first doesn't register as being from him at all. Love and attachment hurt: Emet-Selch knew this as an absolute. So it takes some time to notice the differences, the variation on a theme of pain. Enough to realize that he wasn't the source of it- an understanding that leaves him shaken, hurting all over again at the thought. It wasn't as though it were a surprise, but to be loved to that degree.... If he could feel it so plainly, what was it like to be the originator of those feelings? It's an experience that leaves him disoriented, vision briefly darkening, unable to shake off his awareness of that love. Not that he wanted to, for all that he thought that he might lose himself to it.
And he felt so exceedingly tender and raw for him in response, scarcely able to grasp that this was happening, that it was even possible--
Lost in the moment, the warmth of Mettaton's cheek pressed to the warmth of his cock, the Ascian doesn't feel even the hint of frustration. Watching him watch himself, he swallows heavily, breathing still unsteady, chest heaving from it. But he does wonder a bit over the reason for the idol's particular staring, the haze to Mettaton's expression different from that of a pause to take in the moment itself. But that's how Emet-Selch uses the opportunity, to memorize the details of the scene before him, before his senses were completely subsumed by lust and exceptional adoration.
Not that there isn't plenty of adoration already present in his gaze, for all that it remains sorrow-tinged and concurrent with the wealth of anguish he has to live with. But he's not thinking of those negative aspects and the part they play in his demeanor, in his interpretation and expression of love. But he takes in the whole of what he could see. That he was in Mettaton's room, with all of his collected treasures, on his bed, with his legs spread around him and his body affectionately damaged. His lover, in a form both familiar-yet-new, had his face rubbed up against his erection, and was looking up at him with a violet gaze that made his heart hurt in itself. Traces of blood still decorated his countenance, an echo of what Mettaton had inflicted.
And then the moment resumes, Mettaton's voice another thing to claim his senses, along with the imprint of his lips travelling up the length of his erection. Letting out a breath he'd forgotten he'd been holding, Emet-Selch immediately sucks in a new one as he feels his lover's mouth slide over the tip of his cock. A soft-though-firm stroking over the most sensitive part of him, he watches with rapt attention as the head slips smoothly passed Mettaton's lips, and though he's unable to see it, he can feel the working of the puca's tongue. The wet surroundings and long-anticipated suction has him cry out, voice shameless in his pleasure, in his desperation for him.
That his wrists were free doesn't immediately register in itself- only that he was suddenly more able to sit up properly, to watch Mettaton more closely. That he was able to lift a hand to Mettaton's hair, to push back at the bangs that kept threatening to fall forward and obscure that side of his face again. It was only then, along with the awareness of his Bonded's hands under trembling thighs, that he realized that he'd been permitted some measure of freedom. And how strange it was, to have both enjoyed (and he thought it qualified as enjoyed, if he were forced to analyze it) being held back, while also grateful for the ability to shift a bit, to touch his lover at all.
And to watch in closer detail the saliva trailing between tongue and tip, the wetness of both as Mettaton returned to mouthing the sensitive head. How much he wanted to kiss him then, to lick at the dampness on his lips; how much he didn't want to disturb a moment of what his Bonded was doing to him, the way his mouth shaped itself around the glans, and the look to his eyes--]
Mettaton, you.... [A shuddered breath; but he was struck by the importance of expressing this sentiment, somehow.] You look- so beautiful like that....
[A smile splits across his face, taken aback by the sincerity of the compliment. It's the second like it in a night — and how do they feel so different from others he's received? Unburdened by reserve, not especially directed toward the body he wears or the image he projects, but him, and Mettaton never thought a compliment to his beauty could really penetrate him so thoroughly. There's the addition of Emet-Selch's freshly freed hands moving, the fact that he first uses them to prop himself up, then to brush aside his bangs. Somehow, that touches him all the bit more. He distills the experience into one uniquely shared between lovers, and light, spirited affection overwhelms him.
A human body betrays how it makes him feel, bringing color to his cheeks to accompany his fondness. He opens his mouth to reply, but has nothing. So he rubs his cheek into his arousal of all things, a short, airy laugh escaping his throat. After all, Mettaton likes compliments — that he could find some among the most sincere in this bedroom with his lover is both a surprise and nothing short of what he'd anticipate, but it catches his heart all the same. He casts his vision down to his body for a moment, to let his eyes drink in the sight of his abdomen littered with warm-colored bruises, and then brings his attention back to Emet-Selch's face as he lets the head sink into his mouth, lips parting easily and eagerly for his length.
The robot stops again just beyond the corona, his eyelids curtaining as he pays special attention to sucking on the head. The last time he did this to Emet-Selch was the first time he'd ever touched him so intimately, and since then he's experienced what it's like to possess a body that responds like his. It betrays the way Mettaton views pleasure in his own body: this excess focus on the head, the way his tongue slides down to the ridge, which it follows by eager touch. He sighs through his nose, enjoying this deliberate act of affection, the way his jaw tightens with the pressure he exerts on his Bonded's cock. His tongue flattens and rubs broadly along the underside of the tip before focusing its attention on the slit, firm, pointed strokes a sort of coaxing to suggest the idol's anticipation to taste him.
He pulls off of his erection for a moment, lips still shoved directly against the length of it in a stricken sigh. His tongue slips from between his lips to more visibly flick along the very tip of his cock, drawing swirls and hard, firm lines along its sensitive surface.
If there's anything he wants to do, it's to drink in the sight of his Bonded lover just as he did to him. This entire process would be spent to watching, though he already appreciates so thoroughly the way he appears so ravaged in body, desperate in tone, and breathless and heated in manner. Distracted, enticed, his focus belongs to Mettaton, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He smiles proudly, a determined streak to keep his attentions and to dizzy the Ascian, to tear from him his climax.
He accompanies these thoughts with a firm kiss against the tip.]
It's a look I could only have for you.
[He can't imagine it being anything else, and he wishes he knew what he looked like.
Mettaton's lips part again, and he returns to sliding down the length of Emet-Selch's cock. Further this time, slow and deliberate, and he swallows hard enough for his tongue to buckle under the firm weight of his shaft, feeling the smooth, cushioned head of his arousal pressing into such tender areas within his mouth. It feels different to take him into his mouth in this body compared to his other, and he halts here, adjusting for the size of him with a shudder, a groan shaking in his throat while he imagines the tip of his arousal nudged deeply, pressing to the back of his throat. He glances up to Emet-Selch to measure his response, his own face flushed further yet, riding on the bliss of his lover's appreciation for his beauty and his want to be stuffed full of his cock, to swallow against the head of it.]
[The sight of Mettaton flushed was new, he realized, and very welcome. Another thing he hadn't been able to see on him before, and it softens his thoughts further, and dizzies the Ascian to think how much he cares for him. That a bit of warmed skin or a look or a nuzzle could affect him so badly, could be rendered into an experience entirely unlike he was used to. As with Mettaton as a whole, there was nothing he could take for granted.
Emet-Selch thinks as well of the first time they'd been together like this, the first time Mettaton had taken his cock in his mouth. And how intense it had seemed even then, how open he found himself wanting to be with him, as though he could trust him on a level he hadn't yet been aware of. It felt as though a lot had happened in a short time to bring them to this point, gazing at each other like this, filled with a disturbing amount of affection.
His fingertips touch the side of Mettaton's face, still attracted to that extra bit of heat there, wondering if he was just imagining that he could discern a difference in the temperature. But he strokes his skin, brushes his hair back with exceeding gentleness, and a hand that was trembling so faintly. Breathes in a soft, sharp breath at Mettaton taking in the fullness of the head of his cock, at lips encircling the ridge, the explorations of his tongue along the underside. The more deliberate, repeated prodding over the slit has his breath hitch with a sharp sound, struck hard by the imagery of filling his mouth with his come, and dearly anticipating that moment. And the tightness concentrated around the tip leaves the Ascian repeatedly tensing, pulse pounding in time with the ache in his cock, an ache that only pulsed harder the more Mettaton sucked at him.
It's a noise of both pained regret and relief when Mettaton briefly pulls back from that suction, though Emet-Selch continues to pant and throb from the memory of it. It was an intensity that hurt in the most fantastic sort of way, with each time Mettaton returned to him serving to heighten it. And the persistent licking leaves him no chances to breathe easier, no opportunity to relax, especially when he could watch the way his lover's tongue flicked across the surface of his cock, heat against heat, leaving his erection practically dripping with his saliva. And framing him were his thighs, bruised and slightly bloody, a testament to Mettaton's ardor.
Leaning over him slightly, his head is tilted forward, the movement stretching the bites on his neck and shoulders, straining some of them anew. Only a little blood escapes the torn clots, but the whole area ached from the movement, a distant, still-pleasing echo of the arousal that flooded the rest of him. And as he couldn't exactly see his own throat and not much of his shoulders, it also served as a warm reminder of their condition: another thing he couldn't ever imagine forgetting.
Mettaton's words somehow leave him even warmer than before, ever more affected. That this was special and unique and personal for the both of them- a giving of themselves that others weren't privy to. It's a feeling that carries with him even as he watches his Bonded begin to take in more of his cock, feels the head move deeper into his mouth, and part of the shaft being treated to the greater heat of it. The slickness and the softness of him, the accompanying sounds and clear pleasure on Mettaton's part to be doing this- it leaves him moaning from the magnitude of it all. Low, regular noises and whispers that weren't quite words, and were often cut off by a sharper cry, a tight shudder, whenever he felt a particularly strong beat of arousal. Flushed from need, his eyes are half-open but still watching, transfixed and lost and adoring.]
[What noises he treats him to, Mettaton thinks. They're by no means intentional, he understands, but they arouse him nonetheless. A never-ending cycle of feedback where one of them expresses in complete transparency their desires, the other responds, the other reacts, and the other reacts with sympathetic pleasure... So on. Even as he rationalizes this effect he barely catches the tail end of his own moan, the way it vibrates against Emet-Selch's filling cock.
He tests its size in his mouth, prods its firm texture with his tongue, and remembers how this felt inside of his body. Pounding himself against him, a massage he could lose himself to that rubbed with each curve of his back and each rock of his hips, a deep, filling stroke. The head, so close to the back of his throat, is so effectively arousing to him both to feel and to consider, pressing against the back of his tongue. The echo of its texture against his body is alluring, that firm rhythm found simply by sitting on his cock and rocking his hips to his liking. Mettaton imagines that tantalizing image that he couldn't see of himself, but the idea of being able to see his arousal disappearing into his body... And the same is true for his mouth. He could bob up and down upon his length, leave behind slick saliva that Emet-Selch would be forced to see upon his arousal.
Thinking about it all almost has him choking on drool, nowhere for it to go with the limited occupancy of his mouth. Mettaton exhales deeply and slides forward, closing his eyes as he nudges the sloped glans into his throat, fighting his body's need to tense as he does so. If he could do this as a robot, surely he could do this as a human. (Surely indeed: Mettaton did not shift with perfection, deciding that a gag reflex would be fun, but not entirely desirable. He corrected it, like he corrected fingers.)
It's not an arrangement he can maintain so readily in this body. Mettaton sees white with the pressure, a broken moan pressing for release from his throat but catching, throat clenching down, tightening around the Ascian's head instead. Mettaton pulls back, gasping, his lips sliding against the tip of Emet-Selch's cock as he takes a moment to recover. But Mettaton's eager and wanting, unapologetically, and he takes the head of his cock back into his mouth quickly with a short, soft moan, rubbing at the tip with a swirl of his tongue.
The robot builds up toward his attempt to deep throat this time, slowly dipping lower with short, slow bobs, thinking that his body just needs to warm up to the sensation. For all that they're deeply impassioned, Mettaton reassures himself easily with the thought that Emet-Selch is his beloved, understands what Mettaton's human limits should be, and ultimately, he can trust him with his all. This is effective, and the idol's tongue flattens obediently as he pleasantly slides down on his lover's cock. His shoulders relax and he sighs, shifting down as the glans pops into his throat.
Mettaton hums in his pleasure this time, giving him a firm suck in his mouth as his throat closes down, but not enough to gag. It doesn't even bother him in the moment when he finds that he can't breathe, and he begins to rhythmically bob into short dips, cock pressing into the back of his throat with each. He wonders if he could lick his balls like this, but finds he can't quite get the opportunity to do it in his quick-pulsed passion, the neediness his body has for breath upon each receding pump. But the sensation of the tip of his erection against his tongue, against the back of his mouth, has Mettaton trembling: his fingers knead into thighs and his body buries itself with more dedication between his legs, fantasizing over the way he must appear to the Ascian, his lips wrapped nearly to the base of his cock.
A hand retreats from his thighs to fondle his balls, wanting to feel all of his lover at once. He wishes he could kiss him, suck bruises into his neck, feel his length rubbing into him, or pressing into his abdomen the way he might if it were Mettaton fucking him. Mettaton dizzies himself with the notion, loving every idea, loving each manner of contact he could dream of with his Bonded. Each is another claim of intimacy with him, and the hand he has left around his thigh squeezes affectionately.]
[The solution to not being able to see himself at work in all his glory is surely more strategically placed mirrors. Or a recording... somehow.
The rub of his tip against the back of the idol's throat has Emet-Selch tense up and stay tensed, swallowing sympathetically as though it were his throat being filled, being stretched so perfectly around the shape of him. He was meant to occupy that space, he thought, having more of a right to it than air; why else would it feel like this, why would Mettaton's throat be able to squeeze him like this? When his Bonded first pulls back from him, gasping, the Ascian unconsciously echoes the sound, leaning over enough for a brief nuzzle at the top of Mettaton's head. Less for reassurance or even encouragement, but struck with appreciation above all, of everything he was doing, of everything that he was to him. A fondness that he was desperate to express.
And such faith feels immediately rewarded by the enthusiasm Mettaton shows in returning to his cock with licks and moan.
His own breath hesitates as he watches his lover slowly lower himself onto his length, watches his cock disappear into him by degrees. In a vague, curious sort of way, Emet-Selch had wondered how Mettaton would fare in his attempts to stuff more of his length into his mouth. This transformed self with all its benefits was also a body that required things like air to survive, that could suffocate, that could choke... though the latter response doesn't seem to be much of an issue, the Ascian notes with both surprise and pleasure. While he didn't particularly want Mettaton to start gagging on his erection, he had entirely assumed his Bonded would try to fit an excessive amount of it in his throat regardless. That the result seemed to be a mere deprivation of oxygen was satisfactory, and he wasn't exactly in the state of mind to think about how Mettaton had managed it.
Not that he would've felt disappointed even if he had kept his focus to a more reasonable portion of his length, or even just the glans. Mettaton's clear enjoyment in what he was doing would've been enough on its own to sustain him.
But here Mettaton was, engulfing him in near-entirety, his throat dragging and sucking over his cock at regular intervals, surrounding him in that long-coveted heat. A sensation related but so different from when his lover had been riding him earlier, when he'd felt his length rubbing him so deeply, stroking them both. And the way he had looked in his ecstasy, hips rocking against him as their bodies were joined. And now: the glimpses Emet-Selch could get of his slick length being worked over keep his breath ragged and his cries soft, pleading. From the rhythmic dips of his head, to the grips of his hands, every movement Mettaton made broke him that little bit more. He was an absolute wreck, and he knew it, but he didn't care; he also knew climax was closing in rapidly, inescapable, and there was just holding it off for as long as he could.
Everything overwhelmed; no part of him felt neglected. He was bitten open and marked, from lip to thigh, his erection sucked and balls caressed. And emotionally, he was... cared for. Looked after and loved, trusted and attended to. That was the part that destroyed him the most.
So he stroked his face and hair and gasped and moaned and pleaded with him, not even for release, but not to leave. It always returned to that.]
[The gears are already turning in that forward-thinking head of his, on the topic of mirrors.
If anything, that nuzzle ended up being another point toward his need to take him in so deeply, aside from general excessiveness, from the pleasure of it. A thick, undeniable weight encroaching upon his throat, blocking off his airway and prodding him so intimately... In an attempt to change things up from bobbing up and down, Mettaton hungrily lets him pop into his throat and keeps him there, humming soundlessly into the heaviness of his cock blocking off his throat, a sensation that suddenly feels dizzying and pleasant beyond sense. Enough that he feels he might climax himself for a moment, he's not sure, but it all becomes so much. (When was the last time he took a breath? As if Mettaton cares.) He'd forgotten how pleasant it feels to have his cock resting in his throat, stretching around the shape of his head, forcing him to relax and make room for something his body fought against, but that he wanted so desperately. He can have whatever he wants, and if that something's his Bonded's erection sinking into his throat, it's his. (A mental note to suck him off more often: the rush he gets is intense.)
Until his body decides it's had enough. It's not the most graceful of things he could have done, but he tries to swallow, an excess of drool pooling in his mouth. The gag reflex does exist, though he hoped it would be for things unpleasant rather than his lover's erection in his mouth. His throat clamps down on his head, rejecting his length as he retches, pulls off of Emet-Selch with a gasp for air mixed with a cough. The best attempt was made...
...And for some ridiculous, inhuman reason, it doesn't stop him from coming right back down upon his Bonded. One ragged breath later and he's descended upon his length in unpracticed depravity, returning to a more rhythmic sliding. But his strokes are greater this time, giving Mettaton more of a chance to breathe, more of a chance to drag his lips over the head of his cock before sliding down the shaft so thoroughly, a rapturous focus on the head as it drags along his tongue all the way back to his throat. Why would he stop something that not only he takes deep pleasure in, but that his Bonded clearly enjoys?
The feeling of fingers on his face and in his hair is clear encouragement if his pleas and moans wasn't enough, but it all registers to him as so endearing, how far gone he could render Emet-Selch. He continues in reverence, tongue pressing and sliding and flicking against his tip whenever he finds himself with swollen lips wrapped just around the glans, always giving him a good suck before sliding the down to treat him to the intense heat of his slick throat, sore as it's becoming. Mettaton couldn't begin to care. It's where the Ascian belongs, he'd agree — he had more right to it than anything else. The slip of a long, soft groan comes from his throat, delighted by the sensation and the sympathy he feels for his lover.]
[While it could never be described as soothing, there was a steadiness to the feeling of having his cock dipping into the high heat of Mettaton's throat. A continual tightness that pulsed over and around him, and Emet-Selch was briefly tempted to let go of his hair, to stroke over his neck instead, to see if he could feel his length encased there--
So when Mettaton does end up gagging on him after all, it provokes a moment's worth of startle, of concern (and intense physical pleasure, at the way his throat was spasming around him--), only to watch the puca dive right back onto his cock. Reassured that Mettaton was fine, or at least reckless and stubborn, it was simple enough for Emet-Selch to return the whole of his focus back onto what he was doing, the way his Bonded found a way to manage going over the whole of his erection.
The variation in attentions leaves him transfixed and ever more unaware of the sounds he was continuing to make, of the taut trembling in his thighs, or the way he was practically huddled over him. The only things that remained pertained directly to Mettaton. The suction of lips around the glans, to the drag of them down his rigid length, to the accommodations of his lover's throat, the heat of the depths of his body available to be indulged in. The opportunities Mettaton still took to moan, whenever his throat was less occupied, and then the way those sounds vanished when it was. A quiet that was somehow even louder.
If Mettaton decided he wanted to do this for him more often, Emet-Selch would certainly do nothing to dissuade him....
Fingers tangled in his hair, he's aware of that sensation too, damp from sweat but still soft. His other hand claws into the covers with an intensity that has his fingers hurt, but he doesn't notice that. Dimly, he's aware that his lip is bleeding again, provoked by his exhalations, but the fresh taste of it was just another part of it all. From the aching of bruises and sting of strained bites, the protestations of muscles and pulsing demands of his arousal, they were all things Mettaton had done for him, provoked in him. They were all things that belonged to his lover.
Each glide and suck along his erection pushes him that bit closer to release, until it reaches a point where the Ascian can't hang on, no matter how hard he tries. His body jolts, shudders, as climax is torn from him, a blinding sensation that reminds him a little of his skin being pierced... the building of pressure, of breathless anticipation, before receiving the pain and satisfaction of his body giving way, giving in. Only much stronger, as he empties himself into his mouth with a strangled, ecstatic noise, filling another part of him with his come. His breathing is little more than a series of gasps, and his consciousness minimal as he slumps somewhat towards him. But he clings to it, just as he clings to Mettaton's hair, not wanting to lose him, not even for a moment.]
[Emet-Selch is too much of a pleasure for his own good, Mettaton thinks, ravenous and driven by his own arousal to take from Emet-Selch his climax, as though he could reach higher peaks of complete satisfaction by sucking his lover off before he could even have a chance. And the closer he gets, the louder, more frantic the Ascian becomes. Mettaton's nearly transfixed himself, if not for the commitment he has to Emet-Selch's cock and the craving he has for it. Each time it pops into his throat is another rush, another risk, another moment where he can't breathe and he notices his inability to sound, each retreat a chance to moan. He's nearly breathless all the time.
It's as Mettaton pulls back upon the head and runs his tongue along the underside of it that he detects how close his lover is to release. To coax him along, the Puca's tongue laps at the very tip of his cock in anticipation, lips caught along the ridge as he hums affectionately. His clawing, his thrashing, his spasming and gripping into hair surely touched with the sweat from their efforts. He sucks, giving just enough of a relief so that he's not bearing down on the head too hard but providing suction nonetheless — and he's rewarded then with come.
Mettaton moans into the feeling of heat, almost sinking into him with the taste and knowledge of what's transpired. One swallow of thick fluid, then he leaves the rest to collect in his mouth, allowing it to linger on his tongue as he pulls from his Bondmate's cock, no doubt rendered sensitive after enduring so much. He swallows and nearly coughs on it, but manages to separate swallowing from the gasp of air he so sorely needs to take.
Emet-Selch's fingers thread through his hair and he curls into him. Mettaton hums fondly: his lover spent, lost and dazed, huddling in on his head like he has nothing in the world but himself... So when Mettaton rises, he nuzzles all the way up his beloved's chest, taking care to pepper him in kisses until he reaches his face, his panting gasps. There, too, he kisses and kisses, amorous and touched by his lover's love and desire made so blatant for him.
Still panting, still breathless, Mettaton lets out a sharp sigh.]
H-Hades...
[A kiss to his face. How he adores him; how he loves seeing him so expended, so wrecked, so drained and unable to think. His arms rise, and he collects his lover into his embrace. He already has a trajectory in mind for fucking him..... He's breathless, but panting, wanting, needing, even as he pulls Emet-Selch into his arms and tugs him onto his lap.]
There.
[Wrapped so snugly in each other's arms, Mettaton drags Emet-Selch onto his lap. His own cock remains achingly hard, throbbing with each beat of his pulse, even while his love for the Ascian is so undeniably tender, fond and adoring.]
H... How much of a pleasure you are, gorgeous... [More kisses yet. More affection to drown in.]
[Even in the midst of his climax, he can recognize the specific efforts on Mettaton's part to enhance this particular moment, the teasing way his tongue had licked and stroked and rubbed him through it, lips snug around the head. Just the right amount of suction to overwhelm him, without burning him to the point where he couldn't feel anything at all. But every detail remained, to suffocate him in their combination. An awareness that has affection rolling in, a surge of it that threatened to drown him in its own right, the Ascian only managing to endure it by attaching and clinging to Mettaton as he pulls free from his cock. A sight that his hazy eyes somehow manage to focus on, a vision of it completely wet and even more tender than the rest of his body. Only then does Emet-Selch let go of Mettaton's hair, in order to better wrap his arms around him, chest still heaving from his rapid breathing, not yet able to collect himself. Only to feel and to listen: to his own breath and thudding pulse, to the quickness of Mettaton's own breathing, his sighs and his words.
Though his limbs are heavy and awkward, things that he doesn't feel wholly attached to, Emet-Selch tries to facilitate however Mettaton moves him. Especially since that movement is closer, into his lap, and his arms. And with it, the unmistakable sensation of his lover's hardness prodding into him. A feeling that has him shudder anew, keeps his pulse high and his love for him higher. It wasn't as though he'd forgotten his Bonded's own need, for all that he hadn't been able to do anything for it while being sucked off. And it didn't surprise the Ascian at all to realize how desperate he yet was for his lover's cock, despite his own being so recently sated. It wasn't arousal, exactly, at least not in the same way as before, but a need to feel Mettaton's own satisfaction, to take him however he could.]
M... Mettaton....
[His name is about all he can manage just yet, clinging to the sound of it just as he clings to his body. A recognition, an acceptance, a claim.
He's still too uncoordinated to do more than nudge against the tip of his length with his body, however, with a small, pleased-sounding noise at it, at the feeling of Mettaton's affection burying him through kisses. From chest to neck to face, Emet-Selch can do little more than press into it at first, panting with him. And when his face is finally against his own, to nuzzle as fiercely as he could manage against it, and then to press lips over whatever part of him he could reach.
There's a hint of blood left from each kiss, a trail to show where he's been, as he finally manages to meet Mettaton's lips through sheer persistence. From there his breath catches with a faint shudder, gently rubbing bitten lips to swollen ones, tongue flicking out to trail over Mettaton's lower one. And from there, to nudge his way past it into his mouth, fully conscious of how his cock had so recently occupied that space, seeking out the taste of his own come on him. It's a thing that has him moaning softly into the kiss, and which would've aroused him in itself, if he hadn't just climaxed.]
[Mettaton gasps, surprised at Emet-Selch's tenacity to hang on and try kissing into him with any bit of coordination or passion rather than losing himself to his laxity. His lips part for him, eager to taste blood, and he does not disappoint. Nor does he disappoint with a moan, and Mettaton can only imagine that it's the taste of his come that lingers, the proof of his claim upon his mouth. He shudders and echoes a moan of his own; he knows for a fact that Emet-Selch couldn't be thinking of anything other than the ways he's claimed him, and considering the all-too-recent escapade of riding his cock, a sensation that was enticingly pleasurable... It's something Mettaton can't regard too directly without the possibility of needing to just... grab his own arousal and pleasure himself.
(He could, he considers; a back-up plan, the desire to put on a show for his Bondmate, to pull at his cock just before him like this if need be, to let him participate...)
His imagination can get away with him. Mettaton keeps his kisses gentle on his lover, still tender over his hard release even as his cock burns with need. Perhaps he takes a sick delight in feeling it so pent-up. It's a reminder of nights spent with his lover earlier on, completely unable to express his arousal, incapable of shapeshifting and impossible to caress and suck and ride. All of this is to make up for lost time, he decides. This delightful chance to nestle his cock against his lover's abdomen, which he does with a gasp. Mettaton's hand runs along Emet-Selch's bare back, allowing the other man to nuzzle into him, only to kiss him in return.
How pleasantly receptive the Ascian is to him, despite having been absolutely devastated. Interactive, wanting his body... It has Mettaton feeling soft, even as he shifts toward the foot of the bed, Emet-Selch wrapped firmly in tow. His body's his prize.
Mettaton keeps his firm hold on his Bonded, breathing harsh as he lets his own legs fall over the edge of the bed. Emet collected in his arms, a few singsong notes of absolute approval escape from his throat.
A few more captures of his lip in return, a few more sucks of his own, more blood to ingest. Tongue accepted into his own mouth, relishing the taste of blood, come, and Emet-Selch. Softened to syrupy goo though he may feel by Emet-Selch's depletion of energy, he takes on a darker tone as the robot leans in, a shuddering, deep-toned breath harsh against the corner of his lover's lips.]
You don't mind it, do you? That I... I use your body, to pleasure myself...
[He swallows, hard. Mettaton glances over Emet-Selch's shoulder. The mirror he used earlier isn't too great a distance away, and he's positioned them relative to its face so that if Emet-Selch were facing away from Mettaton, he'd be able to see himself. The anticipation is killing him. Before he can reply, Mettaton manipulates his body some more, agreeable to his desirous whims as he is. He takes his lover and rocks him off of his lap, where he holds him for stability so that he doesn't fall. It's only for a moment as he pulls him back upon his lap by his hips, but this time, with his back pressed to his chest. The idol forces his legs between Emet-Selch's, demanding that the shorter man spread his legs on his seat found on MTT.
Emet-Selch sits on his lap. He faces the mirror, which bounces his reflection back at him in all of his marked-up glory. Mettaton slides his hands under his knees and lifts, spreading his lover's legs further apart. And in doing so, he bares all of the love bites he's left upon his inner thighs for Emet-Selch to behold. He nudges his cock against him, breathing harsher yet.]
Hah... Wh... What do you think? I find you... [He swallows, panting;] simply stunning... I absolutely need to take you...
[Mettaton's mind runs wild, shifting his hips beneath his lover's weight to rub his pounding cock against something. But he has his eyes set on sinking deep in his body, on letting him watch a thick cock sink into his body over and over in the mirror... The Puca moans. He can't help it: he's aroused beyond sense. He shifts his hips prematurely, a groan slipping from his throat. The ability to see his lover reflected back at him, the thought of having him bounce upon his arousal where they could both see their efforts. He swallows thickly.]
[With Mettaton's obvious need pressing wonderfully against him, there was no way for Emet-Selch to relax into the kiss, keyed-up and eager for him. It wasn't a bad way to spend an afterglow, he thought, with the taste of blood and come and mixed saliva at his lips, and knowing he'd be helping his Bonded to soon follow into a matching satiation. And he was thankful all over again that Mettaton was now capable of doing so, that he had an erection of his own to caress and enjoy, in any number of ways.
Any number of ways... even that thought is enough to render him breathless, nuzzling with simple fondness at the puca's face before he speaks.
And it's Mettaton's voice as much as his question that tightens his muscles and keeps his heart quick. What a thing to want of him... and how much the Ascian wanted him to have it, to take every scrap of pleasure he could from his body, while he could feel every groan and shiver and sigh--]
Do it, use me--
[It's less acquiescence and more of a demand, words given even as Mettaton was already moving them, wasting no time; an efficiency Emet-Selch could appreciate. There was no chance of him minding, after all. And while he doesn't immediately grasp what Mettaton is doing, he goes with him as best he could, shifting around until his back is pressed warmly against Mettaton's chest, still sitting on him, but facing away from him.
...Towards a mirror. It's then that Emet-Selch understands his reasoning and hums breathlessly his approval. From not only having his legs spread, and spread far, but from being able to see how exposed he was on his lover's lap, how available he was made to him, and how ravaged he already was.
A sight that has him shift a hand in order to touch some of those bruises. Starting between his legs, his fingers skirt close to his own depleted cock, but his focus remains on the rings of color that adorn him. Sometimes stroking, sometimes his fingers show the tension of a press over damaged flesh, quicker intakes of breath often accompanying such movement, at the tenderness of his body. And his hand drifts upward, tracing between the individual marks left on his abdomen, to those near his hips, and from there on to his chest. Seen through the mirror like this, it's easier for him to spot the particular attention paid to the areas around his nipples, and his fingers trail between them, as though attempting to recreate the path Mettaton took. Reconstructing his journey from its end to its start.
Finally he reaches his shoulders and neck, the areas he'd seen the least of, and which he'd greatly anticipated viewing. And the sight doesn't disappoint, the paler skin of his fingers a strong contrast to the deep reds and angry purples that litter the region. Letting his head tilt further to one side, his expression is rapt as his fingertips drift between bites, coming away not wholly clean. It was a movement that hurt, but which he appreciated more for that fact, and his hand eventually ends its exploration on reaching his torn lip. His fingers come away more wet this time, as they lightly stroke over the injury.
And from there he takes a breath; it was hard to not be captivated at seeing all of himself at once like this, especially while still seated in his Bonded's lap, knowing he could watch him observe himself. And from intent, his expression shifts to something more smug, clearly satisfied with Mettaton's work. But underneath it was also something that was just... pleased, honestly and quietly. The suggestion of something fragile and genuine.
--But more pressing (literally) was the sensation of Mettaton's erection rubbing against his ass, a rather persistent reminder both of where he was sitting, and his lover's current desperate condition. And how patient he'd been, Emet-Selch thought- or perhaps he just enjoyed suffering, he also considered. In any case, the Ascian dearly wanted to watch him come completely undone, wanted to feel every moment of it, to take all of that thickness inside him again, to be left dripping with his come--
Shifting back, Emet-Selch deliberately rubs against his length with a shiver, moving his arms again to try and brace himself, to raise his hips enough to get closer to the tip of Mettaton's cock. With his legs so spread he didn't have much leverage there, but he also had no desire to change that, liking how... open, it made him, how visible he was to them both.
Tilting his head back, his good eye flickers between Mettaton behind him, and their images in the mirror before them, attention solely on the other man.]
'Tis a form... much improved on. [A slight adjustment, a brief catch to his breathing at a closer rub of Mettaton's arousal, his body wanting to arch into it. And onto it. Swallowing to try and focus himself, he continues.] So take me- take the rest. I want- to have all of you again.
[He's not the only one smug at what he sees: Mettaton nods in approval at all of the Ascian's probing and shifting, finding his thighs tensing in sympathy, in response, abstaining from such wild rubbing against skin despite how hard and wanting and incited he is by the sight set before him. He thoroughly enjoys the thought of Emet-Selch being made to witness how turned on he is by letting himself loose and just... rubbing wildly against his body, his release turned into yet another marking upon skin, but he prefers the thought of shoving his arousal in his body more. So while Emet-Selch gazes upon Mettaton's work, he kisses his upper back, patiently. This is one of those situations that warrants patience, even when there's technically no need for it. He wants his lover to get an eyeful.
In the meantime, Mettaton is so, so glad that when he turns over his shoulder to glance behind him for lubrication, it had been carelessly tossed back over the surface of the bed. And, fortunately again, not too out of the way. His arm doesn't have the same reach it normally does, and he's made to stretch out some, but he grabs it with fingertips after temporarily unhanding Emet-Selch's legs.
He does this just as Emet-Selch commands that he take the rest. He can't wait a moment more, but he also appreciates the smooth glide offered by lubricant — a significant improvement over spit, even for a robot who enjoys the sensation of pain. There's something psychological about such an easy insertion that gets to him, besides, he considers. The way Emet-Selch's body gives to his, forms around him so readily...
Mettaton's set to panting again, he realizes, and he swallows it down as he squeezes lube directly onto the tip of his erection. He hisses at the temperature; swipes a hand over it with a bite of his lip just to get it over with. The cold of the air is relentless against burning, aching flesh. Mettaton simply wipes his hand against the silky bedspread, caring little for the integrity of it despite being obviously expensive. He cares less for it than for this.
He takes Emet-Selch's hands and plants them firmly against the mattress, a demand to stabilize himself somewhat. Fingers slip under Emet-Selch's knees again, lifting up as he braces his arms against his thighs so that he can lift him up slightly, muscle in his arms tensing as he tries to handle much of his lover's weight. He hums, peeking over his shoulder at the sight spread before him. If they weren't at the edge of the bed, this would be a position where Emet-Selch had all of the control, but he has only part of the mattress to maneuver with, as he did with his hands to shift closer to Mettaton's cock. Fondly he considers that action, applying another kiss to the base of the Ascian's neck. Given agency, all Emet-Selch did with it was try to shift closer, to lift his body, sidling his ass teasingly against his arousal; Mettaton expels a puff of air against his skin in a quiet sigh, appreciating him.
Mettaton pushes his own hips down, trying to angle the head of his cock as his hands slide further up his lover's legs, closer to the mid-section of his thighs. Fingers dig into muscle as he keeps him spread, Mettaton slipping into something of a fusion between self-indulgence, and the deliberation it takes to put on a show for a beloved audience. Emet-Selch should be watching, after all. The Puca's manner starts a bit sloppy, dragging the other man's hips back a bit too far, to which the tip of his cock pokes instead at his thigh. He peeks around his lover's side to better guide him, dragging his body along the tip of his cock until he finds himself poking at the underside of his balls. That's closer, and he shifts his hips and manipulates his body on trembling arms until the tip of his cock is pushed against his entrance.
He collapses in a sigh, muscles slackening somewhat, letting the tip of his arousal nudge in. Nudge in is putting it lightly, as his lover's already been prepared for him once before. His sigh quickly becomes a sharp intake of air.]
Ah... I've been. Fantasizing about this...
[He doesn't say for how long. Seriously, it's been since he made the decision to take his lover into his mouth. Entertaining it, it's been since the Looking-Glass House.
With another firm kiss to his back, Mettaton gradually eases his lover's weight onto his cock as he pushes his eager hips forward. His breath hitches, short, uncontrollable cries clear as a bell, and the stuffing of his lover unstoppable: Mettaton doesn't give him any breaks in his gradual settling of his weight. Once the entirety of the glans penetrates him, his hands slide back to the underside of his knees, making sure that his legs are forced apart liberally, view of kissed and bruised flesh as clear as the cock he sits upon.
The only way Emet-Selch will be able to stop him is by holding up his own weight, as Mettaton doesn't seem to be considering any possible discomfort, lost to his own euphoria as he is. A relief found in heat, an indelible squeeze: Mettaton even whimpers at how much he's wanted this feeling as that ring of muscle clamps down delightfully around his girth, sliding down his shaft, inch by gradual inch.]
[One of the things that Emet-Selch had come to appreciate was how little bits of care worked their way into their actions, even amongst demanding need and inciting passion. Not that those moments were bereft of affection- much to the contrary: he doubted that that their bodies would have ever fit together so well if it weren't for their... feelings for one another. If it weren't for the accompanying trust and cooperation and care- it wouldn't have felt the same at all. He wouldn't be sitting here, breathlessly anticipating being fucked purely to sate someone else's desires.
...Not that purely, really, the Ascian did have to admit to himself. While the primary and most important part of this was seeing Mettaton to his satisfaction, he knew there was a lot that he would get out of it personally as well. Though when he thought about it, even those aspects were related to Mettaton's well-being... but he supposed love would do that. To take pleasure in witnessing Mettaton come apart because of his body, to hear his voice in a way no one else would. The sheer physicality was also another benefit: his attraction to, and desire towards feeling his lover's cock moving inside him was not inconsiderable.
And the Ascian wondered what it would feel like, to be penetrated like this, while not sharing the same soaring desperation, but a deep investment nonetheless. And he mused if he'd end up hard again anyway by the end of it, considering how much he still wanted him on an emotional, psychological level. Though with three rounds behind him, Emet-Selch wasn't sure if his body would catch up in time to the rest of him. But it didn't matter to him either way. He would take a pleasure in it regardless.
And more important was everything else. Including those small gestures of affection that he'd originally been considering, soft kisses against his back while he'd been busy admiring himself. An area that didn't really get much attention, so it felt that much... sweeter, somehow, even if it was also just the place Mettaton could reach in his position. Extraneous touching, unnecessary affection... as though there were such things.
It feels like it takes longer than it does for Mettaton to retrieve the handily-dropped lubrication and apply it to himself- and if the Ascian felt himself tensing and anticipatory, he can well-imagine what it must be like for the idol. One more small delay, but he knew the reward would be worth it.
(Considering everything they've done on them, those bedspreads would require a wash anyway. A bit of extra lube on them wouldn't make a difference.)
With his arms maneuvered, Emet-Selch tenses them automatically, holding himself up and as with as much stability as he can manage. And stubbornness can manage a fair amount it turns out, along with a powerful source of motivation. And even then, all he really can do is facilitate Mettaton's own efforts, keeping himself in place with gently-trembling limbs as his Bonded repeatedly nudges him with his cock.
Each time his arousal gets that bit closer heightens his own expectations, catches his breath. And throughout, he watches, fixated on the sights before him. A reminder to keep his limbs steady, a fascination with the way he looked with his legs spread around his lover's, and the glimpses he had of his hardened cock honing in on him. The brush to his balls gets a gasp from him, and he twitches, fighting off a shake to his arms at knowing how close he was, how soon he would have him--
It's not much in the way of precognition, but he's still right, and his sigh has the edge of a satisfied moan to it when he feels the very tip of Mettaton's cock reaching his entrance- and especially when it doesn't hesitate to push into him, his body made to give way so smoothly, to accept this large intrusion.
Any discomfort from feeling the head push steadily deeper, aided by gravity and the weight of his own body, doesn't even register. There was only that creeping sense of fullness, tantalizingly close and inevitable. The only thing that slows his descent onto Mettaton's cock is by how much he wanted to watch himself take it. To feel that vision echoed in his body as he was stretched around that hot rigidity, gasping again as he clenches around him. Fascinated by the sight, he halts his descent with effort, briefly reversing it so that he can only feel the glans still held within him. Breathing quicker, he tightens around him at that point, enjoying the dig of the ridge, and the way he could squeeze the head of his cock so completely. The way he could see most of Mettaton's length between his own parted legs, stretched far enough apart that he was entirely on display. Of course Mettaton would fantasize about this moment- why wouldn't he? The Ascian was sure he'd be thinking about it himself, in times after.]
Oh... Mettaton....
[His voice is a dazed whisper, so utterly taken by the way he could see such well-loved thighs held apart by his Bonded's hands, his own cock (still slick from Mettaton's saliva, the Ascian could tell, from the way light reflected off of it) nudged to one side so that he could get a clear view of how his lover's erection was fitting inside him. That he could hold something like that in his body... and that it felt so right to have him there--
Slowly, his arms begin to slacken, and all Emet-Selch can feel is that satisfaction again, as Mettaton's length is stuffed deeper. And this time he lets gravity win, unable to stop his own desires towards seeing himself sitting flush to the robot's body, ass against his hips, barely able to see the idol's cock at all. Only a bit of the base, perhaps, where it attached to him. But how he could feel it.... Emet-Selch doesn't even immediately notice that his arms are loose, not supporting anything at all, as he's too busy shuddering at being suddenly full again. His body arches automatically into the sensation with a soft noise, stirring the cock within him, which only results in another round of tensing around that girth.]
[There are no soft sounds to be had from Mettaton anymore, for all short, pleasured hums and sighs came from him to start. The way he hangs just beneath the tip of his erection, squeezing and watching and tugging at his cock with that grip around the ridge sends Mettaton into yet another sharp cry, muscles in his legs tensing as his fingers grip into his legs. There's a desire to thrust and though there's no reason not to, he doesn't, not yet — if not because this feeling is so delectable that he doesn't want to stop Emet-Selch's exploration of him, that deliberation he adores in his lover to match his own intent.
How much he adores this man has Mettaton swallowing, throat battered and sore as he pants. The idol could fall against him and rub his face into skin, and he imagines that warmth and give with an aching heart.
He realizes just how deep into this he is, and not quite yet in the literal sense. Mettaton can barely fathom his own lust.]
Hadeees...
[His voice is pleading, any composure he might have had coming well apart. How did they go so seamlessly from each climax to another? They all blur together, every detail of every time they've had sex, but it's the sentiment of each that he remembers: that despairing sound from Emet-Selch that shook his core he's heard often, and then this last climax of his lover's, the one of desperation, of ecstasy... Such range from his lover, and he's sure he himself could have only gone from one sort of pleasure to another, witnessed by Emet-Selch. It makes him want to hold him close, to kiss him senseless and screw him into the bed to hear him make more of those noises right next to his ear.
Emet-Selch's arms give in, and his body does, too: he slides down Mettaton's arousal, and all the way down Mettaton inhales until his lungs feel apt to burst. But he releases that tension in a long, satisfied moan, one that sharpens into a cry the very moment he feels Emet-Selch tensing around the base of his cock. How deep he is so quickly inside of his Bondmate is staggering, and he's not sure if he's feeling the pulse of Emet-Selch's blood, or his own throbbing arousal. If he didn't have more pleasure awaiting him on the horizon, Mettaton feels like he could collapse onto his back and writhe and twitch into this feeling, his lover warm and tight and arching into him, all of it so erotic that Mettaton has to cry out on breath he's already expelled.
He may be blinded by pleasure, but his arms don't fail him. He continues to hold Emet-Selch by his knees, given just enough leverage so that when the Puca gets his wits about him again, he can thrust his hips more forcefully against his ass, as if to nudge his already engulfed length deeper yet. Mettaton's entire body tenses at the pressure both at the base of his cock, and the way he can nudge against Emet-Selch so deeply, and he feels even his own back arching with the satisfaction of it. Another sound on a smooth exhale of air, one that breaks uncharacteristically into something raspier with how sore his throat's become.
And he draws back, then thrusts. A rhythm of steady, firm, deep pounding, the base of his cock pulling out before stuffing Emet-Selch full of him, Mettaton moaning shortly with each thrust on a broken voice. Sitting as he is, it's not too difficult for him to shove his hips into his lover's body only to draw back out, not having to mind terribly much what his legs are doing (yet minding regardless, keeping them tensed and poised). The glans rubs so pleasantly against his lover and Mettaton rocks his body into that feeling, pleasing himself thoroughly on his Bondmate's body with a form of his own he could have never, ever dreamed of obtaining.
In moments of heated passion, Mettaton feels so alive. It's not as though he spends any waking moment of his time feeling less than himself, but these levels of passion and raw emotion Emet-Selch matches him for are beyond fulfilling. He never knew he could desire somebody else this much, in body and soul.
When his vision returns to him for a glimpse of the mirror, he sees Emet-Selch on full, battered display, marked with teeth and lips and kisses, hair mussed and stuck to his forehead, arms slackened as he gives into the entire length of his cock. He sees the way his erection tugs out of his body, thicker than anticipated in appearance before sinking impossibly within, and it has Mettaton hiccuping on the mix between a gasp and a moan. But he's so close to release already, the sheer pleasure of stroking himself on Emet-Selch's body and the want to feel him endlessly the only thing keeping him together.]
[All of the sound Mettaton was making keeps his breath quiet, and though he can't entirely stifle every gasp or cry, he doesn't try terribly hard; there was no harm in his Bonded hearing his own appreciation for what he was doing. But the Ascian felt so enthralled by every noise his lover could produce, and how loud they were so close to his ears, drowning out all other sound. And the heaviness of his breath- felt against his back and neck- was an unusual sensation, and when paired with the noise of Mettaton's panting, sets Emet-Selch shivering. A lighter sensation to perfectly match the heavy fullness of his cock.
A fullness that somehow reaches even deeper with Mettaton's jerk of hips against him, a jostling of his length that serves to rub him with its deeply buried head. Something that has him tighten again around him, as though to hold onto that sensation, to stroke himself even more firmly with it.
And then Mettaton begins to move, and he's treated again to the sight of his lover's cock pulling partially free from his body, able to admire his rigidity and shape; there was really no question that he would be made to yield to that, to wrap around him so securely, and so smoothly. Filled to the most satisfying degree by his shaft, and repeatedly stroked by the differing shape of the glans- each thrust brought a range of sensations to fixate over.
And visually it was no less intense. The sight of his bruised body spread open and fucked, sweaty and trembling, jerking slightly with each of Mettaton's thrusts. The dig of his lover's hands under his knees, keeping them apart; the rhythmic writhing of his own body in order to drive Mettaton's cock deeper on each inward pass. The way his arms remained on either side of himself, as ineffectual anchors, tensing and shaking with the rest of him.]
Mettaton- gods... the way you feel--
[He was a complete mess, but he supposed they both were, in their ways, and his pulse was racing at the thought of Mettaton coming apart underneath him, inside of him, around him. There was nothing to be self-conscious about, to be so ruined. How unusually rough the idol's voice sounded too... a thought that has the Ascian swallowing thickly, imagining how the press of his own cock down his throat must've contributed to that particular quality. Everything was connected; each instance of sex was its own unique moment, satisfying and intense and worthy of specific recollection... and yet together, with the way they built on one another, they became a singular instance as well. From the first time they'd had sex until now- perhaps even from their first meeting, in a way- it was all tied together, reaching towards a conclusion that he never wanted to see. That he refused to acknowledge would ever happen.
Emet-Selch certainly wasn't thinking about that now, not when he had the sight of his lover's cock pounding into him before him, not when he had his gasps and moans in his ears, the prickling of his breath at his neck. Not when he could tighten around him and move with him, to give himself over entirely, and take all of Mettaton in return.]
[Even hearing Emet-Selch speak has Mettaton responding with a firmer, quicker stroke. The reason's so simple and primal, but so deeply ingrained at him at this point, the desire to claim his Bonded, to make him his entirely. Upon hearing his tone, he wants it: his voice, his body, his skin, his love, his soul, his everything, and that bodily reaction of him is for the desire to mark him some more. Another deeper moan slips from his throat, eyes half-lidded and only sometimes seeing.
His arousal continues to pump in and out, though Mettaton's hooked on the feeling of the ridge of his cock pulling along his lover, so intimately. That would be enough to send him over the edge, he thinks. But then, so much of this could do that for him. Such pleasure is so new to Mettaton. He cherishes that Emet-Selch could be so willing to indulge him, so desirous of his body in return — and who wouldn't be? When he gazes at the mirror with a glassy stare, he's taken by how attractive they are together.
By how Emet-Selch fits him like glove. A... tight glove. He stares at how his cock pulls back and sinks in, such intimacy causing him to swallow, and he rubs his cheek against what's his. Yet another low noise, a groan: Emet-Selch was his. He body curls in on him somewhat, and his thrusts change from firm and deep to firmer and deep, possessiveness emanating from him.
That's the sentiment that ends up becoming his fixation in his last few moments before release.]
Mine, mine——
[He couldn't string together a coherent sentence to save his life, but his body also cannot contain the sheer magnitude of feeling he has for his lover. This streak of claim is part of him so readily sharpened, melds well with Mettaton's inclination toward marking and keeping what's his. He nuzzles his shoulder. He moans openly against him. He'll always have him.
A promise to hold him dear to his heart is still Mettaton's willing shackles, the promise to remember. How could he forget Emet-Selch if he gives himself to him so completely, and takes him for everything he has?
The idol doesn't hear himself uttering Emet-Selch's name some more, peppered with more of the word "mine" as the robot loses himself. He throws his head back in another moan, this one thick and hot as his come: climax hits him hard. His fingers grip into the Ascian's legs, his body positions itself as if he'd push him down to the floor and fuck him senseless with such dedication, spring-loaded and firmer in his thrusts. But he's smitten so severely. He's so desperately in love that he has to close his eyes to cope.
Even as he clutches his Bonded's legs and leans into him, he soundlessly mouths his love for him during the last moment of his release. A satisfied whine, and the continued, automatic thrusting into his beloved, Mettaton fills Emet-Selch fuller yet of his cock: if the flesh itself wasn't enough, he leaves behind his hot release.
As he completes his marking of him, Mettaton begins to slow where his breathing remains ragged and pulse remains high. His arms begin to slacken, begin to imitate Emet-Selch's, and he rests his cheek on his lover's upper back, against his shoulder while he pants. He wants to tell Emet-Selch how he feels about him, even when his mind is lost.
How much he loves him. It doesn't need words to his Bonded if it's so strongly felt by him, but he stutters syllables, pants for air, and fails to speak.]
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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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And he felt so exceedingly tender and raw for him in response, scarcely able to grasp that this was happening, that it was even possible--
Lost in the moment, the warmth of Mettaton's cheek pressed to the warmth of his cock, the Ascian doesn't feel even the hint of frustration. Watching him watch himself, he swallows heavily, breathing still unsteady, chest heaving from it. But he does wonder a bit over the reason for the idol's particular staring, the haze to Mettaton's expression different from that of a pause to take in the moment itself. But that's how Emet-Selch uses the opportunity, to memorize the details of the scene before him, before his senses were completely subsumed by lust and exceptional adoration.
Not that there isn't plenty of adoration already present in his gaze, for all that it remains sorrow-tinged and concurrent with the wealth of anguish he has to live with. But he's not thinking of those negative aspects and the part they play in his demeanor, in his interpretation and expression of love. But he takes in the whole of what he could see. That he was in Mettaton's room, with all of his collected treasures, on his bed, with his legs spread around him and his body affectionately damaged. His lover, in a form both familiar-yet-new, had his face rubbed up against his erection, and was looking up at him with a violet gaze that made his heart hurt in itself. Traces of blood still decorated his countenance, an echo of what Mettaton had inflicted.
And then the moment resumes, Mettaton's voice another thing to claim his senses, along with the imprint of his lips travelling up the length of his erection. Letting out a breath he'd forgotten he'd been holding, Emet-Selch immediately sucks in a new one as he feels his lover's mouth slide over the tip of his cock. A soft-though-firm stroking over the most sensitive part of him, he watches with rapt attention as the head slips smoothly passed Mettaton's lips, and though he's unable to see it, he can feel the working of the puca's tongue. The wet surroundings and long-anticipated suction has him cry out, voice shameless in his pleasure, in his desperation for him.
That his wrists were free doesn't immediately register in itself- only that he was suddenly more able to sit up properly, to watch Mettaton more closely. That he was able to lift a hand to Mettaton's hair, to push back at the bangs that kept threatening to fall forward and obscure that side of his face again. It was only then, along with the awareness of his Bonded's hands under trembling thighs, that he realized that he'd been permitted some measure of freedom. And how strange it was, to have both enjoyed (and he thought it qualified as enjoyed, if he were forced to analyze it) being held back, while also grateful for the ability to shift a bit, to touch his lover at all.
And to watch in closer detail the saliva trailing between tongue and tip, the wetness of both as Mettaton returned to mouthing the sensitive head. How much he wanted to kiss him then, to lick at the dampness on his lips; how much he didn't want to disturb a moment of what his Bonded was doing to him, the way his mouth shaped itself around the glans, and the look to his eyes--]
Mettaton, you.... [A shuddered breath; but he was struck by the importance of expressing this sentiment, somehow.] You look- so beautiful like that....
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A human body betrays how it makes him feel, bringing color to his cheeks to accompany his fondness. He opens his mouth to reply, but has nothing. So he rubs his cheek into his arousal of all things, a short, airy laugh escaping his throat. After all, Mettaton likes compliments — that he could find some among the most sincere in this bedroom with his lover is both a surprise and nothing short of what he'd anticipate, but it catches his heart all the same. He casts his vision down to his body for a moment, to let his eyes drink in the sight of his abdomen littered with warm-colored bruises, and then brings his attention back to Emet-Selch's face as he lets the head sink into his mouth, lips parting easily and eagerly for his length.
The robot stops again just beyond the corona, his eyelids curtaining as he pays special attention to sucking on the head. The last time he did this to Emet-Selch was the first time he'd ever touched him so intimately, and since then he's experienced what it's like to possess a body that responds like his. It betrays the way Mettaton views pleasure in his own body: this excess focus on the head, the way his tongue slides down to the ridge, which it follows by eager touch. He sighs through his nose, enjoying this deliberate act of affection, the way his jaw tightens with the pressure he exerts on his Bonded's cock. His tongue flattens and rubs broadly along the underside of the tip before focusing its attention on the slit, firm, pointed strokes a sort of coaxing to suggest the idol's anticipation to taste him.
He pulls off of his erection for a moment, lips still shoved directly against the length of it in a stricken sigh. His tongue slips from between his lips to more visibly flick along the very tip of his cock, drawing swirls and hard, firm lines along its sensitive surface.
If there's anything he wants to do, it's to drink in the sight of his Bonded lover just as he did to him. This entire process would be spent to watching, though he already appreciates so thoroughly the way he appears so ravaged in body, desperate in tone, and breathless and heated in manner. Distracted, enticed, his focus belongs to Mettaton, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He smiles proudly, a determined streak to keep his attentions and to dizzy the Ascian, to tear from him his climax.
He accompanies these thoughts with a firm kiss against the tip.]
It's a look I could only have for you.
[He can't imagine it being anything else, and he wishes he knew what he looked like.
Mettaton's lips part again, and he returns to sliding down the length of Emet-Selch's cock. Further this time, slow and deliberate, and he swallows hard enough for his tongue to buckle under the firm weight of his shaft, feeling the smooth, cushioned head of his arousal pressing into such tender areas within his mouth. It feels different to take him into his mouth in this body compared to his other, and he halts here, adjusting for the size of him with a shudder, a groan shaking in his throat while he imagines the tip of his arousal nudged deeply, pressing to the back of his throat. He glances up to Emet-Selch to measure his response, his own face flushed further yet, riding on the bliss of his lover's appreciation for his beauty and his want to be stuffed full of his cock, to swallow against the head of it.]
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Emet-Selch thinks as well of the first time they'd been together like this, the first time Mettaton had taken his cock in his mouth. And how intense it had seemed even then, how open he found himself wanting to be with him, as though he could trust him on a level he hadn't yet been aware of. It felt as though a lot had happened in a short time to bring them to this point, gazing at each other like this, filled with a disturbing amount of affection.
His fingertips touch the side of Mettaton's face, still attracted to that extra bit of heat there, wondering if he was just imagining that he could discern a difference in the temperature. But he strokes his skin, brushes his hair back with exceeding gentleness, and a hand that was trembling so faintly. Breathes in a soft, sharp breath at Mettaton taking in the fullness of the head of his cock, at lips encircling the ridge, the explorations of his tongue along the underside. The more deliberate, repeated prodding over the slit has his breath hitch with a sharp sound, struck hard by the imagery of filling his mouth with his come, and dearly anticipating that moment. And the tightness concentrated around the tip leaves the Ascian repeatedly tensing, pulse pounding in time with the ache in his cock, an ache that only pulsed harder the more Mettaton sucked at him.
It's a noise of both pained regret and relief when Mettaton briefly pulls back from that suction, though Emet-Selch continues to pant and throb from the memory of it. It was an intensity that hurt in the most fantastic sort of way, with each time Mettaton returned to him serving to heighten it. And the persistent licking leaves him no chances to breathe easier, no opportunity to relax, especially when he could watch the way his lover's tongue flicked across the surface of his cock, heat against heat, leaving his erection practically dripping with his saliva. And framing him were his thighs, bruised and slightly bloody, a testament to Mettaton's ardor.
Leaning over him slightly, his head is tilted forward, the movement stretching the bites on his neck and shoulders, straining some of them anew. Only a little blood escapes the torn clots, but the whole area ached from the movement, a distant, still-pleasing echo of the arousal that flooded the rest of him. And as he couldn't exactly see his own throat and not much of his shoulders, it also served as a warm reminder of their condition: another thing he couldn't ever imagine forgetting.
Mettaton's words somehow leave him even warmer than before, ever more affected. That this was special and unique and personal for the both of them- a giving of themselves that others weren't privy to. It's a feeling that carries with him even as he watches his Bonded begin to take in more of his cock, feels the head move deeper into his mouth, and part of the shaft being treated to the greater heat of it. The slickness and the softness of him, the accompanying sounds and clear pleasure on Mettaton's part to be doing this- it leaves him moaning from the magnitude of it all. Low, regular noises and whispers that weren't quite words, and were often cut off by a sharper cry, a tight shudder, whenever he felt a particularly strong beat of arousal. Flushed from need, his eyes are half-open but still watching, transfixed and lost and adoring.]
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He tests its size in his mouth, prods its firm texture with his tongue, and remembers how this felt inside of his body. Pounding himself against him, a massage he could lose himself to that rubbed with each curve of his back and each rock of his hips, a deep, filling stroke. The head, so close to the back of his throat, is so effectively arousing to him both to feel and to consider, pressing against the back of his tongue. The echo of its texture against his body is alluring, that firm rhythm found simply by sitting on his cock and rocking his hips to his liking. Mettaton imagines that tantalizing image that he couldn't see of himself, but the idea of being able to see his arousal disappearing into his body... And the same is true for his mouth. He could bob up and down upon his length, leave behind slick saliva that Emet-Selch would be forced to see upon his arousal.
Thinking about it all almost has him choking on drool, nowhere for it to go with the limited occupancy of his mouth. Mettaton exhales deeply and slides forward, closing his eyes as he nudges the sloped glans into his throat, fighting his body's need to tense as he does so. If he could do this as a robot, surely he could do this as a human. (Surely indeed: Mettaton did not shift with perfection, deciding that a gag reflex would be fun, but not entirely desirable. He corrected it, like he corrected fingers.)
It's not an arrangement he can maintain so readily in this body. Mettaton sees white with the pressure, a broken moan pressing for release from his throat but catching, throat clenching down, tightening around the Ascian's head instead. Mettaton pulls back, gasping, his lips sliding against the tip of Emet-Selch's cock as he takes a moment to recover. But Mettaton's eager and wanting, unapologetically, and he takes the head of his cock back into his mouth quickly with a short, soft moan, rubbing at the tip with a swirl of his tongue.
The robot builds up toward his attempt to deep throat this time, slowly dipping lower with short, slow bobs, thinking that his body just needs to warm up to the sensation. For all that they're deeply impassioned, Mettaton reassures himself easily with the thought that Emet-Selch is his beloved, understands what Mettaton's human limits should be, and ultimately, he can trust him with his all. This is effective, and the idol's tongue flattens obediently as he pleasantly slides down on his lover's cock. His shoulders relax and he sighs, shifting down as the glans pops into his throat.
Mettaton hums in his pleasure this time, giving him a firm suck in his mouth as his throat closes down, but not enough to gag. It doesn't even bother him in the moment when he finds that he can't breathe, and he begins to rhythmically bob into short dips, cock pressing into the back of his throat with each. He wonders if he could lick his balls like this, but finds he can't quite get the opportunity to do it in his quick-pulsed passion, the neediness his body has for breath upon each receding pump. But the sensation of the tip of his erection against his tongue, against the back of his mouth, has Mettaton trembling: his fingers knead into thighs and his body buries itself with more dedication between his legs, fantasizing over the way he must appear to the Ascian, his lips wrapped nearly to the base of his cock.
A hand retreats from his thighs to fondle his balls, wanting to feel all of his lover at once. He wishes he could kiss him, suck bruises into his neck, feel his length rubbing into him, or pressing into his abdomen the way he might if it were Mettaton fucking him. Mettaton dizzies himself with the notion, loving every idea, loving each manner of contact he could dream of with his Bonded. Each is another claim of intimacy with him, and the hand he has left around his thigh squeezes affectionately.]
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The rub of his tip against the back of the idol's throat has Emet-Selch tense up and stay tensed, swallowing sympathetically as though it were his throat being filled, being stretched so perfectly around the shape of him. He was meant to occupy that space, he thought, having more of a right to it than air; why else would it feel like this, why would Mettaton's throat be able to squeeze him like this? When his Bonded first pulls back from him, gasping, the Ascian unconsciously echoes the sound, leaning over enough for a brief nuzzle at the top of Mettaton's head. Less for reassurance or even encouragement, but struck with appreciation above all, of everything he was doing, of everything that he was to him. A fondness that he was desperate to express.
And such faith feels immediately rewarded by the enthusiasm Mettaton shows in returning to his cock with licks and moan.
His own breath hesitates as he watches his lover slowly lower himself onto his length, watches his cock disappear into him by degrees. In a vague, curious sort of way, Emet-Selch had wondered how Mettaton would fare in his attempts to stuff more of his length into his mouth. This transformed self with all its benefits was also a body that required things like air to survive, that could suffocate, that could choke... though the latter response doesn't seem to be much of an issue, the Ascian notes with both surprise and pleasure. While he didn't particularly want Mettaton to start gagging on his erection, he had entirely assumed his Bonded would try to fit an excessive amount of it in his throat regardless. That the result seemed to be a mere deprivation of oxygen was satisfactory, and he wasn't exactly in the state of mind to think about how Mettaton had managed it.
Not that he would've felt disappointed even if he had kept his focus to a more reasonable portion of his length, or even just the glans. Mettaton's clear enjoyment in what he was doing would've been enough on its own to sustain him.
But here Mettaton was, engulfing him in near-entirety, his throat dragging and sucking over his cock at regular intervals, surrounding him in that long-coveted heat. A sensation related but so different from when his lover had been riding him earlier, when he'd felt his length rubbing him so deeply, stroking them both. And the way he had looked in his ecstasy, hips rocking against him as their bodies were joined. And now: the glimpses Emet-Selch could get of his slick length being worked over keep his breath ragged and his cries soft, pleading. From the rhythmic dips of his head, to the grips of his hands, every movement Mettaton made broke him that little bit more. He was an absolute wreck, and he knew it, but he didn't care; he also knew climax was closing in rapidly, inescapable, and there was just holding it off for as long as he could.
Everything overwhelmed; no part of him felt neglected. He was bitten open and marked, from lip to thigh, his erection sucked and balls caressed. And emotionally, he was... cared for. Looked after and loved, trusted and attended to. That was the part that destroyed him the most.
So he stroked his face and hair and gasped and moaned and pleaded with him, not even for release, but not to leave. It always returned to that.]
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If anything, that nuzzle ended up being another point toward his need to take him in so deeply, aside from general excessiveness, from the pleasure of it. A thick, undeniable weight encroaching upon his throat, blocking off his airway and prodding him so intimately... In an attempt to change things up from bobbing up and down, Mettaton hungrily lets him pop into his throat and keeps him there, humming soundlessly into the heaviness of his cock blocking off his throat, a sensation that suddenly feels dizzying and pleasant beyond sense. Enough that he feels he might climax himself for a moment, he's not sure, but it all becomes so much. (When was the last time he took a breath? As if Mettaton cares.) He'd forgotten how pleasant it feels to have his cock resting in his throat, stretching around the shape of his head, forcing him to relax and make room for something his body fought against, but that he wanted so desperately. He can have whatever he wants, and if that something's his Bonded's erection sinking into his throat, it's his. (A mental note to suck him off more often: the rush he gets is intense.)
Until his body decides it's had enough. It's not the most graceful of things he could have done, but he tries to swallow, an excess of drool pooling in his mouth. The gag reflex does exist, though he hoped it would be for things unpleasant rather than his lover's erection in his mouth. His throat clamps down on his head, rejecting his length as he retches, pulls off of Emet-Selch with a gasp for air mixed with a cough. The best attempt was made...
...And for some ridiculous, inhuman reason, it doesn't stop him from coming right back down upon his Bonded. One ragged breath later and he's descended upon his length in unpracticed depravity, returning to a more rhythmic sliding. But his strokes are greater this time, giving Mettaton more of a chance to breathe, more of a chance to drag his lips over the head of his cock before sliding down the shaft so thoroughly, a rapturous focus on the head as it drags along his tongue all the way back to his throat. Why would he stop something that not only he takes deep pleasure in, but that his Bonded clearly enjoys?
The feeling of fingers on his face and in his hair is clear encouragement if his pleas and moans wasn't enough, but it all registers to him as so endearing, how far gone he could render Emet-Selch. He continues in reverence, tongue pressing and sliding and flicking against his tip whenever he finds himself with swollen lips wrapped just around the glans, always giving him a good suck before sliding the down to treat him to the intense heat of his slick throat, sore as it's becoming. Mettaton couldn't begin to care. It's where the Ascian belongs, he'd agree — he had more right to it than anything else. The slip of a long, soft groan comes from his throat, delighted by the sensation and the sympathy he feels for his lover.]
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So when Mettaton does end up gagging on him after all, it provokes a moment's worth of startle, of concern (and intense physical pleasure, at the way his throat was spasming around him--), only to watch the puca dive right back onto his cock. Reassured that Mettaton was fine, or at least reckless and stubborn, it was simple enough for Emet-Selch to return the whole of his focus back onto what he was doing, the way his Bonded found a way to manage going over the whole of his erection.
The variation in attentions leaves him transfixed and ever more unaware of the sounds he was continuing to make, of the taut trembling in his thighs, or the way he was practically huddled over him. The only things that remained pertained directly to Mettaton. The suction of lips around the glans, to the drag of them down his rigid length, to the accommodations of his lover's throat, the heat of the depths of his body available to be indulged in. The opportunities Mettaton still took to moan, whenever his throat was less occupied, and then the way those sounds vanished when it was. A quiet that was somehow even louder.
If Mettaton decided he wanted to do this for him more often, Emet-Selch would certainly do nothing to dissuade him....
Fingers tangled in his hair, he's aware of that sensation too, damp from sweat but still soft. His other hand claws into the covers with an intensity that has his fingers hurt, but he doesn't notice that. Dimly, he's aware that his lip is bleeding again, provoked by his exhalations, but the fresh taste of it was just another part of it all. From the aching of bruises and sting of strained bites, the protestations of muscles and pulsing demands of his arousal, they were all things Mettaton had done for him, provoked in him. They were all things that belonged to his lover.
Each glide and suck along his erection pushes him that bit closer to release, until it reaches a point where the Ascian can't hang on, no matter how hard he tries. His body jolts, shudders, as climax is torn from him, a blinding sensation that reminds him a little of his skin being pierced... the building of pressure, of breathless anticipation, before receiving the pain and satisfaction of his body giving way, giving in. Only much stronger, as he empties himself into his mouth with a strangled, ecstatic noise, filling another part of him with his come. His breathing is little more than a series of gasps, and his consciousness minimal as he slumps somewhat towards him. But he clings to it, just as he clings to Mettaton's hair, not wanting to lose him, not even for a moment.]
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It's as Mettaton pulls back upon the head and runs his tongue along the underside of it that he detects how close his lover is to release. To coax him along, the Puca's tongue laps at the very tip of his cock in anticipation, lips caught along the ridge as he hums affectionately. His clawing, his thrashing, his spasming and gripping into hair surely touched with the sweat from their efforts. He sucks, giving just enough of a relief so that he's not bearing down on the head too hard but providing suction nonetheless — and he's rewarded then with come.
Mettaton moans into the feeling of heat, almost sinking into him with the taste and knowledge of what's transpired. One swallow of thick fluid, then he leaves the rest to collect in his mouth, allowing it to linger on his tongue as he pulls from his Bondmate's cock, no doubt rendered sensitive after enduring so much. He swallows and nearly coughs on it, but manages to separate swallowing from the gasp of air he so sorely needs to take.
Emet-Selch's fingers thread through his hair and he curls into him. Mettaton hums fondly: his lover spent, lost and dazed, huddling in on his head like he has nothing in the world but himself... So when Mettaton rises, he nuzzles all the way up his beloved's chest, taking care to pepper him in kisses until he reaches his face, his panting gasps. There, too, he kisses and kisses, amorous and touched by his lover's love and desire made so blatant for him.
Still panting, still breathless, Mettaton lets out a sharp sigh.]
H-Hades...
[A kiss to his face. How he adores him; how he loves seeing him so expended, so wrecked, so drained and unable to think. His arms rise, and he collects his lover into his embrace. He already has a trajectory in mind for fucking him..... He's breathless, but panting, wanting, needing, even as he pulls Emet-Selch into his arms and tugs him onto his lap.]
There.
[Wrapped so snugly in each other's arms, Mettaton drags Emet-Selch onto his lap. His own cock remains achingly hard, throbbing with each beat of his pulse, even while his love for the Ascian is so undeniably tender, fond and adoring.]
H... How much of a pleasure you are, gorgeous... [More kisses yet. More affection to drown in.]
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Though his limbs are heavy and awkward, things that he doesn't feel wholly attached to, Emet-Selch tries to facilitate however Mettaton moves him. Especially since that movement is closer, into his lap, and his arms. And with it, the unmistakable sensation of his lover's hardness prodding into him. A feeling that has him shudder anew, keeps his pulse high and his love for him higher. It wasn't as though he'd forgotten his Bonded's own need, for all that he hadn't been able to do anything for it while being sucked off. And it didn't surprise the Ascian at all to realize how desperate he yet was for his lover's cock, despite his own being so recently sated. It wasn't arousal, exactly, at least not in the same way as before, but a need to feel Mettaton's own satisfaction, to take him however he could.]
M... Mettaton....
[His name is about all he can manage just yet, clinging to the sound of it just as he clings to his body. A recognition, an acceptance, a claim.
He's still too uncoordinated to do more than nudge against the tip of his length with his body, however, with a small, pleased-sounding noise at it, at the feeling of Mettaton's affection burying him through kisses. From chest to neck to face, Emet-Selch can do little more than press into it at first, panting with him. And when his face is finally against his own, to nuzzle as fiercely as he could manage against it, and then to press lips over whatever part of him he could reach.
There's a hint of blood left from each kiss, a trail to show where he's been, as he finally manages to meet Mettaton's lips through sheer persistence. From there his breath catches with a faint shudder, gently rubbing bitten lips to swollen ones, tongue flicking out to trail over Mettaton's lower one. And from there, to nudge his way past it into his mouth, fully conscious of how his cock had so recently occupied that space, seeking out the taste of his own come on him. It's a thing that has him moaning softly into the kiss, and which would've aroused him in itself, if he hadn't just climaxed.]
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(He could, he considers; a back-up plan, the desire to put on a show for his Bondmate, to pull at his cock just before him like this if need be, to let him participate...)
His imagination can get away with him. Mettaton keeps his kisses gentle on his lover, still tender over his hard release even as his cock burns with need. Perhaps he takes a sick delight in feeling it so pent-up. It's a reminder of nights spent with his lover earlier on, completely unable to express his arousal, incapable of shapeshifting and impossible to caress and suck and ride. All of this is to make up for lost time, he decides. This delightful chance to nestle his cock against his lover's abdomen, which he does with a gasp. Mettaton's hand runs along Emet-Selch's bare back, allowing the other man to nuzzle into him, only to kiss him in return.
How pleasantly receptive the Ascian is to him, despite having been absolutely devastated. Interactive, wanting his body... It has Mettaton feeling soft, even as he shifts toward the foot of the bed, Emet-Selch wrapped firmly in tow. His body's his prize.
Mettaton keeps his firm hold on his Bonded, breathing harsh as he lets his own legs fall over the edge of the bed. Emet collected in his arms, a few singsong notes of absolute approval escape from his throat.
A few more captures of his lip in return, a few more sucks of his own, more blood to ingest. Tongue accepted into his own mouth, relishing the taste of blood, come, and Emet-Selch. Softened to syrupy goo though he may feel by Emet-Selch's depletion of energy, he takes on a darker tone as the robot leans in, a shuddering, deep-toned breath harsh against the corner of his lover's lips.]
You don't mind it, do you? That I... I use your body, to pleasure myself...
[He swallows, hard. Mettaton glances over Emet-Selch's shoulder. The mirror he used earlier isn't too great a distance away, and he's positioned them relative to its face so that if Emet-Selch were facing away from Mettaton, he'd be able to see himself. The anticipation is killing him. Before he can reply, Mettaton manipulates his body some more, agreeable to his desirous whims as he is. He takes his lover and rocks him off of his lap, where he holds him for stability so that he doesn't fall. It's only for a moment as he pulls him back upon his lap by his hips, but this time, with his back pressed to his chest. The idol forces his legs between Emet-Selch's, demanding that the shorter man spread his legs on his seat found on MTT.
Emet-Selch sits on his lap. He faces the mirror, which bounces his reflection back at him in all of his marked-up glory. Mettaton slides his hands under his knees and lifts, spreading his lover's legs further apart. And in doing so, he bares all of the love bites he's left upon his inner thighs for Emet-Selch to behold. He nudges his cock against him, breathing harsher yet.]
Hah... Wh... What do you think? I find you... [He swallows, panting;] simply stunning... I absolutely need to take you...
[Mettaton's mind runs wild, shifting his hips beneath his lover's weight to rub his pounding cock against something. But he has his eyes set on sinking deep in his body, on letting him watch a thick cock sink into his body over and over in the mirror... The Puca moans. He can't help it: he's aroused beyond sense. He shifts his hips prematurely, a groan slipping from his throat. The ability to see his lover reflected back at him, the thought of having him bounce upon his arousal where they could both see their efforts. He swallows thickly.]
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Any number of ways... even that thought is enough to render him breathless, nuzzling with simple fondness at the puca's face before he speaks.
And it's Mettaton's voice as much as his question that tightens his muscles and keeps his heart quick. What a thing to want of him... and how much the Ascian wanted him to have it, to take every scrap of pleasure he could from his body, while he could feel every groan and shiver and sigh--]
Do it, use me--
[It's less acquiescence and more of a demand, words given even as Mettaton was already moving them, wasting no time; an efficiency Emet-Selch could appreciate. There was no chance of him minding, after all. And while he doesn't immediately grasp what Mettaton is doing, he goes with him as best he could, shifting around until his back is pressed warmly against Mettaton's chest, still sitting on him, but facing away from him.
...Towards a mirror. It's then that Emet-Selch understands his reasoning and hums breathlessly his approval. From not only having his legs spread, and spread far, but from being able to see how exposed he was on his lover's lap, how available he was made to him, and how ravaged he already was.
A sight that has him shift a hand in order to touch some of those bruises. Starting between his legs, his fingers skirt close to his own depleted cock, but his focus remains on the rings of color that adorn him. Sometimes stroking, sometimes his fingers show the tension of a press over damaged flesh, quicker intakes of breath often accompanying such movement, at the tenderness of his body. And his hand drifts upward, tracing between the individual marks left on his abdomen, to those near his hips, and from there on to his chest. Seen through the mirror like this, it's easier for him to spot the particular attention paid to the areas around his nipples, and his fingers trail between them, as though attempting to recreate the path Mettaton took. Reconstructing his journey from its end to its start.
Finally he reaches his shoulders and neck, the areas he'd seen the least of, and which he'd greatly anticipated viewing. And the sight doesn't disappoint, the paler skin of his fingers a strong contrast to the deep reds and angry purples that litter the region. Letting his head tilt further to one side, his expression is rapt as his fingertips drift between bites, coming away not wholly clean. It was a movement that hurt, but which he appreciated more for that fact, and his hand eventually ends its exploration on reaching his torn lip. His fingers come away more wet this time, as they lightly stroke over the injury.
And from there he takes a breath; it was hard to not be captivated at seeing all of himself at once like this, especially while still seated in his Bonded's lap, knowing he could watch him observe himself. And from intent, his expression shifts to something more smug, clearly satisfied with Mettaton's work. But underneath it was also something that was just... pleased, honestly and quietly. The suggestion of something fragile and genuine.
--But more pressing (literally) was the sensation of Mettaton's erection rubbing against his ass, a rather persistent reminder both of where he was sitting, and his lover's current desperate condition. And how patient he'd been, Emet-Selch thought- or perhaps he just enjoyed suffering, he also considered. In any case, the Ascian dearly wanted to watch him come completely undone, wanted to feel every moment of it, to take all of that thickness inside him again, to be left dripping with his come--
Shifting back, Emet-Selch deliberately rubs against his length with a shiver, moving his arms again to try and brace himself, to raise his hips enough to get closer to the tip of Mettaton's cock. With his legs so spread he didn't have much leverage there, but he also had no desire to change that, liking how... open, it made him, how visible he was to them both.
Tilting his head back, his good eye flickers between Mettaton behind him, and their images in the mirror before them, attention solely on the other man.]
'Tis a form... much improved on. [A slight adjustment, a brief catch to his breathing at a closer rub of Mettaton's arousal, his body wanting to arch into it. And onto it. Swallowing to try and focus himself, he continues.] So take me- take the rest. I want- to have all of you again.
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In the meantime, Mettaton is so, so glad that when he turns over his shoulder to glance behind him for lubrication, it had been carelessly tossed back over the surface of the bed. And, fortunately again, not too out of the way. His arm doesn't have the same reach it normally does, and he's made to stretch out some, but he grabs it with fingertips after temporarily unhanding Emet-Selch's legs.
He does this just as Emet-Selch commands that he take the rest. He can't wait a moment more, but he also appreciates the smooth glide offered by lubricant — a significant improvement over spit, even for a robot who enjoys the sensation of pain. There's something psychological about such an easy insertion that gets to him, besides, he considers. The way Emet-Selch's body gives to his, forms around him so readily...
Mettaton's set to panting again, he realizes, and he swallows it down as he squeezes lube directly onto the tip of his erection. He hisses at the temperature; swipes a hand over it with a bite of his lip just to get it over with. The cold of the air is relentless against burning, aching flesh. Mettaton simply wipes his hand against the silky bedspread, caring little for the integrity of it despite being obviously expensive. He cares less for it than for this.
He takes Emet-Selch's hands and plants them firmly against the mattress, a demand to stabilize himself somewhat. Fingers slip under Emet-Selch's knees again, lifting up as he braces his arms against his thighs so that he can lift him up slightly, muscle in his arms tensing as he tries to handle much of his lover's weight. He hums, peeking over his shoulder at the sight spread before him. If they weren't at the edge of the bed, this would be a position where Emet-Selch had all of the control, but he has only part of the mattress to maneuver with, as he did with his hands to shift closer to Mettaton's cock. Fondly he considers that action, applying another kiss to the base of the Ascian's neck. Given agency, all Emet-Selch did with it was try to shift closer, to lift his body, sidling his ass teasingly against his arousal; Mettaton expels a puff of air against his skin in a quiet sigh, appreciating him.
Mettaton pushes his own hips down, trying to angle the head of his cock as his hands slide further up his lover's legs, closer to the mid-section of his thighs. Fingers dig into muscle as he keeps him spread, Mettaton slipping into something of a fusion between self-indulgence, and the deliberation it takes to put on a show for a beloved audience. Emet-Selch should be watching, after all. The Puca's manner starts a bit sloppy, dragging the other man's hips back a bit too far, to which the tip of his cock pokes instead at his thigh. He peeks around his lover's side to better guide him, dragging his body along the tip of his cock until he finds himself poking at the underside of his balls. That's closer, and he shifts his hips and manipulates his body on trembling arms until the tip of his cock is pushed against his entrance.
He collapses in a sigh, muscles slackening somewhat, letting the tip of his arousal nudge in. Nudge in is putting it lightly, as his lover's already been prepared for him once before. His sigh quickly becomes a sharp intake of air.]
Ah... I've been. Fantasizing about this...
[He doesn't say for how long. Seriously, it's been since he made the decision to take his lover into his mouth. Entertaining it, it's been since the Looking-Glass House.
With another firm kiss to his back, Mettaton gradually eases his lover's weight onto his cock as he pushes his eager hips forward. His breath hitches, short, uncontrollable cries clear as a bell, and the stuffing of his lover unstoppable: Mettaton doesn't give him any breaks in his gradual settling of his weight. Once the entirety of the glans penetrates him, his hands slide back to the underside of his knees, making sure that his legs are forced apart liberally, view of kissed and bruised flesh as clear as the cock he sits upon.
The only way Emet-Selch will be able to stop him is by holding up his own weight, as Mettaton doesn't seem to be considering any possible discomfort, lost to his own euphoria as he is. A relief found in heat, an indelible squeeze: Mettaton even whimpers at how much he's wanted this feeling as that ring of muscle clamps down delightfully around his girth, sliding down his shaft, inch by gradual inch.]
O-Ohh...
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...Not that purely, really, the Ascian did have to admit to himself. While the primary and most important part of this was seeing Mettaton to his satisfaction, he knew there was a lot that he would get out of it personally as well. Though when he thought about it, even those aspects were related to Mettaton's well-being... but he supposed love would do that. To take pleasure in witnessing Mettaton come apart because of his body, to hear his voice in a way no one else would. The sheer physicality was also another benefit: his attraction to, and desire towards feeling his lover's cock moving inside him was not inconsiderable.
And the Ascian wondered what it would feel like, to be penetrated like this, while not sharing the same soaring desperation, but a deep investment nonetheless. And he mused if he'd end up hard again anyway by the end of it, considering how much he still wanted him on an emotional, psychological level. Though with three rounds behind him, Emet-Selch wasn't sure if his body would catch up in time to the rest of him. But it didn't matter to him either way. He would take a pleasure in it regardless.
And more important was everything else. Including those small gestures of affection that he'd originally been considering, soft kisses against his back while he'd been busy admiring himself. An area that didn't really get much attention, so it felt that much... sweeter, somehow, even if it was also just the place Mettaton could reach in his position. Extraneous touching, unnecessary affection... as though there were such things.
It feels like it takes longer than it does for Mettaton to retrieve the handily-dropped lubrication and apply it to himself- and if the Ascian felt himself tensing and anticipatory, he can well-imagine what it must be like for the idol. One more small delay, but he knew the reward would be worth it.
(Considering everything they've done on them, those bedspreads would require a wash anyway. A bit of extra lube on them wouldn't make a difference.)
With his arms maneuvered, Emet-Selch tenses them automatically, holding himself up and as with as much stability as he can manage. And stubbornness can manage a fair amount it turns out, along with a powerful source of motivation. And even then, all he really can do is facilitate Mettaton's own efforts, keeping himself in place with gently-trembling limbs as his Bonded repeatedly nudges him with his cock.
Each time his arousal gets that bit closer heightens his own expectations, catches his breath. And throughout, he watches, fixated on the sights before him. A reminder to keep his limbs steady, a fascination with the way he looked with his legs spread around his lover's, and the glimpses he had of his hardened cock honing in on him. The brush to his balls gets a gasp from him, and he twitches, fighting off a shake to his arms at knowing how close he was, how soon he would have him--
It's not much in the way of precognition, but he's still right, and his sigh has the edge of a satisfied moan to it when he feels the very tip of Mettaton's cock reaching his entrance- and especially when it doesn't hesitate to push into him, his body made to give way so smoothly, to accept this large intrusion.
Any discomfort from feeling the head push steadily deeper, aided by gravity and the weight of his own body, doesn't even register. There was only that creeping sense of fullness, tantalizingly close and inevitable. The only thing that slows his descent onto Mettaton's cock is by how much he wanted to watch himself take it. To feel that vision echoed in his body as he was stretched around that hot rigidity, gasping again as he clenches around him. Fascinated by the sight, he halts his descent with effort, briefly reversing it so that he can only feel the glans still held within him. Breathing quicker, he tightens around him at that point, enjoying the dig of the ridge, and the way he could squeeze the head of his cock so completely. The way he could see most of Mettaton's length between his own parted legs, stretched far enough apart that he was entirely on display. Of course Mettaton would fantasize about this moment- why wouldn't he? The Ascian was sure he'd be thinking about it himself, in times after.]
Oh... Mettaton....
[His voice is a dazed whisper, so utterly taken by the way he could see such well-loved thighs held apart by his Bonded's hands, his own cock (still slick from Mettaton's saliva, the Ascian could tell, from the way light reflected off of it) nudged to one side so that he could get a clear view of how his lover's erection was fitting inside him. That he could hold something like that in his body... and that it felt so right to have him there--
Slowly, his arms begin to slacken, and all Emet-Selch can feel is that satisfaction again, as Mettaton's length is stuffed deeper. And this time he lets gravity win, unable to stop his own desires towards seeing himself sitting flush to the robot's body, ass against his hips, barely able to see the idol's cock at all. Only a bit of the base, perhaps, where it attached to him. But how he could feel it.... Emet-Selch doesn't even immediately notice that his arms are loose, not supporting anything at all, as he's too busy shuddering at being suddenly full again. His body arches automatically into the sensation with a soft noise, stirring the cock within him, which only results in another round of tensing around that girth.]
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How much he adores this man has Mettaton swallowing, throat battered and sore as he pants. The idol could fall against him and rub his face into skin, and he imagines that warmth and give with an aching heart.
He realizes just how deep into this he is, and not quite yet in the literal sense. Mettaton can barely fathom his own lust.]
Hadeees...
[His voice is pleading, any composure he might have had coming well apart. How did they go so seamlessly from each climax to another? They all blur together, every detail of every time they've had sex, but it's the sentiment of each that he remembers: that despairing sound from Emet-Selch that shook his core he's heard often, and then this last climax of his lover's, the one of desperation, of ecstasy... Such range from his lover, and he's sure he himself could have only gone from one sort of pleasure to another, witnessed by Emet-Selch. It makes him want to hold him close, to kiss him senseless and screw him into the bed to hear him make more of those noises right next to his ear.
Emet-Selch's arms give in, and his body does, too: he slides down Mettaton's arousal, and all the way down Mettaton inhales until his lungs feel apt to burst. But he releases that tension in a long, satisfied moan, one that sharpens into a cry the very moment he feels Emet-Selch tensing around the base of his cock. How deep he is so quickly inside of his Bondmate is staggering, and he's not sure if he's feeling the pulse of Emet-Selch's blood, or his own throbbing arousal. If he didn't have more pleasure awaiting him on the horizon, Mettaton feels like he could collapse onto his back and writhe and twitch into this feeling, his lover warm and tight and arching into him, all of it so erotic that Mettaton has to cry out on breath he's already expelled.
He may be blinded by pleasure, but his arms don't fail him. He continues to hold Emet-Selch by his knees, given just enough leverage so that when the Puca gets his wits about him again, he can thrust his hips more forcefully against his ass, as if to nudge his already engulfed length deeper yet. Mettaton's entire body tenses at the pressure both at the base of his cock, and the way he can nudge against Emet-Selch so deeply, and he feels even his own back arching with the satisfaction of it. Another sound on a smooth exhale of air, one that breaks uncharacteristically into something raspier with how sore his throat's become.
And he draws back, then thrusts. A rhythm of steady, firm, deep pounding, the base of his cock pulling out before stuffing Emet-Selch full of him, Mettaton moaning shortly with each thrust on a broken voice. Sitting as he is, it's not too difficult for him to shove his hips into his lover's body only to draw back out, not having to mind terribly much what his legs are doing (yet minding regardless, keeping them tensed and poised). The glans rubs so pleasantly against his lover and Mettaton rocks his body into that feeling, pleasing himself thoroughly on his Bondmate's body with a form of his own he could have never, ever dreamed of obtaining.
In moments of heated passion, Mettaton feels so alive. It's not as though he spends any waking moment of his time feeling less than himself, but these levels of passion and raw emotion Emet-Selch matches him for are beyond fulfilling. He never knew he could desire somebody else this much, in body and soul.
When his vision returns to him for a glimpse of the mirror, he sees Emet-Selch on full, battered display, marked with teeth and lips and kisses, hair mussed and stuck to his forehead, arms slackened as he gives into the entire length of his cock. He sees the way his erection tugs out of his body, thicker than anticipated in appearance before sinking impossibly within, and it has Mettaton hiccuping on the mix between a gasp and a moan. But he's so close to release already, the sheer pleasure of stroking himself on Emet-Selch's body and the want to feel him endlessly the only thing keeping him together.]
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A fullness that somehow reaches even deeper with Mettaton's jerk of hips against him, a jostling of his length that serves to rub him with its deeply buried head. Something that has him tighten again around him, as though to hold onto that sensation, to stroke himself even more firmly with it.
And then Mettaton begins to move, and he's treated again to the sight of his lover's cock pulling partially free from his body, able to admire his rigidity and shape; there was really no question that he would be made to yield to that, to wrap around him so securely, and so smoothly. Filled to the most satisfying degree by his shaft, and repeatedly stroked by the differing shape of the glans- each thrust brought a range of sensations to fixate over.
And visually it was no less intense. The sight of his bruised body spread open and fucked, sweaty and trembling, jerking slightly with each of Mettaton's thrusts. The dig of his lover's hands under his knees, keeping them apart; the rhythmic writhing of his own body in order to drive Mettaton's cock deeper on each inward pass. The way his arms remained on either side of himself, as ineffectual anchors, tensing and shaking with the rest of him.]
Mettaton- gods... the way you feel--
[He was a complete mess, but he supposed they both were, in their ways, and his pulse was racing at the thought of Mettaton coming apart underneath him, inside of him, around him. There was nothing to be self-conscious about, to be so ruined. How unusually rough the idol's voice sounded too... a thought that has the Ascian swallowing thickly, imagining how the press of his own cock down his throat must've contributed to that particular quality. Everything was connected; each instance of sex was its own unique moment, satisfying and intense and worthy of specific recollection... and yet together, with the way they built on one another, they became a singular instance as well. From the first time they'd had sex until now- perhaps even from their first meeting, in a way- it was all tied together, reaching towards a conclusion that he never wanted to see. That he refused to acknowledge would ever happen.
Emet-Selch certainly wasn't thinking about that now, not when he had the sight of his lover's cock pounding into him before him, not when he had his gasps and moans in his ears, the prickling of his breath at his neck. Not when he could tighten around him and move with him, to give himself over entirely, and take all of Mettaton in return.]
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His arousal continues to pump in and out, though Mettaton's hooked on the feeling of the ridge of his cock pulling along his lover, so intimately. That would be enough to send him over the edge, he thinks. But then, so much of this could do that for him. Such pleasure is so new to Mettaton. He cherishes that Emet-Selch could be so willing to indulge him, so desirous of his body in return — and who wouldn't be? When he gazes at the mirror with a glassy stare, he's taken by how attractive they are together.
By how Emet-Selch fits him like glove. A... tight glove. He stares at how his cock pulls back and sinks in, such intimacy causing him to swallow, and he rubs his cheek against what's his. Yet another low noise, a groan: Emet-Selch was his. He body curls in on him somewhat, and his thrusts change from firm and deep to firmer and deep, possessiveness emanating from him.
That's the sentiment that ends up becoming his fixation in his last few moments before release.]
Mine, mine——
[He couldn't string together a coherent sentence to save his life, but his body also cannot contain the sheer magnitude of feeling he has for his lover. This streak of claim is part of him so readily sharpened, melds well with Mettaton's inclination toward marking and keeping what's his. He nuzzles his shoulder. He moans openly against him. He'll always have him.
A promise to hold him dear to his heart is still Mettaton's willing shackles, the promise to remember. How could he forget Emet-Selch if he gives himself to him so completely, and takes him for everything he has?
The idol doesn't hear himself uttering Emet-Selch's name some more, peppered with more of the word "mine" as the robot loses himself. He throws his head back in another moan, this one thick and hot as his come: climax hits him hard. His fingers grip into the Ascian's legs, his body positions itself as if he'd push him down to the floor and fuck him senseless with such dedication, spring-loaded and firmer in his thrusts. But he's smitten so severely. He's so desperately in love that he has to close his eyes to cope.
Even as he clutches his Bonded's legs and leans into him, he soundlessly mouths his love for him during the last moment of his release. A satisfied whine, and the continued, automatic thrusting into his beloved, Mettaton fills Emet-Selch fuller yet of his cock: if the flesh itself wasn't enough, he leaves behind his hot release.
As he completes his marking of him, Mettaton begins to slow where his breathing remains ragged and pulse remains high. His arms begin to slacken, begin to imitate Emet-Selch's, and he rests his cheek on his lover's upper back, against his shoulder while he pants. He wants to tell Emet-Selch how he feels about him, even when his mind is lost.
How much he loves him. It doesn't need words to his Bonded if it's so strongly felt by him, but he stutters syllables, pants for air, and fails to speak.]
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