[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.]
[It was a mesmerizing sight. Mettaton's quick, desperate movements, his hard, tight thrusts into his tensing form. The way his expression looked in the mirror, whenever Emet-Selch could wrest his gaze away from the joining of their bodies. There was something to be said for this position, he thought, though the sight of their reflections was an important part of it. And with Mettaton nuzzling at his back and neck, hearing his voice coming from an unfamiliar angle- the Ascian considered that he'd want the idol to take him from behind on some other occasion as well... in front of a mirror. Emet-Selch had never thought of himself as particularly vain, but he was quickly coming around to the appreciation of having one's reflection so available in certain circumstance.
And the sight of them together... the jerks of Mettaton's hips against his receptive body, the repeated glimpses he could get of his cock as he moved, the clutch of fingers into his skin- it left his heart aching more than any other part of him. As if it were more than his body being claimed- though Mettaton's words reassured him of that, and he shuddered. For all that he knew that they possessed one another, to be made to feel it with each thrust and sound was of the deepest kind of comfort to the Ascian. To see the pattern of that possession manifested upon his skin, and then, to be left inside his body as well--
Even without his own release, Emet-Selch was left breathless, trembling, satisfied. Forgetting the necessity of air, he takes in the last sharp jerks from Mettaton's hips as though sharing in his desperation. And he clenches around him hard as Mettaton's thick come spills into him, a hotter presence than even that of his cock, a touch that reaches even more deeply. And to feel so perfectly possessed by it, taken on all levels by this man... he was struck by the need to nuzzle and hold him, but as he couldn't (and he was loathe to lose the fullness of his cock so soon anyway), he settles for nudging back against Mettaton's body as he rests against him. Encouraging him to lean against him as much as he could, enjoying the sensation of his breath on his shoulder, how... spent he looked and felt.
The love he could sense so clearly, as though his actions hadn't already made it abundantly known. Words truly weren't necessary at all, but he felt endeared towards Mettaton's attempts towards speech in his current state. Despite his own high pulse and unsteady breath, Emet-Selch felt... if not quite relaxed, but something similar, warm and safe and at ease. As if he could finally start to come down from his own climax, now that Mettaton had claimed his.
It was- comfortable, to be in his lap like this, despite the spread of his legs and the cock inside him. His head tilts back, to try and rub slowly against Mettaton's. His voice is a low rumble, steady, if heavy with emotion.]
[A short satisfied hum passes the test of his swollen throat, nuzzling his cheek into Emet-Selch's shoulder as a reply to his gentle nudges. Mettaton feels delirious with ecstasy, warmth, overstimulated (never a bad thing, to Mettaton), loved and loving. He's eased Emet-Selch's legs down to straddle his own, arms useless even as he tries to draw them up to wrap around his waist — which they do, if not loosely. The sight he drank in over the past few minutes of his Bondmate spread out before him, riding his cock and marked so thoroughly in purple and red, a display rendered of his own efforts, is a sight he knows he won't be forgetting any time soon.
When he speaks on a tone so deep, nuanced with his feelings that wash over Mettaton as they usually do with a Bond like theirs, he shivers instead of listens. His mind, with all of its processing capabilities, is a few measures behind his senses. Emet-Selch's voice in itself is his, too, and he loves the sound of it. He can almost feel it rumbling in his own chest, an absolute pleasure of a sensation. Something worth clinging to, even when he finally parses the words warranting such stability.
The idol only collapses further yet into his back, arms tightening around his waist, swallowing around breath caught in his throat. When Mettaton manages to speak, his voice is soft and breathy, spoken with his lips pressed to his skin.]
I love you, too. Hades...
[No matter how well he could feel Emet-Selch's emotions or feel his own, he'd never not take that effort to say it aloud, even if doing that much has him settling back down against his shoulder again, cheek pressed to him, sighing in a way to catch his breath.
Mettaton idly takes stock of his body, to ground himself. The air's cool against his too-hot skin, but he can hardly tell what he feels about that when he's defenseless against it. His entire body tingles, his pulse, though stabilizing, still feels as though it pounds. His legs, legs not Puca-shaped, feel wobbly and heavy, but in such a pleasant way. His lap is weighted down by his Bonded, straddling his body, swallowing up his gradually softening cock in the heat of himself. Mettaton sighs. Even the uncomfortable parts combine to make a sensory experience the robot hangs onto. His fingers twitch to life, pressing into the plane of Emet-Selch's abdomen with the blatant desire to feel him up, nuzzling his cheek into his shoulder before rolling his head so that he can press kisses to his shoulder instead.
He manages to squeeze his waist in his arms. When he thinks back, it's to a time where Emet-Selch responded with hackles raised to a confession of blossoming love on Mettaton's part. Had he rejected him, Mettaton knows he has the fortitude to recover (and perhaps to try a different strategy, if he felt continued want)... Though, he's not sure how much further he'd drop into love, given that he could tell his friend was similarly falling for him, in a distant, Emet-Selch kind of way. Chemistry where the both of them were loving each other would be a hard thing to simply ignore. A current in the torrents of his lover's emotional state, something that was difficult for him to acknowledge. He feels proud of him for having made himself vulnerable to it, knowing it wasn't easy.
Emet-Selch is so sensitive a man, he thinks, nuzzling into his shoulder again. Sensitive and hurting, but in moments like these, he hopes to be a respite. Inundated with pleasure, handing himself off to Mettaton as Mettaton gives himself over. A soul like Emet-Selch's is one encumbered by so much: guilt, despair, grief, and loneliness. Burdens impossible to unload so easily from a soul like his. His arms tighten again: if he could be even a pleasant distraction from all he suffers, if he could be warm company otherwise, that would satisfy the idol.]
[His legs feel surprisingly stiff as they're allowed to relax, as the Ascian realizes belatedly how much he'd been tensing them, and that they'd likely be a bit sore later from exertion. Much like the majority of his body, he thought, something that draws a quiet sort of hum from him, low and contented. But for now, there was too much pleasure running in his blood for any aches to register as anything other than a boon, legs settling with comparative comfort around Mettaton's.
The gradual effort of arms to hold him adds an additional pleased note to his hum. An embrace by degrees, as Emet-Selch watches with half-open eyes as they finally manage to encircle him, not remotely surprised at an idle groping of his abdomen. That they could casually touch each other like this was another thing that he found to be a comfort, another way of showing their ever-increasing familiarity with one another. That they belonged to each other.
When the touch turns into a squeeze around his waist, Emet-Selch lifts one of his arms to rest it along one of Mettaton's, to trace fingers across one of his hands. Closing his eyes for the first time in a while, he's aware that these are gestures bringing affection. And how it hadn't been that long ago that he wouldn't have been able to recognize it as such. And now it felt like a succor, even when it was painful. Something he'd sorely needed without being aware of it.
And that Mettaton had somehow managed to provide it to him, despite his attempts to avoid or deny all of it.
Tilting his head back, he doesn't observe the ceiling because his eyes are closed, but it has a bit of the same effect as staring off into space. Both in absorbing the moment and all its sensations, and thinking a little on how he'd ended up in this state. Mettaton was warm against his back and his legs and inside him as well, able to feel how his cock gradually relaxed. The nuzzling to his shoulder felt so soft and caring that he was moved by it all over again. That Mettaton had been able to display his burgeoning love for him in a way he'd eventually been able to accept, if only just, if only with great hurt and near-despair.
And that he'd been able to realize his own attachment and care... Emet-Selch knew that was only due to how he felt in Mettaton's presence. He hadn't been able to trust someone like this before, with himself. He'd never been loved this way, or felt the same for anyone. And how much he wanted to do for his Bonded in return for all he was giving him. And... for just being who he was. He wanted to stay with him and see him happy, even if he couldn't achieve it for himself. To stay in his company, and believe, if only sometimes, that Mettaton was right and he wouldn't forget....
He'd never be able to express it enough, he thought. How much this respite mattered to him. How much Mettaton mattered to him. Though with their bodies connected, and everything they'd done together- that helped. An ease, and another thing to love him for.
He takes a careful breath, resting with him.]
And how are you faring...? [This time he's the first one to ask, not so much breaking the silence as gently interrupting it. His thumb rubs across one of Mettaton's.] Having properly tested your transformative abilities...?
[Even - or especially - these little gestures of affection bring him joy. The way Emet-Selch folds his arm over his, places his hand over his fingers, letting fingers trace fingers and thumb run over his own. He's gone from no sensory input at all, to some, to increasing sensitivity, and now with this body, and these feelings... It feels so vivid, so unreal, that he could touch somebody with this depth. A tickling of warm skin, a delicate trace of fingertips, the variance of pressure against tissue, the heat of this embrace, the nuance of this moment they share, and all else that sits comfortably between them — for whatever space "between them" exists. There's hardly a concept like that anymore. They bleed right into each other, like this.
Mettaton shifts his head after a firm nuzzle, pressing his lips to his shoulder as he peers over it, straight ahead. At their reflections, the way his arms wrap around Emet-Selch's build. (And for as unfamiliar as these arms are, they're simultaneously familiar — an appearance he's fancied before, made reality.) Their mutual flush, their obviously post-coital dishevelment, the way Emet-Selch's knees brace around his own. Mettaton's legs spread, but Emet-Selch's spread further around his, the appearance of him sitting on his cock, his own fully visible. As visible as Mettaton's love for him, made physical in marks that he's sure will sting and ache.
His own marks that he has, not as plentiful, but ones he still feels on his shoulders. When he looks at them next, he'll still see them. They'll go away when he releases this transformation, he realizes, closing his eyes... But Mettaton thinks he can still relish the feeling and the knowledge regardless.
He sighs against his skin. The robot hardly realized he was holding his breath.]
It's beyond comprehension. [He could questions aloud if it was even real, if he wasn't imagining it all... But there's always been a trend of wondering if any of Aefenglom's real, lately. He doesn't need to go there. He'll accept it as his reality nonetheless.] Having you near. It helps. Talk about an incentive to get it right...
[Even in this moment, Mettaton doesn't think too hard on his mistakes. The silly, unfortunate ones, maybe: the time that he got ears in the wrong place and couldn't figure out what, precisely, was off, or the time that he felt his chest was lacking in detail, only to notice so much more about Emet-Selch's the next time he saw his body. But the other mistakes... They're still too disorienting to think on right now, so he doesn't. They're compartmentalized. Instead, he regards fondly the concept that he's had so much of his Bonded's magic to work with, with his close proximity. He's consumed more than his share, but it helps him maintain it all — not that a form so similar in shape to his own is too difficult, for as hard as it is to get right.
The smell of blood lingering on his shoulder coaxes him to lick, for all that he doesn't actually hit any wounds with his tongue from his angle. He ends up closer to his neck with a smile.]
And the things I can do with this body... I'm a real natural.
[at sex or at being a human . . . . ? mettaton...]
[Cozy. That's what this moment was, he thought. That specific type of hazy comfort and congenial company. Warmth and something like peace congealed around them in a thoroughly unnatural sort of way. At least, Emet-Selch could hardly recognize it as something that could be experienced normally. And while he'd soon enough want to move in order to curl up with Mettaton properly and maintain this moment in a more sustainable way, what he had right now was... good. And he didn't want to question it too hard lest he damage it by bringing back to the fore his usual mental state. The turmoil was still there, but- settled, for a time. He wanted to keep this.
And for now there were arms (human-proportioned, but still Mettaton's) around him, and the sound of his lover's breath and voice. The answer doesn't surprise, but it was good to hear, in both quality and content.]
I'm relieved... that something so wanted did not disappoint.
[It's a lighter tone in a low voice, but a serious sentiment, he realized. It would've been a pity for Mettaton to master his shapeshifting ability, only to find the result underwhelming. That proper humanhood didn't live up to the imaginings. He squeezes his hand a little, then lets out a small, approving sort of sigh at the sensation of a lick to his shoulder, at the way he could feel Mettaton drift towards his neck.]
But your efforts convince. Truly, I would think you possessed years of experience if I didn't know better.
[At being a human or sex? Really, it could go either way.
But Emet-Selch turns more thoughtful again, without intending to, holding to the top of Mettaton's hand with his own, fingers pressing in just slightly. Though his eyes open, they remain fixed on the ceiling, avoiding their reflections. And his speech becomes- hesitant, as if not entirely sure of the words, having to figure them out for himself as he went along. It was made slightly easier by not needing to look at him.]
I've not... been with anyone like this, you know. This- involved.
[A word spoken as though it were inherently dubious. And it's not exactly a surprise of a statement or anything, but it felt like a strange thing to have to admit to.]
I don't know how you managed it. But I haven't- I can't show this part of myself with anyone else. [Interrupted by an exasperated-sounding huff of breath.] I didn't know it existed. If it ever did, I thought- well, that it would be gone by now.
[Mettaton hums, finding his opinion of his form (and function) to be satisfactory. He does a sort of full-body shift closer, an effort to express his pleasure with their mutual contentment at his presentation. How could the result of this fantastic goal disappoint him? There were things about it that Mettaton found absurd along the way, or difficult to fathom, but when studying, when perfecting, he'd realized that too many mistakes don't a body make. So to have it come together properly is pleasing. That he should be good at putting it to use seems natural to Mettaton, who considers himself someone who knows how to put his body to the best of use. He's only wanted one for his whole life.
Pressing his cheek back to his shoulder, Mettaton watches as Emet-Selch's attention remains skyward, though he can't imagine it's for anything he sees of interest. It's when he starts speaking that he pays mind, blinking slowly and pressing his arms into his lover's waist.
It doesn't surprise the Puca at all, hearing that Emet-Selch has never been with anybody "like this" before. Though he's learned tonight that he's had any number of children (and surely marriages, and surely love affairs), Mettaton is readily capable of assuming that Emet-Selch must have a rough time with being so open about himself for any number of reasons. How could he be Emet-Selch the Ascian with the mortals of his world, much less Hades? Hiding some aspect about the self, no matter if it's a name, an unwanted past, a mourned history, or an ambition larger than life... Mettaton's realized that those things would make a relationship less genuine and vulnerable. He closes his eyes, breathing in the smell of his Bonded's skin.
And then there's the matter of not even beginning to fathom that such tenderness existed in him still. That he could love like this, and feel so intensely. Mettaton smiles, then. Smiles, because he feels it's a blessing that he's found this part of himself intact. Moreover, that it existed at all — the implication that he didn't see himself as someone who could have his feelings run so deep for another, no matter what stage of life he found himself in.
He's felt off-key these past few weeks... But Mettaton feels remarkably himself in this moment. Stable and true. The hand not being traced over slides atop Emet-Selch's, fingers entwining with his.]
Well. To draw out such infatuation in you, it seems you had to meet someone like me. Of which... there's only one.
[Said smugly, as Mettaton does. But he softens again, sighing and nuzzling his cheek gently into his back.]
Who is truly incapable of love? I saw this passion in you almost right away, darling. But the extent of you that I've come to love... That's the treat. [His smile only grows, and his eyes open again, tracing over his jaw and down his painted neck.] ...I'm glad. Glad to have discovered this part of your heart with you. I love it, after all.
[For all that it may hurt him, he acknowledges that. But then, he was already hurting so much even without having found this level of involvement with another person. Metttaton wouldn't say he's gotten better or worse or anything like that, just that he's achieved more expression and emotion out of him the longer he keeps his company. The more of himself he gives, the more it satisfies Mettaton, no matter how daunting or vast. As for his heart, well... That's Mettaton's.]
[His fingers willingly lock around Mettaton's. Five against four, but... he didn't see that as a flaw to his Bonded's shapeshifting. Four was the Correct number for him, so what else would he have (though the Ascian would also agree that however many fingers Mettaton wanted would also be correct)? If anything, it made him feel he had slightly too many himself....]
One of someone like you is more than enough.
[It's more dryly spoke, but, well, Mettaton had some right to be smug, he supposed. To be able to capture his attentions like this was a special thing, of course. No one else had managed it (who else would want to, was something he refused to consider). Which softens him as well, and has him feeling gratitude once more.
Looking back down again, he watches as Mettaton trails attention over his neck, a sight and feeling that has him tilting his head slightly into it. Another movement that sets the whole area aching but he ignores that. Soreness was just going to be a part of his life for a while. But for decorations like this, it was a small enough price.
And how absurd it was that it was only under these precise circumstances that he found he could talk about this whatsoever. Drained and bruised and bloodied and several times fucked, with his lover's cock still inside him. With his body on full display to them both. But Emet-Selch couldn't think of any other way it could have worked; he needed to have been reduced this far. And even now, he didn't know how much longer he could maintain such... verbal sentiment. But he could manage once more.]
...Thank you, then- for reminding me that it's yet possible to manifest this degree of care for another. Even after so many years.
[While he would, and had, reminded those heroes that his people weren't unfeeling monsters, were capable of all the same emotions and relationships... that was a world and a time far removed from the present. For himself, he'd thought he'd lost that along with all the rest.
Shifting his free arm, Emet-Selch reaches up to touch the side of Mettaton's face with his fingertips. A gentle, familiar sort of touch.]
--You've given a great deal to me. Your heart, not least- and though you've taken mine in recompense, [Something that he still pauses over, as though this were a thing he had trouble comprehending.] is there anything else I can do for you? My means may not be what they once were... but what of it?
[At his obvious gratitude, Mettaton softens up further. Fingers that tangle with Emet-Selch's weave in his further yet. Another reminder of his normal, but on the higher end of acceptable, finger counts.
He wonders what it must be like, to feel his humanity's been lost to him with the fall of his civilization. There's no other explanation for his surprise at it. Of course Emet-Selch should be capable of caring, Mettaton thinks. But such a disturbing incident no doubt traumatized him, and everything thereafter... There is no recovery alone. But the admission itself strikes him as such a lonely existence, never once connecting with anybody, never finding anyone worth it or capable of leveling with him in this way... He squeezes him with his arms. So many years. It's no small wonder he struggles so greatly with coping, with processing, with simple discussion of touchy subjects.
And this softness only intensifies as he continues talking. Mettaton drags his hand laced with Emet-Selch's up to his chest, pressing both of their hands over his Bondmate's heart.
Something he could do for him? As more recompense, for loving him. Is he hearing this right? It strikes Mettaton as a bit absurd, but then, aren't they both a bit odd. Yes, Emet-Selch should be grateful to win his attentions in turn, but this strikes him as another sad sort of thing to say. Not quite founded on any insecurity over whether he's worth loving or not, but just that he felt so touched by the act of being loved and loving in return that he feels he could give more. Mettaton leans into that touch, closing his eyes.]
You're my Bonded Witch. I have your magic, and anything you do with it. I watch you unfold before me... I have your self. I keep your company. Your consideration. And your heart. [His eyes open half-way, fixing his attention upon Emet-Selch with a mild smile.] Yet you want to give me more...
[He says that in hopes of shining a light over the fact that he already does much for him, to start with. He presses his palm into his chest. Of course he'd do what he could for Emet-Selch, and it surprises him little that he should want to do for Mettaton what he can, too. If he ever wanted something beyond himself, Emet-Selch would be the first to know.]
Hmm. ... A kiss. Yes, that's what you can do for me, for now.
[He meets his eyes squarely with a growing smile.]
[Why did simple handholding feel like such a luxury? But he lets their hands tangle fully together, watching as Mettaton presses them over his heart, trying to memorize the quiet of the moment. Another small thing to sustain him.]
Ah....
[When put like that, it did seem like a fair amount that he was providing. And not trifling things either. Emet-Selch nods slowly after mulling it over, though he didn't think his question had been that strange. That he found mutual love to be at all a remarkable and heretofore impossible to obtain thing doesn't strike him as anything but expected. Natural. And it was normal to want to provide things to a person much cared for, wasn't it? But while it was no excuse to become complacent, it wasn't a lopsided arrangement, he supposed. But to be given so much... of course he would want there to remain parity.
Still, Mettaton didn't seem like the sort to keep his desires to himself. If there was anything he did want, the Ascian decided it would probably be safe to assume that the puca would tell him.
And this particular simple request gets a small, amused sound from him, followed by a sigh that's not quite put-upon.]
That means I'll have to move, you know. How demanding....
[Nevermind that he needed to move soon anyway. But there was little way he could kiss him properly without facing him, so he reluctantly pulls his hand free, needing the support of both of his arms to extricate himself from Mettaton's lap. Unconsciously, Emet-Selch finds himself holding his breath as he pulls free of his Bonded's cock, feeling again that mixture of relief and regret.
Standing up, there's a small wobble to his posture, and a smaller wince. Everything was going to be sore for a while; Mettaton gaining a human body whenever he wanted had dangerous implications for the safety of his own. But he wasn't concerned.
Turning back to him, Emet-Selch takes a moment to let his gaze linger over Mettaton's body again, seated on the edge of his bed, and is clearly taken by the sight of him, disheveled but so... secure, in himself, in everything, it felt like. Not nearly bitten enough, though; a detail to rectify on another occasion, he thought. His attention hones in on Mettaton's face as he leans in, cupping it between both hands, though with a small brush to the robot's bangs as he does so. Another brush follows, but of lips against his, light and almost testing. A small taste of him accompanied by a soft breath, and a pressure that slowly firms. The deliberation involved is clear, as is the passion underneath- a deep affection and emotional wanting of the other man, with his only tool for expressing it being a kiss.]
[No, he hadn't really considered that he'd have to move from his lap. It's a bit of a disappointment, but he considers that humans should likely not be flexible in such a manner... It makes sense that Emet-Selch would have to move to kiss him on the lips. Nonetheless, it brings him amusement in return to hear Emet-Selch's weak suggestion of being hassled by Mettaton's request. Even if he were truly burdened by a demand of his, he's dutiful. He can complain to his heart's content.
His voice is playful, singsong... But still a bit more hoarse than usual.]
Your efforts are appreciated, my dearest.
[Though the Puca thoroughly enjoys their position, the very moment Emet-Selch shifts, he realizes how sensitive and raw-feeling his cock's become. He could ignore bleeding out as long as he were doing it with the spark of his lover's embrace to placate him in the meanwhile... Perhaps, then, the detachment is welcome. But it's over and done with, and then he has his lover regaining the use of his (assuredly sore and disagreeable) legs, which also brings Mettaton a weird satisfaction to behold. He smirks at him, appreciating his work.
And appreciating his body in general. There's not a moment where he doesn't consider the man before him and mirror himself back in his thoughts, less of a comparison out of any insecurity and more of one out of appreciation for detail. Yes, he feels perfect this way: for Emet-Selch to notice it would suit Mettaton. He keeps his legs slightly spread to allow the Ascian perfect access and sight of him, still raking his eyes from thighs to face, taking in marks he's too satisfied with.
But that satisfaction simmers into anticipation upon meeting his gaze. Lip cut and swollen and hair tousled, Mettaton feels a wave of heat overcome him as Emet-Selch closes in. The kind of kiss that feels like a cherished first, something to remember.
How much he feels of his feelings through this manner of expression is intoxicating. Even without the Bond, Mettaton relies on that kiss for the other man's feelings, just how much he loves and craves him. A firm, sweet pressure, which Mettaton only presses into in return: how fond his own feelings run, his ardor, how stricken he is by his Bonded, and his love in return. A kiss completely laden with it from both sides, passionate and deep even without the involvement of mouths and tongue and fervor. It pierces him through, and he relishes it all.
When they break apart, it's softly. Mettaton sighs, realizing his pulse has jumped again, that he closed his eyes somewhere along the way. He blinks, dazed by a kiss.
Given the next opportunity to speak, he makes eye contact with his Bondmate.]
Come to bed with me...
[Though Mettaton generally has a lascivious edge to all he says and does as a standard, this is said more imploring, a request to simply be with him. He can't imagine Emet-Selch declining him, anyway. It's more of an expression of his own want.]
[The unfamiliar roughness to Mettaton's voice is still a pleasure, despite how he otherwise appreciated its usual smoothness. And how convenient it was, that they were both fully satisfied with themselves and each other, in both sight and sensation. A striking pair they made....
And bearing affections to drown one another. Made deep through sentiment rather than physicality, it hurt in a way that had nothing to do with a pierced lip, and left him with a sense of profound tenderness.
Trapped in a light fog from their kiss, Emet-Selch has to blink away the haze to focus back on Mettaton's eyes, his words. A flicker of surprise shows in his expression- less at the request (as unnecessary as it was; of course he was going to lie back down, and of course Mettaton would join him), but at the tone of it. While he'd come to value Mettaton's voice in all its variations, the slightly more unusual versions naturally attract specific attention.
It's something that has Emet-Selch pressing their lips together for a few moments more, struck by the need to. The small pain in his own is no dissuasion, not when there was this much affection to still express, a love and ardor to leave him slightly trembling. The way they captivated each other still startled him sometimes, especially when it came out in gestures so simple.
But he draws back sooner this time with a soft inhalation, eyes flickering open again to look at Mettaton with a terrible sort of fondness. His thumbs lightly stroke either side of his face.]
...Of course.
[Straightening back up, the Ascian's hands drift from Mettaton's face, down over his neck and shoulders. Any time he had the chance he seemed to want to look at his body- a new hobby that he shamelessly indulged in. And how beautiful Mettaton still was, and how himself, to ever more notable degrees. Not that he had ever been anyone else, but it was as though he were beholding the entirety of him at once.
Briefly distracted from moving by the sight of him, Emet-Selch shakes it off with a half-smile as he crawls back into bed. It's awkwardly done, limbs stiff and uncooperative, and not made much easier by the way he reaches back towards Mettaton. For his arms, his hands- anything to not lose contact with him, to pull him up, to stretch out beside him on the bed. Only when he was wrapped back up with his lover again could he relax.]
[Mettaton follows, eagerly. His body moves on automatic, finding this additional physical invitation to join his Bondmate too enticing to sit around for. Hand-in-hand, fingers locked around fingers, Mettaton regards even their digits as the suggestion of how they're bound to end up: laced with each other, as familiar as can be.
For a moment, the beautiful strangeness of it all catches up with the robot. The sight of his lover before him, completely exposed (as he would have him), crawling onto his own bed and reaching a hand out to beckon for him to join him. And in his vision comes his own hand, forearm, the bones and muscles and skin of it... He stares, spellbound, at their hands joined, finding this part to be worth disbelief. Perhaps even the part where he's found such a beloved man in the Ascian, when he'd otherwise found his values to be worth skepticism. (Even still, they disagree. He'd still like to talk about it some more, for all that he knows that Emet-Selch has a hard time of it. For all they disagree. For all that there are human lives lost already, for all that it's in the name of another beloved population, for all that Emet-Selch couldn't stop even if he felt differently, in the name of his people and Zodiark both. He understands this. He wants to better understand his own love in the wake of it all, beyond an adoration for frivolity and opulence and expressions of passion.)
His eyes skirt up to meet his face as he sidles up beside him, taking the initiative to actually pull back the covers for them both. For the first time in many nights, he doesn't fear sleep, not with Emet-Selch by his side and tiredness an inevitability. Above all, Mettaton's transfixed by the glimpse of that half-smile, an expression so loved by him when he otherwise rarely sees it on his features.
As soon as they both find themselves properly in bed, legs entangled and bodies flush, Mettaton takes his face in his hands and draws him into a kiss seeping with love for the sight of him.]
You're lovely, you know.
[That smile, the way he is when he's rendered so reduced, relaxed, unwound. And even when he's not, when he's testy and cynical and dour, his usual self... Mettaton finds that endearing, too. But they're different kinds of attractiveness.]
Since you offer to do so much for me... Tell me if there's ever any desire I could make true for you.
[Coming from someone without the same capabilities that Emet-Selch ever possessed, sure, but Mettaton would try. Anything in his power and even beyond it, he would attempt it for Emet-Selch. His will comes from the desire to shock and surprise, and that's a force to fuel him considerably.]
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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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And the sight of them together... the jerks of Mettaton's hips against his receptive body, the repeated glimpses he could get of his cock as he moved, the clutch of fingers into his skin- it left his heart aching more than any other part of him. As if it were more than his body being claimed- though Mettaton's words reassured him of that, and he shuddered. For all that he knew that they possessed one another, to be made to feel it with each thrust and sound was of the deepest kind of comfort to the Ascian. To see the pattern of that possession manifested upon his skin, and then, to be left inside his body as well--
Even without his own release, Emet-Selch was left breathless, trembling, satisfied. Forgetting the necessity of air, he takes in the last sharp jerks from Mettaton's hips as though sharing in his desperation. And he clenches around him hard as Mettaton's thick come spills into him, a hotter presence than even that of his cock, a touch that reaches even more deeply. And to feel so perfectly possessed by it, taken on all levels by this man... he was struck by the need to nuzzle and hold him, but as he couldn't (and he was loathe to lose the fullness of his cock so soon anyway), he settles for nudging back against Mettaton's body as he rests against him. Encouraging him to lean against him as much as he could, enjoying the sensation of his breath on his shoulder, how... spent he looked and felt.
The love he could sense so clearly, as though his actions hadn't already made it abundantly known. Words truly weren't necessary at all, but he felt endeared towards Mettaton's attempts towards speech in his current state. Despite his own high pulse and unsteady breath, Emet-Selch felt... if not quite relaxed, but something similar, warm and safe and at ease. As if he could finally start to come down from his own climax, now that Mettaton had claimed his.
It was- comfortable, to be in his lap like this, despite the spread of his legs and the cock inside him. His head tilts back, to try and rub slowly against Mettaton's. His voice is a low rumble, steady, if heavy with emotion.]
...I love you.
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When he speaks on a tone so deep, nuanced with his feelings that wash over Mettaton as they usually do with a Bond like theirs, he shivers instead of listens. His mind, with all of its processing capabilities, is a few measures behind his senses. Emet-Selch's voice in itself is his, too, and he loves the sound of it. He can almost feel it rumbling in his own chest, an absolute pleasure of a sensation. Something worth clinging to, even when he finally parses the words warranting such stability.
The idol only collapses further yet into his back, arms tightening around his waist, swallowing around breath caught in his throat. When Mettaton manages to speak, his voice is soft and breathy, spoken with his lips pressed to his skin.]
I love you, too. Hades...
[No matter how well he could feel Emet-Selch's emotions or feel his own, he'd never not take that effort to say it aloud, even if doing that much has him settling back down against his shoulder again, cheek pressed to him, sighing in a way to catch his breath.
Mettaton idly takes stock of his body, to ground himself. The air's cool against his too-hot skin, but he can hardly tell what he feels about that when he's defenseless against it. His entire body tingles, his pulse, though stabilizing, still feels as though it pounds. His legs, legs not Puca-shaped, feel wobbly and heavy, but in such a pleasant way. His lap is weighted down by his Bonded, straddling his body, swallowing up his gradually softening cock in the heat of himself. Mettaton sighs. Even the uncomfortable parts combine to make a sensory experience the robot hangs onto. His fingers twitch to life, pressing into the plane of Emet-Selch's abdomen with the blatant desire to feel him up, nuzzling his cheek into his shoulder before rolling his head so that he can press kisses to his shoulder instead.
He manages to squeeze his waist in his arms. When he thinks back, it's to a time where Emet-Selch responded with hackles raised to a confession of blossoming love on Mettaton's part. Had he rejected him, Mettaton knows he has the fortitude to recover (and perhaps to try a different strategy, if he felt continued want)... Though, he's not sure how much further he'd drop into love, given that he could tell his friend was similarly falling for him, in a distant, Emet-Selch kind of way. Chemistry where the both of them were loving each other would be a hard thing to simply ignore. A current in the torrents of his lover's emotional state, something that was difficult for him to acknowledge. He feels proud of him for having made himself vulnerable to it, knowing it wasn't easy.
Emet-Selch is so sensitive a man, he thinks, nuzzling into his shoulder again. Sensitive and hurting, but in moments like these, he hopes to be a respite. Inundated with pleasure, handing himself off to Mettaton as Mettaton gives himself over. A soul like Emet-Selch's is one encumbered by so much: guilt, despair, grief, and loneliness. Burdens impossible to unload so easily from a soul like his. His arms tighten again: if he could be even a pleasant distraction from all he suffers, if he could be warm company otherwise, that would satisfy the idol.]
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The gradual effort of arms to hold him adds an additional pleased note to his hum. An embrace by degrees, as Emet-Selch watches with half-open eyes as they finally manage to encircle him, not remotely surprised at an idle groping of his abdomen. That they could casually touch each other like this was another thing that he found to be a comfort, another way of showing their ever-increasing familiarity with one another. That they belonged to each other.
When the touch turns into a squeeze around his waist, Emet-Selch lifts one of his arms to rest it along one of Mettaton's, to trace fingers across one of his hands. Closing his eyes for the first time in a while, he's aware that these are gestures bringing affection. And how it hadn't been that long ago that he wouldn't have been able to recognize it as such. And now it felt like a succor, even when it was painful. Something he'd sorely needed without being aware of it.
And that Mettaton had somehow managed to provide it to him, despite his attempts to avoid or deny all of it.
Tilting his head back, he doesn't observe the ceiling because his eyes are closed, but it has a bit of the same effect as staring off into space. Both in absorbing the moment and all its sensations, and thinking a little on how he'd ended up in this state. Mettaton was warm against his back and his legs and inside him as well, able to feel how his cock gradually relaxed. The nuzzling to his shoulder felt so soft and caring that he was moved by it all over again. That Mettaton had been able to display his burgeoning love for him in a way he'd eventually been able to accept, if only just, if only with great hurt and near-despair.
And that he'd been able to realize his own attachment and care... Emet-Selch knew that was only due to how he felt in Mettaton's presence. He hadn't been able to trust someone like this before, with himself. He'd never been loved this way, or felt the same for anyone. And how much he wanted to do for his Bonded in return for all he was giving him. And... for just being who he was. He wanted to stay with him and see him happy, even if he couldn't achieve it for himself. To stay in his company, and believe, if only sometimes, that Mettaton was right and he wouldn't forget....
He'd never be able to express it enough, he thought. How much this respite mattered to him. How much Mettaton mattered to him. Though with their bodies connected, and everything they'd done together- that helped. An ease, and another thing to love him for.
He takes a careful breath, resting with him.]
And how are you faring...? [This time he's the first one to ask, not so much breaking the silence as gently interrupting it. His thumb rubs across one of Mettaton's.] Having properly tested your transformative abilities...?
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Mettaton shifts his head after a firm nuzzle, pressing his lips to his shoulder as he peers over it, straight ahead. At their reflections, the way his arms wrap around Emet-Selch's build. (And for as unfamiliar as these arms are, they're simultaneously familiar — an appearance he's fancied before, made reality.) Their mutual flush, their obviously post-coital dishevelment, the way Emet-Selch's knees brace around his own. Mettaton's legs spread, but Emet-Selch's spread further around his, the appearance of him sitting on his cock, his own fully visible. As visible as Mettaton's love for him, made physical in marks that he's sure will sting and ache.
His own marks that he has, not as plentiful, but ones he still feels on his shoulders. When he looks at them next, he'll still see them. They'll go away when he releases this transformation, he realizes, closing his eyes... But Mettaton thinks he can still relish the feeling and the knowledge regardless.
He sighs against his skin. The robot hardly realized he was holding his breath.]
It's beyond comprehension. [He could questions aloud if it was even real, if he wasn't imagining it all... But there's always been a trend of wondering if any of Aefenglom's real, lately. He doesn't need to go there. He'll accept it as his reality nonetheless.] Having you near. It helps. Talk about an incentive to get it right...
[Even in this moment, Mettaton doesn't think too hard on his mistakes. The silly, unfortunate ones, maybe: the time that he got ears in the wrong place and couldn't figure out what, precisely, was off, or the time that he felt his chest was lacking in detail, only to notice so much more about Emet-Selch's the next time he saw his body. But the other mistakes... They're still too disorienting to think on right now, so he doesn't. They're compartmentalized. Instead, he regards fondly the concept that he's had so much of his Bonded's magic to work with, with his close proximity. He's consumed more than his share, but it helps him maintain it all — not that a form so similar in shape to his own is too difficult, for as hard as it is to get right.
The smell of blood lingering on his shoulder coaxes him to lick, for all that he doesn't actually hit any wounds with his tongue from his angle. He ends up closer to his neck with a smile.]
And the things I can do with this body... I'm a real natural.
[at sex or at being a human . . . . ? mettaton...]
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And for now there were arms (human-proportioned, but still Mettaton's) around him, and the sound of his lover's breath and voice. The answer doesn't surprise, but it was good to hear, in both quality and content.]
I'm relieved... that something so wanted did not disappoint.
[It's a lighter tone in a low voice, but a serious sentiment, he realized. It would've been a pity for Mettaton to master his shapeshifting ability, only to find the result underwhelming. That proper humanhood didn't live up to the imaginings. He squeezes his hand a little, then lets out a small, approving sort of sigh at the sensation of a lick to his shoulder, at the way he could feel Mettaton drift towards his neck.]
But your efforts convince. Truly, I would think you possessed years of experience if I didn't know better.
[At being a human or sex? Really, it could go either way.
But Emet-Selch turns more thoughtful again, without intending to, holding to the top of Mettaton's hand with his own, fingers pressing in just slightly. Though his eyes open, they remain fixed on the ceiling, avoiding their reflections. And his speech becomes- hesitant, as if not entirely sure of the words, having to figure them out for himself as he went along. It was made slightly easier by not needing to look at him.]
I've not... been with anyone like this, you know. This- involved.
[A word spoken as though it were inherently dubious. And it's not exactly a surprise of a statement or anything, but it felt like a strange thing to have to admit to.]
I don't know how you managed it. But I haven't- I can't show this part of myself with anyone else. [Interrupted by an exasperated-sounding huff of breath.] I didn't know it existed. If it ever did, I thought- well, that it would be gone by now.
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Pressing his cheek back to his shoulder, Mettaton watches as Emet-Selch's attention remains skyward, though he can't imagine it's for anything he sees of interest. It's when he starts speaking that he pays mind, blinking slowly and pressing his arms into his lover's waist.
It doesn't surprise the Puca at all, hearing that Emet-Selch has never been with anybody "like this" before. Though he's learned tonight that he's had any number of children (and surely marriages, and surely love affairs), Mettaton is readily capable of assuming that Emet-Selch must have a rough time with being so open about himself for any number of reasons. How could he be Emet-Selch the Ascian with the mortals of his world, much less Hades? Hiding some aspect about the self, no matter if it's a name, an unwanted past, a mourned history, or an ambition larger than life... Mettaton's realized that those things would make a relationship less genuine and vulnerable. He closes his eyes, breathing in the smell of his Bonded's skin.
And then there's the matter of not even beginning to fathom that such tenderness existed in him still. That he could love like this, and feel so intensely. Mettaton smiles, then. Smiles, because he feels it's a blessing that he's found this part of himself intact. Moreover, that it existed at all — the implication that he didn't see himself as someone who could have his feelings run so deep for another, no matter what stage of life he found himself in.
He's felt off-key these past few weeks... But Mettaton feels remarkably himself in this moment. Stable and true. The hand not being traced over slides atop Emet-Selch's, fingers entwining with his.]
Well. To draw out such infatuation in you, it seems you had to meet someone like me. Of which... there's only one.
[Said smugly, as Mettaton does. But he softens again, sighing and nuzzling his cheek gently into his back.]
Who is truly incapable of love? I saw this passion in you almost right away, darling. But the extent of you that I've come to love... That's the treat. [His smile only grows, and his eyes open again, tracing over his jaw and down his painted neck.] ...I'm glad. Glad to have discovered this part of your heart with you. I love it, after all.
[For all that it may hurt him, he acknowledges that. But then, he was already hurting so much even without having found this level of involvement with another person. Metttaton wouldn't say he's gotten better or worse or anything like that, just that he's achieved more expression and emotion out of him the longer he keeps his company. The more of himself he gives, the more it satisfies Mettaton, no matter how daunting or vast. As for his heart, well... That's Mettaton's.]
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One of someone like you is more than enough.
[It's more dryly spoke, but, well, Mettaton had some right to be smug, he supposed. To be able to capture his attentions like this was a special thing, of course. No one else had managed it (who else would want to, was something he refused to consider). Which softens him as well, and has him feeling gratitude once more.
Looking back down again, he watches as Mettaton trails attention over his neck, a sight and feeling that has him tilting his head slightly into it. Another movement that sets the whole area aching but he ignores that. Soreness was just going to be a part of his life for a while. But for decorations like this, it was a small enough price.
And how absurd it was that it was only under these precise circumstances that he found he could talk about this whatsoever. Drained and bruised and bloodied and several times fucked, with his lover's cock still inside him. With his body on full display to them both. But Emet-Selch couldn't think of any other way it could have worked; he needed to have been reduced this far. And even now, he didn't know how much longer he could maintain such... verbal sentiment. But he could manage once more.]
...Thank you, then- for reminding me that it's yet possible to manifest this degree of care for another. Even after so many years.
[While he would, and had, reminded those heroes that his people weren't unfeeling monsters, were capable of all the same emotions and relationships... that was a world and a time far removed from the present. For himself, he'd thought he'd lost that along with all the rest.
Shifting his free arm, Emet-Selch reaches up to touch the side of Mettaton's face with his fingertips. A gentle, familiar sort of touch.]
--You've given a great deal to me. Your heart, not least- and though you've taken mine in recompense, [Something that he still pauses over, as though this were a thing he had trouble comprehending.] is there anything else I can do for you? My means may not be what they once were... but what of it?
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He wonders what it must be like, to feel his humanity's been lost to him with the fall of his civilization. There's no other explanation for his surprise at it. Of course Emet-Selch should be capable of caring, Mettaton thinks. But such a disturbing incident no doubt traumatized him, and everything thereafter... There is no recovery alone. But the admission itself strikes him as such a lonely existence, never once connecting with anybody, never finding anyone worth it or capable of leveling with him in this way... He squeezes him with his arms. So many years. It's no small wonder he struggles so greatly with coping, with processing, with simple discussion of touchy subjects.
And this softness only intensifies as he continues talking. Mettaton drags his hand laced with Emet-Selch's up to his chest, pressing both of their hands over his Bondmate's heart.
Something he could do for him? As more recompense, for loving him. Is he hearing this right? It strikes Mettaton as a bit absurd, but then, aren't they both a bit odd. Yes, Emet-Selch should be grateful to win his attentions in turn, but this strikes him as another sad sort of thing to say. Not quite founded on any insecurity over whether he's worth loving or not, but just that he felt so touched by the act of being loved and loving in return that he feels he could give more. Mettaton leans into that touch, closing his eyes.]
You're my Bonded Witch. I have your magic, and anything you do with it. I watch you unfold before me... I have your self. I keep your company. Your consideration. And your heart. [His eyes open half-way, fixing his attention upon Emet-Selch with a mild smile.] Yet you want to give me more...
[He says that in hopes of shining a light over the fact that he already does much for him, to start with. He presses his palm into his chest. Of course he'd do what he could for Emet-Selch, and it surprises him little that he should want to do for Mettaton what he can, too. If he ever wanted something beyond himself, Emet-Selch would be the first to know.]
Hmm. ... A kiss. Yes, that's what you can do for me, for now.
[He meets his eyes squarely with a growing smile.]
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Ah....
[When put like that, it did seem like a fair amount that he was providing. And not trifling things either. Emet-Selch nods slowly after mulling it over, though he didn't think his question had been that strange. That he found mutual love to be at all a remarkable and heretofore impossible to obtain thing doesn't strike him as anything but expected. Natural. And it was normal to want to provide things to a person much cared for, wasn't it? But while it was no excuse to become complacent, it wasn't a lopsided arrangement, he supposed. But to be given so much... of course he would want there to remain parity.
Still, Mettaton didn't seem like the sort to keep his desires to himself. If there was anything he did want, the Ascian decided it would probably be safe to assume that the puca would tell him.
And this particular simple request gets a small, amused sound from him, followed by a sigh that's not quite put-upon.]
That means I'll have to move, you know. How demanding....
[Nevermind that he needed to move soon anyway. But there was little way he could kiss him properly without facing him, so he reluctantly pulls his hand free, needing the support of both of his arms to extricate himself from Mettaton's lap. Unconsciously, Emet-Selch finds himself holding his breath as he pulls free of his Bonded's cock, feeling again that mixture of relief and regret.
Standing up, there's a small wobble to his posture, and a smaller wince. Everything was going to be sore for a while; Mettaton gaining a human body whenever he wanted had dangerous implications for the safety of his own. But he wasn't concerned.
Turning back to him, Emet-Selch takes a moment to let his gaze linger over Mettaton's body again, seated on the edge of his bed, and is clearly taken by the sight of him, disheveled but so... secure, in himself, in everything, it felt like. Not nearly bitten enough, though; a detail to rectify on another occasion, he thought. His attention hones in on Mettaton's face as he leans in, cupping it between both hands, though with a small brush to the robot's bangs as he does so. Another brush follows, but of lips against his, light and almost testing. A small taste of him accompanied by a soft breath, and a pressure that slowly firms. The deliberation involved is clear, as is the passion underneath- a deep affection and emotional wanting of the other man, with his only tool for expressing it being a kiss.]
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His voice is playful, singsong... But still a bit more hoarse than usual.]
Your efforts are appreciated, my dearest.
[Though the Puca thoroughly enjoys their position, the very moment Emet-Selch shifts, he realizes how sensitive and raw-feeling his cock's become. He could ignore bleeding out as long as he were doing it with the spark of his lover's embrace to placate him in the meanwhile... Perhaps, then, the detachment is welcome. But it's over and done with, and then he has his lover regaining the use of his (assuredly sore and disagreeable) legs, which also brings Mettaton a weird satisfaction to behold. He smirks at him, appreciating his work.
And appreciating his body in general. There's not a moment where he doesn't consider the man before him and mirror himself back in his thoughts, less of a comparison out of any insecurity and more of one out of appreciation for detail. Yes, he feels perfect this way: for Emet-Selch to notice it would suit Mettaton. He keeps his legs slightly spread to allow the Ascian perfect access and sight of him, still raking his eyes from thighs to face, taking in marks he's too satisfied with.
But that satisfaction simmers into anticipation upon meeting his gaze. Lip cut and swollen and hair tousled, Mettaton feels a wave of heat overcome him as Emet-Selch closes in. The kind of kiss that feels like a cherished first, something to remember.
How much he feels of his feelings through this manner of expression is intoxicating. Even without the Bond, Mettaton relies on that kiss for the other man's feelings, just how much he loves and craves him. A firm, sweet pressure, which Mettaton only presses into in return: how fond his own feelings run, his ardor, how stricken he is by his Bonded, and his love in return. A kiss completely laden with it from both sides, passionate and deep even without the involvement of mouths and tongue and fervor. It pierces him through, and he relishes it all.
When they break apart, it's softly. Mettaton sighs, realizing his pulse has jumped again, that he closed his eyes somewhere along the way. He blinks, dazed by a kiss.
Given the next opportunity to speak, he makes eye contact with his Bondmate.]
Come to bed with me...
[Though Mettaton generally has a lascivious edge to all he says and does as a standard, this is said more imploring, a request to simply be with him. He can't imagine Emet-Selch declining him, anyway. It's more of an expression of his own want.]
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And bearing affections to drown one another. Made deep through sentiment rather than physicality, it hurt in a way that had nothing to do with a pierced lip, and left him with a sense of profound tenderness.
Trapped in a light fog from their kiss, Emet-Selch has to blink away the haze to focus back on Mettaton's eyes, his words. A flicker of surprise shows in his expression- less at the request (as unnecessary as it was; of course he was going to lie back down, and of course Mettaton would join him), but at the tone of it. While he'd come to value Mettaton's voice in all its variations, the slightly more unusual versions naturally attract specific attention.
It's something that has Emet-Selch pressing their lips together for a few moments more, struck by the need to. The small pain in his own is no dissuasion, not when there was this much affection to still express, a love and ardor to leave him slightly trembling. The way they captivated each other still startled him sometimes, especially when it came out in gestures so simple.
But he draws back sooner this time with a soft inhalation, eyes flickering open again to look at Mettaton with a terrible sort of fondness. His thumbs lightly stroke either side of his face.]
...Of course.
[Straightening back up, the Ascian's hands drift from Mettaton's face, down over his neck and shoulders. Any time he had the chance he seemed to want to look at his body- a new hobby that he shamelessly indulged in. And how beautiful Mettaton still was, and how himself, to ever more notable degrees. Not that he had ever been anyone else, but it was as though he were beholding the entirety of him at once.
Briefly distracted from moving by the sight of him, Emet-Selch shakes it off with a half-smile as he crawls back into bed. It's awkwardly done, limbs stiff and uncooperative, and not made much easier by the way he reaches back towards Mettaton. For his arms, his hands- anything to not lose contact with him, to pull him up, to stretch out beside him on the bed. Only when he was wrapped back up with his lover again could he relax.]
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For a moment, the beautiful strangeness of it all catches up with the robot. The sight of his lover before him, completely exposed (as he would have him), crawling onto his own bed and reaching a hand out to beckon for him to join him. And in his vision comes his own hand, forearm, the bones and muscles and skin of it... He stares, spellbound, at their hands joined, finding this part to be worth disbelief. Perhaps even the part where he's found such a beloved man in the Ascian, when he'd otherwise found his values to be worth skepticism. (Even still, they disagree. He'd still like to talk about it some more, for all that he knows that Emet-Selch has a hard time of it. For all they disagree. For all that there are human lives lost already, for all that it's in the name of another beloved population, for all that Emet-Selch couldn't stop even if he felt differently, in the name of his people and Zodiark both. He understands this. He wants to better understand his own love in the wake of it all, beyond an adoration for frivolity and opulence and expressions of passion.)
His eyes skirt up to meet his face as he sidles up beside him, taking the initiative to actually pull back the covers for them both. For the first time in many nights, he doesn't fear sleep, not with Emet-Selch by his side and tiredness an inevitability. Above all, Mettaton's transfixed by the glimpse of that half-smile, an expression so loved by him when he otherwise rarely sees it on his features.
As soon as they both find themselves properly in bed, legs entangled and bodies flush, Mettaton takes his face in his hands and draws him into a kiss seeping with love for the sight of him.]
You're lovely, you know.
[That smile, the way he is when he's rendered so reduced, relaxed, unwound. And even when he's not, when he's testy and cynical and dour, his usual self... Mettaton finds that endearing, too. But they're different kinds of attractiveness.]
Since you offer to do so much for me... Tell me if there's ever any desire I could make true for you.
[Coming from someone without the same capabilities that Emet-Selch ever possessed, sure, but Mettaton would try. Anything in his power and even beyond it, he would attempt it for Emet-Selch. His will comes from the desire to shock and surprise, and that's a force to fuel him considerably.]
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