[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.]
[It was something of a surreal moment, wasn't it? That circumstance and choice had led to being in this place, with this person, with their hands and souls joined. And Mettaton with a form of flesh and blood, muscle and bone- moving in the way that a human would, gathering up the covers and tangling their limbs together. Able to feel the warmth of both body and surrounding fabric, the Ascian imagined. And though he was all yet sore himself, the comfort of the moment far outweighed it, of being both tired and secure in the embrace of his lover. That he had not only a lover but someone that he loved... despite their stark contrasts (Or, possibly, because of them? Talking about those things was always an impassioned subject for him, but- with Mettaton, at least, there was the possibility of maintaining some kind of civility.
Not a guarantee. It was too important a topic for that. But he cared for Mettaton's opinion even when it was wrong (i.e., when it disagreed with his own.)).
The kiss felt so natural that Emet-Selch is struck that bit more by it, that it was possible to have something like it, casual and yet brimming with affection. Made special by virtue of familiarity, perhaps.
The compliment though, draws a few blinks, the statement unexpected. Different from the sorts of flattery Mettaton usually expressed towards everyone, as though part of a verbal tic. Unsure of the cause, the Ascian considered that it was nice, he supposed, that Mettaton thought so. He was something of a wreck... but that had its own appeal.
The offer produces a small hum from him, barely audible, and encourages a brief kiss before replying.]
You already provide enough. More than.... [Than he could ever truly express. A feeling that contained both gratitude and sorrow. Words against lips turn into another, still briefer kiss before he continues, voice remaining low.] But if something should occur to me... I'll be sure to inform you.
[It's an offer that warms him a little, to have someone to rely on, who cared about him so....]
Right now, 'tis only to sleep, and then to wake with you afterward.
[To still be with him in the morning, for as many mornings as possible.]
[Though he knows he'll lose this form as soon as he tries to sleep, Mettaton keeps it because he loves it. It's grown on him in this hour significantly, and he finds it a shame that it won't hold into his sleep. The heat of their bodies and the give of their skin being a mutual thing is... better than he imagined. It's a good thing, he thinks, that he'll be able to access it more often now, with absolutely no problems whatsoever.
The request has him pressing his forehead to Emet-Selch's. His hands move to wrap arms around his shoulders, hardly minding any of the injuries he's inflicted, letting his arm brush and bump against bites and bruises. He's either careless, or wanting to remind Emet-Selch of what's there even while in bed.]
Oh! We want the same thing. How wonderful.
[And completely unsurprising, but Mettaton will act like it's a big deal. Though he has a bright energy, as he usually does, there's a key to it that operates on a subdued level, one suggesting of exhaustion. Exhaustion beyond a physical state, the kind wrought by unease and depleted energy both. In addition to that comes the pleasant sort of depletion brought by their mutual attraction. A feeling he could slip into.
He shifts closer to Emet-Selch, appreciating the way their bodies fit together like this. It's not just Emet-Selch's body yielding to his figure this time: when draws Emet-Selch into an embrace, their chests press into each other in ways his robotic body couldn't possibly manage. Usually, it's only the give of Emet-Selch's body he has to rely on. Having two like that means new levels of closeness with the Ascian for him. Though he feels a mark of envy over this body he has, how could he if it's his now? It only means he has multiple ways to enjoy his lover, he decides.
Mettaton hardly thinks to say goodnight to him verbally, but he does lean in to give him a soft, but lazy kiss, accompanied by a pleasant hum. Being there in the morning... He'll probably have to wait around to wait for Emet-Selch to wake, knowing their track records. One of them sleeps more than the other.]
[Distantly, Emet-Selch does wonder if he'll be woken up at some point during the night by a sudden bodily-inflexibility on the part of his partner, of having the soft give of skin replaced by a more unforgiving metal-and-fur shell. Well, even when it happens, the Ascian knows he'd be fine with it after some initial startle. He was used to sleeping alongside a robotic form by now. But he would appreciate this softer version of Mettaton for as long as it lasted.
It wasn't as though it should be hard to see again later, now that Mettaton knew what he was doing. It was a perfect transformation, after all, and one success means permanent success, surely.
An embrace at all meant contact with injuries, so Mettaton's agitation of bitten skin comes as no surprise and no concern. In both touch and ache alike, there was the reminder of being possessed, of having that connection to him. So long as he remained marked, how could he ever lose him?
And though Mettaton seemed tired (unusual in itself, really), there was an unexpected edge to it alongside all of the normal feelings that Emet-Selch was used to sensing. It's just enough to have his grip firm up for a moment, nuzzle against his face before settling back down. As though he could sooth something that he wasn't sure needed soothed, or impress upon it with his presence, somehow.
Not that Emet-Selch could do so with much conscious effort, as the events and activities of the night were quickly catching up to him. But it was a pleasant sensation to be worn out through means like this, as opposed to the unnatural drain from too many Bonds. As well as to know that when he woke up (which would almost undoubtedly be after Mettaton; even in his normal state, he slept too much) that he'd be relatively rested. Insomuch as Emet-Selch ever was, at least.
And with as safe as he felt, a soft kiss at his lips was the perfect complement to the quiet ache of the rest of him, and he drifts into sleep in not very much time at all.]
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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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Not a guarantee. It was too important a topic for that. But he cared for Mettaton's opinion even when it was wrong (i.e., when it disagreed with his own.)).
The kiss felt so natural that Emet-Selch is struck that bit more by it, that it was possible to have something like it, casual and yet brimming with affection. Made special by virtue of familiarity, perhaps.
The compliment though, draws a few blinks, the statement unexpected. Different from the sorts of flattery Mettaton usually expressed towards everyone, as though part of a verbal tic. Unsure of the cause, the Ascian considered that it was nice, he supposed, that Mettaton thought so. He was something of a wreck... but that had its own appeal.
The offer produces a small hum from him, barely audible, and encourages a brief kiss before replying.]
You already provide enough. More than.... [Than he could ever truly express. A feeling that contained both gratitude and sorrow. Words against lips turn into another, still briefer kiss before he continues, voice remaining low.] But if something should occur to me... I'll be sure to inform you.
[It's an offer that warms him a little, to have someone to rely on, who cared about him so....]
Right now, 'tis only to sleep, and then to wake with you afterward.
[To still be with him in the morning, for as many mornings as possible.]
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The request has him pressing his forehead to Emet-Selch's. His hands move to wrap arms around his shoulders, hardly minding any of the injuries he's inflicted, letting his arm brush and bump against bites and bruises. He's either careless, or wanting to remind Emet-Selch of what's there even while in bed.]
Oh! We want the same thing. How wonderful.
[And completely unsurprising, but Mettaton will act like it's a big deal. Though he has a bright energy, as he usually does, there's a key to it that operates on a subdued level, one suggesting of exhaustion. Exhaustion beyond a physical state, the kind wrought by unease and depleted energy both. In addition to that comes the pleasant sort of depletion brought by their mutual attraction. A feeling he could slip into.
He shifts closer to Emet-Selch, appreciating the way their bodies fit together like this. It's not just Emet-Selch's body yielding to his figure this time: when draws Emet-Selch into an embrace, their chests press into each other in ways his robotic body couldn't possibly manage. Usually, it's only the give of Emet-Selch's body he has to rely on. Having two like that means new levels of closeness with the Ascian for him. Though he feels a mark of envy over this body he has, how could he if it's his now? It only means he has multiple ways to enjoy his lover, he decides.
Mettaton hardly thinks to say goodnight to him verbally, but he does lean in to give him a soft, but lazy kiss, accompanied by a pleasant hum. Being there in the morning... He'll probably have to wait around to wait for Emet-Selch to wake, knowing their track records. One of them sleeps more than the other.]
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It wasn't as though it should be hard to see again later, now that Mettaton knew what he was doing. It was a perfect transformation, after all, and one success means permanent success, surely.
An embrace at all meant contact with injuries, so Mettaton's agitation of bitten skin comes as no surprise and no concern. In both touch and ache alike, there was the reminder of being possessed, of having that connection to him. So long as he remained marked, how could he ever lose him?
And though Mettaton seemed tired (unusual in itself, really), there was an unexpected edge to it alongside all of the normal feelings that Emet-Selch was used to sensing. It's just enough to have his grip firm up for a moment, nuzzle against his face before settling back down. As though he could sooth something that he wasn't sure needed soothed, or impress upon it with his presence, somehow.
Not that Emet-Selch could do so with much conscious effort, as the events and activities of the night were quickly catching up to him. But it was a pleasant sensation to be worn out through means like this, as opposed to the unnatural drain from too many Bonds. As well as to know that when he woke up (which would almost undoubtedly be after Mettaton; even in his normal state, he slept too much) that he'd be relatively rested. Insomuch as Emet-Selch ever was, at least.
And with as safe as he felt, a soft kiss at his lips was the perfect complement to the quiet ache of the rest of him, and he drifts into sleep in not very much time at all.]