[Fabric tears, and skin breaks. Thin lines of red appear at his sides; lines that bead and slowly drip as the seconds pass, as the tension in the muscles underneath encourages the cuts to spill over, fine whispers of detail to accentuate the whole of his lover's continuing work on him. And with his clothes torn and pulled, worked free from one arm, with whatever assistance he could offer- it was insufficient. A frustration he could share, arching his neck underneath Mettaton's jaws, encouraging the pull of blood, to be both soothed and further incensed by the taking of it, of being divested of that much, at least. And there was the intimacy of teeth, the purity and focus that pain brought, a tearing of flesh that hardly qualified as damage. That implied something negative: this was an improvement, this was a necessity, his neck deserving of these scars.
But even partially stripped was better. And it would do for the moment.
What would also do was Mettaton's hand turned instead to handle his trapped cock, admiration evident in his fingertips, in the stroke of his palm. An appreciation that Emet-Selch felt most entitled to, and what better way to show his appreciation than by thrusting into his touch, by having his voice lost to breathless moaning. All of his sounds belonged to his lover, whether they were words, sighs, gasps- even silence itself. Especially when his voice was stolen, it was Mettaton's.
Though there was a flicker of regret to feel incisors sliding free from his body, it was replaced by the gain of hearing his lover's voice; this was just as good, and something that could penetrate him with just as much ease. Emet-Selch rubs his head against Mettaton's as he listens to him moan into his neck, as the man rubs and smears the blood he had freed from him.
More fabric, parted; it feels as though his heart stops for a moment, in utter anticipation, as if he'd been waiting for hours just to be touched, left wanting and desperate for his attention. Waiting a lifetime, perhaps, his needs building unknowingly over the centuries, neglected and sealed away, only for all of them to be called upon now. An endless welling of desires lay hard and hot against Mettaton's fingers, waiting for him alone, the only one who could even begin to satisfy him.
There was the threat of claws, and the equal delightfulness of just being touched, to feel his lover's hand at his erection- which was certainly stiff enough to leave Emet-Selch dizzied by it. And how quickly, it felt, to have all of his blood pooled there. ...All of it, apart from what Mettaton had sucked from his neck, had begun to paint his body with. But the Ascian had plenty; there was more than enough for both purposes, the only reasons he had blood to begin with.
Emet-Selch moans again, from the warmth of lips mouthing at his neck, from the rush of fingers stroking along his length. He was painfully hard, and it was painfully easy to imagine Mettaton's mouth in place of his hand, applying that heat and attention that he could already feel, to a place even more sensitive than his open wounds. He ached for him, and yet, even more than that--
He was breathless... but not breathless enough. And then it was clear to him what he wanted most of all. His hand moves, to drag over Mettaton's thigh, to veer inwards, as though willing the man to transform, even if only in part- to provide him his own cock to devote his attention to. To worship.]
I want... to swallow you. To take you in my throat, taste you and take you there, I....
[His torn lips made more swollen yet by wrapping them around his length, pushed all the way to the base, and held there. How hot his lover's come would be, and he wanted that feeling, an eruption down his throat that was better than air--]
[Their manner together is heated enough to burn — and Mettaton feels ever more regret and vindication both for having been ferried away from the basement suddenly. It would've been a sight of a love that nobody else could fathom, but it would've been something Mettaton wanted all to behold in its perfect violence and bloodshed. And yet, he's found himself considering more carefully that Emet-Selch is his complete audience. He carries the burden of reacting enough to satisfy Mettaton.
And with his admission of desire, Mettaton's smile only grows, another ecstatic gale of laughter light on the air to contrast against his darkness, and followed quickly after by a moan of an exhale. No, Emet-Selch's not just voicing a fantasy: he's demanding it be fulfilled. Were MTT cursed to have a god complex or the need for control instead of something that slots in nicely with his general conceit, merely compounding upon vanity already there, he might have found such a demand to be unsuitable, intolerable. Instead, the robot gives Emet-Selch's arousal a firm stroke along its underside before reaching down to cup the entirety of him, from balls to shaft. He stares down at him with a smirk, stroking gently his balls with sharp, threatening nails, the base of his palm rubbing into Emet-Selch's shaft. All of Emet-Selch's body is his, and he envisions that his erection won't be getting much in the way of direct stimulation, at this rate.
Which suits Mettaton just fine. He's positive Emet-Selch can bring himself to satisfaction from sucking his erection on its own — another thought to have him collapsing in a dreamy sigh. It's a wanted thing, to imagine Emet-Selch so turned on by having his air replaced by his length and elated for it enough to come. He wants to see if he'll do it.
He kisses, licks, and sucks at his bloodied neck some more, feeling hungrier than sanity should allow, and takes heavy notice of his lover's wandering hand. It slides along his thigh so tantalizingly, flirting inward. With a demand like his, why would Mettaton deny him what he wants? Even if his want is to choke.
Mettaton performs that partial shift, shifting the weight distribution in his legs so that he forces the shaft of it against Emet-Selch's wandering fingers in invitation. Only now does Mettaton realize how hard he is — how desirous and worked up he's become, and his voice comes out on a stuttered moan.]
H- Hades... What a wonderful idea. Yes. I can see why you'd want me so. If you're going to be so demanding of me... how could I think to deny you?
[For a fleeting moment, Mettaton pulls away from his neck to regard him. And it's a sight he feels would stop his breath and heart both if they were there to stop, a series of mottled yellows and fading blues of long-fading bruises and kisses, of deep violets and blues to signify his recent expressions of ardor, of brilliant rose and bright red fresh and vital. But loudest are streaks and smears of blood, punctures from hands around his neck, claws embedded like hooks to claim him and keep him, and teeth, the teeth Mettaton feels inclined to add more of.
The Puca lunges again, sinking his teeth into Emet-Selch's shoulder where he can see a previously healing wound trying to stitch itself back together. And that won't do, not if he wishes to scar. He doesn't ever want his Bonded to go without reminders upon him wherever he looks, and they add to his beauty, provide a touch of Mettaton all over him and render him into something of the robot's making. Should he gaze at himself in the mirror he'd be marked and taken, incapable of viewing himself without seeing bold signs of his lover upon him. And bared before anyone else, they would know of his claim upon this body. Nobody else could have him and love him like Mettaton can: a touch upon flesh that reaches soul deep, with the longing to tinge him from the marks on his skin to the manifestation of his soul.
With this renewed bite thorough and bleeding, Mettaton kisses Emet-Selch softly upon torn flesh, trailing marks of red up to his ear.]
It's what I want, too. To see you swallowing me, breathless and dazed... Filling your body with me. [His free hand drifts upon the plane of his abdomen, wandering up until he reaches a line of blood. Gliding his finger along and smearing it into skin in patterns, Mettaton's gaze softens.] A wanted outcome, to think of nothing but me.
[He flirts with Emet-Selch's fingers, rubbing his arousal into his hand when he knows his Bonded would prefer feeling it rubbing down his throat. That thought is enough to pull a moan from Mettaton. He sucks in between teeth, his voice increasingly frenetic, as feral-leaning as he's beginning to feel.]
Hades... Down. Suck me. Love me, I... [His thrusts against his hand, fantasy overtaking him as he imagines instead the confines of Emet-Selch's mouth, lips wrapped and split around his length.] Let me. Pin you to the wall, and fuck your mouth... You want that. Don't you.
[There was the sound of laughter that in itself excited, heightening both the strength of his own demands, along with his need to fulfill every last one of Mettaton's. Emet-Selch believed his Bonded would approve of his arrogance, which made him love him ever more for it; he could tell him every desire, every expectation, knowing they would go fulfilled (until there were more, because there were always more, but he'd take those too). And he wanted every demand of Mettaton's, all of his darkness and love, and to give him everything that he desired himself. And he knew with no hesitation or doubt in his heart, that they would both be satisfied.
The idol was confident, and had every reason to be; every part of the Ascian's body responded to his touch with sharp immediacy. On their own accord, his hips shift, thrusting into Mettaton's hand. It was as though his cock knew this was likely all the direct stimulation it would be afforded for a time, and was trying to make the best of it, undaunted by claws, and so terribly rigid. A stiffness that was a testament to his attraction to him, and he moans openly as he watches him, knowing that Mettaton could see him so helplessly desirous, desperate for every bit of his attention, and was aroused ever more by the thought.
But soon he would lose the mercy of a hand at his cock, a side-effect of what he wanted most. And Emet-Selch considered as well, what it would be like- to have Mettaton's full length in his throat be the primary tool given to satisfy himself with; would the heated sucking and stroking of his lover's erection be enough to pull from him his own climax? The idea enticed him, in a strange way; to be so wholly consumed, made so devoted to his lover's pleasure that the act of bestowing it to him became enough on its own to orgasm. Not only enough, but a requirement; what was pleasure, without him?
It would be a frustrating and intense affair, in any case, the very thought leaving his breathing heavy and his body taut, arching against his Bonded's form. And then, finally, it seemed, there was the stiffness of a cock pressing against his hand, expecting attention, and his fingers wrap around him with demonstrated eagerness, stroking and groping and squeezing over every part of him. There was no surprise at all that he'd already be hard, full and ready for him, for his delectation. Emet-Selch drags his thumb hard over the tip, appreciating the give to it, and imagining the way it would feel pushing its way down his throat.
Emet-Selch swallows; his pulse felt painfully loud. And though he knew he wouldn't have, he was relieved all the same that Mettaton wouldn't deny him this. Would allow him this selfish pleasure of suffocating around his length and swallowing his ejaculate.
And then the idol leaned away from his throat. Normally, Mettaton pulling back from his body would be intolerable- never minding that Emet-Selch would soon have to take up a position beneath him, in order to satisfy them both. But the Ascian feels, instead, the weight of his lover's regard. The eye that rakes across all that was made available and visible to him, and he knows it's an arousing, appealing sight. If his hand weren't occupied by stroking along Mettaton's shaft, he might've been tempted to drag fingers along wounds old and new instead. The places where flesh was raw and torn, wet from blood barely diluted by saliva- and trace to those locations that were merely sore, warm and aching, bruises that spanned the course of weeks. Though he hardly needed the reminder, Emet-Selch was certain he could see it all reflected in Mettaton's gaze, providing him the perfect path to follow.
And then there were teeth- more and just as satisfying, his body jerking from the mix of pain and rapture. Old wounds becoming new wounds as Mettaton tears into places healing, and Emet-Selch shudders, groans, fingers tightening around his cock, a show of his gratitude.
He tries to catch his breath and mostly fails, when that burst of violence is sealed with gentleness, soft lips pressing to raw flesh. And small, barely audible sounds continue to escape his lips as Mettaton spreads that affection upward, blood a visible reminder of it, as he reaches his ear, filling him with his voice once more. Just another part of the way he would be filling the rest of his body with something more physical. And he could feel that growing ferality, a kind of focused madness leeching through the Bond, and when Mettaton orders him down, it takes more endurance than he thought he had, to not sink to his knees in an instant. He wanted to be there, after all.]
By now, I would hope... that you would know what I want.
[Which in its truest sense meant, 'anything Mettaton did to him.' And in this current moment meant exactly this: his throat fucked, taken, used, neither of them caring if he choked or gagged on him- perhaps even relishing it. Delighting in the automatic responses of his body, and how they both sought to ignore them, knowing better.
Finding Mettaton's lips for a small, bloody kiss, his fingers provide his length a last, slow stroke- a consolation to tide him over for the few moments when he would go untouched. A reassurance that he would soon feel something better.
Falling to his knees, Emet-Selch sits back, gaze remaining on Mettaton's face all the while, before sliding down his body (taking in that glittering jewelry he was still wearing, and the darker, more thorough patches of fur)- and landing upon his cock, engorged and hot and at such a convenient level for him to take. A sight and thought that causes him to shudder, resisting the urge to use his now-free hand to stroke over his own aching length. It was as though this were a position he was made to be in, and his eyes drift closed as he lunges forward, burying his face in his lover's crotch, nuzzling and licking all over the base of his erection, his balls, sucking gently at them, and leaving imprints of blood anywhere his lips lingered. Soft moans escape his throat as he rubs his face all against his length, barely able to contain his anticipation, his need to have him. He was breathing too much, and that was too much freedom to tolerate. But while he had it, he would speak.]
--But you're right. I want that... precisely. Don't stop.
[A request made in a tone deep and low. As though he were in any position to make requests of him.
But why did he need to contain himself? It's barely any time at all before his lips slide up Mettaton's shaft all the way to the tip, mouthing and sucking at the glans with wet abandon, and clear pleasure in the act. But his lips continue to part around him, leaning forward to take just the head- and then all that he could comfortably fit in his mouth and still continue to breathe. And Emet-Selch sucks around him, rubs the underside with his tongue, appreciates the way it molds to the shape of it. And flirts with taking him deeper, feeling the very tip brush the back of his throat, so very close to where he belonged, but not quite pushing him there.]
[Especially in this heightened sense of primal dominance, Emet-selch forming his gratitude into direct stimulation is replied to with an airy sigh and a heated stare, a smile to match. And though he knows that Emet-Selch wants anything Mettaton's heart desires and would see him to his most base fulfillment, Mettaton covets compliments, adoration, love... and Emet-Selch's want of him is... fulfilling. Flattering. Desired. Knowing that he'd offer himself up for Mettaton's pleasure, too, is flattering. All of it is, and it brings him a satisfaction even where madness reigns supreme.
He can almost feel it when Emet-Selch's drawn to dropping for him in an instant, on command. And it amuses the robot that he'd dedicate a moment more to bidding his erection farewell: if anyone's going to be without any touch, it's him. Tension floods him anyway, the aching delight of knowing that his Bonded would be eagerly stuffing himself with his cock a thought to make Mettaton pant and thrust as if the time between this touch and his Bonded's lips surrounding his arousal would take forever. But that stroke is over too soon, and the Ascian is sliding down to his knees, eyes locked with his.
Mettaton swallows. He tastes Emet-Selch's blood in his mouth and feels it sticking to his lips, drying on his face. He must look radiant, positively beautiful to Emet-Selch's gaze. He knows he does, and Mettaton smiles at him, drinking in the sight of the other man seated between his hips and the wall, their fingers tangled in chains and crystal. He can practically feel his gaze raking down his figure, a dedication enough to make him feel chills (and how much Mettaton enjoys the feeling of chill- it makes him feel hotter than anything, he's learned), until eyes of gold land upon his cock. And though he possesses no heartbeat, he can almost feel a needy pulse in his groin; it's a tightness for sure, as if his body's aching to burst already.
Having his eyes upon him is horribly arousing. Having Emet-Selch act as his audience, only for Mettaton to watch him in return... It could be enough to get him off, he thought. Everything they do to each other is electric.
Hips eager, body incapable of stilling, it takes everything he has to give Emet-Selch the first eager move, to draw out this moment of anticipation for Emet-Selch to admire his length. And wordlessly, he manages to stroke Mettaton's ego: he sighs in relief, telepathic in his understanding of his Bonded's ardor for all he sees. And that love for him is made manifest when Emet-Selch pounces, shoving his face where it belongs.
Mettaton's free hand curls into the back of Emet-Selch's skull, shoving him harder against his crotch as he rubs and licks and moans with such enjoyment that Mettaton thinks they're noises of his own. He might think that because he can't stop his own pleasure, sighs and stutters from the sight and sensation of his Bonded ravishing his cock and his balls with sucking kisses, burying his face so deeply between his thighs and rubbing the shaft of his cock against his whole face. (And he thinks to himself that as soon as he comes like this, yes — he would bring them to his bed, lock Emet-Selch between his thighs all over again, and rub him so thoroughly with his thighs that he'd be marked, made his, forced into his crotch with permanency and able only to lick and suck his cock as he drowns in him—) Someone who loves him this much, who would eat him alive if given the chance, would feel so lucky, so honored, to be given this kind of intimate access. Mettaton shudders, shifting his legs further apart for greater access.
He hisses at his lover's voice, groaning from deep in his throat at the thought. Don't stop, he says... And how could he?
How could he. He can't stop: Mettaton can't get enough when Emet-Selch's lips are surrounding the glans, slipping over him with pleasure so clear that he thought his heart might burst at the sight of it. He loves him so much, he realizes: to witness Emet-Selch so pleased, so in his element, so safe in this place found between his increasingly carnal lover's thighs... Mettaton grips into the back of his head some more, giving him his agency to take his cock as he pleases for the moment. He moans and gasps and nearly pleads in his rising intonation, hips wound tight with the desire to thrust.]
Ohhh, Hades... [For the moment, Mettaton's hand strokes the back of his head encouragingly.] The sight of you... is just as intoxicating as you feel— Ah...
[He can scarcely believe how aroused he already is. He realizes that any time he can steal Emet-Selch's breath, Mettaton feels most immediately turned on. Likewise, his lover... The idol watches him sliding inexorably down the length of his cock, taking it easy, soft as his tongue rubbing along the underside of him. (Emet-Selch is soft, and sensitive, and only guarded by a biting exterior — but he loves so much, feels so much, and Mettaton can hardly take it, how much he wants to suck kisses into his entire body.) He's made to take a moment just watching as his Bonded stops, just where Mettaton can feel the sloping head of his cock held around the tight back of Emet-Selch's mouth — a dare to push forward.
Mettaton smiles at Emet-Selch and strokes his hair. He wants to tell him how beautiful he is in his knowing wait, eager for Mettaton to take him as he is; and Mettaton translates that mercy into a slower rock of his hips, first guiding Emet-Selch back toward the wall so that he's not slammed there. But as soon as he's given no space to pull back, Mettaton rolls his hips, slipping his cock with force into the back of Emet-Selch's throat for a spell.
He cries out on a voice clear and delighted. This is where he belongs, and this is what Emet-Selch was meant to take; looking down upon him like this is proof of it, and Mettaton hums fondly amidst those moans as he continues to rock his hips. Each move is a pull back and a push deeper, the briefest chance for air before it's robbed from him by the thick of his head obstructing his throat. Mettaton groans and the sight, the sensation, the tightness; the view of Emet-Selch's hand held above his head, pinned to the wall. ...He'll steal his other hand next, just to ensure that he's made helpless, made prone, made to submit himself to Mettaton's body and design.]
Hades, oh, l-look at me, up— [For the meantime, Mettaton continues thrusting, continues shoving the thickness of the glans into Emet-Selch's throat only to withdraw it, but his finger caresses his jaw in demand.] Up at me, I want... You—
[There was inundation, and he never wanted it to stop. How could he? How could either of them? When he could drown in his lover's scent and taste, feel the weight of him in his mouth, and bury himself between his thighs, how could he ever bear to leave this? Even after Mettaton finished in him once, he would remain, he would suck and lick and choke on him still, finding an escape from the world in a place locked between his Bonded's legs.
A low rumble works in the back of his throat at the feeling of hands in his hair, a contact that served as both petting and holding him to where he should be, and Emet-Selch is awash with the strange sense of being at peace, of knowing exactly where he belonged and what he was doing, and being utterly at ease with it all. The love that was evident in this darkness, of being accepted and cared for and taken, and the love he felt for him in reply. Passionate and ruthless, vicious and tender; it was no wonder that something intense on so many levels was this addictive.
Gently, almost, he's nudged back, all chance at freedom shaved away by degrees. And Emet-Selch pants insufficiently around Mettaton's length while he still can, as his body goes tense, rigid, once he feels the back of his head guided so carefully to the wall. He was trapped; he was safe. But he has no time to dwell on it, on an anticipation that he thought he might come from on its own- before he's facing the rock of hips, the smooth glide of his lover's cock back, to the back of his throat and within it, a fierce shove that pinions him to the wall. That impales him there, with a pleasure that he can no longer voice, that he can only express through the constrictions of his throat, through the shuddering of his body, and all of the rapture evident through Bond.
And Mettaton cries out when he can't, providing the moans the Ascian is no longer able to give him, but hearing them in his lover's tone, knowing they were in response to the tightness and heat his throat was giving him- that satisfied in itself. For all that Mettaton deserved to be glorified in voice, through word and wordless plea alike, the adoration written in the lines of his body would have to suffice. In the giving up of air, of thought, of self, in needing him so dearly, in wanting him so completely that he's left trembling.
It's reflex alone that has Emet-Selch gasp between thrusts, sucking in sharp breaths, his body reacting to this sudden obstruction as though it were something dangerous, as though replacing oxygen with Mettaton's erection was not a clear improvement, the optional giving way to the mandatory. But thankfully each roll of hips, each claim of his throat feels as though it steals that bit more of his air, and he's never quite able to replenish anything that he loses. And with his head pressed back to the wall, there was no way for him to accidentally pull back for breath, to undo the work Mettaton was doing in replacing it with his cock alone.
One arm was held up, pushed against the wall with as much security as his head was, tangled in chains and fingers, constricted. They were locked together as they should be, and even were their pendants not wrapping them, he would've wanted to cling to him regardless, to be caught in every degree possible. So though he could use this fleeing opportunity and relative freedom of his opposite hand to touch himself, to drag fingers along a length left aching, and made ever stiffer from every moment he's deprived of air- he doesn't. It doesn't even occur to Emet-Selch as an option, that hand instead going back to his lover's thigh, holding onto him as he thrusts, tangling in his fur. An encouragement unnecessary, but he was drawn to touch him, to pull him closer, to shove him deeper, to take his throat and his body and never leave him.
A hand, at his jaw. His eyes flash open at the word look, already forcing his gaze back upward to Mettaton's face before he'd even finished speaking- the same impulse that had struck him when the puca had ordered him down. To listen, to obey, to provide- to give Mettaton everything that he wanted of him.
And so he watches, the sight of his lover's face smeared with his blood so very beautiful, dangerous in both ecstasy and threat, and he tries to moan and chokes instead around the thickness of the glans penetrating his throat. Even while having him, he wanted him, despairingly, endlessly. Emet-Selch knew what he looked like, what Mettaton must be seeing of him like this: bruised and bitten and bleeding, only partially stripped with his erection both visibly hard and neglected. Kneeling before him, with his head shoved to the wall, pierced lips split and mouth and throat made to take the girth Mettaton was stuffing into them. The way he twitched and gasped- and was progressively mostly silent, choked noises stifled by his cock. And the Ascian's obvious, obvious abject pleasure in all of the foregoing.]
[Nobody else has been permitted Mettaton's company in silence while he's like this, knowing his beauty and demanding it be recognized overtly. There's not a shred of insecurity in him over the matter — only greed and pride, a swelled head to match what he finds himself slipping into Emet-Selch's throat with only minute breaks for air between. But it's everything unsaid that strokes his ego this time: Emet-Selch's willingness to make himself at home between his thighs, to absolutely fill himself with Mettaton's essence... It's a considerable compliment, and so natural otherwise. To offer up his blood as sacrifice, to fill himself with his voice, his love, his cock, all of it is the natural procession of properly recognizing Mettaton.
Every shred of pleasure Emet-Selch feels over their indulgence is the flattery Mettaton seeks, and he gasps, over and over as he loses himself to pleasure, his pace hastening, each push of his hips penetrating deeper, so deep that he occasionally finds himself letting the head of his cock remain there, rubbing it heavily in the spasming tightness of Emet-Selch's throat. He can feel the sensitive tip surrounded by texture and heat, the tightness of his throat variable and unpredictable enough to make him stammer and choke on nothing. He stutters and squeezes Emet-Selch's fingers, his free hand continuing to linger in Emet-Selch's hair.]
Oh, you... I love you- I've... made you so- irrevocably... mine.
[Mettaton's voice is a pitch higher, desperate and keyed up beyond sense. Slight sounds of pleasure slip from his throat, accompanying each drag of his cock so deep in Emet-Selch's throat — a throat he practically uses for pleasure, letting texture, heat, and slickness drown him. Having his mentality slipping away with the presence of pendants is a dangerous game to flirt with, and Mettaton increasingly neglects entirely to give Emet-Selch any space to breathe...
But he doesn't feel he's doing this in an act of self-serving, even if he uses Emet-Selch's tongue and lips to please himself. There's a full awareness of Emet-Selch losing of himself here. He sees it in his eyes, his trembling; he can feel it in the way his throat tries still to create sound, the rapt attention he pays to the length of is cock, the tightening of lips and the stroking of tongue and the sheer welcoming he gives to the glans. And their Bond — it would be a thing so intense that Mettaton's conceit and vanity tells him that nobody could ignore this carnality between them, nor the sheer depth of their love.
There's a period of tightness Mettaton can't ignore, firm and dragging along the corona. The idol throws his head back with a rapturous growl, voice pitching lower and harder in his ecstasy.
Losing himself to wanton indulgence as he is, he still gazes down upon his lover: his face flush, blood deep and contrasting against his soft skin, where bruises mottle and pretty his body. His head is against the wall, lips sliding ever closer to the very base of his cock, and Emet-Selch grabs desperately at his hip, fingers tied into fur. His erection is painfully arousing to behold, and Mettaton moans again at the sight, wishing he could suck and bite and mark that too in this moment of madness.
He's filled with lust, even as he indulges completely in sex. Mettaton drives himself even madder just considering how he'd never had this, how Emet-Selch brought him to these heights and continues to surpass it all over and over. He wants to marry him and keep him and fuck him until he's left so full of anticipation and want that it becomes ritual, to please each other so ravenously. They can't get enough.
As Mettaton loses himself to cries of pleasure, he at least withdraws for the briefest of moment here. It's a single chance for breath when he'd otherwise lost track of time and reality, recoiling only because he's arching his back. His nails rake over the back of Emet-Selch's neck. But the moment for breath is over too soon as Mettaton shoves Emet-Selch's lips down over his length, forcing with the grip of his hand the Ascian's face deeply against his crotch and grinding his hips into him.
The euphoria is immense, and Mettaton shifts around and stuffs his cock into Emet-Selch's throat with wild abandon, sense lost and ego stroked. Emet-Selch finds him so beautiful that he could steal his attention anytime; finds him so lovely that he'd do anything for him. He loves to hear it on his voice, but he also loves to feel his voice ineptly squeezing the head of his cock with erratic tightness, loves to see his body shuddering in pleasure, loves to see his erection standing so rigid for im. Mettaton pushes his cock down his throat some more, pleases himself some more, and knows Emet-Selch is only made safer and more possessive for it.
Neither of them established any sort of way to relay if Emet-Selch was losing too much breath, but it's not a concern of Mettaton's in this moment... He's too full of need and conceit, too lost to rapture and fantasy, and Emet-Selch loves having his breath stolen by him besides.]
[By degrees, the world begins to fade away, and the pressure in his head increases. The Ascian is starving, and while part of his body seems to think it's for air, he knows better. He knows why he's aching, why his muscles are tight and his cock is hard, throbbing with each breath he's not taking. And it has everything to do with the growls and cries he's hearing carried on his lover's voice, and everything to do with the hold he has on him, and the ecstasy they're granting one another. A dragging and taking so thorough that Emet-Selch finds he hardly misses the attention to his own cock at all. It would be extraneous, a distraction- nearly an insult, to imply that the feeling of Mettaton's erection alone in his throat wasn't enough for him.
This seemed a completely rational thought to have in a mind where thoughts were increasingly not happening, were increasingly distorted by the burning in his lungs and the dark haze in his head. And yet despite the haze, so much was so sharp and so clear, and they were the only details that mattered. The sensation of the ridge of Mettaton's cock pushing into his throat and more frequently getting caught there, squeezed into place by the spasms around it, refraining from pulling back into his mouth. And the natural way it kept exploring deeper, claiming more and more of his throat, and Emet-Selch longed to tell him of how good he felt, how thick he was, how stiff and how hot- and to demand again that he never stop.
But he can't, of course, and he didn't even have the words for it besides, nothing to convey this adoration.
So he holds on instead- to his thigh, to those feelings. He rubs his tongue against what he can of the shaft as it moves within his mouth, a welcoming touch as each shove finds him deeper. And he watches him, as much as he can, devoted not to the task of it, but to the sight of him in his terrible brilliance, and losing himself to a madness that could only be blamed in part on a lack of air. There was a fulfillment here that he never expected, and he would never, ever, let him go.
Pinpricks of pain accompany the scoring of the back of his neck, providing both a heat, and a small dampness to sticky the strands of hair there. But more noticeable yet is the helpful way Mettaton's hand further secures his head in place, steadying and stroking him, making sure he can't accidentally slide away from the thrusting of his cock. It was impossible to comprehend being loved more than this.
A moment's call for air- if even that much. If even that long. And Emet-Selch swallows it in with a gasping sound before he can stop himself, his body's automatic processes desperately attempting to keep his blood oxygenated when the man himself was encouraging all attempts otherwise. But it's a second of air that offers only barest clarity, the dizziness and ever-increasing euphoria made that much more explicit when they surround this rumor of, this mistake of breath.
It's also the loudest sound he's been able to make in a while, and is quickly lost again, cut off as Mettaton's body arches, hips jerking, burying himself completely in his throat.
His eyes keep wanting to squeeze shut but Emet-Selch forces them open, even when his face is so close to Mettaton's body that he can't look up, can only gaze into his crotch, viewing the short, brutal thrusts from the most intimate kind of vantage point. And the simple thought (if it could even be called something as cohesive as thought) of exactly how he was able to obtain this particular perspective, that it was only possible in a position with a cock deep in his mouth, a body ground into his face- keeps him shuddering, his own body twitching, as though trying to bury himself deeper still in his lover's crotch.
He keeps trying to cry out, but he can't; the focus and relaxation he can usually manage during deep-throating is hardly in evidence. Focus remains, of a sort, but it's a focus only on sensation and need, on how thick Mettaton felt in his throat, driving his way into him and rubbing, stroking his erratically clenching throat. Emet-Selch chokes on him, around him, gagging, convulsing, without even the slightest hint of wanting him to stop. He would moan if he could, and in his ardor he keeps trying, not caring about (and in a way, further enjoying) the way it only made the spasming of his throat worse. It kept wanting to reject Mettaton's presence, but that very process caused them both immense pleasure, so it was a tolerable betrayal. It wasn't as though the two of them couldn't continue to override it anyway.
As the idea of losing too much breath would've been an absurd one to Emet-Selch. Even if they had been sensible enough to arrange some method of requesting a pause when voice was unavailable, the Ascian would never have used it. He could be driven unconscious, and even then, were Mettaton to stop prematurely, he'd likely only resent it.
There's a lot of saliva forming that has nowhere to go- or at least, has no way of escaping down his throat, so he can't help but drool around him, something that troubles Emet-Selch not at all. There was only the awareness of how slick he was making his lover's erection, and how hot they were making each other- which was only fitting. As easily incensed as they were by one another, there could be no other outcome between them.]
Edited (as i wake up from trying to sleep to fix something) 2020-08-23 02:47 (UTC)
[Gripped by delirium, Mettaton walks a tightrope of hazy, monstrous lunacy, inflated ego, and stoked passion, all of it compounding with each deep thrust into his lover's mouth. He's helplessly attracted to the sight of his Bonded, receptive and lusting and fixing his gaze upon his body, half-stripped and drooling over his slicked length as though Mettaton pulls it from the depths of his throat. He watches with a bleary, half-lidded eye the sight of Emet-Selch taking his cock until firm, grinding thrusts cause his lover to salivate over and around him, and Mettaton hiccups, biting at his lip and pounding ever harder.
It drips down his chin, the same sort of attractiveness attached to the sight of his lip hovering close to the head with a line of saliva connecting them... It's a sign that his lover's hooked on his cock, drooling around his girth and clearly loving every moment of this occupation.
He's ecstatic, feeling properly cherished and loved for his body, his soul, every inch of him appreciated and coveted. Syllables intended to be idle musings - about Emet-Selch's love for being fucked, his obvious enjoyment of being ravaged, how beautiful he looks so intensely yet rapturously swallowing his cock - escape and die on his tongue, thoughts impossible to form. He has none to spare, only the pleasure he feels in unshackling his inhibitions and giving way to greater madness. Emet-Selch is undoubtedly elated to be receiving him with such dimension, rubbing deep in his throat, and Mettaton has the vaguest recollection of all the times he's fucked him from behind — the pleasure in filling Emet-Selch with himself.
His fingers twist in Emet-Selch's, pinned absolutely to the wall as the Puca reacts with elation to his adoring Bonded, each encounter with him new heights of pleasure unknown. With a grinding thrust deeper, Mettaton presses his lover's face into his crotch with unrivaled greed, grinning down upon him with teeth — but it's an expression quickly interrupted by his own pleasure at the sensation of choking and vocalizing around his cock, squeezing and tightening like he's swallowing him down, a suction to die for. His cries are unguarded and full, hips rocking deeper and hand clutching harder onto Emet-Selch's fingers.
Scarcely capable of fathoming how close he is to release, Mettaton nearly gives himself away to this rhythm, this deep, unrelenting pounding. This total domination of Emet-Selch's throat and breath. He would be content to spill over in his lover's mouth right now, to eject his load so deeply in his throat that he's made to swallow.
But his curiosity springs a spare thought in his addled mind, one enough for him to withdraw slightly. The Puca pulls back, gaze barely focused in his delight as he sighs, hums, and regards his lover with indelible fondness that manages to look sharp and wicked in the light, dark fur contrasting against an eye of gold.]
Now. Swallow. I... I'm so close- Swallow around me... You want my come, don't you?
[Of course Emet-Selch wants his come. He, the man who would claim his love over all else, would want his cock and his come deep in his throat and his body, would relish the opportunity to be so stuffed by him from any direction that he found him inescapable. Mettaton shudders, gently tucking a strand of hair behind Emet-Selch's ear as he slides his length into his throat all over again, all in one smooth, unrelenting motion. Emet-Selch belongs to him; his throat is for him to occupy, no matter what.
But Mettaton's fascination isn't over. He wants to feel Emet-Selch swallow around his length and wants to feel his length taken deep into his throat, wants to feel a plunge within him that feels as though he can't pull out, but he also wants to feel just how taken they both are. His finger traces around Emet-Selch's ear and drifts under his lover's chin, settling his palm along his throat. It's the same sort of hold one might make to choke, and his fingers rest tenderly over injuries made by claws. But it's clear that his fascination is less in choking or injury, and more in trying to sense if he can feel his cock occupying Emet-Selch's throat.
Robot though he may be, Mettaton pants wildly. Hungrily, and even he drools, paying no mind at all when a drip of it lands upon Emet-Selch's face between his desirous, heavy panting. He strokes his throat with his thumb, encouraging Emet-Selch to gulp around his aching length. His voice is labored and heavy with lust.]
Swallow me, Hades. I want to... feel, ahh...
[He can't remember what he's trying to communicate aside from the fact that he wants to be pulled and sucked and taken, wants to touch the sensation of Emet-Selch's throat tight around him. He rolls his hips some more into the other man's mouth, watching his lips forced onto the root of him, face nestled so close to his crotch as his breath is once more taken from him. Mettaton replaces air once more with the thick, obstructing glans of his cock, and promises his come as compensation for this trade. His finger runs along his throat expectantly, feeling eagerly the start of his length so tightly held in him.]
[It was a rhythm to both lose himself in and find himself made more complete on the other side. Mettaton was replacing more than air, and in the face of their shared ecstatic rapture, he couldn't discern whose pleasure was whose, knowing only that it didn't matter; dedicated as they were to one another, it might as well have been the same.
So any pulling back whatsoever was intolerable, a loss unspeakable. His eyes scan upwards as best they can; the only protest he can muster. But Emet-Selch is mollified and fascinated all over again by the sight of Mettaton above him, tall and dark and lovely, the face of some manner of primal magnificence. And the demand he made of him completed the look, and just as before, in the wake of hearing such a command, in comprehending it, how could he want to do anything other than obey? Their desires were the same.
And Mettaton slid back into place, with the sort of utter rightness that left him trembling and faint.
His throat was stretched, sore- both from the length that had glided and pushed its way inside, and also from the way that motion seemed to agitate the bloody wounds left on his neck. Marks in the shape and position of claws, marks that continue to bleed sluggishly with all of this work his throat was being made to endure. Mettaton's hand pressing over them further disturbs any attempt for gentle clots to form, and Emet-Selch is sure, somehow, that he's not imagining the wetness running down his neck. Some is his own saliva, having dripped and trailed down there from his chin (and even that has a slight bloody tinge, considering the wound in his lip is likewise getting little time to recover), but the rest is blood.
It was fitting, it would match- he didn't think but only felt- to have blood down his neck and come down his throat, both sensations his lover was considerate enough to provide him. Different ways of piercing and claiming him, of marking him with his attention both inside and out.
And he swallows around him. Held in place by cock and hands, lovingly kept in position and admired- because what part of his visage now was not admirable? The work they were both putting into it, both the taking of his cock and the giving of it, the drip of drool upon his face, and his own salivation. The position they were in, himself on shuddering knees, Mettaton fucking him against the wall, grinding his head against it with each roll of hips. Tenderly, he could feel Mettaton's fingers palpitate the length caught in his throat, and the Ascian's entire body goes taut at the sensation, of his lover stroking his own cock through the material of his tensing, squeezing throat. A stroking that serves to make even clearer every detail of his shaft, the sloping, giving shape of the head, and the way his body was compressing it, stroking it in turn. The rub his throat could provide with each swallow, as though he could pull him into his body entirely, starved for every inch of his length, and aching for every trace of his come.
And so he keeps swallowing because how could he ever stop? His throat, desperately, futily, keeps trying to clear what was blocking it by these clutching attempts to drag him deeper. And the rest of him was ecstatic at it, at the way his lips were wrapped all the way around the base, nose and face shoved into his lover's crotch with no way of pulling free. His hands claw into him, and his own cock felt harder than he could ever imagine it being. His need was so sharp, it was the only bit of clarity he had, but it was a need that encompassed Mettaton's own, was intrinsically tied to it, and he knew, in some fathomless way, that he could only be satisfied by feeling the thickness of his lover's come spilling down his throat. A heat that would put all else to shame, and he'd squeeze it all from him, every drop- the massaging spasms of his neck would make sure of it.
Because of course he wanted his come, wanted to feel it and taste it and have it, to take this part of him even deeper, further than even his cock could reach.
A whine is trapped in his throat along with all the other sounds he can't make, strangled and lost to the ceaseless rubbing of Mettaton's erection. A pleading for his come, to fill him and mark him again; he was swallowing so studiously around him, he deserved it, he needed it, he required it. His chest burned, and his thoughts were disordered, impressions only of everything he wanted, of his lover's pounding, of his encroaching form towering over him, holding him, loving him.]
[The other man takes his place with eagerness nestled into his crotch, throat tightening as he swallows down his cock with a dedication that could match dreams. Mettaton gasps at his lover's very first thick swallow, feeling his throat bob and squeeze around what he becomes aware is the shape of his cock. And like that, Mettaton frames it with fingers and claws, stroking firmly along the impression it leaves there with a hearty moan.
But he can barely keep focusing on that when Emet-Selch keeps swallowing, just as he demanded of him. The second one rattles him completely; Mettaton's knee buckles for a moment as he supports himself against the wall, crying out in ecstasy and feeling as though Emet-Selch's taking his length for himself, committing himself to completely and utterly pleasuring him with a zealous rapture that Mettaton can only match. Their pleasure is a fever excessively hot to the touch, and Mettaton instead wants to give the entirety of his body over to Emet-Selch. He would not only trust him to understand, but to always give him the pleasure of every experience in as many dimensions as allowed.
It's never too much, but if anything could be likened to that, this would be it. It's perfect for Mettaton, an amount of sensation that overfills his senses. Emet-Selch and himself always, always know what they want, and never disappoint.]
Yes- Yes! Hades, you're so good—
[Speech blends in with sounds of pleasure and delight. The robot continues to drag his cock inside of the other man's throat, filling it completely and finding himself knocked dizzy at the drag of the thicker glans in the texture of Emet-Selch's throat. Each thrust, however, betrays more and more to Mettaton that his cock's only going to be pulled deeper and deeper with every thick swallow around him. It's a sensation that blows Mettaton's mind. If he so much as attempts to pull back, a relentless swallow will yank back at his length, sending him starstruck and moaning, and it's a pleasure so immense that it's all Mettaton can do to rock his hips into Emet-Selch's lips. He can tell that he wants his cock so badly, aching for him in every way possible, and Mettaton is more than willing to give him his whole body if he wished it, for any purpose they might design in their indulgence. It's a sort of worship so grand that he finds himself panting all over again in desire while he's already filling Emet-Selch with his arousal.
Mettaton cries out again, his lover's dutiful swallowing enough to push him over the edge as though he were the one aching sharply and untouched for hours, longing for release. He feels so suddenly and acutely how badly he needs to come, to give Emet-Selch his release: it's a heat that compounds and multiplies with each swallow, each stroke of his throat around the whole of his length. Emet-Selch demands it, sucking so erotically upon his length with an eagerness that flatters and arouses Mettaton beyond sense, a craving for him so maddening that he can't control himself. And why bother with control when it's with Emet-Selch? There's nothing at all to hold back, ever.
Mettaton's thrusts are short and sharp, keeping his cock firmly lodged in Emet-Selch's throat as his fingers palpate his neck for the tangible signs of his capacity. Emet-Selch's body is full of him, so full that a press against his throat yields the shifting form of his length, thick and full, and... Mettaton chokes around a pant when he tries to speak/stutter, eye blowing wide at the endless sucking, the impossibility of even extricating his cock even if he wanted to. But why would he ever? He loves it right here, and Emet-Selch loves it so much that he'll take it and keep it for his own pleasure. He swallows and laps and even whines and moans around his length, eyes blearily focused in his absolute passion and pleasure.
For some reason, Mettaton gets the flash of an inclination on his part from long ago: the desire to see Emet-Selch affected. In this moment he can't remember what they were talking about, but there was the desire to figure out what affected the Ascian so. What he could do to see him undone, to see him react, and this sight...
Among plenty, plenty of other sights he's had of him, it's beautiful. He's beautiful, in any form or shape or mood he should take, a true compliment to Mettaton's own beauty, he thought. Emet-Selch gentled and impassioned and incensed and pleased, sights of him sorrowful, vulnerable, content, and soothed, they all fill Mettaton even while every primal part of him fixates on his loss of inhibition and his base, lascivious indulgence.
When Mettaton comes, it's sudden and hot, release filling Emet-Selch's throat absolutely as he thrusts as deep as he can go — a depth that suggests intention, the primal desire to spill his load as deep as he can penetrate. Emet-Selch's shoved deeply between his legs as he pushes himself into him, giving him as much of his cock as his thickly swallowing throat demands of him. Someone who loves him this much deserves every bit of him, and he knows the girth of him is sure to please his Bonded's need to choke and lose himself to the pleasure of deprivation, surely robbed of all chance for air and given instead a thick cock to suck on. Even in his rapturous climax, Mettaton still finds himself stroking Emet-Selch's neck with a sort of pressing motion, as though he could coax his cock ever deeper, pinching at the form of him and rubbing upwards along the front of Emet-Selch's throat. The texture, heat, and slickness of his lover is to die for, and time slows to a standstill while Mettaton feels himself succumbing to an orgasm that feels endless.
It's a climax that staggers Mettaton enough to have him leaning against the wall, erection still lodged in his lover's throat as he leans his neck forward, eyes locked upon Emet-Selch and mind emptied of anything save for his pleasure, passion, possession, reverence, and love. But every swallow or hint of tightness feels as though it wrings from him a drop more, a sound louder, a stuttered sigh, or a full-bodied twitch, rendering him further and further into a pleasured stupor.]
[It was unconscious, the desire to gasp or moan or otherwise cry out at every sound Mettaton was making, at the signs of his weakness, of being overcome, still so evident even in a robotic form. It was a pleasure excessive, and the sort of response that translates into an increased need to pleasure him yet further, to bring them both past all thought or sense. It didn't matter that they were already long past that point already- Emet-Selch couldn't stop taking him, they couldn't stop taking each other.
When he'd first encountered Mettaton by chance- a situation surrounded by fear, with the anticipation of death- how could he have ever anticipated that it would lead him to this? Choking, bleeding, scarred and suffocating himself willingly, desperately, sucking on the thickness of his lover's cock as though he'd been waiting for this opportunity for the whole of his life. Or that his life no longer mattered so long as he could please him. He loved him, he loved him, and he would never let him leave, and he would do all that he could to ensure Mettaton never wanted to. Tears well up in his eyes, from physical exertion, from what he was putting his body through, but also from the utter solace he was feeling, in giving himself up. In giving himself over, every mood and thought and expression, no matter how personal or painful- but there was no space for holding anything back.
...Mettaton was so important to him. Even when he grated, when he was deliberately provoking his temper, threatening his patience, disagreeing with him on one matter or another. Emet-Selch wanted his vulnerability and his honesty, those moments when he was both serious and concerned, thoughtful and thoughtless, tender and taken over by primal, base indulgence.
It felt endless. It might as well be endless, as time stopped mattering, stopped being counted. His throat yet convulsing, yet tugging on Mettaton's cock as though it could keep him there, prevent him from pulling away and ending this- and the softer feeling of a hand stroking the outside of his neck, encouraging this pull, this devotion to him. The way Mettaton could clutch at his own erection through his neck, feel doubly over every swallow, every suck, feel how perfectly the glans lay within his neck, fitting there with a tightness to weep over. And the Ascian's reward for his endurance was heat, wetness- his lover's release spilling down his throat, burning him, his throat seizing up further in its own display of passion (and not a response to suffocating). And as the sensation warms him, fills him, Emet-Selch is aware (insomuch as he's aware) of a matching rolling, bursting sort of heat, but one centered much lower on his own body.
Even if his cock had gone without touch, it wasn't as though other parts of his body weren't being lavishly treated, stroked and caressed, loved and enjoyed. Every rub from the tip of Mettaton's cock coaxed his own orgasm closer, brought his own need to sharper heights. Grinded into the wall, fucked and taken and loved- his climax was just another expression of his own adoration for him, the experience of swallowing down the result of his lover's ecstasy more than enough to drag him over the edge with him.
Hold on Mettaton's leg faltering, his fingers clasp at fur he can't feel. His other arm was numb. He was weak, faint, weighted down and weightless alike, disconnected, disoriented- and safe. Safe and loved with such understanding that it was akin to being tempered once more. Even their souls were bound together, weren't they? Tied up and mixed, until he could no longer distinguish Mettaton's from his own.
Trapped against the wall as he is though, his body can't do the sensible thing and allow reflex to take over; all the shuddering jerks he makes are as stifled as his voice, as incomplete, as ineffective at dislodging the cock so wonderfully buried inside him. Even now, he doesn't want it to leave. And his movements grow weaker, the world darker- or is it brighter? But all detail escapes him; there's nothing outside of this.
It can't really be called consciousness anymore, but everything had stopped hurting for one perfect, infinite instant. Without thought, how could memory hurt him? And without breath, how could there be thought? This was rapture, deadly and beautiful alike, and that this would also lead to a complete and permanent suffocation should Mettaton not pull back was just the consequence of perfection.
On any retreat, he'll be likely to collapse immediately afterward, though once oxygen is allowed to fill his lungs and replenish his blood, he'll come to quickly enough.]
[He sounds possessed, voice honey and body so hot that he could burn. It doesn't at all feel like the same kind of tightness he feels when taking Emet-Selch from behind when he notes his orgasm, this one manifesting instead with other signs: one that carries through their Bond and compounds upon his own climax, that he can ride along with an extension of pleasure... and another sign. This one's more like the sudden laxity after Emet-Selch comes... though it takes Mettaton a few elongated instants to notice that he's slackened so much.
But in the meanwhile, Mettaton still feels like he's climaxing. It's wonderful. He can't even wrap his mind around anything, nor can he think about anything but themselves, he and Emet-Selch and their beautiful coupling. They're a paragon of synchronicity, two people who can be so juxtaposed but still find themselves pleased and trusting in each other's presence. Mettaton's vanity manifests itself in this way during these moments, relishing Emet-Selch's devotion to his pleasure and his body in the only way that a lack of words were acceptable: by swallowing his cock and breathing him instead.
Not a sustainable arrangement. But it was doable for now, and it leaves Mettaton surpassing the enchantment of his brilliant jewelry and succumbing to a different sort of feral need, the desire to continue marking and possessing with reassurance and love. If this works anywhere into monstrous, instinctual habit, Emet-Selch is his, and he wants to tend to him and make him comfortable. An extension of himself and one of his own, someone he'd protect tooth and nail. Overwhelmed with the desire to check on him, Mettaton does withdraw his (hardly) softening length, giving way to the desire for his knees to buckle. A controlled fall, Mettaton lands on his knees before his lover—]
Ah!
[Only for him to collapse forward upon him. Mettaton gasps in surprise, catching him against his shoulder and wrapping him tight in a winding arm, overcome with the need to take him to bed. To care for him and appreciate him, even though he's the one deserving of so much appreciation... This is how it is, when someone's just a part of him, entwined with his very essence. Mettaton doesn't waste a second in falling prey to his possessive instinct, rolling his wrist a few times to free them of each other's pendants before lifting Emet-Selch in his arms and settling him gently upon the bed, head against a pillow and the rest of his body to follow.
But he notices, then, that Emet-Selch's unresponsive for the moment. There's concern in his heart, and Mettaton's impulse is to straddle his lover's body, leaning down with the edge of a throw blanket to tidy his face of saliva while also licking and kissing at him, spreading more mess, more saliva, more blood. He presses his lips to his neck to start and finds that he's thankfully with a pulse stronger than the time he'd drank him of blood... so Mettaton encourages his wakefulness with more licks and kisses to his face and his neck, licking at his split lip copiously.
His panic slips into background noise, reassured somehow that Emet-Selch would rouse for him. His body won't still, the effects of the pendants enough to make his appetite for attention, movement, love, and yet more sex ravenous.
Mettaton rubs his face against Emet-Selch's cheek encouragingly, trying to pull him out of his slip of consciousness, welcoming though that darkness may be.]
Hades? Dear, are you all right?
[His voice is gentle and intimate, soft enough to fall upon Emet-Selch's ears alone. The robot keeps his body hovering above his Bonded's, not exerting his weight upon him in his recovery.]
[It was fortunate then, to be so possessed; in looking after Emet-Selch, Mettaton was just looking after himself. Someone who was both a part of himself, as well as an independent entity that was his, someone to mark with his teeth and his come, someone to choke unawares, and someone to then nurture back into consciousness.
Unaware of his boneless slump into Mettaton's arms, the Ascian's body is slack but- with his airway now clear- breathing once more. Something that he's more than competent at handling when he's not deliberately overriding himself, choosing to fill himself with an engorged cock instead. And there's less coughing this time, when Mettaton slides himself free of his throat, permitting the lesser entity of air to replace him. While a moment's unconsciousness could lead to a break in control, concentration, and a great deal of choking- Emet-Selch had already been choking on him. This time, the slightly longer period of unconsciousness leads to some manner of relaxing, his throat only reflexively clearing itself a bit as Mettaton carries him unawares to the bed, limp, but occasionally twitching.
Oxygen suffuses his blood, and with it, consciousness, a focusing that triggers a few more coughs, though ones of no particular violence. And Emet-Selch shudders faintly as his eyes open, focusing up on the blurry image of his lover's face above him, puzzled at how either of them got there. The expected sight- insomuch as the Ascian could expect much of anything- would've been of his crotch, his cock, but this was good too. He'd burrow and nuzzle at every part of him he could reach.]
Mettaton....?
[It's not a question of identity, and more a mild case of generalized confusion over what had happened, even as he pieces it back together himself. But he'd just been on his knees, sucking him, swallowing him, held in place and pounded into- and now there was his lover's face against his own, rubbing his cheek and licking at his lips and face, cleaning and messing him anew. Both of these statuses were good, but there was a point of connection he was missing.
But it didn't matter, and he swallows thickly, noting the tenderness in his throat with a shiver, an echo of Mettaton's length remaining there. And he tilts his face against his, kissing upon whatever part of him he can reach, nuzzling at the blood left on his Bonded's own face, still collecting himself.]
I'm-- fine. [Even his voice has a slight rasp to it, a trait that has his newly collected breath pausing once more. He could hardly tell if he was still coming down from arousal (he had climaxed, he was pretty sure of that, he notes with some satisfaction), or was yet maintaining it. The last thing he recalled was still being in the throes of having sex with Mettaton- a condition that had surely barely paused. If his own blood weren't still humming with arousal, the currents of hunger he could feel from Mettaton would've been enough to fuel his interest, keep his rousing senses alight with it.]
You feel... [More statements interrupted with the press of lips, kisses damp with breath and blood. He shifts a hand up to reach for Mettaton's face, only noticing then that his hand was free to do so.] incredible, you know.
[Both in general and also in his throat, his mouth, against his lips. But it was a thought to invoke memory, to invoke heat, to invoke want- feeling no trace of alarm at all for having briefly blacked out from a lack of air. If anything, only a sort of rush from it remained.]
[And with Emet-Selch's lack of alarm is Mettaton's similar lack of it, gazing down upon him with a flicker of warmth that turns into that voracious heat, all hosted upon a smile. Emet-Selch is not only fine, but pleased with this entire outcome, and Mettaton doesn't think anything of it but about how perfectly they've found themselves matched, that he could bring Emet-Selch such pleasure while Emet-Selch's used to Mettaton's ends of ecstasy. He leans into touches and kisses and exacts them for himself, kisses stealing some of that heat in their application.
Libidinous, open-mouthed and hot. It's obvious that Mettaton hasn't had his fill, as if that were ever a threshold he could meet. But he keeps his hips hovering above Emet-Selch for the moment, "trying" to "relax" his lover (and failing at it miserably). In truth, Mettaton can't get the experience out of his head. It enchants him and keeps bringing him back to detail after detail, and with an energy influential and undeniable like the ones the pendants are bringing him, an easy slip of control, a quicker succumbing to madness atop a self-righteous streak...naturally he's fantasizing about Emet-Selch obvious rapture over getting to suck on his length. Every other smaller detail only slots into place: the sight of blood mixed with saliva dripping from lips made swollen over his cock, the sensation of groans and cries tensing around his length, and the sight of his lover's gaze whenever he attempted eye contact with him are immediately inundating his sex-addled psyche.
Emet-Selch says he feels incredible. Another point to his ego, another stroke to his immediately renewing arousal, and Mettaton exhales shakily. He may be a robot and thus blessed with unique anatomy and a recovery period to match, but the fur of his, dark like an oil spill, is suggestion enough of his status still, another reason toward such unusually lively energy.
But he brings his claws up to stroke Emet-Selch's cheek with that same loving smile, ears leaning forward even as he faces down at his Bonded. He makes sure to press firmly against his cheek as though to remind him of these sharpened claws. A cause for a frenzied nature only encouraged out of him as Emet-Selch puts his body out on display for his care and coveting, and Mettaton's made to imagine the many other ways he wants his Bonded.]
I feel so incredible because you compliment me so well, darling... How could I resist you? [His kisses have an edge of need, sucking shortly against his lower lip, slight dips of his tongue into Emet-Selch's mouth. There's absolutely no getting around the fact that Mettaton's still aroused... (Or, aroused all over again? More likely: he came hard, and Emet-Selch would knot it.) He's not being very discreet.] And just like I predicted, you came entirely from the sensation of a full throat alone. Full enough to choke around... You know just how to charm me.
["Charm" is a good way to put it, if a bit more on the innocent side. Emet-Selch has caught his attention over and over, and Mettaton's captivated by his form and his needs, the way he experiences pleasure in such an emotionally charged way. It's just the kind of expressiveness he's drawn to, immensely and completely.
The robot pulls back slightly to behold Emet-Selch again, sighing at him. Drinking in his shoulders, streams of blood blurred and drying on his skin. ...Mettaton feels he still needs to be stripped to his entirety, and in a manner very predatory, he licks his lip at the taste of him that lingers. It's a reminder to get a complete picture of Emet-Selch's body, and he dismounts his figure to let his eyes draw from his toes to his eyes.
Mettaton runs a finger through residual come upon Emet-Selch's abdomen, sticky and thick, attention upon it heavy and wanting. He sighs.]
You came so hard, at that... Like you wouldn't want me to stop.
[Mettaton doesn't want to stop. He wants to give Emet-Selch his length to such a degree that the compliments are unending, the pleasure nonstop, their love so radiant that it's written into their every gesture. ...It's excessive in itself, how quickly he's taken to wanting to ravish Emet-Selch's body all over again. He's fully aroused, even when he stoops back in to kiss Emet-Selch gently.]
I'm glad you're all right. And... that you liked it.
[It was an attempt at relaxation that felt more as a tease, Mettaton keeping his body tantalizingly close, but not yet in contact with his own prone form. Particularly when he did give him kisses that only caused him to moan, tongue slipping back against his, stroking, rubbing- encouraging it into his own mouth, and taking a taste of Mettaton's own in the mix. The sort of kissing that could easily increase in heat, in mess and dampness- and surely would, if Emet-Selch had any say in it.
There was no fill to be had. Not ever, and particularly not ever with a puca brought into the fullness of his natural instincts, and an Ascian available to indulge them with.
He leans into the touch of claws as though they were the sweetest caress- and they were, to him. They were capable of both kindness and damage, brought him the reassurance of a threat. The promise of blood and affection. Mettaton was attractive at all times, but in a mood like this, Emet-Selch loved him for his dangerous beauty.
Not being a primarily-mechanically-bodied-entity, however, Emet-Selch is not as blessed with the ability to be as immediately ready once more, but his cock still fails to completely soften, as though his blood knew better than to try and head anywhere else. In thought and manner though, he was completely given over to anticipation, insatiable and hot, feeling simultaneously eased by an orgasm that had felt timeless, and keyed up in pursuit of another one.
And he shivers, the muscles underneath Mettaton's touch tightening, fully aware of what the damp stickiness he was dragging a finger through was, and that alone was a point of arousal. To have that evidence of his own response, that he could be rendered both stiff and satisfied alike by the weight of a cock in his mouth... he felt nearly smug about it, as though this were a capacity to be proud of, to be so enamored of his lover. Even thinking about sucking his cock would be enough to get him hard all over again, and had he not just climaxed, he knew he'd be rubbing an erection up against Mettaton's body at this very moment.
Instead, he can only admire the look of his lover's, gaze scanning downward, along his body when the puca had shifted away from him (and how they both drank each other in, he noticed- himself, with his blood and his bruising, and the robot with his expanses of dark fur- and indeed, an erection that was only asking to be enjoyed, worshiped). It was a good look on him, he thought, this more predatory-rabbit self, with his claws and the brightness of his eye contrasting with the darker suggestion of his manner, feral hints that could be called to the fore in an instant.
And when Mettaton leans over him again, Emet-Selch shifts underneath him, wanting just as much to be divested of fabric, to be fully visible and fully available to him. To not be even the remotest bit restricted from feeling his touch. Fur or metal or claw, saliva and come... he wanted all of it on his skin, every texture its own reward, its own enticement.]
I still don't want you to stop.
[Words given around a breath, around a kiss, eyes going back to Mettaton's face, pressing up to meet his lips with his own, practically leaning up to try and meet him. The idol may have just came, and his renewed erection may not currently be in his face or down his throat, but Emet-Selch didn't consider him as stopped. It was only the position that had changed, not desire, not longing, not need.]
How could I, when... I love you this much?
[He loved this, and he loved him, someone worth choking himself over in order to please the both of them. And despite the depth of the passions lurking, his answering kisses are similarly gentle, soft- though not particularly chaste, considering the hints of tongue, the way they were progressively more open-mouthed.]
[His voice is sweet and smooth, an exhalation of amused fascination. It's not only his words that convince him of his desire but his body, the sight of him, the heat of each kiss rising as though their temperature could beat out the heat of Summer. He reciprocates kisses and ups that heat, sucking at his lips and swiping at him with his tongue while his hips thrust against nothing shortly, ineffectually, imagining the sensation of his lover's throat tight around his cock. His mind paints vivid pictures and textures of the feeling of touching his own length through Emet-Selch's throat, imagery obscene and one he considers from multiple angles: what did he look like, throat full of him? What would Emet-Selch think, feeling what he felt instead of having his hands pinned to the wall, digging into his hip? He stutters at the very thought.
He wants Emet-Selch so bad he can't stand it, so Mettaton shifts his weight down to press his arousal against Emet-Selch's faded one, at least to give him something to rub against.
And he moans, sharp and short while he dives in to press his lips to Emet-Selch's with an intense heat. Rising by degrees, his cock feels so hard and engorged already, especially as he rolls his hips into sticky, slick come left behind by his Bonded — a thought that only has him gasping some more. He sinks his teeth into Emet-Selch's lip, nearly puncturing him all over again, but the give of that split lip is great enough that he only forces it to bleed some more. More blood for him to suck and drink and grow intoxicated over, which he does liberally and lovingly, sighs of contentment slipping from his throat.
The very sound of Emet-Selch's voice, throat used and hoarse, could arouse Mettaton in a snap. He knows what he did and what they mutually covet, and he wants it all over again. Could he pound into his throat until his voice was made completely hoarse, syllables a struggle to form? It's terrible how much he wants that, and he continues to grind into Emet-Selch's spent cock for some manner of satisfaction to tide him over until he could... pull himself together for long enough to make his dreams a reality, instead of succumbing to this fever of want.
First thing's first: he wants to see him entirely. The only beauty that could compare to Mettaton's own in this moment of pure vanity is Emet-Selch's naked body, a record of signatures left by Mettaton's lips. Regretfully, he pulls back for a moment, some manner of satiation achieved by having rubbed his hips into Emet-Selch's.
But when he rears up, Mettaton can see Emet-Selch's come along his own cock, along his body. All he can do is freeze to behold it and to fascinate himself over it, the sight of come slicking up his shaft and sticky on the glans. ...He exhales, fixing his attention on Emet-Selch with that luminous depth to his gaze.]
I don't imagine I could stop, darling. You're lucky, aren't you...?
[He doesn't want Mettaton to stop, and Mettaton couldn't stop. He's starving.
With both of their hands free, Mettaton can finally disrobe Emet-Selch without the trouble of one-handedness. Mettaton finishes his earlier attempt at removing Emet-Selch's shirt, peeling it from his arm and sighing at the sight of him covered in blood and bruise before he presses his lips against Emet-Selch's abdomen, kissing and lapping at the mess he'd made as his claws flirt with his length, stroking along the side of his shaft. Tucking his fingers into his waistband, he begins that process of sliding his pants from his hips — but his lips trail after fabric, following down his right hip, his thigh, then his inner thigh until he forces Emet-Selch's legs up and removes his pants completely.
He sighs, still holding Emet-Selch's thighs apart with both hands. He keeps them spread for him, beholding the full sight of his come-marked body.]
That's. So much better. How beautifully I've marked you up... You must find yourself aroused often, at a sight like this.
[Envy strikes him. He wants a body that can be so marked... But it dissolves just as quickly when the Puca remembers that this is his body. That thought has him dipping down, nestling his face between Emet-Selch's spread thighs, nuzzling into his balls and taking a mouthful of his inner thigh just beneath. He nips and sucks, marking up his lover in a way that claims him down to his sex, his body, his arousal. Mettaton sighs a note of satisfaction into his skin, dark-tinted ears askew in his dedicated interest while he busies himself with marking Emet-Selch's body, renewing bruises that belong on his inner thighs.]
[His gasp is sharp against his lips, when ineffective thrusting finally gives way to a press against his body, his own hips writhing upward against Mettaton's when they're pressed together, at the sensation of that stiffness dragging and rubbing against his own cock. Oversensitive but wanting him too much to care, Emet-Selch takes full advantage of this offering, panting against his lips, nipping and sucking in reply. Even when Mettaton digs teeth into his wound he only shudders at the taste of blood drenching his mouth, and moreso at the way the puca drinks from it, pulling more of the fluid from the injury.
The pain in his lip provides clarity and takes it away, a particular sharpness that mingles with the rest of his arousal, mingles with the taste of blood and Mettaton until there was little else to experience, and nothing else worth experiencing. Emet-Selch laps at him between quickened breaths, pushing his wounded lip against his mouth as though expecting it to be ever agitated and sucked on, made swollen and tender. And it was easy, so easy to remember how that wound had felt when pressed to the shaft of Mettaton's cock, the drag of it against flesh made unspeakably stiff, every kiss on him a trail of blood. In comparison to his suffocation, it had become a background note of stinging ache, but it hadn't been forgotten. It had been another ripple of feeling.
A feeling that he was already imagining having again, parting his lips and wrapping them around his erection once more. Lapping and sucking on him with particular rapture, losing his senses and his sense to him, depriving himself of thought and air alike. How much of his voice could be stolen, rendered ever raspier and faint, a feeling that would remain even when he was permitted breath again, a reminder on each inhalation of all he should be grateful for.
The only consolation of Mettaton pulling back from his rubbing is the sight of him again, Emet-Selch likewise stilling at what he had noticed, the way his spilled come had been spread between them, a sticky-looking smear against glans and shaft. And he swallows thickly (a reminder of soreness, of how empty his throat felt--), yearning for the sight of it to only spread, to provide ever more, and to taste it--
He moans on an exhalation without even noticing, eyes fixed on his length with a similar hunger. A hunger that he makes no attempt to hide when he meets Mettaton's sharp gaze again, a look he could lose himself to. And his own cock begins to refill with a readiness that can only dizzy him. Even his body shifts underneath him, restless and wanting.]
Then neither of us will stop. How- fortunate, we are....
[But if there was going to be a distraction from Mettaton's cock, then the removal of clothing was an appropriate and desirable one, Emet-Selch shifting and lifting his arm to get the fabric away from him and tossed aside. To let the span of bruises and blood be appropriately visible, available to be both developed and admired. There was already a pleasing soreness to his shoulder and neck, the sort of thing he only wanted to stretch, to keep those injuries from clotting too thoroughly, even when Mettaton's attention was occupied elsewhere.
Because even better than that was the lowering of Mettaton's body to his abdomen, and the Ascian tenses with a sharp sound at the sight of him licking at what come remained there, and more at the stroke of claws against his stiffening length. And from there, the rest of his body was revealed, Mettaton dragging the remainder of the fabric down his thighs, pushing his legs around, with Emet-Selch doing what he could to cooperate.
And the reward for that moment of patience was more than commensurate, as he was faced with the sight of Mettaton spreading his thighs apart and viewing all he'd just exposed, his head lowering to grace those areas with his lips and teeth and tongue. Breath hitching sharply, Emet-Selch pushes himself up to watch him better, both the warm attention of Mettaton's mouth applied to his balls, and the sucking pressure that would surely lead to new bruises at his thighs. Bruises so deeply, so intimately placed that it felt like an extra bit of claiming that only they could ever know of.]
With frequency. [An admission, an acknowledgement, given in a soft tone, a shuddered breath. Moving an arm, he strokes at his lover's ears with surpassing gentleness.] At the sight, I desire you. Even the thought- of- of what lies beneath my clothing is enough.
[Squeezing along his ear, he feels blood drip down his chin but ignores it, eyes fixed on his lover's acts.]
How often I want to seek you out, wherever you are- to show you the effect you've had, your disruption.
[(ooc: oh no i wrote knot instead of know two tags ago, party's over)
A Bond can't make them telepathic, but each moan from Emet-Selch is so uncannily clear to Mettaton that he'd almost believe it could. The hunger in his gaze bespoke of a desire to swallow and lave him with his tongue, to taste his own come as well as Mettaton's and to be filled by him once more. Emet-Selch's satisfaction becomes a fixation of Mettaton's, an obsession toward filling him completely with himself — surely the best way to satisfy them both. He would use the Ascian, give him his arousal to hold tight in his throat and in place of all other less Mettaton-related things, save for the fact that he wants only to take his breath away from him. But Emet-Selch adores that, they've found: and the come that smears their cocks and splatters upon Emet-Selch's abdomen is proof of his thrill. Truly, his Bonded's an insatiable one... Perfect for Mettaton.
Hearing Emet-Selch describe his experience with frustrated arousal separate from Mettaton, all while he paints his thighs in kisses that will ripen with time, has the robot making soft sounds around suction, impassions him to leave deeper, more plentiful markings. They're deep, ones his Bonded can touch and stroke while craving Mettaton's touch and pleasure, while imagining him serving him with kisses, with tongue, or with a heaviness to fill his body. Knowing Emet-Selch finds himself often craving Mettaton satisfies his own vanity, his thirst for recognition, for reverence, for compliments to his body and self. He moans softly into the skin he sucks, nibbling close to his balls before biting yet another mark into skin, hungry and loving a mix to amplify the sheer eagerness with which he presses his face between his thighs.
He knows he looks brilliant there, framed between love-bitten thighs. He knows he's a sight to remember. He licks and bites and sucks like he knows he could take his breath through vision alone.
The kinds of thoughts Emet-Selch must grapple with, attraction growing so desperate that it arouses him helplessly, disrupts his routine, renders him hard and aching even from thinking about the marks under his clothes... There are so many incidents of their coupling worthy of reflection, Mettaton would agree. Reminders of kisses and fever ever present to keep him company in Mettaton's stead, effective enough to have the Ascian craving and longing and needy, wanting to hunt the robotic idol down just to demonstrate to him his Mettaton-inspired arousal...
It's a depraved thing to want. He wouldn't mind such a fate. It would be such a dangerous thing to encounter, the sudden springing of arousal at any point in time, but now that he knows with certainty that Emet-Selch's often plagued with an erection inspired by his own body, what's Mettaton supposed to do? Even in his normal state, arousal manifests. It distracts. It occupies his thoughts, leaves him imagining Emet-Selch busy with a body made beautiful and painted, thinking about him, wanting him, craving him. He's become so easily enticed and distracted by the thoughts of sex, dreaming of ways to take his Bonded: pinning him to walls, shoving himself between thighs, mounting him, sucking him, touching him, teasing him, he can't stop thinking about it all sometimes.
Mettaton raises his eyes to meet Emet-Selch's from behind his filling cock, from his spot with his lips pressed to Emet-Selch's balls. His thighs are marked in reds that will bloom purple, the space between his thighs kissed and bruised to his pleasure. Satisfied with his work, Mettaton leans back to regard him with his eyes, drinking him in, knowing he's been given such intimate marks he can savor. He makes sure to reach in to prod each one as a reminder of its existence, making eye contact with Emet-Selch all the while. Staring him down with an intensity predator-like, contentment written upon his features.]
Then... I'll just have to make up for all of that pent-up desire by giving you more of me. Won't I? [More often. More intensely. As if they're not already prolific enough, already impassioned enough. Mettaton, too, is insatiable, and his current dip into a more monstrous mindset is making it harder to imagine that he'd ever want to be doing anything but filling Emet-Selch with his cock and his heart. An audience eternal, rapt and wanting, but it's someone he adores beyond sense.] Not that I imagine it'll fix a thing. But I can give you more to think about...
[And recently, that thing has been a kind of submission on his Bonded's part, prone and open and filled with Mettaton and loving it, and Mettaton's hooked to that sensation around his length. Already he's imagining it once more, biting at his lip with his desire... and with Emet-Selch naked, with him appropriately marked up and with Mettaton's saliva coating the insides of his thighs, marked and scented all over his cock and his thighs, Mettaton smiles upon his lover before sliding off the edge of the bed.
The Puca stands over Emet-Selch from the side of the bed, running his hands over his shoulders with another hunger, fancying the sight of blood and wounds both. He leans down to meet his Bonded in his propped-up position, lapping up the blood that'd dripped from his lip and catching him in a short, open-mouthed kiss: just enough to lick up his lip. His hands grip onto his shoulders, and he coaxes Emet-Selch to turn his body so that his back's facing the robot. Should he cooperate, Mettaton then presses gently upon his shoulders, the suggestion that he lay on his back with his head at the edge of the mattress, neck stretched and bared just so. (Mettaton's sure to run a finger along his throat for emphasis.)
Positioned like this, Emet-Selch will have Mettaton's arousal shoved into his face, claws raking over his chest with just enough pressure to nearly scratch. The idol sighs sharply, pleasure impending.]
Ah... What- what do you think, Hades, dear? Would this give you enough of me to fantasize about?
[Mettaton slides the shaft along Emet-Selch's mouth, dragging down until the corona rests upon his lower lip. And for all he's collected and controlled, there's an air about him that is fevered, desirous and maddened, head in the future and imagining Emet-Selch's body lain out before him while Mettaton fucks his throat, Emet-Selch made to arch his back and squirm with the deprivation and fulfillment of it all. He swallows thickly, scarcely able to control his monstrous need.]
[Though his gaze was often drawn to his Bonded, in times like now it would've been unthinkable to look away. Able to watch as his skin was bitten into color, points of soreness and heat appearing underneath Mettaton's lips, and with how attractive he was to start with, framed by the thighs he was decorating- Emet-Selch adored him like this. It would be an impossibility to not be aroused by either the sight or the thought of these reddish-purple patches, one piece of imagery leading to another, from impassioned kissing, the scrape of claws and teeth, to the thought of Mettaton's cock in his mouth, pushing all the way into his throat, filling him with his come, while the Ascian's own would rest spattered across his own abdomen.
Were he not in the condition of irrational wantings, Emet-Selch would know that his desire to track Mettaton down at any and all time of day, regardless of what the other man was doing, or where he was- in order to have him, in expectation of his lover satisfying all of this arousal he'd cruelly inspired in him- was only an inconvenient fantasy. But it was an appealing thought. To press himself to his body without warning, regardless of company, to drag his covered erection against him in a demand for attention, to take his hand and have him feel the hardness he'd inflicted him with, to stroke his hair and drag his head between his legs, in anticipation of relief.
For that matter, the idea of Mettaton interrupting his day at any time in order to shove him against whatever surface was available, be it wall or floor or table or bed, in order to have him- was only an arousing one, rather than disruptive and impractical (but still arousing). Already shapeshifted, his desires would be explicit, and the Ascian's response immediate. They would ravish each other endlessly, fixated on the other's satisfaction- the surest way of obtaining their own. They were dangerously matched.
At the moment, though, he doesn't see why not. The world was an arena for their affairs; passion like this was never meant to be contained.
Though he squirms slightly in place when Mettaton finally departs his thighs, it is with the feeling of him left behind there. The cooling slickness wherever his mouth had been, the deepening impressions of sucking kisses. The memory of his fingers prodding each of the marks left behind, and Emet-Selch aches from the feeling of it altogether, his cock hot, and made fully erect once more. A hardness in further testimony to the effect Mettaton had on him, how he reveled in every bite or suck or glance in his direction. And eventually he'd be able to come again, and add more to the mess at his abdomen, to drip back down his cock....
His voice is tense with arousal, slightly rough still, low.]
Of course it wouldn't fix anything. That... would imply something being wrong.
[In pleased expectation at the imagery his thoughts are taken with, he sighs, pressing into the brief kiss, a brief cleaning and claiming of blood, before Mettaton pulls back once more. But it's not without a purpose in mind, and Emet-Selch willingly shifts himself as directed, pulse leaping as his back is guided again to the bed, with his head resting against the edge of it. His breath contains the essence of a moan as he automatically stretches his neck out, coaxed further to remain that way by the drag of a finger.]
Enough...? No. [How could there be enough of Mettaton to fantasize over? His eyes half close as he feels his lover's shaft dragged across his lips, nearly distracted from speech entirely at the renewed satisfaction at finally having him at his mouth again.] But it's more, it's an... addition.
[More than that, and Emet-Selch moans audibly while he still can, mouthing immediately over the tip of his cock, lapping up at him with broad swipes of his tongue, swollen, bitten lips pressing heated kisses to him. The taste of his own come on him pulls a shiver through his body and nearly another moan. And he's conscious of how... needy he is for him, spread across the bed like this, fully exposed to him, with fresh bruises decorating both shoulders and thighs, legs slightly spayed, erection arching up, rigid. And that the focal point of that pleasure is the attention he's providing to Mettaton's own cock, pressed against lips, his throat in position to be fucked.
There's a plea in each kiss, each breath, each bit of contact he's providing his length. He was so hard, so desperate for him, and the only relief he could think of was the slipping of his lover's cock down his throat, filling him, depriving him.]
[Hearing Emet-Selch moaning preemptively as though seizing the chance for it has Mettaton pushing his length against his face some more, bending down to kiss his lover's abdomen. His ears fold back in a demonstration of comfort, shoving his crotch against Emet-Selch's face and nestling him firmly between his thighs to show the Ascian what his fate could be, should he appropriately take the full length of him. Cock flush to his lover's face, Mettaton kisses and licks at his body, a low, possessive noise slipping from his throat as he soaks in the sight of Emet-Selch bared and accessible to him, fingers prodding thighs and hips and wrapping over his cock. He gives him a few slow, firm strokes, kneading the head of him with fondness as he tenses his thighs, pushes Emet-Selch more snugly between them, marking what's his in this more intimate of positions. He imagines their positions swapped, Emet-Selch grinding the length of himself into Mettaton's face while he kisses his body, and it only serves to flatter him some more to have Emet-Selch so hard, so exposed for him, bruised and each kiss an indicator of his desire.
But with how reverent Emet-Selch is in such a position, wanting and thrilling in having his breath taken by swallowing down his cock, Mettaton finds he favors this position greatly. How could he not? His Bonded enjoys this so much. Mettaton keeps teasing himself with the thought of him attempting to moan and cry out around his cock lodged in his throat, around the drooling and the rapture and brilliance that shone through their Bond. His lover loves this, and where Emet-Selch wants to see Mettaton to his satisfaction, Mettaton wants the same. It's just perfect that their needs align in this way.
The robot leans back up, a hand flitting down to steady himself at the base of his erection. He smiles down at Emet-Selch from his spot above him, noticing how engorged his own length is, how thick it looks in comparison to his throat.... And how exposed his Bonded is, how prone and primed he is to fuck. In every which way, thinks the Puca; Emet-Selch's readiness doesn't stop at his throat, and his monstrous appetite begins lining up the ways he wants to take him like a queue: he wants to gently wrap him in his legs and smother him against his crotch, make him deliriously take his cock that way after his next release; he wants to seat him atop his length and rock his hips, whether Emet-Selch's doing the driving or Mettaton's manually shoving his body against him; he wants to push him face-down against the bed and raise his hips, splay his lovers cock down so that he can kiss and suck at it, so that he can appreciate his bruised thighs, suck kisses into him some more, before mounting him and fucking him hard enough to have him crying out. He wants to drain him, and then push him beyond that limit. Mettaton can't get enough, and he wants to fill Emet-Selch with himself to the point that he can't think of anything but him.
Breathing hard (even though he needs no breath), the glans is pressed to Emet-Selch's lips expectantly as he mouths him, evoking a shuddering sigh for Mettaton. He can tell how badly Emet-Selch wants him, the knowledge of it coursing through him heady and tense enough to set him trembling, thrusts short and for the sake of quelling some of that tension.]
My, Hades. So wanting... You deserve every bit of me, a reward for your desire.
[He feels the desire to stroke his hair, but that will come later. A cross between a tender love and one that burns hot in his core, the need to please and use him and see their collective attraction reflected back at them in their sex. Mettaton rolls his hips some more, coaxing Emet-Selch's lips to form around the glans. Coaxing him yet to take his length into his mouth, as though he needed much coaxing.
Words die on his tongue when he tries to verbalize something, pressing a bit more of his length into Emet-Selch's mouth with restrained thrusts as he thinks about how visible and palpable it'll feel to occupy Emet-Selch's throat from his vantage point — how he longs to tell his lover all about what he sees. But he wants more than that, and Mettaton finds himself reaching for one of Emet-Selch's hands. He leaves the other behind, imagining how tense he'll inevitably be and needing to grip into something. The hand he's captured, however, is slid gently against Emet-Selch's neck to accompany his own fingers. Voice soft, he gives the Ascian instructions: something of a demand, framed in a suggestion.]
I want you to feel me when I fill your throat, darling. You really should... Right here, you'll feel your throat swell with that fullness. I think you'll like it. [As though to demonstrate, Mettaton takes Emet-Selch's forefinger and runs the pad of it firmly down the length of Emet-Selch's throat, from the top and down toward the middle. Mettaton knows what it feels like to have his length nestled deep inside, and he knows his Bonded will enjoy it, if he can even think to feel it while so occupied. He sighs.] It's only fair that you get to relish more of me, in as many ways as possible. I get the sight of your entire body set before me, after all... And what a sight you are.
[And he's not sure if this is to tempt and tease, or if it's to fulfill, a reward. When he sees Emet-Selch's cock so hard, thick and arched so perfectly, he wants nothing more than to fill his own throat with it — but he equally wants to mark him up totally, and taking his throat is a part of that desire. Emet-Selch can be teased and taunted and rewarded by the dimension of ways he can feel himself be filled, weighted down with the girth of his arousal occupying him.
The Puca's thrusts firm up somewhat, his manner more fevered as he pants somewhat.] How much do you want to suck me off? What excites you...? Tell me, beautiful.
[...He is beautiful. Mettaton's struck all over again not just by the loveliness of his toned, slender body, but by his sheer vulnerability, strewn out along the bed and with his lips wrapped around a thick cock, anticipating its filling of his throat. Though the idol expects a reply, he doesn't withdraw his length, expecting Emet-Selch to speak around the head of him, expecting him not only to tell, but to show how much he craves Mettaton.]
[It felt both mercy and tease, to have Mettaton leaning over, taking his cock in his hand for a bit of attention, the Ascian's hips doing their best to jerk and writhe up into his hold, as though starved for touch. Yet not as starved as his throat felt, as the rest of him was, for the feeling of Mettaton's own cock. His own breathing is fast and damp, quick exhalations over the glans as he mouths it, and slick spreadings of saliva and blood smear around his lips without concern, not caring at all that he was already drooling a bit around him in his zealousness for his length.
And he knew this wouldn't be the last, that sucking his lover off again wouldn't begin to be enough, wouldn't truly bring either of them to any lingering satisfaction. And that didn't daunt him, and wouldn't stop him; it only meant he could continue to suck and lick, to nuzzle and keep his face buried between Mettaton's legs, to drag him towards his next climax while he still had his come at his lips from the previous. While his own release would yet lay warm and wet against his own body, more to spread, more to drip between them. However Mettaton wanted to sate himself in his body, trapping him between thighs or mounting and fucking him, the Ascian was willing to indulge- even demanding his own use. He loved him, and he loved them together.
Tenderly, almost, Emet-Selch feels one hand captured, brought over to rest against his own throat, a finger encouraged to drag along the length of it. A suggestion that in itself calls to mind what had already rested there, and when he feels himself swallow, it's followed with a shiver as he imagines what that must've felt like to Mettaton. And what it would feel like to himself, to appreciate the stiffness he would be managing to contain in an additional dimension. It would be something like when Mettaton dragged his hand to feel how they were joined when he was fucking him, to feel the way his body had adapted around him, had stretched around his girth, slick and hot. This would be distinct, but related; another way of being fully penetrated by him, and another way of feeling that thickness resting, thrusting into his body. His own body tightens, anticipatory.
And Emet-Selch wondered if, later on, in some unrelated context, a simple stroking along his neck could lead to a recalling of these moments, of an erection stuffed into his throat, his face smothered between Mettaton's thighs, marked and claimed. Of being wrapped in darkness and heat, impaled on a cock and stroked by it until the both of them were brought to climax. And how easily, would he be made aroused from the association, the memory; would his throat tighten in a connection made, an expectation for what should be there? Would he stop breathing for a few seconds, as though assuming, naturally, that he would be unable to?
Already, he can imagine the distraction it would bring, but what was one more touch to arouse him, when Mettaton could already do so with ease?
Mettaton did always ask him things while making it difficult to speak. But this was another level again on top of that, expecting a response while pressing the head of his cock past his lips, when he not only had the physical act of sucking on him to contend with (as how could he not be drawn to laving attention over it, having his tongue stroke and explore as much of the ridge as it could reach; by dwelling on the way his lips could surround him, in a soft, yet tight grip, made to mold against his flesh, how slippery he was already, from his adorations), but the distraction of his own arousal, his own needs. His fingers dig a little into his throat, as though he were already looking for Mettaton there, already anticipating him sliding into him, stretching it out; he agitates the clotting claw marks Mettaton had already left on him, causing any touch to his neck to be made slightly bloodier.]
I-- [This was going to be difficult. Salivating around him already, Emet-Selch still has the capacity to swallow it for now, if without particular ease. He does so, before attempting to continue.] Desperately. I need your taste, your heat, your... you to fill me, until- until I...
[His breathing wants to pant; the rest of him wanted to lose himself to a devotion applied to the head of Mettaton's cock; he steadies himself with a few seconds of sucking sharply around him, groaning in the abject, wanton pleasure of it, and of him. The fingers of his free hand dig into the covers of the bed. Thusly mollified, he tries again.]
Just the thought of you- losing yourself to my- throat. My body. How many times- can you...? I want... I--
[None of this comes out with particular clarity, considering as it's spoken as though he has a large object in his mouth. But Emet-Selch is nothing if not determined, nor particularly self-conscious about the way he sounds. Putting words to his desires and feelings remained the most difficult part; it was far easier to demonstrate what he wanted by trying to lean up, to slide more of Mettaton's length past his lips, to surround him in dampness and heat, to rub him onward with his tongue. There even is, perhaps, a careful scrape of teeth against the shaft, a gentle suggestion of pressure- and somehow, an encouragement to press deeper, to give him the whole of his erection.]
[But it's clarity enough for the idol, listening with ears poised contentedly with that slight akimbo lean, a suggestion of arousal enough to slip into. The way he spoke through drool and panting was enough to convey his lover's vast craving of him, he thought, even if he couldn't make out his words around the slick, soft glans. His attempt is appreciated, and his efforts don't go missed. His fingers stroke along the back of Emet-Selch's, a gentle touch to reassure him not only to remain in eager wait, but that he'd soon enough feel his rapture, speech the key to earning it.
A sharp suck around his cock has Mettaton sucking in air through gritted teeth, a short, rapturous moan slipping from his throat and the desperate urge to pound into him for his neediness, to meet that desperation with the brunt of his own. And he would, he'd show Emet-Selch that he's not the only one wanting, but he demands to hear his lover's desires before his words are robbed of air. His hips are restrained, an obvious tension as he shifts his legs in greedy anticipation, in gradually crumbling composure. He could find himself sucked off by Emet-Selch all day and not tire of it, he thought. No, for longer, he's sure. He could drown in the feeling of his throat, just as he suffocates Emet-Selch in a more literal sense; and he wonders how it would feel to grip down onto his neck and pound into a throat made deliberately tight, impossible for his lover to take in air while Mettaton occupies that space instead. It wasn't as though he'd be getting any air to begin with, and it wasn't as though he needed it, not with Mettaton stuffing his throat. He'd spasm and tense and it would be so tight and warm, and the thought itself has Mettaton letting out an extraneous moan in the middle of Emet-Selch's confession.
But he listens to it all. How many times? How many indeed. Mettaton calculates this number idly, the possibilities, while hearing Emet-Selchs desperation manifest as statements of "I want." He knows what he wants. He wants his throat full, his body used, choking on come and dripping with it, both his own and Mettaton's. Mettaton groans and smirks, biting at his lower lip at the crazed want shared between them, and why abstain? Emet-Selch's said his piece. He's already stretching with neck and reaching with tongue, leaning to swallow more of his shaft between lips made swollen and split, and—]
Mnnh. Oh. Demanding.
[Teeth graze along his length. To Mettaton who relishes sensation of the most intense caliber, the slight drag of teeth along his shaft is a welcome catalyst to unleash a part of him more fierce and possessive, an expression of desire so crystal clear that he can't possibly think to deny Emet-Selch any longer. A welcome invitation, an obvious demonstration of Emet-Selch's complete desire of him. How flattered he feels, how perfectly recognized for his desirability.
Displacing his fingers and leaving Emet-Selch to probe at his own neck, Mettaton strokes along the front of his throat with the firm scrape of his claws, coaxing Emet-Selch to swallow. His fingers drift to the corner of Emet-Selch's lips, soundlessly reminding him to open wide with the tug of his lower lip, to yield to a thick intrusion that would feel even thicker in his neck, exhaling a note of anticipatory want, low and smooth and fond, before he pushes deeper into his throat. Slow, firm, undeniable, he pushes his cock to the back of Emet-Selch's mouth, and his fingers flit back to his throat for more control.
A stroke this time with his thumb to the side of his throat, urging him to expect his filling, to swallow him down, to fit his girth in his throat. Mettaton sighs, but that sigh breaks way into needy, shorter panting, exhalations of heat as his ears obey gravity and flop to the side.]
Now that you've spoken... your desires. You're not the only... hah. Only desperate one between us...
[Mettaton's practically slavering over this, his mind a reel of Emet-Selch sucking and swallowing and salivating and moaning around his cock, the size of him pronounced and full in his throat, Emet-Selch's ministrations dedicated down to the last as he shoved his face dearly into his throat with only bodily protests remaining. His body, every reaction writ into it is for Mettaton's adoration and audience, and he can't wait to see him writhe, his fingers cling, his back arch, his cock hard and entirely available for Mettaton's encouragement and enjoyment both. He wants to watch him erupt in orgasm, to see come gush from the tip of him, and he licks his lips in that desire. But that's then. For now, he has the anticipation of his lover's to seek, to feel him wanting and needing his cock, and he can fulfill that desire by giving him everything.
It's with that stroke of a warning given that Mettaton rolls his hips some more, erection slipping smoothly into Emet-Selch's throat. He moans and gives way to some of his own need, that composure slipping into firm thrusts, his voice carried on moans through a bitten lip as the Puca leans some of the weight of his cock down Emet-Selch's throat. He curves each short thrust, feeling the way the glans rubs along the squeezing, supple texture of his Bonded's throat, and he deliberately avoids feeling for his neck at the moment, leaving Emet-Selch to enjoy that solo. He groans, unable to stop himself, unable to quit this rhythmic rocking, losing himself to this immense pleasure already.]
Ohh, darling, yes— f... feel that, you're so- ah-
[Mettaton sighs again, his other hand rubbing firm circles close to the base of Emet-Selch's cock — flirting with his length, teasing the chance of a direct touch that he'll soon receive.]
[Fierce and ever beautiful. Though it was hard to see much of anything around his length (both that sight and that fact in itself would be enough to stir both his heart and his cock at once), the impression Emet-Selch gets of Mettaton's expression is enough. He can hear it in his words, his voice, and especially in the sounds without words: his pants, his gasps, the way he sucks in air he doesn't require. Air he doesn't need, and yet is free to obtain- while possessing the intent to block all chance of it from reaching the lungs of his lover- there was a perfect balance to that, Emet-Selch thought. Perhaps it was the dizziness that made it seem especially fitting, somehow, to know that a robot would be breathing for them both through moans and sighs, while the one with the mortal host would go deprived.
Emet-Selch is not surprised at all that Mettaton is the sort of person who would find the hint of teeth on his cock acceptable, considering his fascination with all manner of stimulation, the stronger the better. And Mettaton's pleasure gratified, and so did the Ascian's reward of being slipped an additional measure of his cock. The meaning of claws at his throat was clear, his swallow immediate, his attention rapt towards the very tip of the glans nudging into the very back of his mouth. His moan has a muffled quality to it, but it's still audible, a low rumble around his length. And his lips part further at Mettaton's guidance, the hook of a claw encouraging him open.
Taking his last breath around him- already an insufficient amount, little getting past the amount of cock already in his mouth (not to mention saliva)- his eyes close with a smooth shudder, swallowing more. Tugging, pulling, urging Mettaton to block his throat completely with the soft head of his cock, to push within him. Mettaton's rub at the side of his throat felt almost kindly, reassuring of what would be secured in him, that he wouldn't go without. And that he could take him, swallow around him, feel the tensing protests of his body and ignore them, because they wanted this. And he'd feel what scraps of air he had left burned away, to be replaced with a different kind of desperation, but one that would only feed his arousal. And thought would become more difficult, and he would exist only between seconds, in an impossible instant of deprivation-fed rapture.
Mettaton's hips roll into him; the tease of his glans becomes the satisfaction of it, the sloped tip gliding snugly into the tightness of his throat. Emet-Selch's immediate cry of pleasure is, naturally, stifled around him; his fingers twitch, then still against the skin of his neck, feeling the head of his cock there. And how much he wanted to moan, as his neck arches back slightly, his body shifts, fascinated by the shape of him. Mettaton had already felt large, to block him so securely, to stretch the confines of his throat with his erection, but Emet-Selch could marvel at it all over again this way. That he could take him, fit him so precisely so that there was space only to tighten around him, and nothing more or less.
And the puca thrusts, sliding more into his neck, a pulling and giving that his throat is made to endure. Movements that were all more than evident to his hand, startled at how clearly he could feel every thrust this way, how far Mettaton could reach, how much he could take. And Emet-Selch ends up squeezing a bit at his own throat himself, a spasm of fingers over himself in order to feel it ever better, as though wanting to stroke him through hand as well as through the tensing, tightening grip of his throat. Every rock of hips made it harder to keep his focus, to not give in to his body's desire to choke, to gag, to make more attempts beyond the natural squeezing of his throat in order to reject the object that was sealing him off. Eventually his control would fail, and Emet-Selch even looked forward to that moment, perhaps, but for now he persists, head tilted back and lips wrapped snug around his length, sliding over him with each rolling shove of Mettaton's hips. And each time he tried to strain further, to take even more, to feel his face pressed to the robot's body, to have his lips reach the absolute root of him.
At irregular intervals, Emet-Selch also allows his teeth to scrape along the shaft of him, a firm drag of particular pressure to accompany the occasional thrust. And then his tongue presses, melding against his length with each shove of Mettaton's cock. There is, as was inevitable, some degree of drooling around him, now that the Ascian can no longer swallow down any saliva. As ever, he hardly cares.
Especially not when there was a hand near his cock, massaging his abdomen, and it's a feeling that has the muscles in his own thighs clench, his hips shiver, not about to turn down any offering of attention. Even if he could come from Mettaton fucking his throat on its own, having his lover's hand manipulating his own length was an added stimulation he'd certainly enjoy. To be stroked while he was sucking him, and he wondered if he'd be allowed a release against his hand, to sticky his fingers with his come; wherever it ended up, he knew it would be an arousing sight and he shuddered again at the thought of his lover witnessing his climax so directly. To see the result of his pleasure in taking his lover's cock in his mouth, his throat, in sucking his own come from him.]
[Obediently, Emet-Selch's hand remains at his neck and performs precisely as Mettaton hoped. For every moan lost to the lack of breath, he can feel his adoration instead through Bond, if not around his length by the loss of that sound converted into vibration. His pleasure is immense, and Mettaton realizes that Emet-Selch truly loves this manner of loss, of deprivation — a loss of control, of distraction; a single-minded focus toward only his breath and Mettaton's cock the longer the robot filled him. Yes, the idol's quotient for feeling perfectly recognized for his desirability would not go unfulfilled in Emet-Selch's presence, as he'd anticipated. This is someone who understands how brilliant, attractive, and worthy Mettaton is, someone so attracted to his body that he'd be welcoming and desperate to part his lips and swallow his cock, to render himself into something to fuck and please, as long as it's Mettaton. And Emet-Selch so obviously gets off on that use: his body's tense, his cock standing hard and upright and drool-worthy, Mettaton thought.
During these first thrusts into his lover's throat, Mettaton stares at Emet-Selch's length with bright attentiveness and a hunger to his manner. How rigid, painfully aroused, surely aching and long untouched save for a bit of grinding, and how beautiful his body is, come- and kiss-marked both. How lucky he is to have had such direct contact with Mettaton's erection, and his fingers wrap firmly around the base of him. There's a heated hum that slips from his throat as he decides to give the Ascian a firm squeeze and, half-leaning as he is, he easily unhands Emet-Selch's cock to favor instead his balls, which he cups, prods, gives a gentle squeeze. He fantasizes so vividly about the sight of Emet-Selch's release that he swallows reflexively, moaning purely at the image in his mind... as if the action around his arousal weren't enough to pull from him the same response, compounded.
With a heartfelt sigh and probing fingers, Mettaton stands upright again so that he can watch his lover swallowing his cock — and how distracting the sight of his neck, Emet-Selch's fingers dancing around the prominence in his throat that is surely the tip of his cock. These additional squeezes pull from Mettaton a gasp, his free hand flying down to accompany Emet-Selch's fingers in their prodding and stroking. He can feel the way Emet-Selch struggles for breath even when he enjoys its absence, the bodily need to reject his length when Emet-Selch obviously craves him instead. Emet-Selch would override his own body's needs just to have Mettaton as deeply and thoroughly as possible.
His pleasure in it is blatant, speech and sound be damned. Mettaton could kiss him, if Emet-Selch weren't already busy favoring his cock, kissing and sucking down his shaft.]
Hades, you're so hard... I can see why. You love this. So why don't I give you more to swallow...?
[Mettaton's so attracted to Emet-Selch that their fascination for one another simply feel matched, a sort of carnal craving for the other that they could probably communicate with a glance across a crowded room. Failing to give him a chance for even a gulp of air, the Puca presses into Emet-Selch's mouth some more, sure and smooth as he slips the whole of his length down his throat, watching the entire time as his throat gives way under Emet-Selch's fingertips. Not only does it titillate him to gaze upon, but the sensations he feels beyond the heat of Emet-Selch's slick, sticky throat have Mettaton stuttering and stammering around words he wasn't even sure he was going to say. They all slip out as short cries, moans, suddenly feeling the whole of his lover's body warm and tight around him.
He's so deep that his crotch is flush to Emet-Selch's face, his lover's lips forced around the root of his cock. He can feel his even his balls against his lover's face as he shifts his hips some more, jostling his length within the confines of Emet-Selch's throat. He's so prone, so accessible like this, his throat stretched and straightened and easy to slip into, slick and warm. Teeth wouldn't keep Mettaton from him, who only cries out at their presence. Emet-Selch's not the only glutton for this particular position, he realizes — how breathless he can make him, how much he can dominate Emet-Selch's senses... This position is perfect for Mettaton, too.
A firm stroke along his Bonded's neck serves to coax him to swallow again. His voice is an ecstatic cant, rapidly losing his mind to pleasure so thick and all-encompassing that he can scarcely see beyond it and his love.]
I... Swallow, Hades, swallow ar- Ahh-
[Speaking is difficult when he may as well be so electrified that he could short-circuit. As for Emet-Selch... who needs air when he has the whole of his erection stuffed down his throat, filling enough for it to be visible even from his bruised neck, skin stretched and agitated enough to leave him still bleeding? Even Mettaton can tell how unforgiving his cock is, no room for breath even if he weren't salivating so profoundly — which he can see that he is, drooling with his dedication, teeth running along his erection at random enough to keep Mettaton on his toes. Emet-Selch is only allowed to crave one thing between Mettaton and air, and he would see to it that he wins out in this battle: thought and oxygen were not as important of a need to fulfill as he is. Mettaton begins to thrust gently, slight pulls and pushes of his cock so that he never once fully escapes the confines of his lover's throat.
To reward Emet-Selch for his choice to suck on a thick cock in over continued air, Mettaton's fingers slip up his length and stroke, thumbing the slit and imagining once more his lover's body erupting in climax. His abdomen would tense and spasm, his erection dripping... Mettaton would release his load in his throat again, too, and find himself still hard, still ready to fuck him again, and he would. Emet-Selch said he didn't want for him to stop, and Mettaton would take his throat until his voice was reduced, until his lover lost his mind.]
[Life became very simple when one couldn't think. There was no history to drown in, no future to recoil from. There was nothing outside of this: his lover's cock at his lips, the feeling of it stretching down his throat, every thrust and push and shudder, and his dedication to keeping it there. For these moments, this was all that he was meant to be doing, all he could do, was to please Mettaton and himself in the process, to give up his air, his body to him, to be a source of heat and tightness and attention. To love every aspect of what Mettaton was giving him, whether it was every inch of his erection to suck and choke on, or the impending consequence of roughening his throat, or the presence of claws and bleeding wounds that decorated the body that belonged to him. Without thought it was straightforward, the trust Mettaton had gained manifesting into this, a love for being used by him.
The Ascian's nature was to be devotional, whether it was to a dark god he'd helped create, or to a people long dead. It was a part of him, intrinsic, if something difficult to provoke, leading to a perpetual sense of dissatisfaction when he had no valuable task before him. Who else was worth his effort, his relentless dedication? But there was fulfillment in being able to provide, and Mettaton gave him this.
It was freedom, to have thought removed, to have concern excised, to have his focus narrowed to the commitment of their bodies, and nothing more. There was no fight for survival other than the helpless spasming of his throat, a reaction that only served to squeeze and stroke at Mettaton's cock, only served to excite them both. But he wasn't afraid; he knew that Mettaton wouldn't hurt him. Suffocation could be turned into another tool for the seeking of ecstasy, something to stiffen his own length, heighten his needs into something more profound than any call for air.
Though he can't murmur any noise of approval, there's more than a suggestion of it nonetheless, when he feels the pressure of fingers around the root of his cock, a firm squeeze that moves to his balls, fondling and touching them; it felt an utter kindness, a gift provided in recognition of his devotion.
But he needed Mettaton as deeply as he could press, and he shudders hard, a sensation that felt protracted when that requirement is provided, when his face is shoved into his lover's body, flush and tight against him. When he could feel Mettaton's balls nudging his face with each thrust, each brief, heavy push into the depth of his throat. He tries to cry out, but only vibration remained. Only the echo of it reflected through Bond, and through every other line of his body, in his absolute love for this position, this treatment, this person. Who else would he want to be rendered so prone before, so wanting? Every sound Mettaton made only proved the rightness of what they were doing, and he wanted to hear his voice carried on noises like those for the rest of his life. For now, he had no other purpose, and there was a relief in that security that Emet-Selch felt with him that he doesn't understand.
And he swallows, because Mettaton wants him to; because he wants to himself, to feel his throat close further, tighter around his lover's erection. His hand strokes and prods along the full length of a neck made sore, bleeding from wounds reopened (as though they had ever had a chance to close), joined by the inspecting touch of the puca's own hand. It's enough to keep the muscles of his body taut, trembling, both from what he could feel through throat and hand, and what he knew Mettaton was feeling through hand and cock. That they could feel the whole length of him, trail finger down where his shaft was, and how far, how deeply he came to rest in him.
Not that there was much resting, as Mettaton continued to thrust, continued to push, and his hand ends up lying, squeezing over the part of his neck where he could feel his glans moving, able to feel himself swallowing desperately around him, as if trying to suck him deeper.
Everything was hazy and glorious, body arching, thighs trembling as Mettaton continues to handle his cock, providing attention to his own engorged length, painfully rigid, an ache to match that of his lungs, his throat. His free hand claws into the bed as his body squirms, though with nothing resembling any attempt to escape- only to try and meet the pounding of Mettaton's cock into his body, while pressing up against the hand at his own erection. His body would be panting hard if it could, but instead he continues to shudder, never wanting him to stop, never wanting to breathe again. This pain was more exquisite than his usual sort.]
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But even partially stripped was better. And it would do for the moment.
What would also do was Mettaton's hand turned instead to handle his trapped cock, admiration evident in his fingertips, in the stroke of his palm. An appreciation that Emet-Selch felt most entitled to, and what better way to show his appreciation than by thrusting into his touch, by having his voice lost to breathless moaning. All of his sounds belonged to his lover, whether they were words, sighs, gasps- even silence itself. Especially when his voice was stolen, it was Mettaton's.
Though there was a flicker of regret to feel incisors sliding free from his body, it was replaced by the gain of hearing his lover's voice; this was just as good, and something that could penetrate him with just as much ease. Emet-Selch rubs his head against Mettaton's as he listens to him moan into his neck, as the man rubs and smears the blood he had freed from him.
More fabric, parted; it feels as though his heart stops for a moment, in utter anticipation, as if he'd been waiting for hours just to be touched, left wanting and desperate for his attention. Waiting a lifetime, perhaps, his needs building unknowingly over the centuries, neglected and sealed away, only for all of them to be called upon now. An endless welling of desires lay hard and hot against Mettaton's fingers, waiting for him alone, the only one who could even begin to satisfy him.
There was the threat of claws, and the equal delightfulness of just being touched, to feel his lover's hand at his erection- which was certainly stiff enough to leave Emet-Selch dizzied by it. And how quickly, it felt, to have all of his blood pooled there. ...All of it, apart from what Mettaton had sucked from his neck, had begun to paint his body with. But the Ascian had plenty; there was more than enough for both purposes, the only reasons he had blood to begin with.
Emet-Selch moans again, from the warmth of lips mouthing at his neck, from the rush of fingers stroking along his length. He was painfully hard, and it was painfully easy to imagine Mettaton's mouth in place of his hand, applying that heat and attention that he could already feel, to a place even more sensitive than his open wounds. He ached for him, and yet, even more than that--
He was breathless... but not breathless enough. And then it was clear to him what he wanted most of all. His hand moves, to drag over Mettaton's thigh, to veer inwards, as though willing the man to transform, even if only in part- to provide him his own cock to devote his attention to. To worship.]
I want... to swallow you. To take you in my throat, taste you and take you there, I....
[His torn lips made more swollen yet by wrapping them around his length, pushed all the way to the base, and held there. How hot his lover's come would be, and he wanted that feeling, an eruption down his throat that was better than air--]
Give me this.
[A demand to... let him suck his cock.]
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And with his admission of desire, Mettaton's smile only grows, another ecstatic gale of laughter light on the air to contrast against his darkness, and followed quickly after by a moan of an exhale. No, Emet-Selch's not just voicing a fantasy: he's demanding it be fulfilled. Were MTT cursed to have a god complex or the need for control instead of something that slots in nicely with his general conceit, merely compounding upon vanity already there, he might have found such a demand to be unsuitable, intolerable. Instead, the robot gives Emet-Selch's arousal a firm stroke along its underside before reaching down to cup the entirety of him, from balls to shaft. He stares down at him with a smirk, stroking gently his balls with sharp, threatening nails, the base of his palm rubbing into Emet-Selch's shaft. All of Emet-Selch's body is his, and he envisions that his erection won't be getting much in the way of direct stimulation, at this rate.
Which suits Mettaton just fine. He's positive Emet-Selch can bring himself to satisfaction from sucking his erection on its own — another thought to have him collapsing in a dreamy sigh. It's a wanted thing, to imagine Emet-Selch so turned on by having his air replaced by his length and elated for it enough to come. He wants to see if he'll do it.
He kisses, licks, and sucks at his bloodied neck some more, feeling hungrier than sanity should allow, and takes heavy notice of his lover's wandering hand. It slides along his thigh so tantalizingly, flirting inward. With a demand like his, why would Mettaton deny him what he wants? Even if his want is to choke.
Mettaton performs that partial shift, shifting the weight distribution in his legs so that he forces the shaft of it against Emet-Selch's wandering fingers in invitation. Only now does Mettaton realize how hard he is — how desirous and worked up he's become, and his voice comes out on a stuttered moan.]
H- Hades... What a wonderful idea. Yes. I can see why you'd want me so. If you're going to be so demanding of me... how could I think to deny you?
[For a fleeting moment, Mettaton pulls away from his neck to regard him. And it's a sight he feels would stop his breath and heart both if they were there to stop, a series of mottled yellows and fading blues of long-fading bruises and kisses, of deep violets and blues to signify his recent expressions of ardor, of brilliant rose and bright red fresh and vital. But loudest are streaks and smears of blood, punctures from hands around his neck, claws embedded like hooks to claim him and keep him, and teeth, the teeth Mettaton feels inclined to add more of.
The Puca lunges again, sinking his teeth into Emet-Selch's shoulder where he can see a previously healing wound trying to stitch itself back together. And that won't do, not if he wishes to scar. He doesn't ever want his Bonded to go without reminders upon him wherever he looks, and they add to his beauty, provide a touch of Mettaton all over him and render him into something of the robot's making. Should he gaze at himself in the mirror he'd be marked and taken, incapable of viewing himself without seeing bold signs of his lover upon him. And bared before anyone else, they would know of his claim upon this body. Nobody else could have him and love him like Mettaton can: a touch upon flesh that reaches soul deep, with the longing to tinge him from the marks on his skin to the manifestation of his soul.
With this renewed bite thorough and bleeding, Mettaton kisses Emet-Selch softly upon torn flesh, trailing marks of red up to his ear.]
It's what I want, too. To see you swallowing me, breathless and dazed... Filling your body with me. [His free hand drifts upon the plane of his abdomen, wandering up until he reaches a line of blood. Gliding his finger along and smearing it into skin in patterns, Mettaton's gaze softens.] A wanted outcome, to think of nothing but me.
[He flirts with Emet-Selch's fingers, rubbing his arousal into his hand when he knows his Bonded would prefer feeling it rubbing down his throat. That thought is enough to pull a moan from Mettaton. He sucks in between teeth, his voice increasingly frenetic, as feral-leaning as he's beginning to feel.]
Hades... Down. Suck me. Love me, I... [His thrusts against his hand, fantasy overtaking him as he imagines instead the confines of Emet-Selch's mouth, lips wrapped and split around his length.] Let me. Pin you to the wall, and fuck your mouth... You want that. Don't you.
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The idol was confident, and had every reason to be; every part of the Ascian's body responded to his touch with sharp immediacy. On their own accord, his hips shift, thrusting into Mettaton's hand. It was as though his cock knew this was likely all the direct stimulation it would be afforded for a time, and was trying to make the best of it, undaunted by claws, and so terribly rigid. A stiffness that was a testament to his attraction to him, and he moans openly as he watches him, knowing that Mettaton could see him so helplessly desirous, desperate for every bit of his attention, and was aroused ever more by the thought.
But soon he would lose the mercy of a hand at his cock, a side-effect of what he wanted most. And Emet-Selch considered as well, what it would be like- to have Mettaton's full length in his throat be the primary tool given to satisfy himself with; would the heated sucking and stroking of his lover's erection be enough to pull from him his own climax? The idea enticed him, in a strange way; to be so wholly consumed, made so devoted to his lover's pleasure that the act of bestowing it to him became enough on its own to orgasm. Not only enough, but a requirement; what was pleasure, without him?
It would be a frustrating and intense affair, in any case, the very thought leaving his breathing heavy and his body taut, arching against his Bonded's form. And then, finally, it seemed, there was the stiffness of a cock pressing against his hand, expecting attention, and his fingers wrap around him with demonstrated eagerness, stroking and groping and squeezing over every part of him. There was no surprise at all that he'd already be hard, full and ready for him, for his delectation. Emet-Selch drags his thumb hard over the tip, appreciating the give to it, and imagining the way it would feel pushing its way down his throat.
Emet-Selch swallows; his pulse felt painfully loud. And though he knew he wouldn't have, he was relieved all the same that Mettaton wouldn't deny him this. Would allow him this selfish pleasure of suffocating around his length and swallowing his ejaculate.
And then the idol leaned away from his throat. Normally, Mettaton pulling back from his body would be intolerable- never minding that Emet-Selch would soon have to take up a position beneath him, in order to satisfy them both. But the Ascian feels, instead, the weight of his lover's regard. The eye that rakes across all that was made available and visible to him, and he knows it's an arousing, appealing sight. If his hand weren't occupied by stroking along Mettaton's shaft, he might've been tempted to drag fingers along wounds old and new instead. The places where flesh was raw and torn, wet from blood barely diluted by saliva- and trace to those locations that were merely sore, warm and aching, bruises that spanned the course of weeks. Though he hardly needed the reminder, Emet-Selch was certain he could see it all reflected in Mettaton's gaze, providing him the perfect path to follow.
And then there were teeth- more and just as satisfying, his body jerking from the mix of pain and rapture. Old wounds becoming new wounds as Mettaton tears into places healing, and Emet-Selch shudders, groans, fingers tightening around his cock, a show of his gratitude.
He tries to catch his breath and mostly fails, when that burst of violence is sealed with gentleness, soft lips pressing to raw flesh. And small, barely audible sounds continue to escape his lips as Mettaton spreads that affection upward, blood a visible reminder of it, as he reaches his ear, filling him with his voice once more. Just another part of the way he would be filling the rest of his body with something more physical. And he could feel that growing ferality, a kind of focused madness leeching through the Bond, and when Mettaton orders him down, it takes more endurance than he thought he had, to not sink to his knees in an instant. He wanted to be there, after all.]
By now, I would hope... that you would know what I want.
[Which in its truest sense meant, 'anything Mettaton did to him.' And in this current moment meant exactly this: his throat fucked, taken, used, neither of them caring if he choked or gagged on him- perhaps even relishing it. Delighting in the automatic responses of his body, and how they both sought to ignore them, knowing better.
Finding Mettaton's lips for a small, bloody kiss, his fingers provide his length a last, slow stroke- a consolation to tide him over for the few moments when he would go untouched. A reassurance that he would soon feel something better.
Falling to his knees, Emet-Selch sits back, gaze remaining on Mettaton's face all the while, before sliding down his body (taking in that glittering jewelry he was still wearing, and the darker, more thorough patches of fur)- and landing upon his cock, engorged and hot and at such a convenient level for him to take. A sight and thought that causes him to shudder, resisting the urge to use his now-free hand to stroke over his own aching length. It was as though this were a position he was made to be in, and his eyes drift closed as he lunges forward, burying his face in his lover's crotch, nuzzling and licking all over the base of his erection, his balls, sucking gently at them, and leaving imprints of blood anywhere his lips lingered. Soft moans escape his throat as he rubs his face all against his length, barely able to contain his anticipation, his need to have him. He was breathing too much, and that was too much freedom to tolerate. But while he had it, he would speak.]
--But you're right. I want that... precisely. Don't stop.
[A request made in a tone deep and low. As though he were in any position to make requests of him.
But why did he need to contain himself? It's barely any time at all before his lips slide up Mettaton's shaft all the way to the tip, mouthing and sucking at the glans with wet abandon, and clear pleasure in the act. But his lips continue to part around him, leaning forward to take just the head- and then all that he could comfortably fit in his mouth and still continue to breathe. And Emet-Selch sucks around him, rubs the underside with his tongue, appreciates the way it molds to the shape of it. And flirts with taking him deeper, feeling the very tip brush the back of his throat, so very close to where he belonged, but not quite pushing him there.]
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He can almost feel it when Emet-Selch's drawn to dropping for him in an instant, on command. And it amuses the robot that he'd dedicate a moment more to bidding his erection farewell: if anyone's going to be without any touch, it's him. Tension floods him anyway, the aching delight of knowing that his Bonded would be eagerly stuffing himself with his cock a thought to make Mettaton pant and thrust as if the time between this touch and his Bonded's lips surrounding his arousal would take forever. But that stroke is over too soon, and the Ascian is sliding down to his knees, eyes locked with his.
Mettaton swallows. He tastes Emet-Selch's blood in his mouth and feels it sticking to his lips, drying on his face. He must look radiant, positively beautiful to Emet-Selch's gaze. He knows he does, and Mettaton smiles at him, drinking in the sight of the other man seated between his hips and the wall, their fingers tangled in chains and crystal. He can practically feel his gaze raking down his figure, a dedication enough to make him feel chills (and how much Mettaton enjoys the feeling of chill- it makes him feel hotter than anything, he's learned), until eyes of gold land upon his cock. And though he possesses no heartbeat, he can almost feel a needy pulse in his groin; it's a tightness for sure, as if his body's aching to burst already.
Having his eyes upon him is horribly arousing. Having Emet-Selch act as his audience, only for Mettaton to watch him in return... It could be enough to get him off, he thought. Everything they do to each other is electric.
Hips eager, body incapable of stilling, it takes everything he has to give Emet-Selch the first eager move, to draw out this moment of anticipation for Emet-Selch to admire his length. And wordlessly, he manages to stroke Mettaton's ego: he sighs in relief, telepathic in his understanding of his Bonded's ardor for all he sees. And that love for him is made manifest when Emet-Selch pounces, shoving his face where it belongs.
Mettaton's free hand curls into the back of Emet-Selch's skull, shoving him harder against his crotch as he rubs and licks and moans with such enjoyment that Mettaton thinks they're noises of his own. He might think that because he can't stop his own pleasure, sighs and stutters from the sight and sensation of his Bonded ravishing his cock and his balls with sucking kisses, burying his face so deeply between his thighs and rubbing the shaft of his cock against his whole face. (And he thinks to himself that as soon as he comes like this, yes — he would bring them to his bed, lock Emet-Selch between his thighs all over again, and rub him so thoroughly with his thighs that he'd be marked, made his, forced into his crotch with permanency and able only to lick and suck his cock as he drowns in him—) Someone who loves him this much, who would eat him alive if given the chance, would feel so lucky, so honored, to be given this kind of intimate access. Mettaton shudders, shifting his legs further apart for greater access.
He hisses at his lover's voice, groaning from deep in his throat at the thought. Don't stop, he says... And how could he?
How could he. He can't stop: Mettaton can't get enough when Emet-Selch's lips are surrounding the glans, slipping over him with pleasure so clear that he thought his heart might burst at the sight of it. He loves him so much, he realizes: to witness Emet-Selch so pleased, so in his element, so safe in this place found between his increasingly carnal lover's thighs... Mettaton grips into the back of his head some more, giving him his agency to take his cock as he pleases for the moment. He moans and gasps and nearly pleads in his rising intonation, hips wound tight with the desire to thrust.]
Ohhh, Hades... [For the moment, Mettaton's hand strokes the back of his head encouragingly.] The sight of you... is just as intoxicating as you feel— Ah...
[He can scarcely believe how aroused he already is. He realizes that any time he can steal Emet-Selch's breath, Mettaton feels most immediately turned on. Likewise, his lover... The idol watches him sliding inexorably down the length of his cock, taking it easy, soft as his tongue rubbing along the underside of him. (Emet-Selch is soft, and sensitive, and only guarded by a biting exterior — but he loves so much, feels so much, and Mettaton can hardly take it, how much he wants to suck kisses into his entire body.) He's made to take a moment just watching as his Bonded stops, just where Mettaton can feel the sloping head of his cock held around the tight back of Emet-Selch's mouth — a dare to push forward.
Mettaton smiles at Emet-Selch and strokes his hair. He wants to tell him how beautiful he is in his knowing wait, eager for Mettaton to take him as he is; and Mettaton translates that mercy into a slower rock of his hips, first guiding Emet-Selch back toward the wall so that he's not slammed there. But as soon as he's given no space to pull back, Mettaton rolls his hips, slipping his cock with force into the back of Emet-Selch's throat for a spell.
He cries out on a voice clear and delighted. This is where he belongs, and this is what Emet-Selch was meant to take; looking down upon him like this is proof of it, and Mettaton hums fondly amidst those moans as he continues to rock his hips. Each move is a pull back and a push deeper, the briefest chance for air before it's robbed from him by the thick of his head obstructing his throat. Mettaton groans and the sight, the sensation, the tightness; the view of Emet-Selch's hand held above his head, pinned to the wall. ...He'll steal his other hand next, just to ensure that he's made helpless, made prone, made to submit himself to Mettaton's body and design.]
Hades, oh, l-look at me, up— [For the meantime, Mettaton continues thrusting, continues shoving the thickness of the glans into Emet-Selch's throat only to withdraw it, but his finger caresses his jaw in demand.] Up at me, I want... You—
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A low rumble works in the back of his throat at the feeling of hands in his hair, a contact that served as both petting and holding him to where he should be, and Emet-Selch is awash with the strange sense of being at peace, of knowing exactly where he belonged and what he was doing, and being utterly at ease with it all. The love that was evident in this darkness, of being accepted and cared for and taken, and the love he felt for him in reply. Passionate and ruthless, vicious and tender; it was no wonder that something intense on so many levels was this addictive.
Gently, almost, he's nudged back, all chance at freedom shaved away by degrees. And Emet-Selch pants insufficiently around Mettaton's length while he still can, as his body goes tense, rigid, once he feels the back of his head guided so carefully to the wall. He was trapped; he was safe. But he has no time to dwell on it, on an anticipation that he thought he might come from on its own- before he's facing the rock of hips, the smooth glide of his lover's cock back, to the back of his throat and within it, a fierce shove that pinions him to the wall. That impales him there, with a pleasure that he can no longer voice, that he can only express through the constrictions of his throat, through the shuddering of his body, and all of the rapture evident through Bond.
And Mettaton cries out when he can't, providing the moans the Ascian is no longer able to give him, but hearing them in his lover's tone, knowing they were in response to the tightness and heat his throat was giving him- that satisfied in itself. For all that Mettaton deserved to be glorified in voice, through word and wordless plea alike, the adoration written in the lines of his body would have to suffice. In the giving up of air, of thought, of self, in needing him so dearly, in wanting him so completely that he's left trembling.
It's reflex alone that has Emet-Selch gasp between thrusts, sucking in sharp breaths, his body reacting to this sudden obstruction as though it were something dangerous, as though replacing oxygen with Mettaton's erection was not a clear improvement, the optional giving way to the mandatory. But thankfully each roll of hips, each claim of his throat feels as though it steals that bit more of his air, and he's never quite able to replenish anything that he loses. And with his head pressed back to the wall, there was no way for him to accidentally pull back for breath, to undo the work Mettaton was doing in replacing it with his cock alone.
One arm was held up, pushed against the wall with as much security as his head was, tangled in chains and fingers, constricted. They were locked together as they should be, and even were their pendants not wrapping them, he would've wanted to cling to him regardless, to be caught in every degree possible. So though he could use this fleeing opportunity and relative freedom of his opposite hand to touch himself, to drag fingers along a length left aching, and made ever stiffer from every moment he's deprived of air- he doesn't. It doesn't even occur to Emet-Selch as an option, that hand instead going back to his lover's thigh, holding onto him as he thrusts, tangling in his fur. An encouragement unnecessary, but he was drawn to touch him, to pull him closer, to shove him deeper, to take his throat and his body and never leave him.
A hand, at his jaw. His eyes flash open at the word look, already forcing his gaze back upward to Mettaton's face before he'd even finished speaking- the same impulse that had struck him when the puca had ordered him down. To listen, to obey, to provide- to give Mettaton everything that he wanted of him.
And so he watches, the sight of his lover's face smeared with his blood so very beautiful, dangerous in both ecstasy and threat, and he tries to moan and chokes instead around the thickness of the glans penetrating his throat. Even while having him, he wanted him, despairingly, endlessly. Emet-Selch knew what he looked like, what Mettaton must be seeing of him like this: bruised and bitten and bleeding, only partially stripped with his erection both visibly hard and neglected. Kneeling before him, with his head shoved to the wall, pierced lips split and mouth and throat made to take the girth Mettaton was stuffing into them. The way he twitched and gasped- and was progressively mostly silent, choked noises stifled by his cock. And the Ascian's obvious, obvious abject pleasure in all of the foregoing.]
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Every shred of pleasure Emet-Selch feels over their indulgence is the flattery Mettaton seeks, and he gasps, over and over as he loses himself to pleasure, his pace hastening, each push of his hips penetrating deeper, so deep that he occasionally finds himself letting the head of his cock remain there, rubbing it heavily in the spasming tightness of Emet-Selch's throat. He can feel the sensitive tip surrounded by texture and heat, the tightness of his throat variable and unpredictable enough to make him stammer and choke on nothing. He stutters and squeezes Emet-Selch's fingers, his free hand continuing to linger in Emet-Selch's hair.]
Oh, you... I love you- I've... made you so- irrevocably... mine.
[Mettaton's voice is a pitch higher, desperate and keyed up beyond sense. Slight sounds of pleasure slip from his throat, accompanying each drag of his cock so deep in Emet-Selch's throat — a throat he practically uses for pleasure, letting texture, heat, and slickness drown him. Having his mentality slipping away with the presence of pendants is a dangerous game to flirt with, and Mettaton increasingly neglects entirely to give Emet-Selch any space to breathe...
But he doesn't feel he's doing this in an act of self-serving, even if he uses Emet-Selch's tongue and lips to please himself. There's a full awareness of Emet-Selch losing of himself here. He sees it in his eyes, his trembling; he can feel it in the way his throat tries still to create sound, the rapt attention he pays to the length of is cock, the tightening of lips and the stroking of tongue and the sheer welcoming he gives to the glans. And their Bond — it would be a thing so intense that Mettaton's conceit and vanity tells him that nobody could ignore this carnality between them, nor the sheer depth of their love.
There's a period of tightness Mettaton can't ignore, firm and dragging along the corona. The idol throws his head back with a rapturous growl, voice pitching lower and harder in his ecstasy.
Losing himself to wanton indulgence as he is, he still gazes down upon his lover: his face flush, blood deep and contrasting against his soft skin, where bruises mottle and pretty his body. His head is against the wall, lips sliding ever closer to the very base of his cock, and Emet-Selch grabs desperately at his hip, fingers tied into fur. His erection is painfully arousing to behold, and Mettaton moans again at the sight, wishing he could suck and bite and mark that too in this moment of madness.
He's filled with lust, even as he indulges completely in sex. Mettaton drives himself even madder just considering how he'd never had this, how Emet-Selch brought him to these heights and continues to surpass it all over and over. He wants to marry him and keep him and fuck him until he's left so full of anticipation and want that it becomes ritual, to please each other so ravenously. They can't get enough.
As Mettaton loses himself to cries of pleasure, he at least withdraws for the briefest of moment here. It's a single chance for breath when he'd otherwise lost track of time and reality, recoiling only because he's arching his back. His nails rake over the back of Emet-Selch's neck. But the moment for breath is over too soon as Mettaton shoves Emet-Selch's lips down over his length, forcing with the grip of his hand the Ascian's face deeply against his crotch and grinding his hips into him.
The euphoria is immense, and Mettaton shifts around and stuffs his cock into Emet-Selch's throat with wild abandon, sense lost and ego stroked. Emet-Selch finds him so beautiful that he could steal his attention anytime; finds him so lovely that he'd do anything for him. He loves to hear it on his voice, but he also loves to feel his voice ineptly squeezing the head of his cock with erratic tightness, loves to see his body shuddering in pleasure, loves to see his erection standing so rigid for im. Mettaton pushes his cock down his throat some more, pleases himself some more, and knows Emet-Selch is only made safer and more possessive for it.
Neither of them established any sort of way to relay if Emet-Selch was losing too much breath, but it's not a concern of Mettaton's in this moment... He's too full of need and conceit, too lost to rapture and fantasy, and Emet-Selch loves having his breath stolen by him besides.]
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This seemed a completely rational thought to have in a mind where thoughts were increasingly not happening, were increasingly distorted by the burning in his lungs and the dark haze in his head. And yet despite the haze, so much was so sharp and so clear, and they were the only details that mattered. The sensation of the ridge of Mettaton's cock pushing into his throat and more frequently getting caught there, squeezed into place by the spasms around it, refraining from pulling back into his mouth. And the natural way it kept exploring deeper, claiming more and more of his throat, and Emet-Selch longed to tell him of how good he felt, how thick he was, how stiff and how hot- and to demand again that he never stop.
But he can't, of course, and he didn't even have the words for it besides, nothing to convey this adoration.
So he holds on instead- to his thigh, to those feelings. He rubs his tongue against what he can of the shaft as it moves within his mouth, a welcoming touch as each shove finds him deeper. And he watches him, as much as he can, devoted not to the task of it, but to the sight of him in his terrible brilliance, and losing himself to a madness that could only be blamed in part on a lack of air. There was a fulfillment here that he never expected, and he would never, ever, let him go.
Pinpricks of pain accompany the scoring of the back of his neck, providing both a heat, and a small dampness to sticky the strands of hair there. But more noticeable yet is the helpful way Mettaton's hand further secures his head in place, steadying and stroking him, making sure he can't accidentally slide away from the thrusting of his cock. It was impossible to comprehend being loved more than this.
A moment's call for air- if even that much. If even that long. And Emet-Selch swallows it in with a gasping sound before he can stop himself, his body's automatic processes desperately attempting to keep his blood oxygenated when the man himself was encouraging all attempts otherwise. But it's a second of air that offers only barest clarity, the dizziness and ever-increasing euphoria made that much more explicit when they surround this rumor of, this mistake of breath.
It's also the loudest sound he's been able to make in a while, and is quickly lost again, cut off as Mettaton's body arches, hips jerking, burying himself completely in his throat.
His eyes keep wanting to squeeze shut but Emet-Selch forces them open, even when his face is so close to Mettaton's body that he can't look up, can only gaze into his crotch, viewing the short, brutal thrusts from the most intimate kind of vantage point. And the simple thought (if it could even be called something as cohesive as thought) of exactly how he was able to obtain this particular perspective, that it was only possible in a position with a cock deep in his mouth, a body ground into his face- keeps him shuddering, his own body twitching, as though trying to bury himself deeper still in his lover's crotch.
He keeps trying to cry out, but he can't; the focus and relaxation he can usually manage during deep-throating is hardly in evidence. Focus remains, of a sort, but it's a focus only on sensation and need, on how thick Mettaton felt in his throat, driving his way into him and rubbing, stroking his erratically clenching throat. Emet-Selch chokes on him, around him, gagging, convulsing, without even the slightest hint of wanting him to stop. He would moan if he could, and in his ardor he keeps trying, not caring about (and in a way, further enjoying) the way it only made the spasming of his throat worse. It kept wanting to reject Mettaton's presence, but that very process caused them both immense pleasure, so it was a tolerable betrayal. It wasn't as though the two of them couldn't continue to override it anyway.
As the idea of losing too much breath would've been an absurd one to Emet-Selch. Even if they had been sensible enough to arrange some method of requesting a pause when voice was unavailable, the Ascian would never have used it. He could be driven unconscious, and even then, were Mettaton to stop prematurely, he'd likely only resent it.
There's a lot of saliva forming that has nowhere to go- or at least, has no way of escaping down his throat, so he can't help but drool around him, something that troubles Emet-Selch not at all. There was only the awareness of how slick he was making his lover's erection, and how hot they were making each other- which was only fitting. As easily incensed as they were by one another, there could be no other outcome between them.]
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It drips down his chin, the same sort of attractiveness attached to the sight of his lip hovering close to the head with a line of saliva connecting them... It's a sign that his lover's hooked on his cock, drooling around his girth and clearly loving every moment of this occupation.
He's ecstatic, feeling properly cherished and loved for his body, his soul, every inch of him appreciated and coveted. Syllables intended to be idle musings - about Emet-Selch's love for being fucked, his obvious enjoyment of being ravaged, how beautiful he looks so intensely yet rapturously swallowing his cock - escape and die on his tongue, thoughts impossible to form. He has none to spare, only the pleasure he feels in unshackling his inhibitions and giving way to greater madness. Emet-Selch is undoubtedly elated to be receiving him with such dimension, rubbing deep in his throat, and Mettaton has the vaguest recollection of all the times he's fucked him from behind — the pleasure in filling Emet-Selch with himself.
His fingers twist in Emet-Selch's, pinned absolutely to the wall as the Puca reacts with elation to his adoring Bonded, each encounter with him new heights of pleasure unknown. With a grinding thrust deeper, Mettaton presses his lover's face into his crotch with unrivaled greed, grinning down upon him with teeth — but it's an expression quickly interrupted by his own pleasure at the sensation of choking and vocalizing around his cock, squeezing and tightening like he's swallowing him down, a suction to die for. His cries are unguarded and full, hips rocking deeper and hand clutching harder onto Emet-Selch's fingers.
Scarcely capable of fathoming how close he is to release, Mettaton nearly gives himself away to this rhythm, this deep, unrelenting pounding. This total domination of Emet-Selch's throat and breath. He would be content to spill over in his lover's mouth right now, to eject his load so deeply in his throat that he's made to swallow.
But his curiosity springs a spare thought in his addled mind, one enough for him to withdraw slightly. The Puca pulls back, gaze barely focused in his delight as he sighs, hums, and regards his lover with indelible fondness that manages to look sharp and wicked in the light, dark fur contrasting against an eye of gold.]
Now. Swallow. I... I'm so close- Swallow around me... You want my come, don't you?
[Of course Emet-Selch wants his come. He, the man who would claim his love over all else, would want his cock and his come deep in his throat and his body, would relish the opportunity to be so stuffed by him from any direction that he found him inescapable. Mettaton shudders, gently tucking a strand of hair behind Emet-Selch's ear as he slides his length into his throat all over again, all in one smooth, unrelenting motion. Emet-Selch belongs to him; his throat is for him to occupy, no matter what.
But Mettaton's fascination isn't over. He wants to feel Emet-Selch swallow around his length and wants to feel his length taken deep into his throat, wants to feel a plunge within him that feels as though he can't pull out, but he also wants to feel just how taken they both are. His finger traces around Emet-Selch's ear and drifts under his lover's chin, settling his palm along his throat. It's the same sort of hold one might make to choke, and his fingers rest tenderly over injuries made by claws. But it's clear that his fascination is less in choking or injury, and more in trying to sense if he can feel his cock occupying Emet-Selch's throat.
Robot though he may be, Mettaton pants wildly. Hungrily, and even he drools, paying no mind at all when a drip of it lands upon Emet-Selch's face between his desirous, heavy panting. He strokes his throat with his thumb, encouraging Emet-Selch to gulp around his aching length. His voice is labored and heavy with lust.]
Swallow me, Hades. I want to... feel, ahh...
[He can't remember what he's trying to communicate aside from the fact that he wants to be pulled and sucked and taken, wants to touch the sensation of Emet-Selch's throat tight around him. He rolls his hips some more into the other man's mouth, watching his lips forced onto the root of him, face nestled so close to his crotch as his breath is once more taken from him. Mettaton replaces air once more with the thick, obstructing glans of his cock, and promises his come as compensation for this trade. His finger runs along his throat expectantly, feeling eagerly the start of his length so tightly held in him.]
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So any pulling back whatsoever was intolerable, a loss unspeakable. His eyes scan upwards as best they can; the only protest he can muster. But Emet-Selch is mollified and fascinated all over again by the sight of Mettaton above him, tall and dark and lovely, the face of some manner of primal magnificence. And the demand he made of him completed the look, and just as before, in the wake of hearing such a command, in comprehending it, how could he want to do anything other than obey? Their desires were the same.
And Mettaton slid back into place, with the sort of utter rightness that left him trembling and faint.
His throat was stretched, sore- both from the length that had glided and pushed its way inside, and also from the way that motion seemed to agitate the bloody wounds left on his neck. Marks in the shape and position of claws, marks that continue to bleed sluggishly with all of this work his throat was being made to endure. Mettaton's hand pressing over them further disturbs any attempt for gentle clots to form, and Emet-Selch is sure, somehow, that he's not imagining the wetness running down his neck. Some is his own saliva, having dripped and trailed down there from his chin (and even that has a slight bloody tinge, considering the wound in his lip is likewise getting little time to recover), but the rest is blood.
It was fitting, it would match- he didn't think but only felt- to have blood down his neck and come down his throat, both sensations his lover was considerate enough to provide him. Different ways of piercing and claiming him, of marking him with his attention both inside and out.
And he swallows around him. Held in place by cock and hands, lovingly kept in position and admired- because what part of his visage now was not admirable? The work they were both putting into it, both the taking of his cock and the giving of it, the drip of drool upon his face, and his own salivation. The position they were in, himself on shuddering knees, Mettaton fucking him against the wall, grinding his head against it with each roll of hips. Tenderly, he could feel Mettaton's fingers palpitate the length caught in his throat, and the Ascian's entire body goes taut at the sensation, of his lover stroking his own cock through the material of his tensing, squeezing throat. A stroking that serves to make even clearer every detail of his shaft, the sloping, giving shape of the head, and the way his body was compressing it, stroking it in turn. The rub his throat could provide with each swallow, as though he could pull him into his body entirely, starved for every inch of his length, and aching for every trace of his come.
And so he keeps swallowing because how could he ever stop? His throat, desperately, futily, keeps trying to clear what was blocking it by these clutching attempts to drag him deeper. And the rest of him was ecstatic at it, at the way his lips were wrapped all the way around the base, nose and face shoved into his lover's crotch with no way of pulling free. His hands claw into him, and his own cock felt harder than he could ever imagine it being. His need was so sharp, it was the only bit of clarity he had, but it was a need that encompassed Mettaton's own, was intrinsically tied to it, and he knew, in some fathomless way, that he could only be satisfied by feeling the thickness of his lover's come spilling down his throat. A heat that would put all else to shame, and he'd squeeze it all from him, every drop- the massaging spasms of his neck would make sure of it.
Because of course he wanted his come, wanted to feel it and taste it and have it, to take this part of him even deeper, further than even his cock could reach.
A whine is trapped in his throat along with all the other sounds he can't make, strangled and lost to the ceaseless rubbing of Mettaton's erection. A pleading for his come, to fill him and mark him again; he was swallowing so studiously around him, he deserved it, he needed it, he required it. His chest burned, and his thoughts were disordered, impressions only of everything he wanted, of his lover's pounding, of his encroaching form towering over him, holding him, loving him.]
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But he can barely keep focusing on that when Emet-Selch keeps swallowing, just as he demanded of him. The second one rattles him completely; Mettaton's knee buckles for a moment as he supports himself against the wall, crying out in ecstasy and feeling as though Emet-Selch's taking his length for himself, committing himself to completely and utterly pleasuring him with a zealous rapture that Mettaton can only match. Their pleasure is a fever excessively hot to the touch, and Mettaton instead wants to give the entirety of his body over to Emet-Selch. He would not only trust him to understand, but to always give him the pleasure of every experience in as many dimensions as allowed.
It's never too much, but if anything could be likened to that, this would be it. It's perfect for Mettaton, an amount of sensation that overfills his senses. Emet-Selch and himself always, always know what they want, and never disappoint.]
Yes- Yes! Hades, you're so good—
[Speech blends in with sounds of pleasure and delight. The robot continues to drag his cock inside of the other man's throat, filling it completely and finding himself knocked dizzy at the drag of the thicker glans in the texture of Emet-Selch's throat. Each thrust, however, betrays more and more to Mettaton that his cock's only going to be pulled deeper and deeper with every thick swallow around him. It's a sensation that blows Mettaton's mind. If he so much as attempts to pull back, a relentless swallow will yank back at his length, sending him starstruck and moaning, and it's a pleasure so immense that it's all Mettaton can do to rock his hips into Emet-Selch's lips. He can tell that he wants his cock so badly, aching for him in every way possible, and Mettaton is more than willing to give him his whole body if he wished it, for any purpose they might design in their indulgence. It's a sort of worship so grand that he finds himself panting all over again in desire while he's already filling Emet-Selch with his arousal.
Mettaton cries out again, his lover's dutiful swallowing enough to push him over the edge as though he were the one aching sharply and untouched for hours, longing for release. He feels so suddenly and acutely how badly he needs to come, to give Emet-Selch his release: it's a heat that compounds and multiplies with each swallow, each stroke of his throat around the whole of his length. Emet-Selch demands it, sucking so erotically upon his length with an eagerness that flatters and arouses Mettaton beyond sense, a craving for him so maddening that he can't control himself. And why bother with control when it's with Emet-Selch? There's nothing at all to hold back, ever.
Mettaton's thrusts are short and sharp, keeping his cock firmly lodged in Emet-Selch's throat as his fingers palpate his neck for the tangible signs of his capacity. Emet-Selch's body is full of him, so full that a press against his throat yields the shifting form of his length, thick and full, and... Mettaton chokes around a pant when he tries to speak/stutter, eye blowing wide at the endless sucking, the impossibility of even extricating his cock even if he wanted to. But why would he ever? He loves it right here, and Emet-Selch loves it so much that he'll take it and keep it for his own pleasure. He swallows and laps and even whines and moans around his length, eyes blearily focused in his absolute passion and pleasure.
For some reason, Mettaton gets the flash of an inclination on his part from long ago: the desire to see Emet-Selch affected. In this moment he can't remember what they were talking about, but there was the desire to figure out what affected the Ascian so. What he could do to see him undone, to see him react, and this sight...
Among plenty, plenty of other sights he's had of him, it's beautiful. He's beautiful, in any form or shape or mood he should take, a true compliment to Mettaton's own beauty, he thought. Emet-Selch gentled and impassioned and incensed and pleased, sights of him sorrowful, vulnerable, content, and soothed, they all fill Mettaton even while every primal part of him fixates on his loss of inhibition and his base, lascivious indulgence.
When Mettaton comes, it's sudden and hot, release filling Emet-Selch's throat absolutely as he thrusts as deep as he can go — a depth that suggests intention, the primal desire to spill his load as deep as he can penetrate. Emet-Selch's shoved deeply between his legs as he pushes himself into him, giving him as much of his cock as his thickly swallowing throat demands of him. Someone who loves him this much deserves every bit of him, and he knows the girth of him is sure to please his Bonded's need to choke and lose himself to the pleasure of deprivation, surely robbed of all chance for air and given instead a thick cock to suck on. Even in his rapturous climax, Mettaton still finds himself stroking Emet-Selch's neck with a sort of pressing motion, as though he could coax his cock ever deeper, pinching at the form of him and rubbing upwards along the front of Emet-Selch's throat. The texture, heat, and slickness of his lover is to die for, and time slows to a standstill while Mettaton feels himself succumbing to an orgasm that feels endless.
It's a climax that staggers Mettaton enough to have him leaning against the wall, erection still lodged in his lover's throat as he leans his neck forward, eyes locked upon Emet-Selch and mind emptied of anything save for his pleasure, passion, possession, reverence, and love. But every swallow or hint of tightness feels as though it wrings from him a drop more, a sound louder, a stuttered sigh, or a full-bodied twitch, rendering him further and further into a pleasured stupor.]
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When he'd first encountered Mettaton by chance- a situation surrounded by fear, with the anticipation of death- how could he have ever anticipated that it would lead him to this? Choking, bleeding, scarred and suffocating himself willingly, desperately, sucking on the thickness of his lover's cock as though he'd been waiting for this opportunity for the whole of his life. Or that his life no longer mattered so long as he could please him. He loved him, he loved him, and he would never let him leave, and he would do all that he could to ensure Mettaton never wanted to. Tears well up in his eyes, from physical exertion, from what he was putting his body through, but also from the utter solace he was feeling, in giving himself up. In giving himself over, every mood and thought and expression, no matter how personal or painful- but there was no space for holding anything back.
...Mettaton was so important to him. Even when he grated, when he was deliberately provoking his temper, threatening his patience, disagreeing with him on one matter or another. Emet-Selch wanted his vulnerability and his honesty, those moments when he was both serious and concerned, thoughtful and thoughtless, tender and taken over by primal, base indulgence.
It felt endless. It might as well be endless, as time stopped mattering, stopped being counted. His throat yet convulsing, yet tugging on Mettaton's cock as though it could keep him there, prevent him from pulling away and ending this- and the softer feeling of a hand stroking the outside of his neck, encouraging this pull, this devotion to him. The way Mettaton could clutch at his own erection through his neck, feel doubly over every swallow, every suck, feel how perfectly the glans lay within his neck, fitting there with a tightness to weep over. And the Ascian's reward for his endurance was heat, wetness- his lover's release spilling down his throat, burning him, his throat seizing up further in its own display of passion (and not a response to suffocating). And as the sensation warms him, fills him, Emet-Selch is aware (insomuch as he's aware) of a matching rolling, bursting sort of heat, but one centered much lower on his own body.
Even if his cock had gone without touch, it wasn't as though other parts of his body weren't being lavishly treated, stroked and caressed, loved and enjoyed. Every rub from the tip of Mettaton's cock coaxed his own orgasm closer, brought his own need to sharper heights. Grinded into the wall, fucked and taken and loved- his climax was just another expression of his own adoration for him, the experience of swallowing down the result of his lover's ecstasy more than enough to drag him over the edge with him.
Hold on Mettaton's leg faltering, his fingers clasp at fur he can't feel. His other arm was numb. He was weak, faint, weighted down and weightless alike, disconnected, disoriented- and safe. Safe and loved with such understanding that it was akin to being tempered once more. Even their souls were bound together, weren't they? Tied up and mixed, until he could no longer distinguish Mettaton's from his own.
Trapped against the wall as he is though, his body can't do the sensible thing and allow reflex to take over; all the shuddering jerks he makes are as stifled as his voice, as incomplete, as ineffective at dislodging the cock so wonderfully buried inside him. Even now, he doesn't want it to leave. And his movements grow weaker, the world darker- or is it brighter? But all detail escapes him; there's nothing outside of this.
It can't really be called consciousness anymore, but everything had stopped hurting for one perfect, infinite instant. Without thought, how could memory hurt him? And without breath, how could there be thought? This was rapture, deadly and beautiful alike, and that this would also lead to a complete and permanent suffocation should Mettaton not pull back was just the consequence of perfection.
On any retreat, he'll be likely to collapse immediately afterward, though once oxygen is allowed to fill his lungs and replenish his blood, he'll come to quickly enough.]
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[He sounds possessed, voice honey and body so hot that he could burn. It doesn't at all feel like the same kind of tightness he feels when taking Emet-Selch from behind when he notes his orgasm, this one manifesting instead with other signs: one that carries through their Bond and compounds upon his own climax, that he can ride along with an extension of pleasure... and another sign. This one's more like the sudden laxity after Emet-Selch comes... though it takes Mettaton a few elongated instants to notice that he's slackened so much.
But in the meanwhile, Mettaton still feels like he's climaxing. It's wonderful. He can't even wrap his mind around anything, nor can he think about anything but themselves, he and Emet-Selch and their beautiful coupling. They're a paragon of synchronicity, two people who can be so juxtaposed but still find themselves pleased and trusting in each other's presence. Mettaton's vanity manifests itself in this way during these moments, relishing Emet-Selch's devotion to his pleasure and his body in the only way that a lack of words were acceptable: by swallowing his cock and breathing him instead.
Not a sustainable arrangement. But it was doable for now, and it leaves Mettaton surpassing the enchantment of his brilliant jewelry and succumbing to a different sort of feral need, the desire to continue marking and possessing with reassurance and love. If this works anywhere into monstrous, instinctual habit, Emet-Selch is his, and he wants to tend to him and make him comfortable. An extension of himself and one of his own, someone he'd protect tooth and nail. Overwhelmed with the desire to check on him, Mettaton does withdraw his (hardly) softening length, giving way to the desire for his knees to buckle. A controlled fall, Mettaton lands on his knees before his lover—]
Ah!
[Only for him to collapse forward upon him. Mettaton gasps in surprise, catching him against his shoulder and wrapping him tight in a winding arm, overcome with the need to take him to bed. To care for him and appreciate him, even though he's the one deserving of so much appreciation... This is how it is, when someone's just a part of him, entwined with his very essence. Mettaton doesn't waste a second in falling prey to his possessive instinct, rolling his wrist a few times to free them of each other's pendants before lifting Emet-Selch in his arms and settling him gently upon the bed, head against a pillow and the rest of his body to follow.
But he notices, then, that Emet-Selch's unresponsive for the moment. There's concern in his heart, and Mettaton's impulse is to straddle his lover's body, leaning down with the edge of a throw blanket to tidy his face of saliva while also licking and kissing at him, spreading more mess, more saliva, more blood. He presses his lips to his neck to start and finds that he's thankfully with a pulse stronger than the time he'd drank him of blood... so Mettaton encourages his wakefulness with more licks and kisses to his face and his neck, licking at his split lip copiously.
His panic slips into background noise, reassured somehow that Emet-Selch would rouse for him. His body won't still, the effects of the pendants enough to make his appetite for attention, movement, love, and yet more sex ravenous.
Mettaton rubs his face against Emet-Selch's cheek encouragingly, trying to pull him out of his slip of consciousness, welcoming though that darkness may be.]
Hades? Dear, are you all right?
[His voice is gentle and intimate, soft enough to fall upon Emet-Selch's ears alone. The robot keeps his body hovering above his Bonded's, not exerting his weight upon him in his recovery.]
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Unaware of his boneless slump into Mettaton's arms, the Ascian's body is slack but- with his airway now clear- breathing once more. Something that he's more than competent at handling when he's not deliberately overriding himself, choosing to fill himself with an engorged cock instead. And there's less coughing this time, when Mettaton slides himself free of his throat, permitting the lesser entity of air to replace him. While a moment's unconsciousness could lead to a break in control, concentration, and a great deal of choking- Emet-Selch had already been choking on him. This time, the slightly longer period of unconsciousness leads to some manner of relaxing, his throat only reflexively clearing itself a bit as Mettaton carries him unawares to the bed, limp, but occasionally twitching.
Oxygen suffuses his blood, and with it, consciousness, a focusing that triggers a few more coughs, though ones of no particular violence. And Emet-Selch shudders faintly as his eyes open, focusing up on the blurry image of his lover's face above him, puzzled at how either of them got there. The expected sight- insomuch as the Ascian could expect much of anything- would've been of his crotch, his cock, but this was good too. He'd burrow and nuzzle at every part of him he could reach.]
Mettaton....?
[It's not a question of identity, and more a mild case of generalized confusion over what had happened, even as he pieces it back together himself. But he'd just been on his knees, sucking him, swallowing him, held in place and pounded into- and now there was his lover's face against his own, rubbing his cheek and licking at his lips and face, cleaning and messing him anew. Both of these statuses were good, but there was a point of connection he was missing.
But it didn't matter, and he swallows thickly, noting the tenderness in his throat with a shiver, an echo of Mettaton's length remaining there. And he tilts his face against his, kissing upon whatever part of him he can reach, nuzzling at the blood left on his Bonded's own face, still collecting himself.]
I'm-- fine. [Even his voice has a slight rasp to it, a trait that has his newly collected breath pausing once more. He could hardly tell if he was still coming down from arousal (he had climaxed, he was pretty sure of that, he notes with some satisfaction), or was yet maintaining it. The last thing he recalled was still being in the throes of having sex with Mettaton- a condition that had surely barely paused. If his own blood weren't still humming with arousal, the currents of hunger he could feel from Mettaton would've been enough to fuel his interest, keep his rousing senses alight with it.]
You feel... [More statements interrupted with the press of lips, kisses damp with breath and blood. He shifts a hand up to reach for Mettaton's face, only noticing then that his hand was free to do so.] incredible, you know.
[Both in general and also in his throat, his mouth, against his lips. But it was a thought to invoke memory, to invoke heat, to invoke want- feeling no trace of alarm at all for having briefly blacked out from a lack of air. If anything, only a sort of rush from it remained.]
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Libidinous, open-mouthed and hot. It's obvious that Mettaton hasn't had his fill, as if that were ever a threshold he could meet. But he keeps his hips hovering above Emet-Selch for the moment, "trying" to "relax" his lover (and failing at it miserably). In truth, Mettaton can't get the experience out of his head. It enchants him and keeps bringing him back to detail after detail, and with an energy influential and undeniable like the ones the pendants are bringing him, an easy slip of control, a quicker succumbing to madness atop a self-righteous streak...naturally he's fantasizing about Emet-Selch obvious rapture over getting to suck on his length. Every other smaller detail only slots into place: the sight of blood mixed with saliva dripping from lips made swollen over his cock, the sensation of groans and cries tensing around his length, and the sight of his lover's gaze whenever he attempted eye contact with him are immediately inundating his sex-addled psyche.
Emet-Selch says he feels incredible. Another point to his ego, another stroke to his immediately renewing arousal, and Mettaton exhales shakily. He may be a robot and thus blessed with unique anatomy and a recovery period to match, but the fur of his, dark like an oil spill, is suggestion enough of his status still, another reason toward such unusually lively energy.
But he brings his claws up to stroke Emet-Selch's cheek with that same loving smile, ears leaning forward even as he faces down at his Bonded. He makes sure to press firmly against his cheek as though to remind him of these sharpened claws. A cause for a frenzied nature only encouraged out of him as Emet-Selch puts his body out on display for his care and coveting, and Mettaton's made to imagine the many other ways he wants his Bonded.]
I feel so incredible because you compliment me so well, darling... How could I resist you? [His kisses have an edge of need, sucking shortly against his lower lip, slight dips of his tongue into Emet-Selch's mouth. There's absolutely no getting around the fact that Mettaton's still aroused... (Or, aroused all over again? More likely: he came hard, and Emet-Selch would knot it.) He's not being very discreet.] And just like I predicted, you came entirely from the sensation of a full throat alone. Full enough to choke around... You know just how to charm me.
["Charm" is a good way to put it, if a bit more on the innocent side. Emet-Selch has caught his attention over and over, and Mettaton's captivated by his form and his needs, the way he experiences pleasure in such an emotionally charged way. It's just the kind of expressiveness he's drawn to, immensely and completely.
The robot pulls back slightly to behold Emet-Selch again, sighing at him. Drinking in his shoulders, streams of blood blurred and drying on his skin. ...Mettaton feels he still needs to be stripped to his entirety, and in a manner very predatory, he licks his lip at the taste of him that lingers. It's a reminder to get a complete picture of Emet-Selch's body, and he dismounts his figure to let his eyes draw from his toes to his eyes.
Mettaton runs a finger through residual come upon Emet-Selch's abdomen, sticky and thick, attention upon it heavy and wanting. He sighs.]
You came so hard, at that... Like you wouldn't want me to stop.
[Mettaton doesn't want to stop. He wants to give Emet-Selch his length to such a degree that the compliments are unending, the pleasure nonstop, their love so radiant that it's written into their every gesture. ...It's excessive in itself, how quickly he's taken to wanting to ravish Emet-Selch's body all over again. He's fully aroused, even when he stoops back in to kiss Emet-Selch gently.]
I'm glad you're all right. And... that you liked it.
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There was no fill to be had. Not ever, and particularly not ever with a puca brought into the fullness of his natural instincts, and an Ascian available to indulge them with.
He leans into the touch of claws as though they were the sweetest caress- and they were, to him. They were capable of both kindness and damage, brought him the reassurance of a threat. The promise of blood and affection. Mettaton was attractive at all times, but in a mood like this, Emet-Selch loved him for his dangerous beauty.
Not being a primarily-mechanically-bodied-entity, however, Emet-Selch is not as blessed with the ability to be as immediately ready once more, but his cock still fails to completely soften, as though his blood knew better than to try and head anywhere else. In thought and manner though, he was completely given over to anticipation, insatiable and hot, feeling simultaneously eased by an orgasm that had felt timeless, and keyed up in pursuit of another one.
And he shivers, the muscles underneath Mettaton's touch tightening, fully aware of what the damp stickiness he was dragging a finger through was, and that alone was a point of arousal. To have that evidence of his own response, that he could be rendered both stiff and satisfied alike by the weight of a cock in his mouth... he felt nearly smug about it, as though this were a capacity to be proud of, to be so enamored of his lover. Even thinking about sucking his cock would be enough to get him hard all over again, and had he not just climaxed, he knew he'd be rubbing an erection up against Mettaton's body at this very moment.
Instead, he can only admire the look of his lover's, gaze scanning downward, along his body when the puca had shifted away from him (and how they both drank each other in, he noticed- himself, with his blood and his bruising, and the robot with his expanses of dark fur- and indeed, an erection that was only asking to be enjoyed, worshiped). It was a good look on him, he thought, this more predatory-rabbit self, with his claws and the brightness of his eye contrasting with the darker suggestion of his manner, feral hints that could be called to the fore in an instant.
And when Mettaton leans over him again, Emet-Selch shifts underneath him, wanting just as much to be divested of fabric, to be fully visible and fully available to him. To not be even the remotest bit restricted from feeling his touch. Fur or metal or claw, saliva and come... he wanted all of it on his skin, every texture its own reward, its own enticement.]
I still don't want you to stop.
[Words given around a breath, around a kiss, eyes going back to Mettaton's face, pressing up to meet his lips with his own, practically leaning up to try and meet him. The idol may have just came, and his renewed erection may not currently be in his face or down his throat, but Emet-Selch didn't consider him as stopped. It was only the position that had changed, not desire, not longing, not need.]
How could I, when... I love you this much?
[He loved this, and he loved him, someone worth choking himself over in order to please the both of them. And despite the depth of the passions lurking, his answering kisses are similarly gentle, soft- though not particularly chaste, considering the hints of tongue, the way they were progressively more open-mouthed.]
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[His voice is sweet and smooth, an exhalation of amused fascination. It's not only his words that convince him of his desire but his body, the sight of him, the heat of each kiss rising as though their temperature could beat out the heat of Summer. He reciprocates kisses and ups that heat, sucking at his lips and swiping at him with his tongue while his hips thrust against nothing shortly, ineffectually, imagining the sensation of his lover's throat tight around his cock. His mind paints vivid pictures and textures of the feeling of touching his own length through Emet-Selch's throat, imagery obscene and one he considers from multiple angles: what did he look like, throat full of him? What would Emet-Selch think, feeling what he felt instead of having his hands pinned to the wall, digging into his hip? He stutters at the very thought.
He wants Emet-Selch so bad he can't stand it, so Mettaton shifts his weight down to press his arousal against Emet-Selch's faded one, at least to give him something to rub against.
And he moans, sharp and short while he dives in to press his lips to Emet-Selch's with an intense heat. Rising by degrees, his cock feels so hard and engorged already, especially as he rolls his hips into sticky, slick come left behind by his Bonded — a thought that only has him gasping some more. He sinks his teeth into Emet-Selch's lip, nearly puncturing him all over again, but the give of that split lip is great enough that he only forces it to bleed some more. More blood for him to suck and drink and grow intoxicated over, which he does liberally and lovingly, sighs of contentment slipping from his throat.
The very sound of Emet-Selch's voice, throat used and hoarse, could arouse Mettaton in a snap. He knows what he did and what they mutually covet, and he wants it all over again. Could he pound into his throat until his voice was made completely hoarse, syllables a struggle to form? It's terrible how much he wants that, and he continues to grind into Emet-Selch's spent cock for some manner of satisfaction to tide him over until he could... pull himself together for long enough to make his dreams a reality, instead of succumbing to this fever of want.
First thing's first: he wants to see him entirely. The only beauty that could compare to Mettaton's own in this moment of pure vanity is Emet-Selch's naked body, a record of signatures left by Mettaton's lips. Regretfully, he pulls back for a moment, some manner of satiation achieved by having rubbed his hips into Emet-Selch's.
But when he rears up, Mettaton can see Emet-Selch's come along his own cock, along his body. All he can do is freeze to behold it and to fascinate himself over it, the sight of come slicking up his shaft and sticky on the glans. ...He exhales, fixing his attention on Emet-Selch with that luminous depth to his gaze.]
I don't imagine I could stop, darling. You're lucky, aren't you...?
[He doesn't want Mettaton to stop, and Mettaton couldn't stop. He's starving.
With both of their hands free, Mettaton can finally disrobe Emet-Selch without the trouble of one-handedness. Mettaton finishes his earlier attempt at removing Emet-Selch's shirt, peeling it from his arm and sighing at the sight of him covered in blood and bruise before he presses his lips against Emet-Selch's abdomen, kissing and lapping at the mess he'd made as his claws flirt with his length, stroking along the side of his shaft. Tucking his fingers into his waistband, he begins that process of sliding his pants from his hips — but his lips trail after fabric, following down his right hip, his thigh, then his inner thigh until he forces Emet-Selch's legs up and removes his pants completely.
He sighs, still holding Emet-Selch's thighs apart with both hands. He keeps them spread for him, beholding the full sight of his come-marked body.]
That's. So much better. How beautifully I've marked you up... You must find yourself aroused often, at a sight like this.
[Envy strikes him. He wants a body that can be so marked... But it dissolves just as quickly when the Puca remembers that this is his body. That thought has him dipping down, nestling his face between Emet-Selch's spread thighs, nuzzling into his balls and taking a mouthful of his inner thigh just beneath. He nips and sucks, marking up his lover in a way that claims him down to his sex, his body, his arousal. Mettaton sighs a note of satisfaction into his skin, dark-tinted ears askew in his dedicated interest while he busies himself with marking Emet-Selch's body, renewing bruises that belong on his inner thighs.]
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The pain in his lip provides clarity and takes it away, a particular sharpness that mingles with the rest of his arousal, mingles with the taste of blood and Mettaton until there was little else to experience, and nothing else worth experiencing. Emet-Selch laps at him between quickened breaths, pushing his wounded lip against his mouth as though expecting it to be ever agitated and sucked on, made swollen and tender. And it was easy, so easy to remember how that wound had felt when pressed to the shaft of Mettaton's cock, the drag of it against flesh made unspeakably stiff, every kiss on him a trail of blood. In comparison to his suffocation, it had become a background note of stinging ache, but it hadn't been forgotten. It had been another ripple of feeling.
A feeling that he was already imagining having again, parting his lips and wrapping them around his erection once more. Lapping and sucking on him with particular rapture, losing his senses and his sense to him, depriving himself of thought and air alike. How much of his voice could be stolen, rendered ever raspier and faint, a feeling that would remain even when he was permitted breath again, a reminder on each inhalation of all he should be grateful for.
The only consolation of Mettaton pulling back from his rubbing is the sight of him again, Emet-Selch likewise stilling at what he had noticed, the way his spilled come had been spread between them, a sticky-looking smear against glans and shaft. And he swallows thickly (a reminder of soreness, of how empty his throat felt--), yearning for the sight of it to only spread, to provide ever more, and to taste it--
He moans on an exhalation without even noticing, eyes fixed on his length with a similar hunger. A hunger that he makes no attempt to hide when he meets Mettaton's sharp gaze again, a look he could lose himself to. And his own cock begins to refill with a readiness that can only dizzy him. Even his body shifts underneath him, restless and wanting.]
Then neither of us will stop. How- fortunate, we are....
[But if there was going to be a distraction from Mettaton's cock, then the removal of clothing was an appropriate and desirable one, Emet-Selch shifting and lifting his arm to get the fabric away from him and tossed aside. To let the span of bruises and blood be appropriately visible, available to be both developed and admired. There was already a pleasing soreness to his shoulder and neck, the sort of thing he only wanted to stretch, to keep those injuries from clotting too thoroughly, even when Mettaton's attention was occupied elsewhere.
Because even better than that was the lowering of Mettaton's body to his abdomen, and the Ascian tenses with a sharp sound at the sight of him licking at what come remained there, and more at the stroke of claws against his stiffening length. And from there, the rest of his body was revealed, Mettaton dragging the remainder of the fabric down his thighs, pushing his legs around, with Emet-Selch doing what he could to cooperate.
And the reward for that moment of patience was more than commensurate, as he was faced with the sight of Mettaton spreading his thighs apart and viewing all he'd just exposed, his head lowering to grace those areas with his lips and teeth and tongue. Breath hitching sharply, Emet-Selch pushes himself up to watch him better, both the warm attention of Mettaton's mouth applied to his balls, and the sucking pressure that would surely lead to new bruises at his thighs. Bruises so deeply, so intimately placed that it felt like an extra bit of claiming that only they could ever know of.]
With frequency. [An admission, an acknowledgement, given in a soft tone, a shuddered breath. Moving an arm, he strokes at his lover's ears with surpassing gentleness.] At the sight, I desire you. Even the thought- of- of what lies beneath my clothing is enough.
[Squeezing along his ear, he feels blood drip down his chin but ignores it, eyes fixed on his lover's acts.]
How often I want to seek you out, wherever you are- to show you the effect you've had, your disruption.
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A Bond can't make them telepathic, but each moan from Emet-Selch is so uncannily clear to Mettaton that he'd almost believe it could. The hunger in his gaze bespoke of a desire to swallow and lave him with his tongue, to taste his own come as well as Mettaton's and to be filled by him once more. Emet-Selch's satisfaction becomes a fixation of Mettaton's, an obsession toward filling him completely with himself — surely the best way to satisfy them both. He would use the Ascian, give him his arousal to hold tight in his throat and in place of all other less Mettaton-related things, save for the fact that he wants only to take his breath away from him. But Emet-Selch adores that, they've found: and the come that smears their cocks and splatters upon Emet-Selch's abdomen is proof of his thrill. Truly, his Bonded's an insatiable one... Perfect for Mettaton.
Hearing Emet-Selch describe his experience with frustrated arousal separate from Mettaton, all while he paints his thighs in kisses that will ripen with time, has the robot making soft sounds around suction, impassions him to leave deeper, more plentiful markings. They're deep, ones his Bonded can touch and stroke while craving Mettaton's touch and pleasure, while imagining him serving him with kisses, with tongue, or with a heaviness to fill his body. Knowing Emet-Selch finds himself often craving Mettaton satisfies his own vanity, his thirst for recognition, for reverence, for compliments to his body and self. He moans softly into the skin he sucks, nibbling close to his balls before biting yet another mark into skin, hungry and loving a mix to amplify the sheer eagerness with which he presses his face between his thighs.
He knows he looks brilliant there, framed between love-bitten thighs. He knows he's a sight to remember. He licks and bites and sucks like he knows he could take his breath through vision alone.
The kinds of thoughts Emet-Selch must grapple with, attraction growing so desperate that it arouses him helplessly, disrupts his routine, renders him hard and aching even from thinking about the marks under his clothes... There are so many incidents of their coupling worthy of reflection, Mettaton would agree. Reminders of kisses and fever ever present to keep him company in Mettaton's stead, effective enough to have the Ascian craving and longing and needy, wanting to hunt the robotic idol down just to demonstrate to him his Mettaton-inspired arousal...
It's a depraved thing to want. He wouldn't mind such a fate. It would be such a dangerous thing to encounter, the sudden springing of arousal at any point in time, but now that he knows with certainty that Emet-Selch's often plagued with an erection inspired by his own body, what's Mettaton supposed to do? Even in his normal state, arousal manifests. It distracts. It occupies his thoughts, leaves him imagining Emet-Selch busy with a body made beautiful and painted, thinking about him, wanting him, craving him. He's become so easily enticed and distracted by the thoughts of sex, dreaming of ways to take his Bonded: pinning him to walls, shoving himself between thighs, mounting him, sucking him, touching him, teasing him, he can't stop thinking about it all sometimes.
Mettaton raises his eyes to meet Emet-Selch's from behind his filling cock, from his spot with his lips pressed to Emet-Selch's balls. His thighs are marked in reds that will bloom purple, the space between his thighs kissed and bruised to his pleasure. Satisfied with his work, Mettaton leans back to regard him with his eyes, drinking him in, knowing he's been given such intimate marks he can savor. He makes sure to reach in to prod each one as a reminder of its existence, making eye contact with Emet-Selch all the while. Staring him down with an intensity predator-like, contentment written upon his features.]
Then... I'll just have to make up for all of that pent-up desire by giving you more of me. Won't I? [More often. More intensely. As if they're not already prolific enough, already impassioned enough. Mettaton, too, is insatiable, and his current dip into a more monstrous mindset is making it harder to imagine that he'd ever want to be doing anything but filling Emet-Selch with his cock and his heart. An audience eternal, rapt and wanting, but it's someone he adores beyond sense.] Not that I imagine it'll fix a thing. But I can give you more to think about...
[And recently, that thing has been a kind of submission on his Bonded's part, prone and open and filled with Mettaton and loving it, and Mettaton's hooked to that sensation around his length. Already he's imagining it once more, biting at his lip with his desire... and with Emet-Selch naked, with him appropriately marked up and with Mettaton's saliva coating the insides of his thighs, marked and scented all over his cock and his thighs, Mettaton smiles upon his lover before sliding off the edge of the bed.
The Puca stands over Emet-Selch from the side of the bed, running his hands over his shoulders with another hunger, fancying the sight of blood and wounds both. He leans down to meet his Bonded in his propped-up position, lapping up the blood that'd dripped from his lip and catching him in a short, open-mouthed kiss: just enough to lick up his lip. His hands grip onto his shoulders, and he coaxes Emet-Selch to turn his body so that his back's facing the robot. Should he cooperate, Mettaton then presses gently upon his shoulders, the suggestion that he lay on his back with his head at the edge of the mattress, neck stretched and bared just so. (Mettaton's sure to run a finger along his throat for emphasis.)
Positioned like this, Emet-Selch will have Mettaton's arousal shoved into his face, claws raking over his chest with just enough pressure to nearly scratch. The idol sighs sharply, pleasure impending.]
Ah... What- what do you think, Hades, dear? Would this give you enough of me to fantasize about?
[Mettaton slides the shaft along Emet-Selch's mouth, dragging down until the corona rests upon his lower lip. And for all he's collected and controlled, there's an air about him that is fevered, desirous and maddened, head in the future and imagining Emet-Selch's body lain out before him while Mettaton fucks his throat, Emet-Selch made to arch his back and squirm with the deprivation and fulfillment of it all. He swallows thickly, scarcely able to control his monstrous need.]
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Were he not in the condition of irrational wantings, Emet-Selch would know that his desire to track Mettaton down at any and all time of day, regardless of what the other man was doing, or where he was- in order to have him, in expectation of his lover satisfying all of this arousal he'd cruelly inspired in him- was only an inconvenient fantasy. But it was an appealing thought. To press himself to his body without warning, regardless of company, to drag his covered erection against him in a demand for attention, to take his hand and have him feel the hardness he'd inflicted him with, to stroke his hair and drag his head between his legs, in anticipation of relief.
For that matter, the idea of Mettaton interrupting his day at any time in order to shove him against whatever surface was available, be it wall or floor or table or bed, in order to have him- was only an arousing one, rather than disruptive and impractical (but still arousing). Already shapeshifted, his desires would be explicit, and the Ascian's response immediate. They would ravish each other endlessly, fixated on the other's satisfaction- the surest way of obtaining their own. They were dangerously matched.
At the moment, though, he doesn't see why not. The world was an arena for their affairs; passion like this was never meant to be contained.
Though he squirms slightly in place when Mettaton finally departs his thighs, it is with the feeling of him left behind there. The cooling slickness wherever his mouth had been, the deepening impressions of sucking kisses. The memory of his fingers prodding each of the marks left behind, and Emet-Selch aches from the feeling of it altogether, his cock hot, and made fully erect once more. A hardness in further testimony to the effect Mettaton had on him, how he reveled in every bite or suck or glance in his direction. And eventually he'd be able to come again, and add more to the mess at his abdomen, to drip back down his cock....
His voice is tense with arousal, slightly rough still, low.]
Of course it wouldn't fix anything. That... would imply something being wrong.
[In pleased expectation at the imagery his thoughts are taken with, he sighs, pressing into the brief kiss, a brief cleaning and claiming of blood, before Mettaton pulls back once more. But it's not without a purpose in mind, and Emet-Selch willingly shifts himself as directed, pulse leaping as his back is guided again to the bed, with his head resting against the edge of it. His breath contains the essence of a moan as he automatically stretches his neck out, coaxed further to remain that way by the drag of a finger.]
Enough...? No. [How could there be enough of Mettaton to fantasize over? His eyes half close as he feels his lover's shaft dragged across his lips, nearly distracted from speech entirely at the renewed satisfaction at finally having him at his mouth again.] But it's more, it's an... addition.
[More than that, and Emet-Selch moans audibly while he still can, mouthing immediately over the tip of his cock, lapping up at him with broad swipes of his tongue, swollen, bitten lips pressing heated kisses to him. The taste of his own come on him pulls a shiver through his body and nearly another moan. And he's conscious of how... needy he is for him, spread across the bed like this, fully exposed to him, with fresh bruises decorating both shoulders and thighs, legs slightly spayed, erection arching up, rigid. And that the focal point of that pleasure is the attention he's providing to Mettaton's own cock, pressed against lips, his throat in position to be fucked.
There's a plea in each kiss, each breath, each bit of contact he's providing his length. He was so hard, so desperate for him, and the only relief he could think of was the slipping of his lover's cock down his throat, filling him, depriving him.]
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But with how reverent Emet-Selch is in such a position, wanting and thrilling in having his breath taken by swallowing down his cock, Mettaton finds he favors this position greatly. How could he not? His Bonded enjoys this so much. Mettaton keeps teasing himself with the thought of him attempting to moan and cry out around his cock lodged in his throat, around the drooling and the rapture and brilliance that shone through their Bond. His lover loves this, and where Emet-Selch wants to see Mettaton to his satisfaction, Mettaton wants the same. It's just perfect that their needs align in this way.
The robot leans back up, a hand flitting down to steady himself at the base of his erection. He smiles down at Emet-Selch from his spot above him, noticing how engorged his own length is, how thick it looks in comparison to his throat.... And how exposed his Bonded is, how prone and primed he is to fuck. In every which way, thinks the Puca; Emet-Selch's readiness doesn't stop at his throat, and his monstrous appetite begins lining up the ways he wants to take him like a queue: he wants to gently wrap him in his legs and smother him against his crotch, make him deliriously take his cock that way after his next release; he wants to seat him atop his length and rock his hips, whether Emet-Selch's doing the driving or Mettaton's manually shoving his body against him; he wants to push him face-down against the bed and raise his hips, splay his lovers cock down so that he can kiss and suck at it, so that he can appreciate his bruised thighs, suck kisses into him some more, before mounting him and fucking him hard enough to have him crying out. He wants to drain him, and then push him beyond that limit. Mettaton can't get enough, and he wants to fill Emet-Selch with himself to the point that he can't think of anything but him.
Breathing hard (even though he needs no breath), the glans is pressed to Emet-Selch's lips expectantly as he mouths him, evoking a shuddering sigh for Mettaton. He can tell how badly Emet-Selch wants him, the knowledge of it coursing through him heady and tense enough to set him trembling, thrusts short and for the sake of quelling some of that tension.]
My, Hades. So wanting... You deserve every bit of me, a reward for your desire.
[He feels the desire to stroke his hair, but that will come later. A cross between a tender love and one that burns hot in his core, the need to please and use him and see their collective attraction reflected back at them in their sex. Mettaton rolls his hips some more, coaxing Emet-Selch's lips to form around the glans. Coaxing him yet to take his length into his mouth, as though he needed much coaxing.
Words die on his tongue when he tries to verbalize something, pressing a bit more of his length into Emet-Selch's mouth with restrained thrusts as he thinks about how visible and palpable it'll feel to occupy Emet-Selch's throat from his vantage point — how he longs to tell his lover all about what he sees. But he wants more than that, and Mettaton finds himself reaching for one of Emet-Selch's hands. He leaves the other behind, imagining how tense he'll inevitably be and needing to grip into something. The hand he's captured, however, is slid gently against Emet-Selch's neck to accompany his own fingers. Voice soft, he gives the Ascian instructions: something of a demand, framed in a suggestion.]
I want you to feel me when I fill your throat, darling. You really should... Right here, you'll feel your throat swell with that fullness. I think you'll like it. [As though to demonstrate, Mettaton takes Emet-Selch's forefinger and runs the pad of it firmly down the length of Emet-Selch's throat, from the top and down toward the middle. Mettaton knows what it feels like to have his length nestled deep inside, and he knows his Bonded will enjoy it, if he can even think to feel it while so occupied. He sighs.] It's only fair that you get to relish more of me, in as many ways as possible. I get the sight of your entire body set before me, after all... And what a sight you are.
[And he's not sure if this is to tempt and tease, or if it's to fulfill, a reward. When he sees Emet-Selch's cock so hard, thick and arched so perfectly, he wants nothing more than to fill his own throat with it — but he equally wants to mark him up totally, and taking his throat is a part of that desire. Emet-Selch can be teased and taunted and rewarded by the dimension of ways he can feel himself be filled, weighted down with the girth of his arousal occupying him.
The Puca's thrusts firm up somewhat, his manner more fevered as he pants somewhat.] How much do you want to suck me off? What excites you...? Tell me, beautiful.
[...He is beautiful. Mettaton's struck all over again not just by the loveliness of his toned, slender body, but by his sheer vulnerability, strewn out along the bed and with his lips wrapped around a thick cock, anticipating its filling of his throat. Though the idol expects a reply, he doesn't withdraw his length, expecting Emet-Selch to speak around the head of him, expecting him not only to tell, but to show how much he craves Mettaton.]
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And he knew this wouldn't be the last, that sucking his lover off again wouldn't begin to be enough, wouldn't truly bring either of them to any lingering satisfaction. And that didn't daunt him, and wouldn't stop him; it only meant he could continue to suck and lick, to nuzzle and keep his face buried between Mettaton's legs, to drag him towards his next climax while he still had his come at his lips from the previous. While his own release would yet lay warm and wet against his own body, more to spread, more to drip between them. However Mettaton wanted to sate himself in his body, trapping him between thighs or mounting and fucking him, the Ascian was willing to indulge- even demanding his own use. He loved him, and he loved them together.
Tenderly, almost, Emet-Selch feels one hand captured, brought over to rest against his own throat, a finger encouraged to drag along the length of it. A suggestion that in itself calls to mind what had already rested there, and when he feels himself swallow, it's followed with a shiver as he imagines what that must've felt like to Mettaton. And what it would feel like to himself, to appreciate the stiffness he would be managing to contain in an additional dimension. It would be something like when Mettaton dragged his hand to feel how they were joined when he was fucking him, to feel the way his body had adapted around him, had stretched around his girth, slick and hot. This would be distinct, but related; another way of being fully penetrated by him, and another way of feeling that thickness resting, thrusting into his body. His own body tightens, anticipatory.
And Emet-Selch wondered if, later on, in some unrelated context, a simple stroking along his neck could lead to a recalling of these moments, of an erection stuffed into his throat, his face smothered between Mettaton's thighs, marked and claimed. Of being wrapped in darkness and heat, impaled on a cock and stroked by it until the both of them were brought to climax. And how easily, would he be made aroused from the association, the memory; would his throat tighten in a connection made, an expectation for what should be there? Would he stop breathing for a few seconds, as though assuming, naturally, that he would be unable to?
Already, he can imagine the distraction it would bring, but what was one more touch to arouse him, when Mettaton could already do so with ease?
Mettaton did always ask him things while making it difficult to speak. But this was another level again on top of that, expecting a response while pressing the head of his cock past his lips, when he not only had the physical act of sucking on him to contend with (as how could he not be drawn to laving attention over it, having his tongue stroke and explore as much of the ridge as it could reach; by dwelling on the way his lips could surround him, in a soft, yet tight grip, made to mold against his flesh, how slippery he was already, from his adorations), but the distraction of his own arousal, his own needs. His fingers dig a little into his throat, as though he were already looking for Mettaton there, already anticipating him sliding into him, stretching it out; he agitates the clotting claw marks Mettaton had already left on him, causing any touch to his neck to be made slightly bloodier.]
I-- [This was going to be difficult. Salivating around him already, Emet-Selch still has the capacity to swallow it for now, if without particular ease. He does so, before attempting to continue.] Desperately. I need your taste, your heat, your... you to fill me, until- until I...
[His breathing wants to pant; the rest of him wanted to lose himself to a devotion applied to the head of Mettaton's cock; he steadies himself with a few seconds of sucking sharply around him, groaning in the abject, wanton pleasure of it, and of him. The fingers of his free hand dig into the covers of the bed. Thusly mollified, he tries again.]
Just the thought of you- losing yourself to my- throat. My body. How many times- can you...? I want... I--
[None of this comes out with particular clarity, considering as it's spoken as though he has a large object in his mouth. But Emet-Selch is nothing if not determined, nor particularly self-conscious about the way he sounds. Putting words to his desires and feelings remained the most difficult part; it was far easier to demonstrate what he wanted by trying to lean up, to slide more of Mettaton's length past his lips, to surround him in dampness and heat, to rub him onward with his tongue. There even is, perhaps, a careful scrape of teeth against the shaft, a gentle suggestion of pressure- and somehow, an encouragement to press deeper, to give him the whole of his erection.]
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A sharp suck around his cock has Mettaton sucking in air through gritted teeth, a short, rapturous moan slipping from his throat and the desperate urge to pound into him for his neediness, to meet that desperation with the brunt of his own. And he would, he'd show Emet-Selch that he's not the only one wanting, but he demands to hear his lover's desires before his words are robbed of air. His hips are restrained, an obvious tension as he shifts his legs in greedy anticipation, in gradually crumbling composure. He could find himself sucked off by Emet-Selch all day and not tire of it, he thought. No, for longer, he's sure. He could drown in the feeling of his throat, just as he suffocates Emet-Selch in a more literal sense; and he wonders how it would feel to grip down onto his neck and pound into a throat made deliberately tight, impossible for his lover to take in air while Mettaton occupies that space instead. It wasn't as though he'd be getting any air to begin with, and it wasn't as though he needed it, not with Mettaton stuffing his throat. He'd spasm and tense and it would be so tight and warm, and the thought itself has Mettaton letting out an extraneous moan in the middle of Emet-Selch's confession.
But he listens to it all. How many times? How many indeed. Mettaton calculates this number idly, the possibilities, while hearing Emet-Selchs desperation manifest as statements of "I want." He knows what he wants. He wants his throat full, his body used, choking on come and dripping with it, both his own and Mettaton's. Mettaton groans and smirks, biting at his lower lip at the crazed want shared between them, and why abstain? Emet-Selch's said his piece. He's already stretching with neck and reaching with tongue, leaning to swallow more of his shaft between lips made swollen and split, and—]
Mnnh. Oh. Demanding.
[Teeth graze along his length. To Mettaton who relishes sensation of the most intense caliber, the slight drag of teeth along his shaft is a welcome catalyst to unleash a part of him more fierce and possessive, an expression of desire so crystal clear that he can't possibly think to deny Emet-Selch any longer. A welcome invitation, an obvious demonstration of Emet-Selch's complete desire of him. How flattered he feels, how perfectly recognized for his desirability.
Displacing his fingers and leaving Emet-Selch to probe at his own neck, Mettaton strokes along the front of his throat with the firm scrape of his claws, coaxing Emet-Selch to swallow. His fingers drift to the corner of Emet-Selch's lips, soundlessly reminding him to open wide with the tug of his lower lip, to yield to a thick intrusion that would feel even thicker in his neck, exhaling a note of anticipatory want, low and smooth and fond, before he pushes deeper into his throat. Slow, firm, undeniable, he pushes his cock to the back of Emet-Selch's mouth, and his fingers flit back to his throat for more control.
A stroke this time with his thumb to the side of his throat, urging him to expect his filling, to swallow him down, to fit his girth in his throat. Mettaton sighs, but that sigh breaks way into needy, shorter panting, exhalations of heat as his ears obey gravity and flop to the side.]
Now that you've spoken... your desires. You're not the only... hah. Only desperate one between us...
[Mettaton's practically slavering over this, his mind a reel of Emet-Selch sucking and swallowing and salivating and moaning around his cock, the size of him pronounced and full in his throat, Emet-Selch's ministrations dedicated down to the last as he shoved his face dearly into his throat with only bodily protests remaining. His body, every reaction writ into it is for Mettaton's adoration and audience, and he can't wait to see him writhe, his fingers cling, his back arch, his cock hard and entirely available for Mettaton's encouragement and enjoyment both. He wants to watch him erupt in orgasm, to see come gush from the tip of him, and he licks his lips in that desire. But that's then. For now, he has the anticipation of his lover's to seek, to feel him wanting and needing his cock, and he can fulfill that desire by giving him everything.
It's with that stroke of a warning given that Mettaton rolls his hips some more, erection slipping smoothly into Emet-Selch's throat. He moans and gives way to some of his own need, that composure slipping into firm thrusts, his voice carried on moans through a bitten lip as the Puca leans some of the weight of his cock down Emet-Selch's throat. He curves each short thrust, feeling the way the glans rubs along the squeezing, supple texture of his Bonded's throat, and he deliberately avoids feeling for his neck at the moment, leaving Emet-Selch to enjoy that solo. He groans, unable to stop himself, unable to quit this rhythmic rocking, losing himself to this immense pleasure already.]
Ohh, darling, yes— f... feel that, you're so- ah-
[Mettaton sighs again, his other hand rubbing firm circles close to the base of Emet-Selch's cock — flirting with his length, teasing the chance of a direct touch that he'll soon receive.]
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Emet-Selch is not surprised at all that Mettaton is the sort of person who would find the hint of teeth on his cock acceptable, considering his fascination with all manner of stimulation, the stronger the better. And Mettaton's pleasure gratified, and so did the Ascian's reward of being slipped an additional measure of his cock. The meaning of claws at his throat was clear, his swallow immediate, his attention rapt towards the very tip of the glans nudging into the very back of his mouth. His moan has a muffled quality to it, but it's still audible, a low rumble around his length. And his lips part further at Mettaton's guidance, the hook of a claw encouraging him open.
Taking his last breath around him- already an insufficient amount, little getting past the amount of cock already in his mouth (not to mention saliva)- his eyes close with a smooth shudder, swallowing more. Tugging, pulling, urging Mettaton to block his throat completely with the soft head of his cock, to push within him. Mettaton's rub at the side of his throat felt almost kindly, reassuring of what would be secured in him, that he wouldn't go without. And that he could take him, swallow around him, feel the tensing protests of his body and ignore them, because they wanted this. And he'd feel what scraps of air he had left burned away, to be replaced with a different kind of desperation, but one that would only feed his arousal. And thought would become more difficult, and he would exist only between seconds, in an impossible instant of deprivation-fed rapture.
Mettaton's hips roll into him; the tease of his glans becomes the satisfaction of it, the sloped tip gliding snugly into the tightness of his throat. Emet-Selch's immediate cry of pleasure is, naturally, stifled around him; his fingers twitch, then still against the skin of his neck, feeling the head of his cock there. And how much he wanted to moan, as his neck arches back slightly, his body shifts, fascinated by the shape of him. Mettaton had already felt large, to block him so securely, to stretch the confines of his throat with his erection, but Emet-Selch could marvel at it all over again this way. That he could take him, fit him so precisely so that there was space only to tighten around him, and nothing more or less.
And the puca thrusts, sliding more into his neck, a pulling and giving that his throat is made to endure. Movements that were all more than evident to his hand, startled at how clearly he could feel every thrust this way, how far Mettaton could reach, how much he could take. And Emet-Selch ends up squeezing a bit at his own throat himself, a spasm of fingers over himself in order to feel it ever better, as though wanting to stroke him through hand as well as through the tensing, tightening grip of his throat. Every rock of hips made it harder to keep his focus, to not give in to his body's desire to choke, to gag, to make more attempts beyond the natural squeezing of his throat in order to reject the object that was sealing him off. Eventually his control would fail, and Emet-Selch even looked forward to that moment, perhaps, but for now he persists, head tilted back and lips wrapped snug around his length, sliding over him with each rolling shove of Mettaton's hips. And each time he tried to strain further, to take even more, to feel his face pressed to the robot's body, to have his lips reach the absolute root of him.
At irregular intervals, Emet-Selch also allows his teeth to scrape along the shaft of him, a firm drag of particular pressure to accompany the occasional thrust. And then his tongue presses, melding against his length with each shove of Mettaton's cock. There is, as was inevitable, some degree of drooling around him, now that the Ascian can no longer swallow down any saliva. As ever, he hardly cares.
Especially not when there was a hand near his cock, massaging his abdomen, and it's a feeling that has the muscles in his own thighs clench, his hips shiver, not about to turn down any offering of attention. Even if he could come from Mettaton fucking his throat on its own, having his lover's hand manipulating his own length was an added stimulation he'd certainly enjoy. To be stroked while he was sucking him, and he wondered if he'd be allowed a release against his hand, to sticky his fingers with his come; wherever it ended up, he knew it would be an arousing sight and he shuddered again at the thought of his lover witnessing his climax so directly. To see the result of his pleasure in taking his lover's cock in his mouth, his throat, in sucking his own come from him.]
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During these first thrusts into his lover's throat, Mettaton stares at Emet-Selch's length with bright attentiveness and a hunger to his manner. How rigid, painfully aroused, surely aching and long untouched save for a bit of grinding, and how beautiful his body is, come- and kiss-marked both. How lucky he is to have had such direct contact with Mettaton's erection, and his fingers wrap firmly around the base of him. There's a heated hum that slips from his throat as he decides to give the Ascian a firm squeeze and, half-leaning as he is, he easily unhands Emet-Selch's cock to favor instead his balls, which he cups, prods, gives a gentle squeeze. He fantasizes so vividly about the sight of Emet-Selch's release that he swallows reflexively, moaning purely at the image in his mind... as if the action around his arousal weren't enough to pull from him the same response, compounded.
With a heartfelt sigh and probing fingers, Mettaton stands upright again so that he can watch his lover swallowing his cock — and how distracting the sight of his neck, Emet-Selch's fingers dancing around the prominence in his throat that is surely the tip of his cock. These additional squeezes pull from Mettaton a gasp, his free hand flying down to accompany Emet-Selch's fingers in their prodding and stroking. He can feel the way Emet-Selch struggles for breath even when he enjoys its absence, the bodily need to reject his length when Emet-Selch obviously craves him instead. Emet-Selch would override his own body's needs just to have Mettaton as deeply and thoroughly as possible.
His pleasure in it is blatant, speech and sound be damned. Mettaton could kiss him, if Emet-Selch weren't already busy favoring his cock, kissing and sucking down his shaft.]
Hades, you're so hard... I can see why. You love this. So why don't I give you more to swallow...?
[Mettaton's so attracted to Emet-Selch that their fascination for one another simply feel matched, a sort of carnal craving for the other that they could probably communicate with a glance across a crowded room. Failing to give him a chance for even a gulp of air, the Puca presses into Emet-Selch's mouth some more, sure and smooth as he slips the whole of his length down his throat, watching the entire time as his throat gives way under Emet-Selch's fingertips. Not only does it titillate him to gaze upon, but the sensations he feels beyond the heat of Emet-Selch's slick, sticky throat have Mettaton stuttering and stammering around words he wasn't even sure he was going to say. They all slip out as short cries, moans, suddenly feeling the whole of his lover's body warm and tight around him.
He's so deep that his crotch is flush to Emet-Selch's face, his lover's lips forced around the root of his cock. He can feel his even his balls against his lover's face as he shifts his hips some more, jostling his length within the confines of Emet-Selch's throat. He's so prone, so accessible like this, his throat stretched and straightened and easy to slip into, slick and warm. Teeth wouldn't keep Mettaton from him, who only cries out at their presence. Emet-Selch's not the only glutton for this particular position, he realizes — how breathless he can make him, how much he can dominate Emet-Selch's senses... This position is perfect for Mettaton, too.
A firm stroke along his Bonded's neck serves to coax him to swallow again. His voice is an ecstatic cant, rapidly losing his mind to pleasure so thick and all-encompassing that he can scarcely see beyond it and his love.]
I... Swallow, Hades, swallow ar- Ahh-
[Speaking is difficult when he may as well be so electrified that he could short-circuit. As for Emet-Selch... who needs air when he has the whole of his erection stuffed down his throat, filling enough for it to be visible even from his bruised neck, skin stretched and agitated enough to leave him still bleeding? Even Mettaton can tell how unforgiving his cock is, no room for breath even if he weren't salivating so profoundly — which he can see that he is, drooling with his dedication, teeth running along his erection at random enough to keep Mettaton on his toes. Emet-Selch is only allowed to crave one thing between Mettaton and air, and he would see to it that he wins out in this battle: thought and oxygen were not as important of a need to fulfill as he is. Mettaton begins to thrust gently, slight pulls and pushes of his cock so that he never once fully escapes the confines of his lover's throat.
To reward Emet-Selch for his choice to suck on a thick cock in over continued air, Mettaton's fingers slip up his length and stroke, thumbing the slit and imagining once more his lover's body erupting in climax. His abdomen would tense and spasm, his erection dripping... Mettaton would release his load in his throat again, too, and find himself still hard, still ready to fuck him again, and he would. Emet-Selch said he didn't want for him to stop, and Mettaton would take his throat until his voice was reduced, until his lover lost his mind.]
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The Ascian's nature was to be devotional, whether it was to a dark god he'd helped create, or to a people long dead. It was a part of him, intrinsic, if something difficult to provoke, leading to a perpetual sense of dissatisfaction when he had no valuable task before him. Who else was worth his effort, his relentless dedication? But there was fulfillment in being able to provide, and Mettaton gave him this.
It was freedom, to have thought removed, to have concern excised, to have his focus narrowed to the commitment of their bodies, and nothing more. There was no fight for survival other than the helpless spasming of his throat, a reaction that only served to squeeze and stroke at Mettaton's cock, only served to excite them both. But he wasn't afraid; he knew that Mettaton wouldn't hurt him. Suffocation could be turned into another tool for the seeking of ecstasy, something to stiffen his own length, heighten his needs into something more profound than any call for air.
Though he can't murmur any noise of approval, there's more than a suggestion of it nonetheless, when he feels the pressure of fingers around the root of his cock, a firm squeeze that moves to his balls, fondling and touching them; it felt an utter kindness, a gift provided in recognition of his devotion.
But he needed Mettaton as deeply as he could press, and he shudders hard, a sensation that felt protracted when that requirement is provided, when his face is shoved into his lover's body, flush and tight against him. When he could feel Mettaton's balls nudging his face with each thrust, each brief, heavy push into the depth of his throat. He tries to cry out, but only vibration remained. Only the echo of it reflected through Bond, and through every other line of his body, in his absolute love for this position, this treatment, this person. Who else would he want to be rendered so prone before, so wanting? Every sound Mettaton made only proved the rightness of what they were doing, and he wanted to hear his voice carried on noises like those for the rest of his life. For now, he had no other purpose, and there was a relief in that security that Emet-Selch felt with him that he doesn't understand.
And he swallows, because Mettaton wants him to; because he wants to himself, to feel his throat close further, tighter around his lover's erection. His hand strokes and prods along the full length of a neck made sore, bleeding from wounds reopened (as though they had ever had a chance to close), joined by the inspecting touch of the puca's own hand. It's enough to keep the muscles of his body taut, trembling, both from what he could feel through throat and hand, and what he knew Mettaton was feeling through hand and cock. That they could feel the whole length of him, trail finger down where his shaft was, and how far, how deeply he came to rest in him.
Not that there was much resting, as Mettaton continued to thrust, continued to push, and his hand ends up lying, squeezing over the part of his neck where he could feel his glans moving, able to feel himself swallowing desperately around him, as if trying to suck him deeper.
Everything was hazy and glorious, body arching, thighs trembling as Mettaton continues to handle his cock, providing attention to his own engorged length, painfully rigid, an ache to match that of his lungs, his throat. His free hand claws into the bed as his body squirms, though with nothing resembling any attempt to escape- only to try and meet the pounding of Mettaton's cock into his body, while pressing up against the hand at his own erection. His body would be panting hard if it could, but instead he continues to shudder, never wanting him to stop, never wanting to breathe again. This pain was more exquisite than his usual sort.]
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