[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.]
[The feeling of adoration through their Bond tides Mettaton's monstrous need for validation over, setting him panting and still stuttering through a constant smile. His pleasure is searing hot, Emet-Selch's preference for deepthroating him congenial, as the robot's finding that his pleasure's only reflected back upon him, endless in their mutual adoration for it. All of that love he feels is so simple and pure, a love free of thought or reservation. If Emet-Selch ever sought to devote himself, Mettaton in this moment would take as much devotion as the Ascian would offer him and bask in it. But he didn't need jewelry to do that. He would always accept his feelings. If his Bonded found solace in devotion, he would give him someone to satisfy in himself. He is, after all, endlessly needy, endlessly worth serving, and with so much appreciation to give for his lover's efforts in particular. Emet-Selch always satisfies.
The attempts for air on the part of his spasming throat clenches and pulls at Mettaton's erection, and atop the swallowing, Mettaton's beside himself and near blind by the pleasure of it. Emet-Selch's commitment to their pleasure pays off in that way. His hips only pull back just enough to drag the glans along the confines of his throat, reluctant to tug his cock from the heat of Emet-Selch's body when he feels so good. These feral-leaning instincts tell him to fuck Emet-Selch completely, to inundate him totally, to fill him so excessively with his come and his cock and to make swollen his throat in a sudden burst of release, all so that he could do it all over again. Mettaton delights and squirms at the sensation of this firm pull on his cock, the addition of fingers stroking and kneading at him through his neck. He realizes he's trembling, he's barely seeing, he's so lost to ecstasy that he could already be coming and not even realize it.
Emet-Selch deserves only the best. As hard-working as he is, he deserves exactly what he wants if what he wants is a full throat and a cock to suck and swallow and suffocate around, and his goal now is to feel Mettaton erupt in rapture and orgasm, Mettaton's sure. (If his lover can even think: he's also sure that Emet-Selch is purely enjoying himself, and that pleases MTT more than sense should permit.) He shoves his hips into Emet-Selch's face, grinding and thrusting his cock as deep as he can into his throat to give him plenty to swallow around, fascinating himself over the sight and sensation of the swell in his throat where they both prod and squeeze with investigative fingers. He breaks out into repeated cries, incapable of toning down his volume in a response so close to climax that it's surprising that he's still hanging on. He sees stars, and he loves Emet-Selch more than anything.
Mettaton appreciates Emet-Selch's dedication, his trust in him and his love for him. All of them are mutual, after all. And his dedication manifests here as continuing to deliver his Bonded his cock, filling his throat and robbing him of sense, letting him lose himself to pleasure if peak satisfaction is found through losing thought.
But he remembers that period of unconsciousness and the feeling of kissing with lungs. Reflexively, the Puca pulls his oversensitive cock back, bringing the glans to Emet-Selch's lips to give him a moment to breathe, whether he likes it or not. He keeps himself nestled in his spit-slicked mouth just beyond the corona, panting and thrusting still, demanding that he be tended to even while Emet-Selch's given this chance for breath, if temporarily.]
Hades... [His voice is soft and near pleading, wanting and needing the confines of his throat but recovering in his own right from the pure, sucking stimulation of being swallowed around. It's so much that he could lose himself to his body for good, he thought.] You're... So good... I need...
[... Instead of telling him what he needs, Mettaton gets right back to it to take waht he needs: having given Emet-Selch the moment to not pass out, or having given himself the moment he needs to prepare for another go, Mettaton goes right back to easing his length inside of his lover, slower and more tenderly this time: the shaft is pushed past his lips, caring not at all if teeth drag or if his lover's still panting, and Mettaton stops the tip right before the back of his mouth. Given just a moment's warning, he presses forward: the head pops through the back of his throat, giving Mettaton a heady beat of pleasure that makes him weak-kneed.
And he fills Emet-Selch all over again, down to the root. He grinds his hips into him, presses his crotch into Emet-Selch's face and rolls his hips, sliding his cock tantalizingly, stroking himself off in the tight grip of his lover's throat. Moans and sighs are all that can escape his throat anymore, his fingers kneading at the head of Emet-Selch's erection with a mindless reverence for all his lover does for him, an indelible appreciation for the pleasure he gives him, for the fact that he can manage all of his needs for more and more and match him all the while. Who else would be so willing to give away their breath for their mutual pleasure but Emet-Selch? Who could give him such complete trust and receive it in return with such dedication? Mettaton presses down on his throat, nearly choking him some more around the head of his cock to tighten an already tight throat, even though he fills him so thoroughly that Emet-Selch can't breathe to begin with. Fingers stroke his cock through his neck, yanking another moan of absolute delight from the idol. Like this, the Puca rubs both of them off, mashes his body into Emet-Selch's face and watches his lover's rigid cock with an indecent hunger. Imagining still the sight of him erupting in climax
His commands sound breathless, airy and frenzied and loud on his voice as he cries out.]
Swallow, more, swallow some more... You're, ahh...
[(Whenever Emet-Selch finds himself in a future point, with memories complete and death occurred- and accepting, in time, that his people were truly lost- Mettaton can offer himself as a new focal point, temper him right back up, safe and sound. A dark god transposed with one of glitter; an entity created out of a world's cry for salvation, onto a robot with exceptional legs.
There's just no comparison.
Yet in a more serious way, it's something that would provide both solace and security- and would, for once, be an expression of devotion with a tangible result, providing something other than a lifetime of solitude and misery. A task that did not include sacrificing multitudes of lives and worlds. To instead make use of that inclination for the pleasure of someone who loved him, and who he loved in return... it wouldn't be the worst way of channeling it.)
Every drag of cock seemed as though it pulled him more deeply under, every pull that he could follow with his fingers, every push that replaced what had been lost. A use that would no doubt leave him sore, tender, a memory of Mettaton's thickness to accompany every swallow. A rhythm that would also leave him another load of come fuller, and with ever more to drag from him, to lick and suck and squeeze from his lover's eager body. They would drain each other of essence and sense entirely, to collapse together in a sticky, sated heap- who would yet keep attempting to continue.
But that sense of faintness was increasing, darkness impending, though his throat continues its convulsions, its ministrations, and if Emet-Selch had the capacity for thought he'd be relieved at that. That even should his awareness falter, his body would continue its attempts to mistakenly remove what lay within it- and in the process, constrict and stroke his lover's erection. It was what he wanted, what they both did.
And then there was air, where there had previously been Mettaton; Emet-Selch reflexively gasps, coughing at his sudden partial-freedom, around the head of his Bonded's cock that he (thankfully) still had in his mouth. And as though the sound had been trapped, and was just as necessary as breathing- the Ascian moans as he pants, lungs desperately replenishing all that they could, as though they knew their supply could just as easily be removed momentarily. But he doesn't quite have space to feel regret, not when he feels Mettaton's glans remain at his lips, shivering at how hot he felt, a warmth that he was sure was higher than before, all due to the heat of his own body. And Emet-Selch laps at him with his tongue, strokes and rubs the slit, anticipating the sensation of his climax, and the even greater heat that his come would provide him.
But even so, his throat felt so strange, so empty without Mettaton's erection to fill it. His hand remains at his neck, stroking slowly at it as he swallows (a motion pleasantly sore already, but something he could successfully do, which was less satisfactory), as though feeling for something that wasn't there. Or reassuring himself that it would return. Or even reminding himself of what his throat normally felt like, in order to compare it to its improved form.
It's brief; his dizziness remains, his blood not wholly re-oxygenated in these few moments. But he's in no immediate danger of blacking out again when he hears the warning provided by Mettaton's voice. The promise provided- and the Ascian parts his lips more fully, tilts his head just a little, anything to encourage him to fill him up again. An encouragement unnecessary, but given regardless, a low noise of satisfaction choked off as the shaft glides deeper into his mouth once more, and he feels the head push its way into his throat: the place he belonged.
Moans lost again, he sucks around him, swallows on instinct, and more on being told to, his own hand helping Mettaton's in holding onto him from above, as though he could be choked any more thoroughly, that there was any space left to constrict. But there was a feeling of fingers and claws, of skin stretched around the distinct shape of his erection, of space claimed and caressed once more. Mettaton was doing the vocalizing for them both, and there was rapture shared in the hearing of it, in knowing with absolute clarity how much he adored having him like this.
Emet-Selch was being stroked doubly, his throat fucked and his cock pulled, a combination he had no hope of defending against. Wracked with shudders, face buried in Mettaton's crotch, throat convulsing around his length, orgasm hits him with an intensity that feels like he's blacking out anyway. Muscles clenching, thick come erupts against his lover's fingers, to drip down his shaft, to spatter against his abdomen. Even with one release behind him, it seems no less plentiful- perhaps even more so, with the addition of Mettaton's hand rubbing it out from him.]
[Practically massaging and intermittently pressing hard enough upon his Bonded's neck to strangle, Mettaton's not sure if he's doing it more to his own satisfaction or Emet-Selch's pleasure. He hardly needs to think about it when he notes that they're the same thing, really. When he refers to them both in his mind as an "item", however, what scrambled remains of his mind exist to think at all convert the consideration... into marriage again.
A tying of souls; their Bond did that for them, and time made it a forceful union that, should it ever break for some reason, would hurt them terribly. A tying of legality; marriage could provide, the ceremony greater and recognition of possession made absolute. (What sorts of traditions did they have in Aefenglom? he wonders in some more tranquil, softened space of his mind. He's not one for hard and fast tradition but if it offered him something exciting, of course he'd embrace it. (What do other worlds do to celebrate such a momentous occasion? How deeply could he take Emet-Selch? A terrifying question to pose to an audience of Mirrorbound.) If a method exists to more deeply consume and occupy him, ways to paint Emet-Selch's soul in himself...
If he could temper him, Mettaton is sure he would do it. He knows Emet-Selch well enough to have wondered what he'd be without someone to dedicate himself to, and if he could be among those he considers important enough to live and act for, he'd gladly secure himself there. They trust each other, they love each other. Anything Mettaton could want would include his lover's interest at heart.)
A lot of gentler considerations for a moment so carnal and a mind so fevered, and ones that can scarcely crowd out the din of his pleasure. Mettaton vocalizes plenty, stealing breath from the Ascian that he doesn't need for an activity like this as he feels each swallow rub down his length, an intimate massage of his cock with a needy end goal of coming inside of him. Another mark, another claim, and more to come. A pleasure he could have never fathomed being made something so easy to achieve with someone who makes it real and meaningful, someone who would gladly give his consciousness away so long as his throat did the work of stroking his cock, of keeping it precisely where he belonged. And in truth, Mettaton feels he belongs anywhere as deep as he can reach inside of his Bonded.
(They've both touched some intimate places on each other, haven't they? From memories to innards, from trauma to sex, there's nothing they would hesitate to dive head-first into experiencing of each other. Yet the one that heavies his heart pleasantly is their tying of the soul, the fact that their love for each other and this is made so transparent. And with that Bond, Emet-Selch would keep him from those terrifying levels of madness he experienced all alone, even if he were to succumb to the sway of the "moons" these pendants brought. He has him now.
So he succumbs.)
And he pounds into him, long thrusts in his lover's throat as Emet-Selch loses himself to bliss, the both of them in cooperation at gripping down on Emet-Selch's throat, framing that protrusion signaling Mettaton's erection filling him. He moans with the full body of his voice, something that becomes a noise of relief as soon as he sees Emet-Selch's abdomen tensing beautifully, spasming just before his body gives way to a burst of come. He's hungry for his body and wants to take it all, to rake his claws over the whole of him and mark him and bite him. Mettaton's fingers pull over the head of his lover's cock in frenzied strokes to coerce as much come from him as possible, panting and heavy-lidded at the sight of his ejaculate dripping from his fingers, a thick line of it making his abdomen appear delectable enough to be licked and kissed until he's marked not by come but saliva. But Mettaton can only stutter, can only thrust, can only cry out and rough up his lover's throat by filling him with a cock thick enough to rob him of breath.
Even if he didn't have this to fill Emet-Selch with, Mettaton knows he'd kiss him until he had none to spare. He'd kiss him until he was moaning and rapturous. But this is divine.
Mettaton gives Emet-Selch a few more sharp jerks of his hips before he feels himself give way to release, hotter than even the burning heat of Emet-Selch's body. His hips grind into his lips, firm thrusts to rub at the head of his cock that feels purely swollen in the ever tighter confines of Emet-Selch's throat, fingers prodding and pushing around his length to coax him to this moment. With a few more parting strokes of Emet-Selch's neck to convince him to keep swallowing down his cock, his free hand moves to grip onto the hand belonging to his Bonded, the one he has twisted into sheets. His claws dig desperately at his lover's palms as though seeking consolation. But he's delighted, still staring down his bruised, bloodied, and come-spattered body like he's aroused and in love all over again.
Another climax that feels like it lasts and lasts, the work of Emet-Selch's fingers at his throat enough to feel like he's starting all over again even when he's in the midst of his rapture. Perhaps what brings him to greater and greater heights of pleasure is their mutual depth of trust that only deepens to surprise, a pleasant development.
As soon as the robot feels he's spent, his knees give way enough to pull out from Emet-Selch's throat, enough to collapse onto them. (A delightful thing, in the otherwise too-reliable body of this robot: muscle development has made his legs somewhat unreliable, and he enjoys that force of emotion and pleasure dictating his bodily response.) From partially leaning to collapsing to the floor aside the bed, his unfortunate trajectory includes... gracelessly smacking Emet-Selch in the face with his completely solid metal torso. Just one of the many danger of copulating with an amorous robot.
Hopefully Emet-Selch is okay, and not knocked out by robot chest. Did he give him a nosebleed? Split his lip all over again? Smack his poor left eye with that dial? Mettaton hardly realizes what just transpired yet: he needs a moment before he can even take stock of what he's done.]
[What was marriage but a public, socially-acceptable way of taking his beloved? Considering the way they regarded one another, a fascination that existed outside of sensible boundaries, could ever such a union be conducted in a way that could be considered decent? That did not make it clear that they were, at most, only ever about two steps away from falling onto one another? Would they even care about how blatant they were about it?
While Bonds were, strictly speaking, more personal, in that they involved the connection of souls- they were also normalized to a degree, an aspect of survival. And so there were any number of Bonds that were friendly only, or out of survival or convenience. Barring a marriage for political purpose (which would hardly be the case for any Mirrorbound), it would be a ceremony purely for excessive romantic, emotional, sentimental reasons. A formality explicitly for love, with a ceremony that could be as grand or modest as required, and not an inherently more private affair attended by a circle of uninterested witches casting the appropriate magic.
It would be... an occasion, by any standard. A thought that occasionally still fills Emet-Selch with dread- for all that he continues to return to it.
Through the steady waves of his own euphoria, muscles twinging in much of his body even as it primarily slackens, his throat remains undeterred, still assuming suffocation wasn't a normal state to be in, still spasming around the length that Mettaton continued to feed him. Jerks of his hips that felt like they rocked more than his body, the Ascian wondered (or rather, would wonder, once he had the breath for thought and the time for it) whether he would ever be spared a chance to come down from arousal. Every thrust, especially when paired with the quick pulls over the head of his own cock, felt as though they extended the moment of his own climax, squeezed more come from him until he was spent- and yet not spent at all. How could he ever be, with Mettaton's erection down his throat, his hips at his face, his cries in his ears?
Emet-Selch squeezes his throat with one hand, drags and rubs desperately along his length through his neck, grabbing onto the shape he could feel moving there, to coax and knead him towards climax. And his other hand finds itself occupied with Mettaton's, willingly switching from latching onto the bed to latching onto him, fingers clutching, barely noticing the pressure of claws, the piercing of his palm as they dug in. What were a few more bleeding marks but another way to bind their bodies together?
And he trembles more with a new wave of satisfaction when he feels heat flooding him, his lover's spasms rewarded. His throat convulses; he swallows harder and keeps swallowing as though it were trying to wring all it could from him, rather than yet trying to breathe. It felt like the sort of thing he could continue doing forever, drinking down his come, feeling it run down his throat in hot bursts- or would do, given the opportunity, until his vision faded, and his mind lost its last glimmers of awareness.
But then Mettaton pulls out of him, and the Ascian's throat is filled with something as insubstantial as air once more. The sudden sucking in of it leads to coughing gasps, harder than before with nothing in his mouth to contain them, and wetter-sounding, with the release that had just been left behind. A thick presence in itself, but one that could be successfully cleared with enough swallowing, no matter how sore he felt. Emet-Selch still groans, a sound low and rougher than before, submersed entirely in the aftermath of their shared climaxes. His hand lies still at his empty throat, feeling instead the force of his breaths, his coughs.
And the world is made dark all over again, even when his eyes open- though it's not unconsciousness he realizes after a moment (how could it be, when he was aware of it, thinking about it whatsoever, for all that it's in the most vague terms that could barely be qualified as thought). But instead, the pressure and closeness of his lover's robotic chest pressing down on him, impairing his vision and his breath (though the latter is hardly to the degree as his cock). And amidst his panting against that shell, his coughing that brings a taste of come to his lips to mingle with blood from his lip, he nuzzles against whatever part of Mettaton he could reach. It's a nuzzling that he'd begun conducting before he'd even concretely identified the part of Mettaton he was touching, only knowing that it belonged to his lover, and should therefore be kissed.
But he would nuzzle his chest, and cough and moan quietly against it, leaving it with hints of blood, not really noticing the imprint left in his face from that dial, and not really caring anyway.]
[Mettaton's arm remains contorted so that his hand is still laced with his lover's, but his other arm is wrapped around Emet-Selch's skull in a strange, upside-down embrace as he pulls himself together. He clutches him close to his bejeweled chest, loving and demanding and appreciating the Ascian.
Even here, no longer lodged in his lover's throat, he feels the pronounced lack of tightness, of tongue and teeth and lips and most of all, throat. Still lost in the orgasm part even if he's separate from the release, he moans some more in response to Emet-Selch's sounds, plays the sensation of his lover drinking down his cock and his come with zeal back to himself, the way he felt as though he might be content forever sucking with such rapture on his aching arousal. Mettaton here and now feels he'd be content providing Emet-Selch with a thick cock to suck on for as long as his Bonded wished it, and he'd give him just as much come, as long as he'd endlessly swallow around his length in such a way that makes it feel as though he's having the come sucked right out of him. He yearns all over again for that heat and the sensation of swallowing he felt at his release, a sensation so strong that he can scarcely stand it, much less return to his feet in a more literal sense. All he can do is moan some more.
Emet-Selch managed to overwhelm the robot, but it's the kind of overwhelming they did to each other. He relishes it, nuzzles his lover's bloodied, bruised throat as he strokes the back of Emet-Selch's head with his hand, holding him flush to his torso — eye against dial, face against chest plate, and all of it separated by a layer of diamonds. His claws only softly scrape against Emet-Selch's scalp, his moon-swayed mind keeping lust well and alive without any effort on Mettaton's part. He knows what he wants, and it's just a matter of getting his legs to cooperate... He doesn't feel he just wants more attention, he needs it.
Cursed jewelry and full moon pendants aside, their wedding would be an affair painted by an underlying level of lust, the chance of giving in around every corner. Mettaton would find Emet-Selch so well-dressed, surely, that he'd demand the right to strip him for himself; it's what the most attractive clothes are for, on his Bonded. It would be a thought to nag him and grow in size, progressively getting worse until he couldn't stand it.
But there would still be this. Even in Mettaton's frenzied heat, he wants to hold Emet-Selch. There was room, perhaps, for enough decency that he could content himself with simply gazing into his lover's eyes, set out before everyone to bear witness to their closeness and their love. Their possession.
And their impossibly sized need of each other. Mettaton is reassured by Emet-Selch's coughs, knowing he's conscious and well, but also that he's preparing himself for another round by clearing himself up. Mettaton nearly growls with his lust flaring to life, managing to part from Emet-Selch with kisses to his clavicle and neck. A beautiful neck, he thought, beholding it more closely in its stretched out brilliance: bruised, kissed, saliva-covered, bloodied with marks of teeth and claws... And having just been pulled over an erection girthy enough to remove his chance for air. And Emet-Selch loved it.
He stands to his feet and climbs back upon the bed, trembling and still reclaiming his ability for speech amidst animal instinct and need as he winds both arms around Emet-Selch's shoulders, bringing him to an upright position. He half-drags, half-coaxes his beautifully stripped lover to join him as he reclines against the head of the bed, in his throne of pillows. Spreading his legs and demanding that Emet-Selch lay between them, Mettaton pushes his Bonded against his waist, cheek flush to the heart container there while his (already reviving) half-erection remains prodding Emet-Selch's chest.
Mettaton sighs, a more contented sound. He knows what he craves on a more carnal level, but there's still a part of him that yearns for affectionate contact. He strokes his Bonded's head where he's maneuvered him.]
How are you...? [Mollified by this long-enduring "compliment" of loving his cock, and still within his mental faculties save for the libidinous appetite compounded upon by the sway of the pendants, Mettaton is still Mettaton, and he wants to know about his lover's status. He cares about him, even through his conceit and madness.] You're so wonderful, you know... Can you talk after all of that, Hades-darling? Tell me- how much you loved that.
[To suggest what he means, the Puca strokes gently at Emet-Selch's throat. Both to refer to his potential loss of speech, and all there is to like about what just took place.
... That darkness in him suggests that if he should hear his lover's voice, he really needs to be fucked again. Needs to be impaled upon his cock, made to suck and swallow around him all over again until his throat was made so hoarse that only the whisper of speech was left. Mettaton nearly moans again at the thought, squirming: he's not very good at disguising his already-reviving arousal. He's possessed by a feral desire stoked by the influence of the moons, fantasizing about having his erection sucked some more.
This is not uncommon for Mettaton on the full moons. The Puca's spikes of energy in this moment may feel easily comparable to what Emet-Selch feels of him during the full moons through Bond. A content, safely-Bonded Mettaton is one with that streak of darkness and mischievousness, vindictive and fierce, but one who can be subdued or placated and distracted with earthly and erotic indulgence both.]
[It was an embrace of sorts, which was all that really mattered. Emet-Selch tries to hum his contentment in response to it all- from his lover's moans, to the nuzzling to his throat, to the petting of his hair, but it comes out particularly faint. There was little capacity to care for any strangeness to be found in the position, and he certainly found no sort of self-consciousness to be like this to start, with Mettaton partially collapsed over his body, smushing his chest into his face, after having fucked his throat raw, and left in him his come another time. While the Ascian's own form lay bitten over and exposed, left spattered by his own come.
And for all that he could feel his Bonded's lusts continue, there was a heady kind of satisfaction in finding him so overwhelmed, a robotic body made to falter. And there was another, different kind of satisfaction in knowing that Mettaton remained aroused, that he could soon continue sucking him with hardly any delay- something that keeps his pulse high and his breathing (now that he could do that again) elevated. To be rendered so carnally inclined was... still something that surprised the Ascian at times, and felt absolutely natural at others.
At the moment it was natural, and required little consideration beyond an appreciation for how well they fit together, how paired their inclinations were. Surely, any wedding would fill any onlookers with absolute... awe, of both their dynamic and their restraint, in not tearing undoubtedly nice clothes from one another before an audience.
But there was always this... affection alongside vicious heights of passion, and it's something Emet-Selch never felt was missing once he began to recognize it, no matter how explicitly sexual their actions were. Even in Mettaton's growl, he could feel it, as the man finally stood up again after leaving him with a few more kisses, and moving himself onto the bed, in a new position to be attended to. Letting himself be pulled up, Emet-Selch partially drags himself, and is partially dragged into position, in the place exactly where he was meant to be: between his lover's legs. A place he willingly burrows into, making himself comfortable with his head shoved against his waist, slowly nuzzling his cheek against the glass of the robot's core. From his shifting, Emet-Selch can feel the come on his own abdomen drip back down towards his cock; a sensation worth a small shiver.
Sprawled back against fine pillows, fine jewelry glittering against his neck and chest, legs artfully spread with his bruised lover curled between them- Mettaton looked like the model for some darkly decadent divinity. The claws and dark fur, the blood that remained at his face, the slickness of an erection that could hardly be sated pressing into the Ascian's body, the smears of come between them- it all added to the picture of indulgence, of erotic wishes and briefest fulfillment.
Mettaton being in a heightened... state had been something Emet-Selch had noticed during full moons. But it's neither an unappealing state, nor a daunting one- though he wonders if that has more to do with the influence of their Bond on him, the puca's added darkness bleeding into his own mood, or was just a symptom of his own developed insatiability towards him. It didn't matter; for all that he couldn't begin to match him in non-existent refractory periods, he wanted him no less, and the feeling of his cock already stiff (as though it had ever had a chance to soften) pulls a ragged, pleased sound from the depths of his throat.
A throat that didn't much like that noise, or any others that would follow, Emet-Selch could surmise. Swallowing, he winces a little as he tests its condition. Empty, terribly, and he tilts his head back to both regard Mettaton's face, as well as in approval of the petting of his neck. It was a different sort of beauty from Mettaton's sparkling decorations, the bruising and blood that lay across his own, wounds in the shape of teeth, piercings and slicings indicating the application of claws- but the perfect complement to it, he thought. A decoration that could be applied, but not removed through anything other than time.
Pressing a kiss to the glass of his case, Emet-Selch attempts the difficulty of words.]
--Of course I would find speech for you.
[His voice is certainly rougher though, his sigh similar as he distracts himself by looking downward again, resting the side of his head against Mettaton's abdomen, gaze settling on his cock. Swallowing again, but in response this time to the desire to take him back in his mouth, to slide his lips all along his length, from glans to root, to give him both voice and throat. But he tempers that impulse by moving his hand up instead, to glide fingertips along the shaft, to trace patterns across the tip. To admire the slickness and heat of him, and the way he looked so temptingly erect.]
'Tis only a pity to yet require the occasional breath in order to continue enjoying you... but perhaps that's part of the pleasure. And I would go deprived many more times over to keep having you. To feel the shape of you in my throat. Even... even were I unable to speak, I....
[Wresting his gaze away from his erection, he tilts his head back to look up to his face again- and his tone is quiet for reasons apart from its hoarse quality, rapt and intense, a dedication through speech despite the discomfort of it.]
--I love the feeling of your ecstasy. The taste of you at my lips, and your claws at my body. Rending every part of me. I adore you more for every mark you leave behind, visible or not.
[It's recovery enough to offer Mettaton the slightest of sense, enough for his ears to emote properly — and they do, one pulled back in cocky contentment with the other leaning forward in his interest of his Bonded, the sight of him placed between his impeccably spread legs. He smiles, petting his Bonded's hair as he recovers (somewhat) in his lap, sliding to rest against his abdomen so that he might fix his attentions back upon his (already) rousing erection.
(It gives Mettaton a rush to present his lover with an erection already — something he understands intimately isn't a normal human feature. But if he wanted normal human, he could obtain that, too. This is another of his gorgeous bodies, and one that behaves as it does, limited only by electricity.)
A worthy endeavor, shifting his body so that he could gaze upon his filling cock, Mettaton thought, and flatters him that Emet-Selch would speak for him on a voice made hoarse from use. He watches the Ascian battle back temptation with a growing smile, stroking his hair (encouragingly) as Mettaton's own eyes drift along Emet-Selch's curled-up form, heavenly and marked by his own lips and teeth. Of course it would be so beautiful, if it was all a mark of their passion. Teeth and come and blood and bruise and nails, he was evidence of their love and concupiscence where Mettaton was impossible to mar so readily, so indulgently. But that doesn't bother Mettaton right now, not when he has his Bonded between his legs. He's the perfect conduit for their collective passions, a man so brilliant that he stands a chance at enhancing Mettaton's own luminosity. No... he does enhance him, and Mettaton adores him completely for it, continuing to pull sharp claws through locks of hair with a terrible fondness to his gaze. A darkness to enhance his radiance, and a darkness to further embrace Mettaton's.
And Emet-Selch's fingers travel to his length in place of lips and tongue, which has Mettaton rolling his hips eagerly to his touch, sighing at the sound of his voice made so rough. It fills Mettaton with a satisfaction to even watch his fingers stroke along the stiffness of him, how readily his own body holds its rigidity to make manifest his desire for Emet-Selch's attention. Though he knows his lover has a tempestuous appetite that could match him, it's the nature of his body that means recovery's necessary, and he loves him for that, too.
Just as demanded, Emet-Selch uses that voice to describe to the dark-furred Puca how much and why he derives pleasure from Mettaton, from taking his cock in his throat and feeling him stretch him, deprive him, blot out even the means for survival with his own pursuit of corporeal ecstasy. He sighs again, long and sweet and tinged by a moan, appeasement something easily attained in Emet-Selch's presence. His righteous fury can never last, replaced instead by a regal satisfaction: a flit of his ears, a narrowing of his eyes, an upturn of his smile as Emet-Selch places his gaze upon his face. But as Emet-Selch noted before, there's always a softness Mettaton harbors for Emet-Selch. He loves him immensely, and no fury nor conceit could alter it. If anything, fury and conceit and darkness are only tinged by his love. He wouldn't treat anyone else this way, after all.
His vanity even breaks for Emet-Selch. The robot gives him a weak smile, loving even in its depth.]
Very good. You're... You mean so much, I... [That vulnerability remains, but it darkens once more, taking on that edge of unspeakable want as Mettaton's hand rounds his features, following his hairline down to his cheek, where he cups his lover's features in his palm.] You must be pleased to have me so aroused, ready for you to suck, then... I'm glad to give you my ecstasy. My body is yours to pleasure, and yours is mine to enjoy.
[He may not be able to untemper Emet-Selch, but he could start with them in their most physical sense. Mettaton claims first Emet-Selch's body: no matter the body, they're all for Mettaton's touch and use and satisfaction, all for him to cherish and mark and scrape and bloody. He sighs again at the feeling of fingers rolling the tip of his erection, and it adds another layer of pleasure to wash over him to see him doing it, to have Emet-Selch in his lap with their eyes locked with each other. He looks so ready to be kissed, and Mettaton almost wants to collect him in his arms, seat him in his lap and kiss him relentlessly as he rides his cock instead.
He closes his eye, overwhelmed and loving it. It remains half-lidded even when he opens it again, his finger traces Emet-Selch's lower lip in his desire, toying with his split lip.]
Air, or me... I'm determined to give you everything you could adore, so never for a moment think I'll deprive you of me, darling. [For a moment, he flirts with pushing his finger past those lips of his lover's to indicate that he would have plenty to suck on, even if he was being made to breathe some air every once in a while.] I wonder how your voice- how you'll sound, after you're made to swallow another round...?
[That's the statement to get him to achieve that perfect darkness again, knowing full well that Emet-Selch adores him so much that he'll no doubt be eager for the opportunity to see him slipping into the fullest, most obscene of pleasures. He gazes down upon him expectantly, hips twitching in his eagerness for more.]
[The continued petting would almost sooth- and in a way it still does, focusing a measure of that intent and wanting into something warmer (as though it weren't already), if still dark. A softness that's no less impassioned for it, particularly when paired with the sentiment apparent in Mettaton's words. A depth of feeling that was worthy to drown him, the sort of thing that the Ascian thought would leave him perpetually a little deprived of air, a touch breathless even with his throat clear. And Emet-Selch yearns both to kiss him, to give him the rest of his air that way, and to suck him, in order to please him.
His eyes nearly close as his face is gently cupped, basking in the attention and the awareness of desires unfettered- that even in gestures of softness like this, there was a different kind of lack of restraint. Anything they did was without reserve, after all, loving among them, in all of its manifestations. And the Ascian is gentled further by his word and touch, by the way he looked at him, by the way his body responded to him, taken utterly by how far they desired one another, and how blatant it was between them. Even without Bond, it would've been unmistakable, and with it, it was another layer, another way of touching each other, of demonstrating that limitless desire.
And that it was a desire not only in the most physical, sexual sense (though there was certainly a lot of that, attractions unthinkable, unspeakable), but emotionally, for affection and company alike, a possession that could encompass it all.]
Mettaton....
[Sighing softly himself, Emet-Selch kisses his finger with swollen lips- gently, almost reverently, as he continues to regard him. But it turns into a more damper mouthing after the puca trails a clawed digit across his lower lip, eyes half-closing as his tongue flicks out for a small taste of him, to lick along a sharper nail. And he's tempted as well to suck on his finger- because it was there, because it was Mettaton's, and because with words like those in his ears, how could he not be called to wrap his lips around anything his lover wanted him to?]
Will I have a voice at all...? I suppose we'll find out.
[As with an erection stiff against his hand, warm and inviting and so achingly rigid, there was a clear winner when it came to deciding what he wanted to press his lips to most. The shifting of his lover's hips was further encouragement, a sign of eagerness, of restless wanting that he needed to indulge, to satisfy- however briefly. Just the thought of hearing and feeling Mettaton lose himself to pleasure once more is a dizzying rush, and it's the limitations of his body alone that keep him from hardening at the memory of it. But he knew it wouldn't be terribly long, and he anticipates the sensation of it, of blood filling his own cock back up in response to how much he adored keeping his lover's arousal in his mouth.
Pulling back from his finger with another kiss, Emet-Selch shifts his head back down as he lowers himself properly between Mettaton's thighs, sighing again against his crotch as he breathes him in, nuzzles his face against the underside of his cock, leaving wet, sucking kisses against his shaft, his balls. Lapping at them with his tongue, indifferent to the way he inevitably spreads more saliva onto his face.
And it's already a contact that has him shudder, eyes finally closing as he moans against his erection, imagining both how it'll feel to take him into a throat already tender, already used- as well as how much more raw he'll surely be left. How well would he be able to speak afterward? How long would it persist? Paired with his bruises and scratches, how obvious would it be exactly why his voice was so rough...?
A thought worth breathlessness in itself. In his own impatience (for all that the Ascian has nothing keeping himself from tilting his head up, parting his lips, and diving back down onto his cock, to feel him glide back into his throat with immediacy, to suck and stroke and swallow against the glans), he allows the press of teeth to join the attentions provided by his lips and tongue, a careful scrape of pressure as he lavishes attention upon the root of him.]
[With Emet-Selch presented before him so enticingly flirting with his fingers while emanating a sort of gentle comfort in Mettaton's presence, he can only unwind in a profound ease, even as he's riled up. There's something better than his fingers for him to suck and attend to, and Emet-Selch's gaze trains itself upon his length with the same thought as they both decide together to test the integrity of the Ascian's voice. He hums something of a contented laugh, pleased with the plan set out before them both.
A moment spared to shifting around is Mettaton's chance to continue basking in the sight of his lover so prone before him, set between his legs like he's his prize dedicated to his pleasure. He focuses solely on how flattering this image is, something he'll return to almost in a third-person view to envision himself reclining, expecting his naked, bitten lover to please him and to inevitably arouse himself, and he wishes he had a mirror pointed their way to behold it. He imagines the view of Emet-Selch's body he could have, his lover not at all able to escape his gaze of him in every angle, and he shudders as Emet-Selch sighs into his crotch, settling his face there.
It's a distraction immediate. There's not much room to lament his lack of mirrors with the sight of his Bonded settled between his thighs, kissing and laving his balls and shaft with his tongue and kissing so sensually all over his length. Mettaton's hips don't still. He sucks in the air he doesn't need, a low, soft groan escaping from him. Emet-Selch's been made flushed with use, lip still bloodied and surely trailing blood about to be diluted in saliva. Mettaton's helpless as he witnesses his lover press his face to his cock, heavy as it leans against him; the sound of Emet-Selch's moan has his hips jerk, has him swallowing at the sound of it and the same train of thought: would Emet-Selch's use be made so evident that nobody would be unaware of it? How evident would it be, that he would swallow and suck his cock to please both himself and his Bonded Monster?
...It's not a disagreeable thought at all, as Mettaton's thrusts firm up in his imagination. He bites at his lower lip, imagining the thought of Emet-Selch made so obviously his and having that be on display for all. Just the thought has him lifting one of his thighs, instinctually wrapping it around Emet-Selch's shoulder in preparation to mark him up, cradled between his legs as he's soon to be. He wants everyone to know not only that he's his, but that he's dedicated to his pleasure, body and soul. He belongs to Mettaton, just like everything else in this room.
Wrapping him in his thighs as he slips over his cock is an image that can't be fulfilled soon enough. Mettaton anticipates it hungrily, licking his lips with a sultry stare.
But for now, there are lips sucking kisses into him, his lover nuzzling his erection, shoulders painted so attractively in bruises and blood... Mettaton's arrested at the sight of him and hiccups around the closing of his own throat. His hand gently slides along his lover's dark hair.]
Oh... You're beautiful, like this. Ah—
[Emet-Selch grazes him gently with teeth, and Mettaton's back arches back for a moment as he recoils, a growl slipping from his throat as he squeezes his eye shut. But he's quick to thrust his hips forward again, shoving his arousal fully against Emet-Selch's face with a force and an accompanying groan. Fingers petting him turn into knotting into his hair out of a need that grows exponentially, his length hard and thick and needing his lover's throat. Emet-Selch remains at the base of him, and Mettaton rubs the underside of his cock along the give of his lips with a craving made evident. He can only imagine them, soft and giving and wrapped around his girth.
He wants to lift him and shove his lips over the head of his length. But he also relishes watching Emet-Selch doing what he pleases to him, all of it pleasurable and contributing to this slow, coiling build of absolute heat in him that he can't get enough of. Ecstasy and sexual satisfaction are a vice he can't see himself living without anymore.
... It's not just that, though. It's this person he can't live without. This person is what satisfaction and dedication feels like, someone comfortable and trustworthy and his. He sighs at the sight of him, and Mettaton finds himself wrapping yet another thigh around his shoulder. Loosely, he holds him there, crossing his legs around him gently in eager wait. A perfect position to secure him over his cock, he thought, for when that moment comes. For now, Emet-Selch applies tongue and lips all around his balls and the root of his shaft while Mettaton's hips won't still, nearly begging to feel him attend to the sensitive, swollen head of him.]
Hades... [He doesn't need his own words to express his neediness, and though he craves like nothing else the confines of his throat, he's thrilled to be toyed with, to be licked and kissed and given the treatment of teeth. He prescribes it all to memory, hips shifting and body incapable of stilling.]
[There was a shifting of hips that was thoroughly agreeable to the Ascian, a further sign of his lover's anticipation for him, persistently aroused and unable to still. That it also served to further slide his erection against his face only counted as an endearing sort of gesture, and only has Emet-Selch bury himself that much more determinedly between his legs. A sight that he knew must be a pleasing one for his Bonded, to have him so close, so utterly intimate and prone, so utterly focused on pleasuring him above all else, and his clear enjoyment in doing so. It was a sight worth appreciating, he was certain, and a sign of possession and possessiveness that would be difficult to mistake.
Even if he were cleaned up and clothed, and their position not sexual in the least, their very connection felt like a taking and giving made indelible. That even were the Ascian not rendered bloodied and torn, voice reduced to a whisper, his state of possession would remain clear. But the added evidence, every scratch and ache... there was an added satisfaction in being so unnecessarily blatant in what they could take of each other. A shamelessness, a claim in return; for all that he couldn't permanently mark Mettaton's body, he was no less Emet-Selch's own possession.
A leg wraps loosely around him; another way of marking where the Ascian was intended to remain, a security of position. And a reassurance tied into it; so long as he was here, he had this task, and it was a most pleasurable one, full of his lover's scent and taste and sound, full of his heat, and the texture of his skin against his lips. And there was the promise Mettaton offered, in removing his breath, his thought, to further reduce his concerns to only this. So long as the Ascian had thoughts left to him, everything else lurked somewhere, a darkness of misery and guilt and loss, rather than only the darkness of his Bonded's embrace. A drowning in loneliness and fear, rather than the claws and teeth and cock of his lover.
It added to his anticipation, to his desperation, to reach that state once more, where nothing other than Mettaton could reach him, however briefly.
Mettaton's sharp reaction to his teeth stills his breath, and when Emet-Selch finally exhales it's in the form of a moan- the sound almost entirely swallowed up by how hard his face was pressed into the man's crotch, pushed there by the thrust of hips, and kept there through the fingers in his hair, and his own desire to remain. But Mettaton felt so thick against his still-bleeding lips, a point of soreness that felt insignificant compared to the ache in his throat- and much like when the idol took him from behind, he's fascinated by his body's ability to contain him. That he could fit him so tightly, so... snug. He could adapt to his girth to precisely the right degree, with no consequence other than a bit of lingering soreness in various areas, and a period of time of being starved of oxygen. Neither was detrimental, rewards he would accept alongside his come.
There was a pleasure in teasing him, and there was also a pleasure in giving Mettaton exactly what he wanted. And in the end Emet-Selch knew he was teasing himself just as much in his delay, by skirting swollen lips slowly up his lover's cock, never quite reaching the head- before sliding back down to the root. Every encouraging thrust and shift on Mettaton's part only furthered his teasing, led to kisses growing hotter and wetter, and needier still. A way of working out his natural contrariness, perhaps, before finally giving in to what he wanted just as dearly.
Both thighs were around him now. Not tight, not yet, not when he hadn't yet taken him properly into his mouth. Nudging his head upward, his lips remain in contact with Mettaton's cock, unwilling to leave him for a moment. Inhaling shakily as he reaches the ridge, he slows without intending to, captivated by the way it felt against his lips, his bitten one catching on it for a moment before being being tugged onward. Soft and hard both, and so familiar. Moaning with a rapturous quiet, he laps and sucks over the slit, leaving him wet with both saliva and blood; he's already practically drooling on him.]
Mettaton, I-- How much I....
[Love this, love him? Want both this and him? Something else entirely but equally as important? Emet-Selch couldn't decide, as his eyes flicker open, glancing up to his lover's face, his breathing quick, and something like a plea in his gaze. For what- he's not certain of that either, but it likely involves both loving and having him. But it's only for a few seconds before his head has darted lower, lips fully parted as he takes as much of his cock in his mouth as he can fit while still technically breathing- and with such a quickness that he nearly chokes on the brush of the glans at the back of his throat. Taking a moment to steady himself, he shivers, sucking hard at him with eyes closed once more, clearly starved for him and this experience.]
[His natural contrariness is endearing at least, and agitating at worst, to Mettaton. Here, it's endearing, it's teasing, it's riles him up (and Mettaton likes being worked up; why wouldn't he appreciate having Emet-Selch's face nuzzled to his cock, lips to his balls, the sight of him nearly drooling on him in Emet-Selch's own lust?). He can exact patience for this. After all, he can tell that Emet-Selch's need to feel his throat filled is comparable to Mettaton's need to fill it.
Mettaton has always wanted to be someone Emet-Selch could turn to to gain some respite from the weight of worlds. It's in his nature to want to distract and to divert attention, even if a distraction doesn't solve any problems. And when he can pull Emet-Selch close to him, he feels like he's capable of being someone separate from "Emet-Selch": he sees it more and more, even if that person doesn't know what shape he's in anymore. Mettaton loves him all the same, and wants dearly to give Emet-Selch this space to figure himself out. They both benefit: Emet-Selch had thanked him for showing him he could still feel this way, and Mettaton takes joy out of seeing Emet-Selch come undone for him, out of exerting his sway and being so paid attention to. Ultimately, he loves him, and he wants to see him simply be.
He considers this while he's made the audience of Emet-Selch's attentions. Really, both of them are audiences of each other's. Emet-Selch's impassioned, lively, and Mettaton loves it. He's attracted to the sight of him shamelessly lapping at his cock, dragging his eyes from his crotch to his face with a look of need, watching enraptured the sight of his lips dragging along the shaft of him, catching on the corona, and slipping up to the glans. Watching him drool, watching him hunger for something he's found indulgence in: the shape of him in his mouth.
Hearing his name on his voice gives him chills. He loves the sound of it. Everything Emet-Selch does feels like a compliment to some degree even without words, surprisingly: his sheer dedication to his arousal, the looks he gives him heavy and covetous. His tongue, sloppy upon the slit of him and a pleasure just to watch, has Mettaton biting at his lower lip in stilled anticipation of him. He can practically feel the size of Emet-Selch's want for his throat to be encroached upon, for all that it's colored by the desire to lose his mind. Mettaton will support his endeavor, and his free hand also slips into his hair: one is tangled there and ready to hold him in place, the other soft and stroking.
He smiles at him through his lust, and it's a smile colored by it. He may be subject to the pull of the "sisters," and he may have his vanity dialed up to the nines, but Emet-Selch satisfies him, flatters him, soothes him with blood and Bond. And then, before he knows it, Mettaton's gasping: Emet-Selch's lips are parted over the head of his cock and he plunges down, taking as much of him as his mouth can hold. Mettaton would tense, full-bodied, if he had the muscles in the whole of him to do it: instead, he jerks and seizes. He does, however, throw his head back and grip into dark brown hair.]
Hades-!
[He sucks and sucks, eyes closed and focus on him, and Mettaton will make sure that he's worthy of such focus. He is, he doesn't even need to think about it, and the whole of his response will guarantee that. Emet-Selch deserves nothing less: they know and love the whole of each other, even the parts they know not yet. He stammers around something he's trying to say, voice strained as he keeps his gaze locked on Emet-Selch, hazy and desperate.]
I can't, ohh... Yes, Hades, please... [He lets his head loll in his pleasure, feeling the suction working over much of his length, the glans a single thrust away from being lodged in his throat. His hips work short thrusts against the Ascian, threatening to invade his throat with each, and Mettaton remembers he was trying to say something. His fingers tighten in his hair, then comb through it, only to latch on all over again — as though fighting his need.] I can barely- keep myself from you... but you. If you're aching to be full of me, then...
[His eye widens in this bright, unhinged realization, excitement blooming on his features as that wickedness manifests in an assumption that is likely a correct one: why is he holding back? If his inclination is to stuff Emet-Selch so full of him that misery can't visit him, that thought's left behind in favor of sucking and swallowing his erection, and if Emet-Selch is so hungry for him, why not give them both what they want?
Emet-Selch's only warning is this verbal realization, this darkness, this luminous gaze, the upright ears and the full smile as Mettaton grips into his hair and tugs Emet-Selch over his cock, slipping the head into his throat. How sore he must be, he thinks— but all thought is drained from him the very moment the glans is securely in the back of his mouth. He moans; his thighs tighten around his lover, securing him in his love for him and for this. And when he speaks next, his voice is airy and nearly relieved, rapturous and pleased.]
There. Take- Take me.
[He's not the only one taking someone, Mettaton realizes. Emet-Selch is dutifully and lovingly taking him, too. He wants him most of all, and that's an incredibly satisfying thought.]
[As Mettaton appreciated the sound of his name on his voice, the Ascian was similarly affected, breath catching even when he should be breathing as much as possible while he can, briefly overwhelmed by just the sound of it. Particularly when it was matched by the jerks of Mettaton's body, and a gratified sort of pleasure filled him, loving him for his response. For the hands that gripped and stroked at his hair, and were his mouth not full of his erection, he might even tell him so. And were he not focused on keeping his head lowered, he might even press up into those pets, appreciating it for both the affection inherent in the gesture, as well as the reassurance of being held to his cock.
He had... a lot to be appreciative of, when it came to Mettaton, he thought. And for all that it was a thought (which were things Emet-Selch wanted to lose), it was one worth having. He wanted to know all of his Bonded's self, in both confidence and vulnerability, genuine showiness and genuine concern- and he wanted to show him all of himself in return. Even when the Ascian didn't know what that entailed... he thought he had a better chance of discovering it in Mettaton's company than anywhere else.
Each thrust was a hint, not a warning (where was the danger a warning would imply?), of how soon, and how quickly his throat could be taken again. How it would only take a little more of a push, and he'd feel the pressure of the glans taking up his airway once more, stroking the interior of his throat instead. Stroking deeper and deeper until he could reach no further, and yet Mettaton could still thrust, could still move, could still push and hold his head in place, fucking him to a shared delight. And his throat would be worn and rubbed, and his voice would wither....
It's a warning brief, but unsubtle. A realization that blossoms across the Bond, the Ascian's eyes flashing open in an instant, reflexively scanning upwards to catch sight of his lover's expression. Tall ears and an eye that looks unnaturally bright in both lust and intent, a contrast to the darkness that surrounded the rest of him. But Emet-Selch loved the darkness, even before tempering had etched it into his soul; the sight of Mettaton in the full grip of feral comprehensions was stunningly attractive, a heightening of what had already been excessive. But it was still recognizably him, throughout, no one other than him. And no matter how maddened or contained, Emet-Selch knew he would love him regardless, as his core would be the same.
And then his throat was claimed, his head dragged down, glans popping into place with a solidity that would leave him gasping if he could. Instead, he's caught swallowing around him, throat clenching around this familiar intrusion with just as much intensity as before, as though it hadn't yet realized that it was made to be filled with the heaviness of a cock, and was still protesting the change from air. Struggling futily, it was outmatched by the combination of Mettaton's lock on his head through hand and thigh, and Emet-Selch's own stubbornness, reacting to this blockage by only deepening it, sliding further down his cock.
There were still a few moments of harder spasming before Emet-Selch could force his reflexes under moderate control, tightening and tugging at him still, but not to the point of uncontained gagging or choking. But he had a will to take him deeply. Mettaton wanted to be taken. He said so, in his beautiful voice, relieved at being in his throat, and yet wanting ever more of him- as he should. And as Emet-Selch wanted to give him, both body and soul, every scrap of his awareness and ability.
Even the soreness of his throat becomes another enjoyable ache, like those of bites and cuts, of bruises when pressed. The beat of his pulse reminded him of them all, a backdrop of what should've been discomfort turned into more intensity still, more feelings to satisfy- though nothing could match the pleasure of holding a thick cock in his throat. Of feeling every rub working its way deeper, of his own inability to pull away- from being held, as well as a lack of desire to. He was so stiff and so hot, the cushioned glans providing his sensitive throat a massage it never asked for, but which Emet-Selch reveled in obtaining.
So much so that his own cock begins to harden once more- as though the Ascian needed any more help when it came to feeling lightheaded. But the growing heaviness between his legs causes him to shudder, both from the satisfaction of having that physical sign of long-existing arousal apparent, as well as from the sensation of Mettaton's cock in his throat being its catalyst for forming.]
[Even the initial spasms of resistance register only as pleasure to the Puca, who cries out at the tension of his throat around his length, an erratic massage of the head of his cock. Emet-Selch doesn't escape not only because Mettaton won't let him, but because his Bonded is clearly determined to remain upon him, sucking and swallowing him deeper into his throat.
Persistence means that his Bonded can take ever more of him, and he does, pushing forward and allowing for the thrusts of his cock to rub in his throat. Tension still pulled and worked down the length he has inside of him, working most heavily around the glans, and Mettaton is immediately addicted to that particular rub. His sighs each come out as a "Yes," his own throat exposed as his head lolls toward his shoulder in his absolute loss to delight. Emet-Selch's throat is so tight around the tip of his arousal, surely made swollen and rough and aching by this point, and each thrust would continue to deepen that feeling, he imagines.
An ache and pain surely matched by the peppering of bruises and the punctures of teeth and nails over the canvas of ihs body, Mettaton notes. Even rakes of nails begin to decorate his body, and Mettaton wants only to add to his beauty. He's still hooked on Emet-Selch's earlier admission that he relies upon these marks to reflect upon their previous interactions... And the thought of his lover finding himself in a state of lazy arousal, wanting to find him and demand his sensual attention to sate his awakened appetite for Mettaton makes him feel impossibly stiff. It's just the right amount of recognition Mettaton's full brilliance deserves, and in this moment, he thinks that he'd fuck Emet-Selch anywhere he stood if he just asked. Mettaton is so aroused that he doesn't understand a time not being aroused, not having this body to pleasure his Bonded with, or not being capable of providing Emet-Selch with a thick cock to swallow and lick and choke on. He loves this. They both do, from unreasonable arousal to the aches and pains of pleasure and violence alike.
So he'll thrust, and he'll see to Emet-Selch's soreness and his ache, if not to make sure that even after he's let his Bonded relax, he'll continue to think about his claim upon his person, body and soul and mind. He works his length in his lover's throat, beginning to pull and push upon his head to aid in his thrusting motion as though using Emet-Selch's mouth to rub himself off. But he fills his mouth both for himself and for his Bonded, in the end: Emet-Selch loves this so strongly that he can feel it by Bond, if the attempts at sound weren't enough of an indication he could feel in his cock. (And how pleasant a feeling, to sense that a moan may have decorated his lover's tune if only he had the air or space to moan instead of being made to accommodate a swollen erection that rubs into the warmth of his throat.)
Mettaton wishes he could kiss him from this vantage point, but Emet-Selch sucking on him is distraction and consolation enough that he knows he could resume that desire at his next opportunity, and occupy this moment instead. He pushes deeper and, with a rub that nearly pulls the whole of his length into Emet-Selch's mouth, he collapses into a sigh.
And Mettaton just... sits back and looks, watching his lover swallowing his cock so deeply that he nearly reaches the base of him. his lips are tight around his shaft, Emet-Selch held in place by hands and legs, framed in his lap and drinking down his cock in eager anticipation of his eventual release, but relishing not that on its own, but the very occupation of it, the heaviness of a thick cock robbing him of air. He shudders at the knowledge of how much Emet-Selch likes this, and how much he likes this. And for a moment, Mettaton feels blinded — wondering if his pleasure was so great that he'd come right there, just from considering how much they love each other. Instead, he comes back around to find himself thrusting the rest of his length into Emet's throat, grinding his hips into his mouth some more with rapturous, short breaths. His legs are tight around him, shifting and stirring his cock deep within him.
He lets himself lose his mind. He lets himself cry out, gives way to his Bonded and strokes his cock on Emet-Selch's throat, letting him squeeze and rub the head of him so divinely that he doubts it could get better than this. Ecstasy is the only thing that can leave his throat, but thought still visits him when he realizes he wants more and more.
Drooling in his unbridled pleasure, Mettaton tries to voice his desires.]
Yes, t-take me like this, deeper...!
[... Mettaton is as deep as he can go, but he wants deeper. He wants more. He wants to meld more closely with his lover, as though it would bring him pleasure greater and greater the more they could combine. He can feel through their Bond the rousing of Emet-Selch's stiffness, a tickling sensation over his whole body he's come to learn is a sign of arousal, and he moans all over again, rolling his hips against his mouth in his demand.]
[Every drag, every stroke- and for that matter, every moment of simply being in his throat- was a moment more of agitation, of keeping his neck stretched, its areas sensitive. But his body's primary concern for now, naturally, was the persistent lack of air, an inability to breathe taking precedence over a bit of roughening, no matter how thorough. And Emet-Selch's primary concern, even more naturally, was on remaining exactly where he was, in holding Mettaton in his mouth, on taking him as deeply as he could. On giving up breath and speech and thought alike.
And what were the details of bites and blood, of soreness and stretching, but aspects that would link inevitably to arousal? Here, they were sensations that existed as a part of the whole, tied up into the sensation of the stiffness he carried, shifting, in his throat. Rubbing him more and more raw with every roll of hips, every tug of his head against Mettaton's crotch. But later on, whenever the Ascian was alone, every twinge from scabbing over wounds, every swallow, every ache from bruise compressed- would just return him to this imagery, of being caught between his lover's legs, rapturously sucking him.
Arousal would be inevitable, a constant risk to court. And at this moment, bearing the pulsing insistence of his own erection, swallowing around Mettaton's own cock with moans trapped, but pleasure immense- he could see no reason why he shouldn't ever track his lover down in times of need. It would be a thought worth rousing himself for (finding himself aroused), worth consciousness and movement over lethargy and sleep. A fine way of getting the Ascian out of the house more....
Nothing could ever be more reasonable or convenient. He knew Mettaton would not deny him.
Though with arms trapped beneath him and his cock hard, Emet-Selch still, as he works a hand to some kind of freedom, doesn't try reaching for his own erection, but is instead drawn to his throat once more. And he shivers as he strokes along Mettaton's length through his neck, another gasping cry lost to his swallowed cock. And as he tenses around him, and his lover thrusts, and his head continues to be shifted in his lap, the Ascian can feel the particular bulge of the glans in his throat through his fingers- a sensation he can't even begin to get enough of. And it's something he knows he'll be able to recall in this detail with a simple stroke over the same area- and how aroused he could so easily make himself in that way too.
Saliva drips past swollen lips without a care, still tinged with a hint of blood. No matter how closely they mold to skin, they're unable to prevent it. Though with Mettaton's cock worked progressively deeper into his throat, there's less for it to drip down. And with ever more of him being taken, there became ever less chance of retreat, of pulling at all back from what had become lodged there.
But even with his mouth finally against Mettaton's body again, face pressed flush to his crotch, the length in his throat jostled by the way he continued to clench around it, by the way his Bonded's hips continue rocking against his face- he tries as well to take him deeper still. As though having the entirety of his length wasn't enough, that he could devour him even further than this. Mettaton wanted him to, after all--
His head was pounding, lungs getting quite irritable from all of this starvation, ignoring how the rest of him was more starved for his lover, for his erection rubbing slickly in his neck. He could reach so far, and the Ascian's hand clutches and strokes at him through his throat, as though he could knead him deeper still, could do more than this to touch him. Even as his wanting clouds both thoughts and control, throat spasming with more force as he begins choking on him, it's a sensation that registers with no alarm- only greater, hazy-yet-sharp satisfaction. It was more intense, therefore it was better; Emet-Selch didn't need to think to know this. Thought would've only detracted from this understanding. Of his place, of his purpose- it was to be buried here, locked between his lover's tensing thighs, sucking his cock, listening to his voice lost to cries and pleas, moans and breaths he doesn't need- yet were the only sounds that needed to exist in the world. Just as Mettaton was the only person who needed to exist, his presence brilliant enough to blot out the rest. The comfort in serving him was all he required.]
[It's an absolute delight Mettaton can only melt into, even though he hardly melts, given that he continues to manipulate Emet-Selch's head to remain solidly in his lap. He'd only moments ago thought nothing could be more blindingly pleasurable in this moment, but Emet-Selch's fingers prod and stroke at his cock through the tight confines of his throat. It's the shadow of a touch, but it's pressure enough for his sensitive length to be pleasured even further.
Smooth cries ride on his voice, making up for the noise Emet-Selch can't make with his own ecstasy. Losing the skill for forming words, he thinks instead (for all that he can barely think) about Emet-Selch stroking his cock through his neck, how deeply he swallows him and pleasures him and how he knows his own arousal must be getting progressively harder. He wonders all over again if he'll come without being touched, and Mettaton can only drool some more at the recollection of the sight of his Bonded, exposed so blatantly and with his cock on full display for Mettaton to watch, to touch. His abdomen, tightening erratically, was a perfect canvas for his ejaculation, an explosive affair that painted his skin in a spurt of come and dripped down his shaft, and the robot can't get the thought of it out of his head. His own arousal feels that much harder for it, that much needier, even while he's thrusting into his lover's throat and being squeezed by fingers.
Mettaton is not in a mental space to remember Emet-Selch's need for air, having decided to succumb to desire so fully. His self-control slips and gives way to absolute indulgence, the picture of decadence as he is, bejeweled and drooling and waiting for praise, for flattery, for pleasure; all else would earn only his ire and spite, and be treated accordingly. But Emet-Selch gives him only what he wants and more: he hungrily devours his cock and pleasures him; gives him feelings through Bond that tenderize him if his own feelings for the other man didn't do the trick; and his very body is a conduit for how much Emet-Selch finds Mettaton attractive.
He may very well not receive a moment to breathe like this, save for a whimsical inclination on Mettaton's part. He craves the sound of Emet-Selch's voice and the sight of his cock. He wants all of it at once, but he can't have that. So he chooses to pull back on his lover's head, forcing him of off his length.
Sliding smoothly out of his throat, there's almost a popping sensation as the ridge of the head slips out of Emet-Selch's agitated throat, but Mettaton doesn't pull him off of the glans. It's already intolerable for his length to be extricated from the warm confines of his neck, but he wants to check on the status of his throat, wants to hear what his Bonded can manage after being so ravaged. He pants in a manner more for the sake of expressing his renewed starvation, allowing one of his hands to cup his cheek. Lust and love are always entwined between them, after all: even though Mettaton craves the stealing of the other man's voice and wants him bruised and bloodied out of their passion, he loves him dearly, and loves the sight and sound and sensation of him.
Emet-Selch has the glans of him offered for his preoccupation while Mettaton's legs loosen in their grip, giving him this rare moment for sound and breath. His eye is bright in anticipation of his lover's response.]
Kiss me, there-- [...He's trying to ask him how much he enjoys what he's doing (more for the sake of hearing his voice: he already knows he loves this), but more primal thoughts take over and demand him to mouth the glans of him, a glutton who can't get enough pleasure exacted to his cock. He pants at the sight of Emet-Selch with his mouth made to hold the tip of his length, and tries to swallow.] You... ah, Hades... your voice...
[What it boils down to is that he wants to hear him try to talk. Anything would do, any expression of himself would sate his ego, would satisfy his desires. They're already connected, and Mettaton knows Emet-Selch's enjoying himself so thoroughly that it echoes off of his own enjoyment. They pleasure each other simply by existing like this. Mettaton's grip on his head loosens enough to give Emet-Selch the choice to dive down upon his cock, his legs even tightening back up to secure him in place and reassure that he'd just as readily facilitate his hunger for more. Mettaton stares at him, saliva coating his arousal absolutely as his lover's given only enough space to collect himself with his lips still around the swollen head of his arousal.
Already, however, Mettaton's hips shift and thrust, begging for the secure warmth of his throat all over again. He invites him to swallow him back up, yearning all over again for the feeling of his throat stroking over the thick head of his cock, for the vibration of feeling he gets from his attempts at vocalizing.]
[There were no concerns in the world. Not for breath, not for life; the discomfort in his throat, the aching insistence of arousal- it was all a variation on bliss. The world was dark, and Mettaton's love for him was darker, and he was so warm it was like he was burning.... Keeping Mettaton's cock in his throat, tight and hot and hard- that was all he needed to do, with the reward of being wrapped permanently up in reflected and experienced pleasure.
That he was faltering, flickering in consciousness never registers, even when he's pulled back from the erection he'd impaled himself on, in a slick, quick drag up. The sensation of the glans leaving his throat causes a wince he's equally unaware of, and is easily lost to the wheezing breaths he instinctively takes, now that his body's efforts to breathe finally pay off. Coughing, panting, Emet-Selch's dizziness (or at least, his sense of it) only increases at the rush of oxygen following such deprivation, and he nearly slumps back onto Mettaton's cock anyway.
Even his breathing sounds rasping, and his coughing hurts. With air brings that realization, and it's enough to keep him attempting to stifle the hacking sounds, as his throat seems to be registering the roughness of it as something that needed cleared- but of course it can't be. He shudders; maintains enough focus to devote himself anyway to the glans that remains in his mouth.
Swallowing around it had been good, and he shivers again at the echo of the sensation, the constriction and starvation it gave him. But appreciating the head of him like this was also good, and he moans at his heat, at how slippery he was, and his tongue can't stop lapping and flicking at him, pressing into the softer give of it.
--Or Emet-Selch tries to moan, anyway, but it's reduced to more of a whisper of sound for reasons that had little to do with either a lack of air, or a muffling-through-cock. It's an uncomfortable sound to make, but an involuntary one, as were the softer yet, pleased sounds that accompany his pants, as he mouths and tastes the tip of his erection.
There was the gentleness of a hand on his face, and he looks up to him then, yellow eyes struggling to focus. But he leans into the touch just a little, though without ever leaving Mettaton's cock, rubbing his lips softly over the surface of the tip. Nuzzling and sucking small kisses into every part of it, with particular attention towards the slit. Dragged over by lips, and licked steadily by tongue, he moans again in anticipation for the sensation of his come filling him another time, another load to savor and keep, desperate for the sensation of sucking every bit of it from his body. It's enough to have his own erection aching in sympathy and shared want, come drying stickily down the shaft, across his abdomen, a presence just waiting to be renewed by another release.]
Mettaton....
[Much like his moans, his breath itself, it's a voice choked to softness, roughened. It felt like any attempt to force a louder sound would only trigger more coughing without any particular increase in volume. Taking another breath, he speaks around the tip of his cock, both lips and glans wet with saliva, both swollen from use.]
I-- ah.... I love you, I... you feel- I can't--
[A difficulty speaking twice over, it's not terribly coherent, sounding more like a rasp that only incidentally contained a few words.
Though part of him wanted to stay with the tip, to mouth and suck him until he felt come bursting from him, coating his tongue and his mouth, staining his lips, he could feel the little thrusts on Mettaton's part, the urging to take him deeper again. It was the natural desire, of course, to wrap himself back up into the greater heat of the Ascian's throat, to feel that manner of sucking pressure as his body struggled to breathe around him once more, tugging and pulling at both glans and shaft. And how could he deny that? Even with his throat ragged, Emet-Selch also shared that desire, to seal himself back up again, to moan in silence, to feel legs tight around him, and his face flush to Mettaton's body once again.
So he takes a breath, and slides himself down, smoothly but insistent, ignoring the discomfort, the tension in his body as the glans once again blocks the back of his throat- and pops into it again. Emet-Selch shudders; his own cock throbs, as though deciding this was the right choice for them all, and in his current frame of mind, the Ascian is not inclined to disagree. Dipping ever lower, he feels the head pushed deeper, his throat stretched out again around the girth of him, and there's satisfaction despite the rawness of his throat.]
[It's doubly worth pleasure, this. All of it. Mettaton aches at the sound of his voice and the content of his words, an expression of love undeniable. (Really, the jewelry he wears can't curse him enough to keep up with how touched he often feels in Emet-Selch's presence, especially if he asks for his appreciation, which he has no qualms doing.) When Mettaton moans in response, it's light and airy as though not at all wanting to drown out the sound of Emet-Selch's voice, though it sounds downright pleased, a matching smile to grace his lips. There's satisfaction found in both quality of voice and content, and it sets him aching some more with the pressure of building arousal.
There's also the difficulty found in talking around his cock, Mettaton acknowledges. It's worthy of his thumb toying with his lip, examining the split of it with a dazed satisfaction and a claw hooked around it before he lets it go. But Mettaton can't still his hips and can't stop the pressure building, the want overcoming him to be back in his lover's used throat, where he belongs. Even here is where he belongs, no doubt. But if he's going to use his throat, he wants to use it fully, wants to stroke himself off in it until Emet-Selch's made to swallow another load of his come. As much as he can, he'd use his lover's body because his pleasure is Emet-Selch's, and if Emet-Selch's pleased, Mettaton's triply pleased.
Watching his Bonded suck kisses into the slickened head of his length, though, has his own "breath" catching. He stutters, and time feels like it pauses for these slight, affectionate gestures, a hunger belying each kiss. Even Mettaton imagines vividly the experience of coming against his lips, making him taste and lick up every last drop of the richness of his come, making him lap it off of the head of his cock the way Mettaton wanted to clean Emet-Selch's, if he weren't so busy losing himself to fevered release as he was, if he could reach with anything other than his hand. He licks his own lips in sympathy, imagining Emet-Selch's mouth coated thick with come and made not only to swallow three loads of his, not only to stretch his throat and render his voice weak with use, but made to taste him, to have him linger in his mouth. He could enjoy the taste of Mettaton's mouth and his come, and feel the work of his cock in his throat, all while knowing he's swallowed his come three times over. (What more could he do to his beloved? Scarred and bruised, bitten and sore, scented and given memory of him, Bonded and... (marriage. he must. this becomes a more feral inclination that he imagines feverishly and with far too much sexual passion, as though marrying him would be a carnal affair.) Emet-Selch would not be without a reminder of Mettaton's love for him.)
Mettaton tries for words to reply to his lover's raspy ones, but is quickly interrupted by the sight of the Ascian diving down upon his length again. He takes it with some more measure this time: a smooth, gradual swallowing of his length is accompanied by a sigh of relief, the warmth and pressure wrapped around his length once more. It's pressure that battles his own, and his hands move up gently to rest against Emet-Selch's head, where he massages his fingers into his scalp in his fondness and in his desire to exert pressure. He's so tight that it feels like he could squeeze him to release, he thought, and he bites his lower lip in anticipation.
As Emet-Selch swallows the whole of his length all over again, filling himself to the brim with a thick cock, Mettaton's sigh turns into something more of a cry, letting his neck loosen again and allowing his hips to roll in a rhythmic thrusting, tempered and even as though savoring him.]
Hades... I love you too. You- you do everything I could dream...
[Mettaton is starstruck by him. If they were still in public, he'd no doubt be lost to it. The room is nothing but them and their sex, the smell and heat of it (or what heat he can feel, which is limited to his tongue and his cock and all of it building inside of his robotic shell). Even though Mettaton is feverish and desperate for pleasure (while he's receiving pleasure), he mellows himself, places himself firmly in the moment and appreciates it all, drinks his lover in and evens out his tempo. There's a new energy to him: no longer uncoordinated, but demanding. Still ever veering toward feral, a moment away from jamming Emet-Selch against his lap in a loss of control, but he drinks in every sensation and basks in it.]
Ohh, Hades, darling... I feel- I feel all of you...
[And he loves it. How open they've grown by Bond, how much their souls give way to each other's, and how familiar Emet-Selch's become to the Puca. Their pleasure is so evident, a mutual indulgence, even when Emet-Selch's the one swallowing down his length. Even if his throat should be so sore, Mettaton only envisions the sensation of the swell of is glans rubbing deep inside of his mouth. It's so intimate of a gesture that it's pleasurable by virtue of that, and Mettaton's made to sate his own curiosity when he prods his lover's throat once more.
The feeling alone has his thrusts firming, a moan of delight accompanying his new, ecstatic rhythm. He needs to share his observations, and his voice rides on a desperate sort of daze, intoxicated by their pleasures entwined.]
You're so full of me, I can feel how, how thick, you're- mine, sweetheart, I- going...
[He wanted to describe the physical sensation of his cock filling such a tight space and so evidently, but an expression of possession and endearment come from him instead on frenzied, scrambled words to match the contents of his head. Emet-Selch is his. He wouldn't forget that. They love each other, after all. It all builds terribly, an overwhelming delight in each other's bodies that Mettaton feels that pressure in him overwhelm all else.
He knows he's close, but he can't quite express it. He considers all over again the thought of making him taste his come, making his lover lick and suck and kiss at the head of him, slick and smooth and soft, and it only pushes him further toward the edge. His thrusts grow more feverish, each accompanied by a short moan of delight.]
[Mettaton thrusted, and the Ascian accepted him, willingly gave him more of his throat to push himself into, a tight, wet place to rub himself against. Everywhere his lover wanted to be was where he belonged, really, and Emet-Selch had little qualm about using any part of his body for that purpose. It wasn't as though he didn't appreciate it just as completely, wasn't left hard and aching for his own release just from being in prolonged contact with Mettaton's cock, in feeling the strength of his partner's arousal.
Though he still overlooks touching himself, even if Emet-Selch can well imagine how hot his own length is, and how he would be able to feel the remnants of his previous orgasm along it. A record of indulgence not cleaned away, but left to mark him in the same way that anything else Mettaton did to him marked him. Bruises and blood were one sign of ardor, and the mess left across his abdomen and cock were another, an explicit notation of how much he did enjoy sucking him, that it was to the point of getting off from it alone.
So it's deliberately that he holds back, enjoying as well, in a way, the demanding beat of his own cock, the way it wanted to be stroked and pulled and sucked on, but had to accept only this more indirect stimulation. Emet-Selch knew it would be more than enough, and the closer Mettaton got to his own orgasm, the more he was sure of it, the more he felt his own closing in with him, as though tasting and feeling his lover succumb to ecstasy was the only nudge he required for his own.
And Emet-Selch can feel Mettaton's attempt at control, and is further endeared by it. That it's not any attempt to hold back (Why should they hold anything back from one another? Any restraint existed only in consideration for the other, and resulted in greater pleasure for them regardless.), but to savor every moment as it was. Or rather, to savor it in a different way from pounding into his throat with maddened thrusts, letting the Ascian take him there instead, swallow and suck around him.
And with the glimmers of thought he'd regained along with his recent breaths, it's at least directed towards more consideration towards what he was taking inside of him again. The slower, more controlled way he lowered himself has him tensing up in degrees, in breathless (inherently) anticipation, feeling every part of his throat made to give way to him. The way his throat compressed and clenched around the glans as he pushed it deeper, the way the head made space for the shaft to follow, a thickness to hold his throat open- while filling it utterly. Even with the sore heat of his throat, Mettaton's cock felt even hotter, and Emet-Selch couldn't decide if it soothed it, or was a further agitation to it. In either case he loved it for both its warmth, and its fullness, for the pleasure it was clearly providing his lover, and for the expectation of receiving his come.
Mettaton was thick; it's not a new realization, but hearing his Bonded's words on it, feeling his hand touch his throat, touch his cock through his throat- would have him moaning in agreement if he could. Emet-Selch still shudders, a small, tight, ecstatic trembling, caught up again in all he was feeling. He was thick enough to fill him, and he loved him for it, even though he loved him already.
Wanting to swallow around his length, and wanting to fully taste his release as well- there was probably something vaguely obscene at salivating at the thought of drinking down his lover's come, of wanting him to fill his mouth to that degree. But Emet-Selch was long past any point of caring about that- apart from, perhaps, some small point of surprise and even gratitude for Mettaton being able to invoke in him responses like these. To want every part of him in excess, to respond to both his body and his love as though starved for it- more than could ever be filled.
But they could ceaseless try to, finding ever more ways to entwine themselves, and yet to have that reassurance remain that there will always be something else to fill with one another.
It's without any concern for air that Emet-Selch pulls up a little as he feels Mettaton edging ever closer to release. From swallowing him in his throat, he lets the head pop back into his mouth, to squeeze and suck and lap at him there, clearly desperate for his taste, for the feeling of come hitting his tongue. His hand shifts up, to wrap fingers around the part of Mettaton's cock that was no longer protected by his throat, kneading along slick, hot skin, as though to drag and pull everything that he could from him. Even his balls don't go untouched, as he spares them a few firm squeezes as well as he moans around the swollen head of his lover's cock, adoring the way Mettaton's thrusts helped to drag it along the interior of his mouth, waiting for him to coat it with his release.]
[While he still strokes himself in Emet-Selch's throat, Mettaton becomes acutely aware of the other man's hands: where they are, and how they remain squarely away from his own arousal. It's another obscene pleasure to match Emet-Selch's, that he should be so disciplined to refrain and earn his pleasure through sucking Mettaton off, and he almost grins wickedly at the thought. A satisfied hum is made to accompany a pleasured sigh, a sound that becomes even more pleasured after his Bonded's shudder, the attempt and failure at a moan, and louder yet as Emet-Selch sucks and swallows around his length.
The both of them are acutely aware of the space Mettaton occupies, his lover's body forming tightly around his length. Thrusts of his hips drag the head of him along in his throat toward his undeniable release, imminent and soon, and Mettaton's sure he'll be spilling over in his throat. There's but a shred of him capable of regarding anything beyond each passing instant, and that part of him hyper-fixates on the instant only moments ahead: the imaginings of filling the rest of his partner's throat with come, drowning him in his essence. But when that moment closes in and darkens him so warmly, panting in the sound of soft moans, Emet-Selch pulls back, to his pleasant surprise.
And it's not with the sound of gagging or choking, but with an intention that sweeps Mettaton off his feet. His tongue fixes on the glans, the work of his hips stroking himself off not in the confines of his throat but between his lips and fingers, all of it warm and tight in its own right. Somewhere still to thrust that belongs to his lover.
Kneading the whole of his length, squeezing his balls as though to coax him toward release, Emet-Selch's the picture of anticipation and the sound of it too, and the robot assumes immediately the intent behind this alteration of position: Emet-Selch wants as much to taste him as he wants to be tasted by him. Biting his lip, he collapses in another moan loud enough to drown out Emet-Selch's (though Mettaton's ears are tuned in on the sound of his lover no matter what), eager to fall prey to the hunger his Bonded, bruised and bitten and claimed, exhibits for his body. Theirs is a mutual taking, after all, and if Mettaton's going to ravish and ravage the Ascian's soft, supple form, it's only fair that Emet-Selch can take as much of him as he wants in turn.
It shocks him and electrifies him to have this sudden, last-second change of position, something jarring enough to please him beyond his limits. The very sight of Emet-Selch gripping his cock and slipping the head of him past lips made swollen, sucking ardently upon him in eager wait for his load, is something he'll be terribly distracted by in time to come.
Trembling, what muscle he's developed in his legs slacken and tighten his succumbing to pleasure as Mettaton's fingers prod and nails rake against Emet-Selch's upper back in his loss of control. Feeling the swell of the head against the bed of Emet-Selch's tongue and the divine rub there, he notes readily the eagerness which his lover laps at the slit and strokes his length encouragingly. How could he stand this? It conquers his senses completely, visual and tactile and aural completely overwhelmed.
Mettaton can't make words happen, as if he had any to make. But he loves Emet-Selch for his love of him, and what is more flattering than the sheer amount of desire he exhibits for the idol? Kneading his balls in eager anticipation of his climax, stroking up the shaft of his cock, sucking desperately at the head of him... Mettaton imagines it, but he feels heavy with come when release hits him, a moment that feels as though it extends for long. Short, curved thrusts into Emet-Selch's mouth spill his load, and he drools in sympathy for the taste his lover will surely have of him. How lucky he is, to be so full of his cock and come, and Mettaton feels he's most worthy of all to be stuffed with it. To taste him and have him.
Nobody else would love him and know him this way, and nobody else could fill him and receive him as readily. Nobody could compare to this. Mettaton is in bliss under Emet-Selch's attention, fully in love and pleasure, adoring the whole of his lover's attention.]
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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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The attempts for air on the part of his spasming throat clenches and pulls at Mettaton's erection, and atop the swallowing, Mettaton's beside himself and near blind by the pleasure of it. Emet-Selch's commitment to their pleasure pays off in that way. His hips only pull back just enough to drag the glans along the confines of his throat, reluctant to tug his cock from the heat of Emet-Selch's body when he feels so good. These feral-leaning instincts tell him to fuck Emet-Selch completely, to inundate him totally, to fill him so excessively with his come and his cock and to make swollen his throat in a sudden burst of release, all so that he could do it all over again. Mettaton delights and squirms at the sensation of this firm pull on his cock, the addition of fingers stroking and kneading at him through his neck. He realizes he's trembling, he's barely seeing, he's so lost to ecstasy that he could already be coming and not even realize it.
Emet-Selch deserves only the best. As hard-working as he is, he deserves exactly what he wants if what he wants is a full throat and a cock to suck and swallow and suffocate around, and his goal now is to feel Mettaton erupt in rapture and orgasm, Mettaton's sure. (If his lover can even think: he's also sure that Emet-Selch is purely enjoying himself, and that pleases MTT more than sense should permit.) He shoves his hips into Emet-Selch's face, grinding and thrusting his cock as deep as he can into his throat to give him plenty to swallow around, fascinating himself over the sight and sensation of the swell in his throat where they both prod and squeeze with investigative fingers. He breaks out into repeated cries, incapable of toning down his volume in a response so close to climax that it's surprising that he's still hanging on. He sees stars, and he loves Emet-Selch more than anything.
Mettaton appreciates Emet-Selch's dedication, his trust in him and his love for him. All of them are mutual, after all. And his dedication manifests here as continuing to deliver his Bonded his cock, filling his throat and robbing him of sense, letting him lose himself to pleasure if peak satisfaction is found through losing thought.
But he remembers that period of unconsciousness and the feeling of kissing with lungs. Reflexively, the Puca pulls his oversensitive cock back, bringing the glans to Emet-Selch's lips to give him a moment to breathe, whether he likes it or not. He keeps himself nestled in his spit-slicked mouth just beyond the corona, panting and thrusting still, demanding that he be tended to even while Emet-Selch's given this chance for breath, if temporarily.]
Hades... [His voice is soft and near pleading, wanting and needing the confines of his throat but recovering in his own right from the pure, sucking stimulation of being swallowed around. It's so much that he could lose himself to his body for good, he thought.] You're... So good... I need...
[... Instead of telling him what he needs, Mettaton gets right back to it to take waht he needs: having given Emet-Selch the moment to not pass out, or having given himself the moment he needs to prepare for another go, Mettaton goes right back to easing his length inside of his lover, slower and more tenderly this time: the shaft is pushed past his lips, caring not at all if teeth drag or if his lover's still panting, and Mettaton stops the tip right before the back of his mouth. Given just a moment's warning, he presses forward: the head pops through the back of his throat, giving Mettaton a heady beat of pleasure that makes him weak-kneed.
And he fills Emet-Selch all over again, down to the root. He grinds his hips into him, presses his crotch into Emet-Selch's face and rolls his hips, sliding his cock tantalizingly, stroking himself off in the tight grip of his lover's throat. Moans and sighs are all that can escape his throat anymore, his fingers kneading at the head of Emet-Selch's erection with a mindless reverence for all his lover does for him, an indelible appreciation for the pleasure he gives him, for the fact that he can manage all of his needs for more and more and match him all the while. Who else would be so willing to give away their breath for their mutual pleasure but Emet-Selch? Who could give him such complete trust and receive it in return with such dedication? Mettaton presses down on his throat, nearly choking him some more around the head of his cock to tighten an already tight throat, even though he fills him so thoroughly that Emet-Selch can't breathe to begin with. Fingers stroke his cock through his neck, yanking another moan of absolute delight from the idol. Like this, the Puca rubs both of them off, mashes his body into Emet-Selch's face and watches his lover's rigid cock with an indecent hunger. Imagining still the sight of him erupting in climax
His commands sound breathless, airy and frenzied and loud on his voice as he cries out.]
Swallow, more, swallow some more... You're, ahh...
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There's just no comparison.
Yet in a more serious way, it's something that would provide both solace and security- and would, for once, be an expression of devotion with a tangible result, providing something other than a lifetime of solitude and misery. A task that did not include sacrificing multitudes of lives and worlds. To instead make use of that inclination for the pleasure of someone who loved him, and who he loved in return... it wouldn't be the worst way of channeling it.)
Every drag of cock seemed as though it pulled him more deeply under, every pull that he could follow with his fingers, every push that replaced what had been lost. A use that would no doubt leave him sore, tender, a memory of Mettaton's thickness to accompany every swallow. A rhythm that would also leave him another load of come fuller, and with ever more to drag from him, to lick and suck and squeeze from his lover's eager body. They would drain each other of essence and sense entirely, to collapse together in a sticky, sated heap- who would yet keep attempting to continue.
But that sense of faintness was increasing, darkness impending, though his throat continues its convulsions, its ministrations, and if Emet-Selch had the capacity for thought he'd be relieved at that. That even should his awareness falter, his body would continue its attempts to mistakenly remove what lay within it- and in the process, constrict and stroke his lover's erection. It was what he wanted, what they both did.
And then there was air, where there had previously been Mettaton; Emet-Selch reflexively gasps, coughing at his sudden partial-freedom, around the head of his Bonded's cock that he (thankfully) still had in his mouth. And as though the sound had been trapped, and was just as necessary as breathing- the Ascian moans as he pants, lungs desperately replenishing all that they could, as though they knew their supply could just as easily be removed momentarily. But he doesn't quite have space to feel regret, not when he feels Mettaton's glans remain at his lips, shivering at how hot he felt, a warmth that he was sure was higher than before, all due to the heat of his own body. And Emet-Selch laps at him with his tongue, strokes and rubs the slit, anticipating the sensation of his climax, and the even greater heat that his come would provide him.
But even so, his throat felt so strange, so empty without Mettaton's erection to fill it. His hand remains at his neck, stroking slowly at it as he swallows (a motion pleasantly sore already, but something he could successfully do, which was less satisfactory), as though feeling for something that wasn't there. Or reassuring himself that it would return. Or even reminding himself of what his throat normally felt like, in order to compare it to its improved form.
It's brief; his dizziness remains, his blood not wholly re-oxygenated in these few moments. But he's in no immediate danger of blacking out again when he hears the warning provided by Mettaton's voice. The promise provided- and the Ascian parts his lips more fully, tilts his head just a little, anything to encourage him to fill him up again. An encouragement unnecessary, but given regardless, a low noise of satisfaction choked off as the shaft glides deeper into his mouth once more, and he feels the head push its way into his throat: the place he belonged.
Moans lost again, he sucks around him, swallows on instinct, and more on being told to, his own hand helping Mettaton's in holding onto him from above, as though he could be choked any more thoroughly, that there was any space left to constrict. But there was a feeling of fingers and claws, of skin stretched around the distinct shape of his erection, of space claimed and caressed once more. Mettaton was doing the vocalizing for them both, and there was rapture shared in the hearing of it, in knowing with absolute clarity how much he adored having him like this.
Emet-Selch was being stroked doubly, his throat fucked and his cock pulled, a combination he had no hope of defending against. Wracked with shudders, face buried in Mettaton's crotch, throat convulsing around his length, orgasm hits him with an intensity that feels like he's blacking out anyway. Muscles clenching, thick come erupts against his lover's fingers, to drip down his shaft, to spatter against his abdomen. Even with one release behind him, it seems no less plentiful- perhaps even more so, with the addition of Mettaton's hand rubbing it out from him.]
no subject
A tying of souls; their Bond did that for them, and time made it a forceful union that, should it ever break for some reason, would hurt them terribly. A tying of legality; marriage could provide, the ceremony greater and recognition of possession made absolute. (What sorts of traditions did they have in Aefenglom? he wonders in some more tranquil, softened space of his mind. He's not one for hard and fast tradition but if it offered him something exciting, of course he'd embrace it. (What do other worlds do to celebrate such a momentous occasion? How deeply could he take Emet-Selch? A terrifying question to pose to an audience of Mirrorbound.) If a method exists to more deeply consume and occupy him, ways to paint Emet-Selch's soul in himself...
If he could temper him, Mettaton is sure he would do it. He knows Emet-Selch well enough to have wondered what he'd be without someone to dedicate himself to, and if he could be among those he considers important enough to live and act for, he'd gladly secure himself there. They trust each other, they love each other. Anything Mettaton could want would include his lover's interest at heart.)
A lot of gentler considerations for a moment so carnal and a mind so fevered, and ones that can scarcely crowd out the din of his pleasure. Mettaton vocalizes plenty, stealing breath from the Ascian that he doesn't need for an activity like this as he feels each swallow rub down his length, an intimate massage of his cock with a needy end goal of coming inside of him. Another mark, another claim, and more to come. A pleasure he could have never fathomed being made something so easy to achieve with someone who makes it real and meaningful, someone who would gladly give his consciousness away so long as his throat did the work of stroking his cock, of keeping it precisely where he belonged. And in truth, Mettaton feels he belongs anywhere as deep as he can reach inside of his Bonded.
(They've both touched some intimate places on each other, haven't they? From memories to innards, from trauma to sex, there's nothing they would hesitate to dive head-first into experiencing of each other. Yet the one that heavies his heart pleasantly is their tying of the soul, the fact that their love for each other and this is made so transparent. And with that Bond, Emet-Selch would keep him from those terrifying levels of madness he experienced all alone, even if he were to succumb to the sway of the "moons" these pendants brought. He has him now.
So he succumbs.)
And he pounds into him, long thrusts in his lover's throat as Emet-Selch loses himself to bliss, the both of them in cooperation at gripping down on Emet-Selch's throat, framing that protrusion signaling Mettaton's erection filling him. He moans with the full body of his voice, something that becomes a noise of relief as soon as he sees Emet-Selch's abdomen tensing beautifully, spasming just before his body gives way to a burst of come. He's hungry for his body and wants to take it all, to rake his claws over the whole of him and mark him and bite him. Mettaton's fingers pull over the head of his lover's cock in frenzied strokes to coerce as much come from him as possible, panting and heavy-lidded at the sight of his ejaculate dripping from his fingers, a thick line of it making his abdomen appear delectable enough to be licked and kissed until he's marked not by come but saliva. But Mettaton can only stutter, can only thrust, can only cry out and rough up his lover's throat by filling him with a cock thick enough to rob him of breath.
Even if he didn't have this to fill Emet-Selch with, Mettaton knows he'd kiss him until he had none to spare. He'd kiss him until he was moaning and rapturous. But this is divine.
Mettaton gives Emet-Selch a few more sharp jerks of his hips before he feels himself give way to release, hotter than even the burning heat of Emet-Selch's body. His hips grind into his lips, firm thrusts to rub at the head of his cock that feels purely swollen in the ever tighter confines of Emet-Selch's throat, fingers prodding and pushing around his length to coax him to this moment. With a few more parting strokes of Emet-Selch's neck to convince him to keep swallowing down his cock, his free hand moves to grip onto the hand belonging to his Bonded, the one he has twisted into sheets. His claws dig desperately at his lover's palms as though seeking consolation. But he's delighted, still staring down his bruised, bloodied, and come-spattered body like he's aroused and in love all over again.
Another climax that feels like it lasts and lasts, the work of Emet-Selch's fingers at his throat enough to feel like he's starting all over again even when he's in the midst of his rapture. Perhaps what brings him to greater and greater heights of pleasure is their mutual depth of trust that only deepens to surprise, a pleasant development.
As soon as the robot feels he's spent, his knees give way enough to pull out from Emet-Selch's throat, enough to collapse onto them. (A delightful thing, in the otherwise too-reliable body of this robot: muscle development has made his legs somewhat unreliable, and he enjoys that force of emotion and pleasure dictating his bodily response.) From partially leaning to collapsing to the floor aside the bed, his unfortunate trajectory includes... gracelessly smacking Emet-Selch in the face with his completely solid metal torso. Just one of the many danger of copulating with an amorous robot.
Hopefully Emet-Selch is okay, and not knocked out by robot chest. Did he give him a nosebleed? Split his lip all over again? Smack his poor left eye with that dial? Mettaton hardly realizes what just transpired yet: he needs a moment before he can even take stock of what he's done.]
no subject
While Bonds were, strictly speaking, more personal, in that they involved the connection of souls- they were also normalized to a degree, an aspect of survival. And so there were any number of Bonds that were friendly only, or out of survival or convenience. Barring a marriage for political purpose (which would hardly be the case for any Mirrorbound), it would be a ceremony purely for excessive romantic, emotional, sentimental reasons. A formality explicitly for love, with a ceremony that could be as grand or modest as required, and not an inherently more private affair attended by a circle of uninterested witches casting the appropriate magic.
It would be... an occasion, by any standard. A thought that occasionally still fills Emet-Selch with dread- for all that he continues to return to it.
Through the steady waves of his own euphoria, muscles twinging in much of his body even as it primarily slackens, his throat remains undeterred, still assuming suffocation wasn't a normal state to be in, still spasming around the length that Mettaton continued to feed him. Jerks of his hips that felt like they rocked more than his body, the Ascian wondered (or rather, would wonder, once he had the breath for thought and the time for it) whether he would ever be spared a chance to come down from arousal. Every thrust, especially when paired with the quick pulls over the head of his own cock, felt as though they extended the moment of his own climax, squeezed more come from him until he was spent- and yet not spent at all. How could he ever be, with Mettaton's erection down his throat, his hips at his face, his cries in his ears?
Emet-Selch squeezes his throat with one hand, drags and rubs desperately along his length through his neck, grabbing onto the shape he could feel moving there, to coax and knead him towards climax. And his other hand finds itself occupied with Mettaton's, willingly switching from latching onto the bed to latching onto him, fingers clutching, barely noticing the pressure of claws, the piercing of his palm as they dug in. What were a few more bleeding marks but another way to bind their bodies together?
And he trembles more with a new wave of satisfaction when he feels heat flooding him, his lover's spasms rewarded. His throat convulses; he swallows harder and keeps swallowing as though it were trying to wring all it could from him, rather than yet trying to breathe. It felt like the sort of thing he could continue doing forever, drinking down his come, feeling it run down his throat in hot bursts- or would do, given the opportunity, until his vision faded, and his mind lost its last glimmers of awareness.
But then Mettaton pulls out of him, and the Ascian's throat is filled with something as insubstantial as air once more. The sudden sucking in of it leads to coughing gasps, harder than before with nothing in his mouth to contain them, and wetter-sounding, with the release that had just been left behind. A thick presence in itself, but one that could be successfully cleared with enough swallowing, no matter how sore he felt. Emet-Selch still groans, a sound low and rougher than before, submersed entirely in the aftermath of their shared climaxes. His hand lies still at his empty throat, feeling instead the force of his breaths, his coughs.
And the world is made dark all over again, even when his eyes open- though it's not unconsciousness he realizes after a moment (how could it be, when he was aware of it, thinking about it whatsoever, for all that it's in the most vague terms that could barely be qualified as thought). But instead, the pressure and closeness of his lover's robotic chest pressing down on him, impairing his vision and his breath (though the latter is hardly to the degree as his cock). And amidst his panting against that shell, his coughing that brings a taste of come to his lips to mingle with blood from his lip, he nuzzles against whatever part of Mettaton he could reach. It's a nuzzling that he'd begun conducting before he'd even concretely identified the part of Mettaton he was touching, only knowing that it belonged to his lover, and should therefore be kissed.
But he would nuzzle his chest, and cough and moan quietly against it, leaving it with hints of blood, not really noticing the imprint left in his face from that dial, and not really caring anyway.]
no subject
Even here, no longer lodged in his lover's throat, he feels the pronounced lack of tightness, of tongue and teeth and lips and most of all, throat. Still lost in the orgasm part even if he's separate from the release, he moans some more in response to Emet-Selch's sounds, plays the sensation of his lover drinking down his cock and his come with zeal back to himself, the way he felt as though he might be content forever sucking with such rapture on his aching arousal. Mettaton here and now feels he'd be content providing Emet-Selch with a thick cock to suck on for as long as his Bonded wished it, and he'd give him just as much come, as long as he'd endlessly swallow around his length in such a way that makes it feel as though he's having the come sucked right out of him. He yearns all over again for that heat and the sensation of swallowing he felt at his release, a sensation so strong that he can scarcely stand it, much less return to his feet in a more literal sense. All he can do is moan some more.
Emet-Selch managed to overwhelm the robot, but it's the kind of overwhelming they did to each other. He relishes it, nuzzles his lover's bloodied, bruised throat as he strokes the back of Emet-Selch's head with his hand, holding him flush to his torso — eye against dial, face against chest plate, and all of it separated by a layer of diamonds. His claws only softly scrape against Emet-Selch's scalp, his moon-swayed mind keeping lust well and alive without any effort on Mettaton's part. He knows what he wants, and it's just a matter of getting his legs to cooperate... He doesn't feel he just wants more attention, he needs it.
Cursed jewelry and full moon pendants aside, their wedding would be an affair painted by an underlying level of lust, the chance of giving in around every corner. Mettaton would find Emet-Selch so well-dressed, surely, that he'd demand the right to strip him for himself; it's what the most attractive clothes are for, on his Bonded. It would be a thought to nag him and grow in size, progressively getting worse until he couldn't stand it.
But there would still be this. Even in Mettaton's frenzied heat, he wants to hold Emet-Selch. There was room, perhaps, for enough decency that he could content himself with simply gazing into his lover's eyes, set out before everyone to bear witness to their closeness and their love. Their possession.
And their impossibly sized need of each other. Mettaton is reassured by Emet-Selch's coughs, knowing he's conscious and well, but also that he's preparing himself for another round by clearing himself up. Mettaton nearly growls with his lust flaring to life, managing to part from Emet-Selch with kisses to his clavicle and neck. A beautiful neck, he thought, beholding it more closely in its stretched out brilliance: bruised, kissed, saliva-covered, bloodied with marks of teeth and claws... And having just been pulled over an erection girthy enough to remove his chance for air. And Emet-Selch loved it.
He stands to his feet and climbs back upon the bed, trembling and still reclaiming his ability for speech amidst animal instinct and need as he winds both arms around Emet-Selch's shoulders, bringing him to an upright position. He half-drags, half-coaxes his beautifully stripped lover to join him as he reclines against the head of the bed, in his throne of pillows. Spreading his legs and demanding that Emet-Selch lay between them, Mettaton pushes his Bonded against his waist, cheek flush to the heart container there while his (already reviving) half-erection remains prodding Emet-Selch's chest.
Mettaton sighs, a more contented sound. He knows what he craves on a more carnal level, but there's still a part of him that yearns for affectionate contact. He strokes his Bonded's head where he's maneuvered him.]
How are you...? [Mollified by this long-enduring "compliment" of loving his cock, and still within his mental faculties save for the libidinous appetite compounded upon by the sway of the pendants, Mettaton is still Mettaton, and he wants to know about his lover's status. He cares about him, even through his conceit and madness.] You're so wonderful, you know... Can you talk after all of that, Hades-darling? Tell me- how much you loved that.
[To suggest what he means, the Puca strokes gently at Emet-Selch's throat. Both to refer to his potential loss of speech, and all there is to like about what just took place.
... That darkness in him suggests that if he should hear his lover's voice, he really needs to be fucked again. Needs to be impaled upon his cock, made to suck and swallow around him all over again until his throat was made so hoarse that only the whisper of speech was left. Mettaton nearly moans again at the thought, squirming: he's not very good at disguising his already-reviving arousal. He's possessed by a feral desire stoked by the influence of the moons, fantasizing about having his erection sucked some more.
This is not uncommon for Mettaton on the full moons. The Puca's spikes of energy in this moment may feel easily comparable to what Emet-Selch feels of him during the full moons through Bond. A content, safely-Bonded Mettaton is one with that streak of darkness and mischievousness, vindictive and fierce, but one who can be subdued or placated and distracted with earthly and erotic indulgence both.]
no subject
And for all that he could feel his Bonded's lusts continue, there was a heady kind of satisfaction in finding him so overwhelmed, a robotic body made to falter. And there was another, different kind of satisfaction in knowing that Mettaton remained aroused, that he could soon continue sucking him with hardly any delay- something that keeps his pulse high and his breathing (now that he could do that again) elevated. To be rendered so carnally inclined was... still something that surprised the Ascian at times, and felt absolutely natural at others.
At the moment it was natural, and required little consideration beyond an appreciation for how well they fit together, how paired their inclinations were. Surely, any wedding would fill any onlookers with absolute... awe, of both their dynamic and their restraint, in not tearing undoubtedly nice clothes from one another before an audience.
But there was always this... affection alongside vicious heights of passion, and it's something Emet-Selch never felt was missing once he began to recognize it, no matter how explicitly sexual their actions were. Even in Mettaton's growl, he could feel it, as the man finally stood up again after leaving him with a few more kisses, and moving himself onto the bed, in a new position to be attended to. Letting himself be pulled up, Emet-Selch partially drags himself, and is partially dragged into position, in the place exactly where he was meant to be: between his lover's legs. A place he willingly burrows into, making himself comfortable with his head shoved against his waist, slowly nuzzling his cheek against the glass of the robot's core. From his shifting, Emet-Selch can feel the come on his own abdomen drip back down towards his cock; a sensation worth a small shiver.
Sprawled back against fine pillows, fine jewelry glittering against his neck and chest, legs artfully spread with his bruised lover curled between them- Mettaton looked like the model for some darkly decadent divinity. The claws and dark fur, the blood that remained at his face, the slickness of an erection that could hardly be sated pressing into the Ascian's body, the smears of come between them- it all added to the picture of indulgence, of erotic wishes and briefest fulfillment.
Mettaton being in a heightened... state had been something Emet-Selch had noticed during full moons. But it's neither an unappealing state, nor a daunting one- though he wonders if that has more to do with the influence of their Bond on him, the puca's added darkness bleeding into his own mood, or was just a symptom of his own developed insatiability towards him. It didn't matter; for all that he couldn't begin to match him in non-existent refractory periods, he wanted him no less, and the feeling of his cock already stiff (as though it had ever had a chance to soften) pulls a ragged, pleased sound from the depths of his throat.
A throat that didn't much like that noise, or any others that would follow, Emet-Selch could surmise. Swallowing, he winces a little as he tests its condition. Empty, terribly, and he tilts his head back to both regard Mettaton's face, as well as in approval of the petting of his neck. It was a different sort of beauty from Mettaton's sparkling decorations, the bruising and blood that lay across his own, wounds in the shape of teeth, piercings and slicings indicating the application of claws- but the perfect complement to it, he thought. A decoration that could be applied, but not removed through anything other than time.
Pressing a kiss to the glass of his case, Emet-Selch attempts the difficulty of words.]
--Of course I would find speech for you.
[His voice is certainly rougher though, his sigh similar as he distracts himself by looking downward again, resting the side of his head against Mettaton's abdomen, gaze settling on his cock. Swallowing again, but in response this time to the desire to take him back in his mouth, to slide his lips all along his length, from glans to root, to give him both voice and throat. But he tempers that impulse by moving his hand up instead, to glide fingertips along the shaft, to trace patterns across the tip. To admire the slickness and heat of him, and the way he looked so temptingly erect.]
'Tis only a pity to yet require the occasional breath in order to continue enjoying you... but perhaps that's part of the pleasure. And I would go deprived many more times over to keep having you. To feel the shape of you in my throat. Even... even were I unable to speak, I....
[Wresting his gaze away from his erection, he tilts his head back to look up to his face again- and his tone is quiet for reasons apart from its hoarse quality, rapt and intense, a dedication through speech despite the discomfort of it.]
--I love the feeling of your ecstasy. The taste of you at my lips, and your claws at my body. Rending every part of me. I adore you more for every mark you leave behind, visible or not.
no subject
(It gives Mettaton a rush to present his lover with an erection already — something he understands intimately isn't a normal human feature. But if he wanted normal human, he could obtain that, too. This is another of his gorgeous bodies, and one that behaves as it does, limited only by electricity.)
A worthy endeavor, shifting his body so that he could gaze upon his filling cock, Mettaton thought, and flatters him that Emet-Selch would speak for him on a voice made hoarse from use. He watches the Ascian battle back temptation with a growing smile, stroking his hair (encouragingly) as Mettaton's own eyes drift along Emet-Selch's curled-up form, heavenly and marked by his own lips and teeth. Of course it would be so beautiful, if it was all a mark of their passion. Teeth and come and blood and bruise and nails, he was evidence of their love and concupiscence where Mettaton was impossible to mar so readily, so indulgently. But that doesn't bother Mettaton right now, not when he has his Bonded between his legs. He's the perfect conduit for their collective passions, a man so brilliant that he stands a chance at enhancing Mettaton's own luminosity. No... he does enhance him, and Mettaton adores him completely for it, continuing to pull sharp claws through locks of hair with a terrible fondness to his gaze. A darkness to enhance his radiance, and a darkness to further embrace Mettaton's.
And Emet-Selch's fingers travel to his length in place of lips and tongue, which has Mettaton rolling his hips eagerly to his touch, sighing at the sound of his voice made so rough. It fills Mettaton with a satisfaction to even watch his fingers stroke along the stiffness of him, how readily his own body holds its rigidity to make manifest his desire for Emet-Selch's attention. Though he knows his lover has a tempestuous appetite that could match him, it's the nature of his body that means recovery's necessary, and he loves him for that, too.
Just as demanded, Emet-Selch uses that voice to describe to the dark-furred Puca how much and why he derives pleasure from Mettaton, from taking his cock in his throat and feeling him stretch him, deprive him, blot out even the means for survival with his own pursuit of corporeal ecstasy. He sighs again, long and sweet and tinged by a moan, appeasement something easily attained in Emet-Selch's presence. His righteous fury can never last, replaced instead by a regal satisfaction: a flit of his ears, a narrowing of his eyes, an upturn of his smile as Emet-Selch places his gaze upon his face. But as Emet-Selch noted before, there's always a softness Mettaton harbors for Emet-Selch. He loves him immensely, and no fury nor conceit could alter it. If anything, fury and conceit and darkness are only tinged by his love. He wouldn't treat anyone else this way, after all.
His vanity even breaks for Emet-Selch. The robot gives him a weak smile, loving even in its depth.]
Very good. You're... You mean so much, I... [That vulnerability remains, but it darkens once more, taking on that edge of unspeakable want as Mettaton's hand rounds his features, following his hairline down to his cheek, where he cups his lover's features in his palm.] You must be pleased to have me so aroused, ready for you to suck, then... I'm glad to give you my ecstasy. My body is yours to pleasure, and yours is mine to enjoy.
[He may not be able to untemper Emet-Selch, but he could start with them in their most physical sense. Mettaton claims first Emet-Selch's body: no matter the body, they're all for Mettaton's touch and use and satisfaction, all for him to cherish and mark and scrape and bloody. He sighs again at the feeling of fingers rolling the tip of his erection, and it adds another layer of pleasure to wash over him to see him doing it, to have Emet-Selch in his lap with their eyes locked with each other. He looks so ready to be kissed, and Mettaton almost wants to collect him in his arms, seat him in his lap and kiss him relentlessly as he rides his cock instead.
He closes his eye, overwhelmed and loving it. It remains half-lidded even when he opens it again, his finger traces Emet-Selch's lower lip in his desire, toying with his split lip.]
Air, or me... I'm determined to give you everything you could adore, so never for a moment think I'll deprive you of me, darling. [For a moment, he flirts with pushing his finger past those lips of his lover's to indicate that he would have plenty to suck on, even if he was being made to breathe some air every once in a while.] I wonder how your voice- how you'll sound, after you're made to swallow another round...?
[That's the statement to get him to achieve that perfect darkness again, knowing full well that Emet-Selch adores him so much that he'll no doubt be eager for the opportunity to see him slipping into the fullest, most obscene of pleasures. He gazes down upon him expectantly, hips twitching in his eagerness for more.]
no subject
His eyes nearly close as his face is gently cupped, basking in the attention and the awareness of desires unfettered- that even in gestures of softness like this, there was a different kind of lack of restraint. Anything they did was without reserve, after all, loving among them, in all of its manifestations. And the Ascian is gentled further by his word and touch, by the way he looked at him, by the way his body responded to him, taken utterly by how far they desired one another, and how blatant it was between them. Even without Bond, it would've been unmistakable, and with it, it was another layer, another way of touching each other, of demonstrating that limitless desire.
And that it was a desire not only in the most physical, sexual sense (though there was certainly a lot of that, attractions unthinkable, unspeakable), but emotionally, for affection and company alike, a possession that could encompass it all.]
Mettaton....
[Sighing softly himself, Emet-Selch kisses his finger with swollen lips- gently, almost reverently, as he continues to regard him. But it turns into a more damper mouthing after the puca trails a clawed digit across his lower lip, eyes half-closing as his tongue flicks out for a small taste of him, to lick along a sharper nail. And he's tempted as well to suck on his finger- because it was there, because it was Mettaton's, and because with words like those in his ears, how could he not be called to wrap his lips around anything his lover wanted him to?]
Will I have a voice at all...? I suppose we'll find out.
[As with an erection stiff against his hand, warm and inviting and so achingly rigid, there was a clear winner when it came to deciding what he wanted to press his lips to most. The shifting of his lover's hips was further encouragement, a sign of eagerness, of restless wanting that he needed to indulge, to satisfy- however briefly. Just the thought of hearing and feeling Mettaton lose himself to pleasure once more is a dizzying rush, and it's the limitations of his body alone that keep him from hardening at the memory of it. But he knew it wouldn't be terribly long, and he anticipates the sensation of it, of blood filling his own cock back up in response to how much he adored keeping his lover's arousal in his mouth.
Pulling back from his finger with another kiss, Emet-Selch shifts his head back down as he lowers himself properly between Mettaton's thighs, sighing again against his crotch as he breathes him in, nuzzles his face against the underside of his cock, leaving wet, sucking kisses against his shaft, his balls. Lapping at them with his tongue, indifferent to the way he inevitably spreads more saliva onto his face.
And it's already a contact that has him shudder, eyes finally closing as he moans against his erection, imagining both how it'll feel to take him into a throat already tender, already used- as well as how much more raw he'll surely be left. How well would he be able to speak afterward? How long would it persist? Paired with his bruises and scratches, how obvious would it be exactly why his voice was so rough...?
A thought worth breathlessness in itself. In his own impatience (for all that the Ascian has nothing keeping himself from tilting his head up, parting his lips, and diving back down onto his cock, to feel him glide back into his throat with immediacy, to suck and stroke and swallow against the glans), he allows the press of teeth to join the attentions provided by his lips and tongue, a careful scrape of pressure as he lavishes attention upon the root of him.]
no subject
A moment spared to shifting around is Mettaton's chance to continue basking in the sight of his lover so prone before him, set between his legs like he's his prize dedicated to his pleasure. He focuses solely on how flattering this image is, something he'll return to almost in a third-person view to envision himself reclining, expecting his naked, bitten lover to please him and to inevitably arouse himself, and he wishes he had a mirror pointed their way to behold it. He imagines the view of Emet-Selch's body he could have, his lover not at all able to escape his gaze of him in every angle, and he shudders as Emet-Selch sighs into his crotch, settling his face there.
It's a distraction immediate. There's not much room to lament his lack of mirrors with the sight of his Bonded settled between his thighs, kissing and laving his balls and shaft with his tongue and kissing so sensually all over his length. Mettaton's hips don't still. He sucks in the air he doesn't need, a low, soft groan escaping from him. Emet-Selch's been made flushed with use, lip still bloodied and surely trailing blood about to be diluted in saliva. Mettaton's helpless as he witnesses his lover press his face to his cock, heavy as it leans against him; the sound of Emet-Selch's moan has his hips jerk, has him swallowing at the sound of it and the same train of thought: would Emet-Selch's use be made so evident that nobody would be unaware of it? How evident would it be, that he would swallow and suck his cock to please both himself and his Bonded Monster?
...It's not a disagreeable thought at all, as Mettaton's thrusts firm up in his imagination. He bites at his lower lip, imagining the thought of Emet-Selch made so obviously his and having that be on display for all. Just the thought has him lifting one of his thighs, instinctually wrapping it around Emet-Selch's shoulder in preparation to mark him up, cradled between his legs as he's soon to be. He wants everyone to know not only that he's his, but that he's dedicated to his pleasure, body and soul. He belongs to Mettaton, just like everything else in this room.
Wrapping him in his thighs as he slips over his cock is an image that can't be fulfilled soon enough. Mettaton anticipates it hungrily, licking his lips with a sultry stare.
But for now, there are lips sucking kisses into him, his lover nuzzling his erection, shoulders painted so attractively in bruises and blood... Mettaton's arrested at the sight of him and hiccups around the closing of his own throat. His hand gently slides along his lover's dark hair.]
Oh... You're beautiful, like this. Ah—
[Emet-Selch grazes him gently with teeth, and Mettaton's back arches back for a moment as he recoils, a growl slipping from his throat as he squeezes his eye shut. But he's quick to thrust his hips forward again, shoving his arousal fully against Emet-Selch's face with a force and an accompanying groan. Fingers petting him turn into knotting into his hair out of a need that grows exponentially, his length hard and thick and needing his lover's throat. Emet-Selch remains at the base of him, and Mettaton rubs the underside of his cock along the give of his lips with a craving made evident. He can only imagine them, soft and giving and wrapped around his girth.
He wants to lift him and shove his lips over the head of his length. But he also relishes watching Emet-Selch doing what he pleases to him, all of it pleasurable and contributing to this slow, coiling build of absolute heat in him that he can't get enough of. Ecstasy and sexual satisfaction are a vice he can't see himself living without anymore.
... It's not just that, though. It's this person he can't live without. This person is what satisfaction and dedication feels like, someone comfortable and trustworthy and his. He sighs at the sight of him, and Mettaton finds himself wrapping yet another thigh around his shoulder. Loosely, he holds him there, crossing his legs around him gently in eager wait. A perfect position to secure him over his cock, he thought, for when that moment comes. For now, Emet-Selch applies tongue and lips all around his balls and the root of his shaft while Mettaton's hips won't still, nearly begging to feel him attend to the sensitive, swollen head of him.]
Hades... [He doesn't need his own words to express his neediness, and though he craves like nothing else the confines of his throat, he's thrilled to be toyed with, to be licked and kissed and given the treatment of teeth. He prescribes it all to memory, hips shifting and body incapable of stilling.]
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Even if he were cleaned up and clothed, and their position not sexual in the least, their very connection felt like a taking and giving made indelible. That even were the Ascian not rendered bloodied and torn, voice reduced to a whisper, his state of possession would remain clear. But the added evidence, every scratch and ache... there was an added satisfaction in being so unnecessarily blatant in what they could take of each other. A shamelessness, a claim in return; for all that he couldn't permanently mark Mettaton's body, he was no less Emet-Selch's own possession.
A leg wraps loosely around him; another way of marking where the Ascian was intended to remain, a security of position. And a reassurance tied into it; so long as he was here, he had this task, and it was a most pleasurable one, full of his lover's scent and taste and sound, full of his heat, and the texture of his skin against his lips. And there was the promise Mettaton offered, in removing his breath, his thought, to further reduce his concerns to only this. So long as the Ascian had thoughts left to him, everything else lurked somewhere, a darkness of misery and guilt and loss, rather than only the darkness of his Bonded's embrace. A drowning in loneliness and fear, rather than the claws and teeth and cock of his lover.
It added to his anticipation, to his desperation, to reach that state once more, where nothing other than Mettaton could reach him, however briefly.
Mettaton's sharp reaction to his teeth stills his breath, and when Emet-Selch finally exhales it's in the form of a moan- the sound almost entirely swallowed up by how hard his face was pressed into the man's crotch, pushed there by the thrust of hips, and kept there through the fingers in his hair, and his own desire to remain. But Mettaton felt so thick against his still-bleeding lips, a point of soreness that felt insignificant compared to the ache in his throat- and much like when the idol took him from behind, he's fascinated by his body's ability to contain him. That he could fit him so tightly, so... snug. He could adapt to his girth to precisely the right degree, with no consequence other than a bit of lingering soreness in various areas, and a period of time of being starved of oxygen. Neither was detrimental, rewards he would accept alongside his come.
There was a pleasure in teasing him, and there was also a pleasure in giving Mettaton exactly what he wanted. And in the end Emet-Selch knew he was teasing himself just as much in his delay, by skirting swollen lips slowly up his lover's cock, never quite reaching the head- before sliding back down to the root. Every encouraging thrust and shift on Mettaton's part only furthered his teasing, led to kisses growing hotter and wetter, and needier still. A way of working out his natural contrariness, perhaps, before finally giving in to what he wanted just as dearly.
Both thighs were around him now. Not tight, not yet, not when he hadn't yet taken him properly into his mouth. Nudging his head upward, his lips remain in contact with Mettaton's cock, unwilling to leave him for a moment. Inhaling shakily as he reaches the ridge, he slows without intending to, captivated by the way it felt against his lips, his bitten one catching on it for a moment before being being tugged onward. Soft and hard both, and so familiar. Moaning with a rapturous quiet, he laps and sucks over the slit, leaving him wet with both saliva and blood; he's already practically drooling on him.]
Mettaton, I-- How much I....
[Love this, love him? Want both this and him? Something else entirely but equally as important? Emet-Selch couldn't decide, as his eyes flicker open, glancing up to his lover's face, his breathing quick, and something like a plea in his gaze. For what- he's not certain of that either, but it likely involves both loving and having him. But it's only for a few seconds before his head has darted lower, lips fully parted as he takes as much of his cock in his mouth as he can fit while still technically breathing- and with such a quickness that he nearly chokes on the brush of the glans at the back of his throat. Taking a moment to steady himself, he shivers, sucking hard at him with eyes closed once more, clearly starved for him and this experience.]
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Mettaton has always wanted to be someone Emet-Selch could turn to to gain some respite from the weight of worlds. It's in his nature to want to distract and to divert attention, even if a distraction doesn't solve any problems. And when he can pull Emet-Selch close to him, he feels like he's capable of being someone separate from "Emet-Selch": he sees it more and more, even if that person doesn't know what shape he's in anymore. Mettaton loves him all the same, and wants dearly to give Emet-Selch this space to figure himself out. They both benefit: Emet-Selch had thanked him for showing him he could still feel this way, and Mettaton takes joy out of seeing Emet-Selch come undone for him, out of exerting his sway and being so paid attention to. Ultimately, he loves him, and he wants to see him simply be.
He considers this while he's made the audience of Emet-Selch's attentions. Really, both of them are audiences of each other's. Emet-Selch's impassioned, lively, and Mettaton loves it. He's attracted to the sight of him shamelessly lapping at his cock, dragging his eyes from his crotch to his face with a look of need, watching enraptured the sight of his lips dragging along the shaft of him, catching on the corona, and slipping up to the glans. Watching him drool, watching him hunger for something he's found indulgence in: the shape of him in his mouth.
Hearing his name on his voice gives him chills. He loves the sound of it. Everything Emet-Selch does feels like a compliment to some degree even without words, surprisingly: his sheer dedication to his arousal, the looks he gives him heavy and covetous. His tongue, sloppy upon the slit of him and a pleasure just to watch, has Mettaton biting at his lower lip in stilled anticipation of him. He can practically feel the size of Emet-Selch's want for his throat to be encroached upon, for all that it's colored by the desire to lose his mind. Mettaton will support his endeavor, and his free hand also slips into his hair: one is tangled there and ready to hold him in place, the other soft and stroking.
He smiles at him through his lust, and it's a smile colored by it. He may be subject to the pull of the "sisters," and he may have his vanity dialed up to the nines, but Emet-Selch satisfies him, flatters him, soothes him with blood and Bond. And then, before he knows it, Mettaton's gasping: Emet-Selch's lips are parted over the head of his cock and he plunges down, taking as much of him as his mouth can hold. Mettaton would tense, full-bodied, if he had the muscles in the whole of him to do it: instead, he jerks and seizes. He does, however, throw his head back and grip into dark brown hair.]
Hades-!
[He sucks and sucks, eyes closed and focus on him, and Mettaton will make sure that he's worthy of such focus. He is, he doesn't even need to think about it, and the whole of his response will guarantee that. Emet-Selch deserves nothing less: they know and love the whole of each other, even the parts they know not yet. He stammers around something he's trying to say, voice strained as he keeps his gaze locked on Emet-Selch, hazy and desperate.]
I can't, ohh... Yes, Hades, please... [He lets his head loll in his pleasure, feeling the suction working over much of his length, the glans a single thrust away from being lodged in his throat. His hips work short thrusts against the Ascian, threatening to invade his throat with each, and Mettaton remembers he was trying to say something. His fingers tighten in his hair, then comb through it, only to latch on all over again — as though fighting his need.] I can barely- keep myself from you... but you. If you're aching to be full of me, then...
[His eye widens in this bright, unhinged realization, excitement blooming on his features as that wickedness manifests in an assumption that is likely a correct one: why is he holding back? If his inclination is to stuff Emet-Selch so full of him that misery can't visit him, that thought's left behind in favor of sucking and swallowing his erection, and if Emet-Selch is so hungry for him, why not give them both what they want?
Emet-Selch's only warning is this verbal realization, this darkness, this luminous gaze, the upright ears and the full smile as Mettaton grips into his hair and tugs Emet-Selch over his cock, slipping the head into his throat. How sore he must be, he thinks— but all thought is drained from him the very moment the glans is securely in the back of his mouth. He moans; his thighs tighten around his lover, securing him in his love for him and for this. And when he speaks next, his voice is airy and nearly relieved, rapturous and pleased.]
There. Take- Take me.
[He's not the only one taking someone, Mettaton realizes. Emet-Selch is dutifully and lovingly taking him, too. He wants him most of all, and that's an incredibly satisfying thought.]
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He had... a lot to be appreciative of, when it came to Mettaton, he thought. And for all that it was a thought (which were things Emet-Selch wanted to lose), it was one worth having. He wanted to know all of his Bonded's self, in both confidence and vulnerability, genuine showiness and genuine concern- and he wanted to show him all of himself in return. Even when the Ascian didn't know what that entailed... he thought he had a better chance of discovering it in Mettaton's company than anywhere else.
Each thrust was a hint, not a warning (where was the danger a warning would imply?), of how soon, and how quickly his throat could be taken again. How it would only take a little more of a push, and he'd feel the pressure of the glans taking up his airway once more, stroking the interior of his throat instead. Stroking deeper and deeper until he could reach no further, and yet Mettaton could still thrust, could still move, could still push and hold his head in place, fucking him to a shared delight. And his throat would be worn and rubbed, and his voice would wither....
It's a warning brief, but unsubtle. A realization that blossoms across the Bond, the Ascian's eyes flashing open in an instant, reflexively scanning upwards to catch sight of his lover's expression. Tall ears and an eye that looks unnaturally bright in both lust and intent, a contrast to the darkness that surrounded the rest of him. But Emet-Selch loved the darkness, even before tempering had etched it into his soul; the sight of Mettaton in the full grip of feral comprehensions was stunningly attractive, a heightening of what had already been excessive. But it was still recognizably him, throughout, no one other than him. And no matter how maddened or contained, Emet-Selch knew he would love him regardless, as his core would be the same.
And then his throat was claimed, his head dragged down, glans popping into place with a solidity that would leave him gasping if he could. Instead, he's caught swallowing around him, throat clenching around this familiar intrusion with just as much intensity as before, as though it hadn't yet realized that it was made to be filled with the heaviness of a cock, and was still protesting the change from air. Struggling futily, it was outmatched by the combination of Mettaton's lock on his head through hand and thigh, and Emet-Selch's own stubbornness, reacting to this blockage by only deepening it, sliding further down his cock.
There were still a few moments of harder spasming before Emet-Selch could force his reflexes under moderate control, tightening and tugging at him still, but not to the point of uncontained gagging or choking. But he had a will to take him deeply. Mettaton wanted to be taken. He said so, in his beautiful voice, relieved at being in his throat, and yet wanting ever more of him- as he should. And as Emet-Selch wanted to give him, both body and soul, every scrap of his awareness and ability.
Even the soreness of his throat becomes another enjoyable ache, like those of bites and cuts, of bruises when pressed. The beat of his pulse reminded him of them all, a backdrop of what should've been discomfort turned into more intensity still, more feelings to satisfy- though nothing could match the pleasure of holding a thick cock in his throat. Of feeling every rub working its way deeper, of his own inability to pull away- from being held, as well as a lack of desire to. He was so stiff and so hot, the cushioned glans providing his sensitive throat a massage it never asked for, but which Emet-Selch reveled in obtaining.
So much so that his own cock begins to harden once more- as though the Ascian needed any more help when it came to feeling lightheaded. But the growing heaviness between his legs causes him to shudder, both from the satisfaction of having that physical sign of long-existing arousal apparent, as well as from the sensation of Mettaton's cock in his throat being its catalyst for forming.]
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Persistence means that his Bonded can take ever more of him, and he does, pushing forward and allowing for the thrusts of his cock to rub in his throat. Tension still pulled and worked down the length he has inside of him, working most heavily around the glans, and Mettaton is immediately addicted to that particular rub. His sighs each come out as a "Yes," his own throat exposed as his head lolls toward his shoulder in his absolute loss to delight. Emet-Selch's throat is so tight around the tip of his arousal, surely made swollen and rough and aching by this point, and each thrust would continue to deepen that feeling, he imagines.
An ache and pain surely matched by the peppering of bruises and the punctures of teeth and nails over the canvas of ihs body, Mettaton notes. Even rakes of nails begin to decorate his body, and Mettaton wants only to add to his beauty. He's still hooked on Emet-Selch's earlier admission that he relies upon these marks to reflect upon their previous interactions... And the thought of his lover finding himself in a state of lazy arousal, wanting to find him and demand his sensual attention to sate his awakened appetite for Mettaton makes him feel impossibly stiff. It's just the right amount of recognition Mettaton's full brilliance deserves, and in this moment, he thinks that he'd fuck Emet-Selch anywhere he stood if he just asked. Mettaton is so aroused that he doesn't understand a time not being aroused, not having this body to pleasure his Bonded with, or not being capable of providing Emet-Selch with a thick cock to swallow and lick and choke on. He loves this. They both do, from unreasonable arousal to the aches and pains of pleasure and violence alike.
So he'll thrust, and he'll see to Emet-Selch's soreness and his ache, if not to make sure that even after he's let his Bonded relax, he'll continue to think about his claim upon his person, body and soul and mind. He works his length in his lover's throat, beginning to pull and push upon his head to aid in his thrusting motion as though using Emet-Selch's mouth to rub himself off. But he fills his mouth both for himself and for his Bonded, in the end: Emet-Selch loves this so strongly that he can feel it by Bond, if the attempts at sound weren't enough of an indication he could feel in his cock. (And how pleasant a feeling, to sense that a moan may have decorated his lover's tune if only he had the air or space to moan instead of being made to accommodate a swollen erection that rubs into the warmth of his throat.)
Mettaton wishes he could kiss him from this vantage point, but Emet-Selch sucking on him is distraction and consolation enough that he knows he could resume that desire at his next opportunity, and occupy this moment instead. He pushes deeper and, with a rub that nearly pulls the whole of his length into Emet-Selch's mouth, he collapses into a sigh.
And Mettaton just... sits back and looks, watching his lover swallowing his cock so deeply that he nearly reaches the base of him. his lips are tight around his shaft, Emet-Selch held in place by hands and legs, framed in his lap and drinking down his cock in eager anticipation of his eventual release, but relishing not that on its own, but the very occupation of it, the heaviness of a thick cock robbing him of air. He shudders at the knowledge of how much Emet-Selch likes this, and how much he likes this. And for a moment, Mettaton feels blinded — wondering if his pleasure was so great that he'd come right there, just from considering how much they love each other. Instead, he comes back around to find himself thrusting the rest of his length into Emet's throat, grinding his hips into his mouth some more with rapturous, short breaths. His legs are tight around him, shifting and stirring his cock deep within him.
He lets himself lose his mind. He lets himself cry out, gives way to his Bonded and strokes his cock on Emet-Selch's throat, letting him squeeze and rub the head of him so divinely that he doubts it could get better than this. Ecstasy is the only thing that can leave his throat, but thought still visits him when he realizes he wants more and more.
Drooling in his unbridled pleasure, Mettaton tries to voice his desires.]
Yes, t-take me like this, deeper...!
[... Mettaton is as deep as he can go, but he wants deeper. He wants more. He wants to meld more closely with his lover, as though it would bring him pleasure greater and greater the more they could combine. He can feel through their Bond the rousing of Emet-Selch's stiffness, a tickling sensation over his whole body he's come to learn is a sign of arousal, and he moans all over again, rolling his hips against his mouth in his demand.]
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And what were the details of bites and blood, of soreness and stretching, but aspects that would link inevitably to arousal? Here, they were sensations that existed as a part of the whole, tied up into the sensation of the stiffness he carried, shifting, in his throat. Rubbing him more and more raw with every roll of hips, every tug of his head against Mettaton's crotch. But later on, whenever the Ascian was alone, every twinge from scabbing over wounds, every swallow, every ache from bruise compressed- would just return him to this imagery, of being caught between his lover's legs, rapturously sucking him.
Arousal would be inevitable, a constant risk to court. And at this moment, bearing the pulsing insistence of his own erection, swallowing around Mettaton's own cock with moans trapped, but pleasure immense- he could see no reason why he shouldn't ever track his lover down in times of need. It would be a thought worth rousing himself for (finding himself aroused), worth consciousness and movement over lethargy and sleep. A fine way of getting the Ascian out of the house more....
Nothing could ever be more reasonable or convenient. He knew Mettaton would not deny him.
Though with arms trapped beneath him and his cock hard, Emet-Selch still, as he works a hand to some kind of freedom, doesn't try reaching for his own erection, but is instead drawn to his throat once more. And he shivers as he strokes along Mettaton's length through his neck, another gasping cry lost to his swallowed cock. And as he tenses around him, and his lover thrusts, and his head continues to be shifted in his lap, the Ascian can feel the particular bulge of the glans in his throat through his fingers- a sensation he can't even begin to get enough of. And it's something he knows he'll be able to recall in this detail with a simple stroke over the same area- and how aroused he could so easily make himself in that way too.
Saliva drips past swollen lips without a care, still tinged with a hint of blood. No matter how closely they mold to skin, they're unable to prevent it. Though with Mettaton's cock worked progressively deeper into his throat, there's less for it to drip down. And with ever more of him being taken, there became ever less chance of retreat, of pulling at all back from what had become lodged there.
But even with his mouth finally against Mettaton's body again, face pressed flush to his crotch, the length in his throat jostled by the way he continued to clench around it, by the way his Bonded's hips continue rocking against his face- he tries as well to take him deeper still. As though having the entirety of his length wasn't enough, that he could devour him even further than this. Mettaton wanted him to, after all--
His head was pounding, lungs getting quite irritable from all of this starvation, ignoring how the rest of him was more starved for his lover, for his erection rubbing slickly in his neck. He could reach so far, and the Ascian's hand clutches and strokes at him through his throat, as though he could knead him deeper still, could do more than this to touch him. Even as his wanting clouds both thoughts and control, throat spasming with more force as he begins choking on him, it's a sensation that registers with no alarm- only greater, hazy-yet-sharp satisfaction. It was more intense, therefore it was better; Emet-Selch didn't need to think to know this. Thought would've only detracted from this understanding. Of his place, of his purpose- it was to be buried here, locked between his lover's tensing thighs, sucking his cock, listening to his voice lost to cries and pleas, moans and breaths he doesn't need- yet were the only sounds that needed to exist in the world. Just as Mettaton was the only person who needed to exist, his presence brilliant enough to blot out the rest. The comfort in serving him was all he required.]
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Smooth cries ride on his voice, making up for the noise Emet-Selch can't make with his own ecstasy. Losing the skill for forming words, he thinks instead (for all that he can barely think) about Emet-Selch stroking his cock through his neck, how deeply he swallows him and pleasures him and how he knows his own arousal must be getting progressively harder. He wonders all over again if he'll come without being touched, and Mettaton can only drool some more at the recollection of the sight of his Bonded, exposed so blatantly and with his cock on full display for Mettaton to watch, to touch. His abdomen, tightening erratically, was a perfect canvas for his ejaculation, an explosive affair that painted his skin in a spurt of come and dripped down his shaft, and the robot can't get the thought of it out of his head. His own arousal feels that much harder for it, that much needier, even while he's thrusting into his lover's throat and being squeezed by fingers.
Mettaton is not in a mental space to remember Emet-Selch's need for air, having decided to succumb to desire so fully. His self-control slips and gives way to absolute indulgence, the picture of decadence as he is, bejeweled and drooling and waiting for praise, for flattery, for pleasure; all else would earn only his ire and spite, and be treated accordingly. But Emet-Selch gives him only what he wants and more: he hungrily devours his cock and pleasures him; gives him feelings through Bond that tenderize him if his own feelings for the other man didn't do the trick; and his very body is a conduit for how much Emet-Selch finds Mettaton attractive.
He may very well not receive a moment to breathe like this, save for a whimsical inclination on Mettaton's part. He craves the sound of Emet-Selch's voice and the sight of his cock. He wants all of it at once, but he can't have that. So he chooses to pull back on his lover's head, forcing him of off his length.
Sliding smoothly out of his throat, there's almost a popping sensation as the ridge of the head slips out of Emet-Selch's agitated throat, but Mettaton doesn't pull him off of the glans. It's already intolerable for his length to be extricated from the warm confines of his neck, but he wants to check on the status of his throat, wants to hear what his Bonded can manage after being so ravaged. He pants in a manner more for the sake of expressing his renewed starvation, allowing one of his hands to cup his cheek. Lust and love are always entwined between them, after all: even though Mettaton craves the stealing of the other man's voice and wants him bruised and bloodied out of their passion, he loves him dearly, and loves the sight and sound and sensation of him.
Emet-Selch has the glans of him offered for his preoccupation while Mettaton's legs loosen in their grip, giving him this rare moment for sound and breath. His eye is bright in anticipation of his lover's response.]
Kiss me, there-- [...He's trying to ask him how much he enjoys what he's doing (more for the sake of hearing his voice: he already knows he loves this), but more primal thoughts take over and demand him to mouth the glans of him, a glutton who can't get enough pleasure exacted to his cock. He pants at the sight of Emet-Selch with his mouth made to hold the tip of his length, and tries to swallow.] You... ah, Hades... your voice...
[What it boils down to is that he wants to hear him try to talk. Anything would do, any expression of himself would sate his ego, would satisfy his desires. They're already connected, and Mettaton knows Emet-Selch's enjoying himself so thoroughly that it echoes off of his own enjoyment. They pleasure each other simply by existing like this. Mettaton's grip on his head loosens enough to give Emet-Selch the choice to dive down upon his cock, his legs even tightening back up to secure him in place and reassure that he'd just as readily facilitate his hunger for more. Mettaton stares at him, saliva coating his arousal absolutely as his lover's given only enough space to collect himself with his lips still around the swollen head of his arousal.
Already, however, Mettaton's hips shift and thrust, begging for the secure warmth of his throat all over again. He invites him to swallow him back up, yearning all over again for the feeling of his throat stroking over the thick head of his cock, for the vibration of feeling he gets from his attempts at vocalizing.]
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That he was faltering, flickering in consciousness never registers, even when he's pulled back from the erection he'd impaled himself on, in a slick, quick drag up. The sensation of the glans leaving his throat causes a wince he's equally unaware of, and is easily lost to the wheezing breaths he instinctively takes, now that his body's efforts to breathe finally pay off. Coughing, panting, Emet-Selch's dizziness (or at least, his sense of it) only increases at the rush of oxygen following such deprivation, and he nearly slumps back onto Mettaton's cock anyway.
Even his breathing sounds rasping, and his coughing hurts. With air brings that realization, and it's enough to keep him attempting to stifle the hacking sounds, as his throat seems to be registering the roughness of it as something that needed cleared- but of course it can't be. He shudders; maintains enough focus to devote himself anyway to the glans that remains in his mouth.
Swallowing around it had been good, and he shivers again at the echo of the sensation, the constriction and starvation it gave him. But appreciating the head of him like this was also good, and he moans at his heat, at how slippery he was, and his tongue can't stop lapping and flicking at him, pressing into the softer give of it.
--Or Emet-Selch tries to moan, anyway, but it's reduced to more of a whisper of sound for reasons that had little to do with either a lack of air, or a muffling-through-cock. It's an uncomfortable sound to make, but an involuntary one, as were the softer yet, pleased sounds that accompany his pants, as he mouths and tastes the tip of his erection.
There was the gentleness of a hand on his face, and he looks up to him then, yellow eyes struggling to focus. But he leans into the touch just a little, though without ever leaving Mettaton's cock, rubbing his lips softly over the surface of the tip. Nuzzling and sucking small kisses into every part of it, with particular attention towards the slit. Dragged over by lips, and licked steadily by tongue, he moans again in anticipation for the sensation of his come filling him another time, another load to savor and keep, desperate for the sensation of sucking every bit of it from his body. It's enough to have his own erection aching in sympathy and shared want, come drying stickily down the shaft, across his abdomen, a presence just waiting to be renewed by another release.]
Mettaton....
[Much like his moans, his breath itself, it's a voice choked to softness, roughened. It felt like any attempt to force a louder sound would only trigger more coughing without any particular increase in volume. Taking another breath, he speaks around the tip of his cock, both lips and glans wet with saliva, both swollen from use.]
I-- ah.... I love you, I... you feel- I can't--
[A difficulty speaking twice over, it's not terribly coherent, sounding more like a rasp that only incidentally contained a few words.
Though part of him wanted to stay with the tip, to mouth and suck him until he felt come bursting from him, coating his tongue and his mouth, staining his lips, he could feel the little thrusts on Mettaton's part, the urging to take him deeper again. It was the natural desire, of course, to wrap himself back up into the greater heat of the Ascian's throat, to feel that manner of sucking pressure as his body struggled to breathe around him once more, tugging and pulling at both glans and shaft. And how could he deny that? Even with his throat ragged, Emet-Selch also shared that desire, to seal himself back up again, to moan in silence, to feel legs tight around him, and his face flush to Mettaton's body once again.
So he takes a breath, and slides himself down, smoothly but insistent, ignoring the discomfort, the tension in his body as the glans once again blocks the back of his throat- and pops into it again. Emet-Selch shudders; his own cock throbs, as though deciding this was the right choice for them all, and in his current frame of mind, the Ascian is not inclined to disagree. Dipping ever lower, he feels the head pushed deeper, his throat stretched out again around the girth of him, and there's satisfaction despite the rawness of his throat.]
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There's also the difficulty found in talking around his cock, Mettaton acknowledges. It's worthy of his thumb toying with his lip, examining the split of it with a dazed satisfaction and a claw hooked around it before he lets it go. But Mettaton can't still his hips and can't stop the pressure building, the want overcoming him to be back in his lover's used throat, where he belongs. Even here is where he belongs, no doubt. But if he's going to use his throat, he wants to use it fully, wants to stroke himself off in it until Emet-Selch's made to swallow another load of his come. As much as he can, he'd use his lover's body because his pleasure is Emet-Selch's, and if Emet-Selch's pleased, Mettaton's triply pleased.
Watching his Bonded suck kisses into the slickened head of his length, though, has his own "breath" catching. He stutters, and time feels like it pauses for these slight, affectionate gestures, a hunger belying each kiss. Even Mettaton imagines vividly the experience of coming against his lips, making him taste and lick up every last drop of the richness of his come, making him lap it off of the head of his cock the way Mettaton wanted to clean Emet-Selch's, if he weren't so busy losing himself to fevered release as he was, if he could reach with anything other than his hand. He licks his own lips in sympathy, imagining Emet-Selch's mouth coated thick with come and made not only to swallow three loads of his, not only to stretch his throat and render his voice weak with use, but made to taste him, to have him linger in his mouth. He could enjoy the taste of Mettaton's mouth and his come, and feel the work of his cock in his throat, all while knowing he's swallowed his come three times over. (What more could he do to his beloved? Scarred and bruised, bitten and sore, scented and given memory of him, Bonded and... (marriage. he must. this becomes a more feral inclination that he imagines feverishly and with far too much sexual passion, as though marrying him would be a carnal affair.) Emet-Selch would not be without a reminder of Mettaton's love for him.)
Mettaton tries for words to reply to his lover's raspy ones, but is quickly interrupted by the sight of the Ascian diving down upon his length again. He takes it with some more measure this time: a smooth, gradual swallowing of his length is accompanied by a sigh of relief, the warmth and pressure wrapped around his length once more. It's pressure that battles his own, and his hands move up gently to rest against Emet-Selch's head, where he massages his fingers into his scalp in his fondness and in his desire to exert pressure. He's so tight that it feels like he could squeeze him to release, he thought, and he bites his lower lip in anticipation.
As Emet-Selch swallows the whole of his length all over again, filling himself to the brim with a thick cock, Mettaton's sigh turns into something more of a cry, letting his neck loosen again and allowing his hips to roll in a rhythmic thrusting, tempered and even as though savoring him.]
Hades... I love you too. You- you do everything I could dream...
[Mettaton is starstruck by him. If they were still in public, he'd no doubt be lost to it. The room is nothing but them and their sex, the smell and heat of it (or what heat he can feel, which is limited to his tongue and his cock and all of it building inside of his robotic shell). Even though Mettaton is feverish and desperate for pleasure (while he's receiving pleasure), he mellows himself, places himself firmly in the moment and appreciates it all, drinks his lover in and evens out his tempo. There's a new energy to him: no longer uncoordinated, but demanding. Still ever veering toward feral, a moment away from jamming Emet-Selch against his lap in a loss of control, but he drinks in every sensation and basks in it.]
Ohh, Hades, darling... I feel- I feel all of you...
[And he loves it. How open they've grown by Bond, how much their souls give way to each other's, and how familiar Emet-Selch's become to the Puca. Their pleasure is so evident, a mutual indulgence, even when Emet-Selch's the one swallowing down his length. Even if his throat should be so sore, Mettaton only envisions the sensation of the swell of is glans rubbing deep inside of his mouth. It's so intimate of a gesture that it's pleasurable by virtue of that, and Mettaton's made to sate his own curiosity when he prods his lover's throat once more.
The feeling alone has his thrusts firming, a moan of delight accompanying his new, ecstatic rhythm. He needs to share his observations, and his voice rides on a desperate sort of daze, intoxicated by their pleasures entwined.]
You're so full of me, I can feel how, how thick, you're- mine, sweetheart, I- going...
[He wanted to describe the physical sensation of his cock filling such a tight space and so evidently, but an expression of possession and endearment come from him instead on frenzied, scrambled words to match the contents of his head. Emet-Selch is his. He wouldn't forget that. They love each other, after all. It all builds terribly, an overwhelming delight in each other's bodies that Mettaton feels that pressure in him overwhelm all else.
He knows he's close, but he can't quite express it. He considers all over again the thought of making him taste his come, making his lover lick and suck and kiss at the head of him, slick and smooth and soft, and it only pushes him further toward the edge. His thrusts grow more feverish, each accompanied by a short moan of delight.]
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Though he still overlooks touching himself, even if Emet-Selch can well imagine how hot his own length is, and how he would be able to feel the remnants of his previous orgasm along it. A record of indulgence not cleaned away, but left to mark him in the same way that anything else Mettaton did to him marked him. Bruises and blood were one sign of ardor, and the mess left across his abdomen and cock were another, an explicit notation of how much he did enjoy sucking him, that it was to the point of getting off from it alone.
So it's deliberately that he holds back, enjoying as well, in a way, the demanding beat of his own cock, the way it wanted to be stroked and pulled and sucked on, but had to accept only this more indirect stimulation. Emet-Selch knew it would be more than enough, and the closer Mettaton got to his own orgasm, the more he was sure of it, the more he felt his own closing in with him, as though tasting and feeling his lover succumb to ecstasy was the only nudge he required for his own.
And Emet-Selch can feel Mettaton's attempt at control, and is further endeared by it. That it's not any attempt to hold back (Why should they hold anything back from one another? Any restraint existed only in consideration for the other, and resulted in greater pleasure for them regardless.), but to savor every moment as it was. Or rather, to savor it in a different way from pounding into his throat with maddened thrusts, letting the Ascian take him there instead, swallow and suck around him.
And with the glimmers of thought he'd regained along with his recent breaths, it's at least directed towards more consideration towards what he was taking inside of him again. The slower, more controlled way he lowered himself has him tensing up in degrees, in breathless (inherently) anticipation, feeling every part of his throat made to give way to him. The way his throat compressed and clenched around the glans as he pushed it deeper, the way the head made space for the shaft to follow, a thickness to hold his throat open- while filling it utterly. Even with the sore heat of his throat, Mettaton's cock felt even hotter, and Emet-Selch couldn't decide if it soothed it, or was a further agitation to it. In either case he loved it for both its warmth, and its fullness, for the pleasure it was clearly providing his lover, and for the expectation of receiving his come.
Mettaton was thick; it's not a new realization, but hearing his Bonded's words on it, feeling his hand touch his throat, touch his cock through his throat- would have him moaning in agreement if he could. Emet-Selch still shudders, a small, tight, ecstatic trembling, caught up again in all he was feeling. He was thick enough to fill him, and he loved him for it, even though he loved him already.
Wanting to swallow around his length, and wanting to fully taste his release as well- there was probably something vaguely obscene at salivating at the thought of drinking down his lover's come, of wanting him to fill his mouth to that degree. But Emet-Selch was long past any point of caring about that- apart from, perhaps, some small point of surprise and even gratitude for Mettaton being able to invoke in him responses like these. To want every part of him in excess, to respond to both his body and his love as though starved for it- more than could ever be filled.
But they could ceaseless try to, finding ever more ways to entwine themselves, and yet to have that reassurance remain that there will always be something else to fill with one another.
It's without any concern for air that Emet-Selch pulls up a little as he feels Mettaton edging ever closer to release. From swallowing him in his throat, he lets the head pop back into his mouth, to squeeze and suck and lap at him there, clearly desperate for his taste, for the feeling of come hitting his tongue. His hand shifts up, to wrap fingers around the part of Mettaton's cock that was no longer protected by his throat, kneading along slick, hot skin, as though to drag and pull everything that he could from him. Even his balls don't go untouched, as he spares them a few firm squeezes as well as he moans around the swollen head of his lover's cock, adoring the way Mettaton's thrusts helped to drag it along the interior of his mouth, waiting for him to coat it with his release.]
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The both of them are acutely aware of the space Mettaton occupies, his lover's body forming tightly around his length. Thrusts of his hips drag the head of him along in his throat toward his undeniable release, imminent and soon, and Mettaton's sure he'll be spilling over in his throat. There's but a shred of him capable of regarding anything beyond each passing instant, and that part of him hyper-fixates on the instant only moments ahead: the imaginings of filling the rest of his partner's throat with come, drowning him in his essence. But when that moment closes in and darkens him so warmly, panting in the sound of soft moans, Emet-Selch pulls back, to his pleasant surprise.
And it's not with the sound of gagging or choking, but with an intention that sweeps Mettaton off his feet. His tongue fixes on the glans, the work of his hips stroking himself off not in the confines of his throat but between his lips and fingers, all of it warm and tight in its own right. Somewhere still to thrust that belongs to his lover.
Kneading the whole of his length, squeezing his balls as though to coax him toward release, Emet-Selch's the picture of anticipation and the sound of it too, and the robot assumes immediately the intent behind this alteration of position: Emet-Selch wants as much to taste him as he wants to be tasted by him. Biting his lip, he collapses in another moan loud enough to drown out Emet-Selch's (though Mettaton's ears are tuned in on the sound of his lover no matter what), eager to fall prey to the hunger his Bonded, bruised and bitten and claimed, exhibits for his body. Theirs is a mutual taking, after all, and if Mettaton's going to ravish and ravage the Ascian's soft, supple form, it's only fair that Emet-Selch can take as much of him as he wants in turn.
It shocks him and electrifies him to have this sudden, last-second change of position, something jarring enough to please him beyond his limits. The very sight of Emet-Selch gripping his cock and slipping the head of him past lips made swollen, sucking ardently upon him in eager wait for his load, is something he'll be terribly distracted by in time to come.
Trembling, what muscle he's developed in his legs slacken and tighten his succumbing to pleasure as Mettaton's fingers prod and nails rake against Emet-Selch's upper back in his loss of control. Feeling the swell of the head against the bed of Emet-Selch's tongue and the divine rub there, he notes readily the eagerness which his lover laps at the slit and strokes his length encouragingly. How could he stand this? It conquers his senses completely, visual and tactile and aural completely overwhelmed.
Mettaton can't make words happen, as if he had any to make. But he loves Emet-Selch for his love of him, and what is more flattering than the sheer amount of desire he exhibits for the idol? Kneading his balls in eager anticipation of his climax, stroking up the shaft of his cock, sucking desperately at the head of him... Mettaton imagines it, but he feels heavy with come when release hits him, a moment that feels as though it extends for long. Short, curved thrusts into Emet-Selch's mouth spill his load, and he drools in sympathy for the taste his lover will surely have of him. How lucky he is, to be so full of his cock and come, and Mettaton feels he's most worthy of all to be stuffed with it. To taste him and have him.
Nobody else would love him and know him this way, and nobody else could fill him and receive him as readily. Nobody could compare to this. Mettaton is in bliss under Emet-Selch's attention, fully in love and pleasure, adoring the whole of his lover's attention.]
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