[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.]
[Feeling Mettaton's approval at this slight change in position, in where the puca's cock would be resting during climax, he makes a small, appreciative sound at being allowed this indulgence (a sound roughened to the point of inaudibility, only a hint of vibration remaining). And with his attentions provided, Emet-Selch didn't want it to feel at all a downgrade from the confines of his throat, only different, a position providing a different shade of possession. There was a claim in having him pressed flush to Mettaton's crotch, suffocated and choking, his release given directly past his throat, with little chance of escape. Vision would fade, and Emet-Selch would be caught, held in place by thighs and hands and his own will.
This was another sort of claim, a devotion applied with more deliberation to the soft tip of his cock, with his tongue to stroke, and his lips to press, a suction given around moans. A clear desire to not only swallow his come, but to taste it as well, another sense to be given ever more powerfully to his lover. An involuntary reflex of his body becoming a conscious acceptance, taking the ejaculate that would be spilling into his mouth and choosing to swallow it down.
Not that Emet-Selch is thinking of that in any specific detail, struck only by the impulse of feeling this specific sensation, in wanting to press and lick and suck around the head of his lover's erection at the moment of release.
Around him, he can feel the tension of thighs- one of the few areas that can demonstrate Mettaton's eagerness, though even without that, it would've been unmistakable. Between the moans and the thrusts, it was a robotic body that felt more alive than ever, the greater covering of fur only adding to the organic impression of him. Claws scratch his upper back and Emet-Selch would writhe into it if he could, and the muscles in his back tense pleasingly underneath the pointed pressure of it regardless, another sting to join the others, to add to all that was enveloping him.
With Mettaton still thrusting against the bed the Ascian's tongue provided, his body goes automatically taut, trembling when the first burst of come hits his tongue, eyes closed as he sucks with slow, deliberate ardor. Allowing it to gather in his mouth for a time, his senses are completely overwhelmed by every aspect of it. Between the sympathetic rapture present through Bond, to the thickness and heat of the fluid coating his tongue and his throat when he finally swallows part of him down, to the continued feeling of having the head of Mettaton's cock in his mouth- he's nearly startled at his own complementary climax.
Enough so that he cries out around his lover's yet-ejaculating cock, his gasps, however hoarse, causing his lips to part around him, allowing come to trail over his lower lip, to drip down his chin. But it's an oversight he corrects a few moments later, swallowing hard at what remains in his mouth, and renewing the slick seal around the glans of Mettaton's cock, to take whatever more he could give him. The Ascian's hand continues, but gradually slows its squeezing drags along the shaft, milking every drop that he can from him.
But eventually his touch slows to a pause, though trembling fingers remain loosely wrapped around him. His tongue licks slowly across the slit, though nothing more is forthcoming.
Even his own orgasm finally begins to fade, and Emet-Selch is dimly aware of additional wetness and heat running down his cock, dripping over his skin. The scent of their combined sex was nearly as overwhelming as the taste of Mettaton's come at his lips, which remain slick from it, with an undercurrent of his own saliva, and hint of blood. Finally parting from his cock, letting it slip from his mouth, Emet-Selch pants with greater ease... comparatively. His throat remains raw, and he has to push back the impulse to cough. His groan is a similarly uncomfortable sound to make, but he doesn't mind that either, shivering as he allows his head to rest back against Mettaton's crotch, his cock, breathing quickly against him.]
[His natural reflex is for his eye to close and to succumb to the darkness of deep, heady pleasure at the touch of his lover. But Mettaton fights that urge, needing desperately to watch him, and he regrets not a bit of that inclination.
Dutiful and flawless at it first, Emet-Selch sucks his cock with such attention and enjoyment that Mettaton's sure his body could only react by giving him more of himself, all while it works on making this sight a centerpiece for his next arousal. That work is done for him as soon as the other man finds himself succumbing to orgasm and parts his lips for it, allowing for come to mark up his face — evidence of error and sloppiness, but an attractive one that serves only to give Mettaton a show more erotic. The sight of his own cock resting upon his tongue, ejaculating into his lover's mouth as he slips up in his pleasure could only truly invite either a harder thrust, a more thorough load, a newly hardened erection, or all three.
He wasn't even touched. Mettaton knows where the Ascian's hands are, and Mettaton vaguely realizes that Emet-Selch has climaxed three times without direct touch, solely pleasured by the experience of swallowing his cock. It's sensational enough for his final cries, relieved as they are, to become desperate, his thrusts to pound harder. He loves him, and he adores his succumbing to vice in these moments, feeling his pleasure run him through by their Bond.
A hand squeezes upwards, yanking from his cock each and every drop he could manage with this orgasm while he seals himself upon the head of him, sucking and squeezing him of his load. Mettaton can hardly stand it, and he finally closes his eye as his nails return to curling into Emet-Selch's hair, his body shifting erratically... Until he's not. Until he's stilling, slowly finding himself slipping into something numbing and pleasant, being eased down from arousal by a tongue swirling around the sensitive tip, by loosely gripping fingers.
Moments are spent with his eye closed like this, lips parted and body riding these shockwaves of pleasure that bounce between the both of them.
Panting fills his ears, the cold of air finally enveloping his slick cock instead of the heady, inviting heat of mouth and fingers. He opens his eye to witness his lover collapsing fully into his lap, face pressed against his crotch, his well-used cock, and he finds his thighs attempting to tighten around his body in reassurance and in love. His fingers, too, rub into Emet-Selch's hair as he makes a slight soft noise from his throat, one that could only mean to express some infatuation with Emet-Selch. He's beautiful, pressed into his crotch like this, Mettaton thought — a rare moment of clarity amidst this sea of pure delight and losing himself to carnality. And the thought, he assumes, is fueled by the way which he can see Emet-Selch come apart for him, the way everything seems to lift from him, the way nothing but this matters. How focused and wanting he renders himself on the outcome of his blowjob, a task that can override all others for a spell.
Mettaton has plenty of arousing imagery still playing in his head, and he's nearly content to let Emet-Selch remain in his lap, to remain even as his erection returns to its full stiffness (as it's bound to; in Emet-Selch's presence, is there any other outcome for the Puca?), but the robot finds himself reaching for Emet-Selch's body, bruised and bleeding, clawed and bitten and kissed.
He manhandles the Ascian and shifts himself around, fighting his own weakened legs as he brings Emet-Selch to his chest. where he clutches him close. He kisses the top of his head over and over, nuzzling his nose into his hair.]
Y... You astound me, Hades. I... feel. Incredible.
[He does. He takes stock of his body, and the amount of come he's had sucked from him should make his cock oversensitive and spent, a satisfaction to permeate him deep, deep down. And satisfy it does, but oversensitivity only feels like something worth more and more sex and arousal, though Mettaton pays his own genitals no mind for not going fully flaccid, for remaining firm and engorged — a normal thing, in such a state. The dark-furred Puca kisses his scalp some more, realizing that he wants to know how Emet-Selch thinks of him, how the Ascian feels about their sex, about Mettaton.]
How are you? [A kiss to his head again.] You liked that a lot, I noticed...
[His words are slow and labored, syrupy and just as sluggish. But equally as sweet: his fondness permeates above all, and though he fixates still on erotic imagery in his mind's eye, he also wonders if Emet-Selch could be made more comfortable in his arms if he were blanketed, if he had the pressure of his weight atop him, anything. He wraps his arms more tightly around the Ascian's frame.]
[Both mouth and throat felt so strange to not have an erection blocking them, for breathing to come so relatively straightforwardly. What was he meant to do with so much air? Moan again, apparently, as he shivers in his place between Mettaton's legs, feeling both the heavy afterglow of his own orgasm, alongside his various stinging aches, and the more simple pleasure of fingers trailing through his hair, rubbing at his scalp. There was physical discomfort, sure, but it couldn't match the temporary kind of contentment that it brought him. If anything it helped, every twinge just diverting his thoughts back to how he attained it- whether it was from the rake of claws or pierce of teeth, or the repeated drag of an erection down his throat.
An erection which... remained by his face, used but undaunted, slick and hard still. A tempting sensation to have so close, and one he nuzzles his face against automatically, the gesture uncoordinated, affectionate, breathless. Mettaton was insatiable in body as well as mind... it was flattering to be the recipient of his attention. And something he'd feel smug about if he were a bit more together; instead Emet-Selch only loves him for his responsiveness. Puca and Mettaton-energy combined were... a force to be reckoned with, but the Ascian was undaunted to match it, even if his mortal body inevitably lagged behind him.
An embrace of thighs becomes an embrace of arms, as Emet-Selch feels himself hauled upwards, away from his lover's cock and against his chest instead. But it's a movement he labors to assist in, pressing himself against him, not caring if it was a surface of metal and jewelry and fur (so, unyielding, and only slightly softened, and with more rough bits than usual). His own arms can't wrap around him like this, but he makes an attempt regardless, nestling his face against Mettaton's neck with a sigh. Both his words and the kisses bestown to his head get a quiet, approving sound from him, as he shifts and stretches in his arms.]
Was it that obvious...?
[But his amusement is clear, even with the softness and hoarseness of his voice. Emet-Selch would certainly not be speaking easily or often in the days to come. Possibly refusing to speak at all, communicating only in various expressions of irritation and disapproval, once he was away from the immediate throes of arousal and sex. But for now, it was a positive condition only, and even at his most disgruntled, he'll consider it worthwhile, worth repeating, and terribly arousing if he thought too closely about it.]
It's unpleasant to speak. I imagine it shall be.... [Mild as it is, it's hard to even qualify that much as chiding. Especially when it's spoken in a tone that is best described as a shade above a whisper.] And yet you've made the process enjoyable.
[Emet-Selch couldn't imagine tolerating this kind of treatment from anyone else- much less actually approving of it, encouraging it, aroused by it to the point of climaxing solely from the experience of it.
And so long as Mettaton remained in contact with him, he qualified as comfortable. Heat still ran through his blood, blood still ran over his skin (drying or clotted mostly), any soreness was acceptable, his lover's erection remained nudging enticingly against him. Eventually the exposed back side of his body would chill and he would shiver from cold as well as pleasure, but Emet-Selch wasn't thinking that far ahead at all. Not when he could kiss Mettaton's throat now, and even tilt his head to spread his affection to the underside of his jaw. The one downside to being shoved against his crotch was being unable to do things like this- but then, the downside of kissing his face, was not being able to suck his cock, so really, the lesson to learn was that there was a time for everything.
And this was... absurdly, unbelievably nice, to have both his body painted in reds and purples, to be scratched and scented, his throat rubbed raw, the taste of his come still strong in his mouth- along with this incredible fondness. It was surreal, almost, to be made so vulnerable in both form and emotion, and to not feel uneasy about it. To care for someone this much, and to trust him....]
[Mettaton's ears flick at the implied compliment to his enjoyment of his body. He'll still get mad if he doesn't get fed compliments, after all, but post-coitus, Emet-Selch is especially given plenty of slack. Even cursed objects obey Mettaton's fondness and sway, but a lot of it has to do with the increased instinctual possessiveness that follows not only sex, but the other cursed object in the room. Mettaton is full of the instinctual need to keep and make Emet-Selch his, in more of a mating capacity.
Of course he recognizes these Monstrous notions of his. (Exasperating, but he's also since come to terms with the nature of this world and its effects on him. He likes being a Puca nowadays: the benefits (shapeshifting) outweigh the drawbacks (plenty).) He's already realized what those pendants do, too, and the fact that the pendants (jewelry) do something makes him wonder if the diamonds he wears (more jewelry) have some kind of effect. He's not worried about it, and this is barely a thought to consider as he holds his lover flush to these jewels, as Emet-Selch tilts his head up to kiss his jaw. Peppered in affection and appreciation, Mettaton only holds him tighter in a vice grip. ...One that he relaxes when he considers the tightness of it.
The very sound of Emet-Selch's voice would be enough to arouse, if he weren't already gradually coming right back to the same sort of need, and his ears spring upright. They slant forward next as Mettaton laughs low in his throat, amused, and he stoops down to nudge himself against his Bonded's neck to press a kiss to his throat. Blood still lives there, but a kiss isn't enough to agitate his clotting wounds. Even so, he feels enticed to lick, to taste the metallic flavor of him.]
Your poor throat. Think of it this way: [Another kiss, one with more heat inherently added to it: open-mouthed, tongue flirting and agitating wounds.] you'll be spared the effort of speech... and given the ever-present reminder of me. Unless you'd like me to fill that space again, and distract you from the ache. I'd be glad to, you know...
[It's said teasingly, even though Mettaton... is aroused. It's with the awareness that Emet-Selch's soreness would likely make him reluctant to want to continue having his throat fucked, but when would the suggestion of remedying a sore throat with more cock be a poor one? It's an impeccable salve. Fill it back up so that the soreness has a reason to be there.
Because he nips his throat next, voice darkening to match the shade his fur's taken on.]
It was obvious, after all... How am I going to think of anything else but this? You captivate me.
[Right now especially, the idea of going an hour without considering Emet-Selch's passion for him feels impossible. And right now, with an erection pressed to his lover's skin, it feels that much more difficult of a thought to divorce from at all. If he couldn't manifest such anatomy, Mettaton wonders how frustrating it would be just to exist, no relief in sight for any arousal: this hike in libidinous appetite rose to being only once he started indulging at all, once he'd been Bonded and once he'd had sex with Emet-Selch. It feels impossible to him right now (even though it would actually solve this problem to not have a cock to stroke off)...
But Mettaton persists, even when his hips shift. Even when he thinks about the sight of Emet-Selch nuzzling his recently-used erection, even when he fixates on the texture of his skin. Even when he imagines the feeling of his throat made to house the swollen head of his arousal. And then he thinks about the tantalizing taste of Emet-Selch's mouth, how he'd swallowed so much come, had ejaculated all over himself. The sight of his cock standing erect for Mettaton's gaze, the sight of him tensing and panting until he erupted in climax—
...This would be difficult to not do, made more difficult by the pendants, made more difficult yet by his desire to be paid extra attention to, to be lauded and soothed with words that stroke his ego. Mettaton is insatiable and driven mad by the work of enchantment and of his own mind.]
Well! We know what those pendants do. [The ones on the bed with them both. Mettaton pulls back from mouthing Emet-Selch's neck to smile at him with the flash of teeth and eye. But he snorts next.] And all jewelry, on principle, only makes me stand out that much more. They're not bad finds. I'd make it all look ravishing. You agree, don't you?
[Poor Emet-Selch, with his faded voice, aching throat, and his Bonded's demands. Every demand. The demand for use of oral functions.]
[Though he can't quite hum in his current state (any attempt only reminds him of why he wasn't doing that), it's with a sense of pleasure regardless that he turns his head into Mettaton's efforts to kiss and lick at his neck. It's a contact worth the slight ache of stretching, of moving his neck at all. Even the tight grip around his body was comfortable enough, the Ascian only noticing it becoming slightly easier to breathe again once the puca managed to relax it a degree. But he felt- secure in his arms, as though he not only belonged there, but had every right to be there above all others.
At Mettaton's 'solution' for his sore throat, Emet-Selch snorts, and then winces; sharp noises were definitely to be avoided. And yet--]
Don't tempt me.
[Because though it wouldn't exactly be his first preference for Mettaton to use his throat once more, to fuck his mouth, to give him another load to swallow down- just thinking about it has him shudder. Even if it would be to his detriment, the Ascian knew it wouldn't be the most difficult thing to convince him. Mettaton was a terrible influence, and the hardness of the cock pressing against him was a terrible lure.
But the effects of the pendants were fairly clear, Emet-Selch would have to agree. As soon as they had been found, placed together, Mettaton's already heightened emotional state had turned to the beautifully feral. The physical changes were also pretty obvious, with the darker expanses of fur and longer, sharpened claws- and even his eye, he thought, held a brighter (yet darker) light to it at times....
A libido already high turned into something endless was another feature, though he wasn't sure if the heightened possessiveness was a feature of that, or something they had developed to that degree of their own accord. But Mettaton's repeated marking and claiming of him through sex was more insistent than usual, he'd have to admit, though he had no qualm, no hesitation when it came to indulging it. Encouraging it. Even if his throat was giving out, there was still the rest of his body.
Because when Mettaton's voice could darken like that, when he could still feel where his lover's tongue had pressed to his neck, left damp, warm kisses there, when his hips moved underneath him, further underlying a readiness to continue- how could he think to resist him? Even with his own cock temporarily sated, he still wanted him.
When Mettaton leans back, his own eyes open to meet his, though they linger on his jewelry as well, taking them in as a set.]
...They do suit you.
[Stricken voice or not, Emet-Selch will still use it when called to, and when he wanted to. Why did the condition of his throat get to decide what he could or couldn't say? And so long as he kept his tone particularly soft, it didn't strain anything- well, more than was already strained. He kisses Mettaton's neck, around the glittering diamonds- some of which had drops of blood on them. Something that added to the effect, he thought, even if it should probably be cleaned off eventually.
Without moving from his neck, he touches the strings of diamonds with a hand, indicating it specifically as he murmurs against his face.]
Most would be swallowed up by something like this. It would exceed them. But you more than match it.
[...He really was beautiful, and absurdly attractive to him. And while he would have always recognized that in a generally aesthetic sort of way, it was the sort of awareness that had only grown over time, that sometimes made his heart ache to consider. If Mettaton wanted someone to appreciate his appearance, Emet-Selch could do so with sincerity, whenever he could be motivated to say something at all.]
[Comments to have his ears leaning back in tall, contented satisfaction, eyelid dropping, gaze fixing evenly upon the Ascian. Bloodied diamonds to match sharper canines, dark fur, a luminous gaze and an overall monstrous bearing, Mettaton still gentles as he holds his Bonded close and strokes the back of his neck, finding with Emet-Selch this heightened ferality, but a reduction in frustration. Vastly. It helped, he thought, that his Bonded could satisfy him in many ways. Compliments and sex and reassurances, Mettaton would never go wanting without having his desires slaked, for as long as he had them, which would be always.
The comment about temptation has Mettaton smirking, wondering how he could tempt his lover into falling into him some more, though the softer part of him recognizes the soreness of his throat as something not to agitate further. But temptation on his own part is a hard thing to deny, and Emet-Selch's body, prone and bruised, easily accessible and giving, is worth every shred of attention. He envisions so vividly kissing him passionately, moving to mouth his neck; traveling to his shoulder, groping his ass, then finding his lover situated in his lap. But oh, how he wants to push him down and fuck him from behind as well, to fill him with cock while Emet-Selch can scarcely moan. He'd still take him, he knows it, and he'd appreciate feeling so full of Mettaton's cock. Mettaton makes a short noise from his throat, wanting.
If he thinks about too hard, he finds himself focusing on how hard he is, an increasing amount as time ticks on.
He sighs. Focuses instead on Emet-Selch's fingers and kisses and attention to his neck, focuses on the sentiment through Bond. It's not with the intent to deny himself, but to consider his lover, to pace himself, to temper his need into something he wields by his own rule. But he's also capable of fixing his attention upon his compliment — and it is a compliment.]
I match it, and enhance it. Yes. [Bejeweled, silver-plated chain crosses along his body and somehow manages to fit his form perfectly, despite having a torso shape more exaggerated than most, with a broader chest and a narrow waist. One of Mettaton's hands lifts to meet Emet-Selch's against the diamond, nuzzling gently against the other man's lips.] You're the only one who's said so today. Can you believe it? Then again... Not many have such refined tastes in regal splendor and sophisticated beauty.
[refined tastes. sophisticated and regal.
But Mettaton doesn't want to think about being denied compliments. He wants to think about Emet-Selch, and how readily he treats him to flattery. It's addicting. What's more, his lips are close enough to kiss, and Mettaton's been wanting that.
He turns his head just enough to catch his lips before he can form a reply as though possessed by the sudden realization that he can, and he hums in a short ascending note of pleasure when his tongue runs over his lower lip. The taste of blood lingers, but so does the taste of his come. Were Mettaton in a more human-shaped body, he may have tensed completely. Instead, he sort of twitches against Emet-Selch in his interest, leaning into him and pushing his tongue past his lips, flirting deeper and clearly tasting him. His lips are sucked, gently nipped, and Mettaton pauses for a moment. He does not, however, pull from his mouth, smiling against him instead
His hips rock gently, grinding his cock into his lover's body for something to do. Something to provide friction, sensualist that he is.]
You taste of me. It's perfect.
[His voice is low and smooth, a tone that couldn't be heard even an arm's length away. That hand he has against his Bonded's upon flashy diamonds skirts down, pressing against Emet-Selch's shoulder and running along his upper back, pressing into muscle and splaying his fingers upon his shoulder blade in a move of fondness. He considers that he not only tastes of him, but he looks ravished by him: bleeding for him, bruised for him, and come-marked for him, Emet-Selch is lovely. It's been some time since he's seen him unmarked, but he still keeps that memory in his mind's eye: he's always been handsome, a figure he knows by heart. Every scar and feature was always a point of his curiosity, and now it's a point worth his care. He nuzzles his lips against Emet-Selch's in a sudden gesture of love for him, nothing particularly libidinous.]
[For all that he would not only permit, but encourage- even enjoy- being shoved over and fucked with immediacy, Emet-Selch could also appreciate this show of Mettaton's restraint and consideration for him. Permitting this physical body of his some segment of time to recover, before taking fully to him once more. His kisses to him slow slightly, gentle more, a contact borne more of affection than passion, wondering at the effort it took to override or otherwise control the influence of instinct- particularly when it was instinct neither of them were exactly opposed to.
As even though he could only feel the effect of it secondhand, through Bond, in combination with their already considerable attraction to one another, he knew how very easy it would be to slip back into ever fiercer passions. Kissings of increasing heats, whispered compliments turned to moans, embraces turned hard and demanding, in a desire to give everything to one another....
He has to take a steadying breath himself, and he's not even the one currently hard.
So he focuses instead on Mettaton's voice, his reply, the scarcely conceivable truth that no one else had thought to praise either him or his choice of decorations. But Emet-Selch's tastes are extremely refined, sophisticated, and regal. He's been an emperor at least once and likely more than that, and he has a better soul than anyone else on his world, and likely most worlds (barring the other remaining unbroken Ascian). That meant his opinion mattered more (if it even counted as something as subjective as opinion). He liked the way Mettaton looked, and who else's judgement should even register? Only theirs. He can believe this as though it's some fundamental truth, and he doesn't even need a piece of cursed jewelry to do so.
Pressing back against both hand and lips, he does have to consider that Mettaton seemed unusually insistent on praise, and unusually offended at not receiving it. When Emet-Selch thinks back to the beginning of their encounter, and adds to it those strange spikes of fury preceding it- it was a bit different than the robot's normal condition. And if he added that together with the pendants' effects....
He would hum thoughtfully if he could. Instead he nuzzles thoughtfully at his lover's mouth when he catches him in a kiss, lips parting for an easier taste of him. And then his thoughts are disrupted once more by the combination of the grind of Mettaton's cock against him, a reminder of his persistent arousal, and by his words, a reminder of the taste of his come, a heady claim upon his mouth. Not that Emet-Selch had had any opportunity to forget either, but with the tension (or rather, the robotic equivalent of it) in Mettaton's body, and the smooth way his lover's tongue had slipped past his lips, getting a proper sample of himself, it was hard to consider anything else. Even the treatment of his torn lip was gentle, and the Ascian settles with greater ease against him, not relaxing per se, but accepting this slower burn of intensity.
The necklace was also cursed: yes, that was the thought he'd been having. But it was a curse that could be handled, though a part of him is amused at the coincidence that Mettaton would find his way under multiple curses that worked so effectively together. They were definitely pieces that were worth holding onto....]
Mm... it certainly adds to the effect.
[Of being possessed, marked, designated as being something of Mettaton's. It's a reply given against his lips as well, holding back a faint sigh as he rubs back against his cock, in idle appreciation of his continued want. In less-idle imaginings of taking it inside him again.]
Not that I would ever be allowed to forget your claim of me.
[He's made to laugh shortly at that, hand rubbing along the length of Emet-Selch's back. It rides along his spine, down to the small of it, where it finds a place to rest. Digits rub into him, the hint of claws a pinprick ever present. Always a fierce thought away from curling them in and puncturing through flesh, but instead, he glides them gently along his skin, filled with warmth in manner.]
Of course not! I was just thinking about how gorgeous you are after months of our work...
[Their work, he trails off, implying further their combined passion and lust for one another, their mutual possessiveness that can only manifest so blatantly upon Emet-Selch's body. Even so much as sparing though to it has Mettaton fantasizing about taking a bite of his shoulder, teeth slipping through muscle as it gushes blood into his mouth...
... Bruises, he was talking about, but bite marks accompany them. Bite marks are what has the chance of scarring for good, and he imagines the mark he made upon his lover's chest, even while he continues to pine for the taste of blood. He fixes on his lover's body again, casting his gaze down upon as much as he can see, especially those marks upon his shoulders.]
A lovely addition to a man already beautiful. But I think you know why you're only enhanced by me.
[The way jewelry is enhanced by Mettaton, Emet-Selch is also enhanced by Mettaton.
He hasn't quite gotten over addiction. It's one of those things that traumatizing himself was able to undo somewhat - possibly killing his Bonded would do that - but it's not completely gone. Every time he gets a taste of him, he yearns for more and more, every lick of fluid something worth consumption. And why shouldn't he covet Emet-Selch's specifically? Other Witches paled in comparison, he thought, to no surprise: as Emet-Selch hold such lofty expectations for things worth his consideration, Mettaton, too, holds standards difficult to meet, even when he offers more regard to that which doesn't meet it. Emet-Selch just happens to have the tastiest blood, and Mettaton would be willing to chalk it up to his superiority as well. His lover is special. He wouldn't mind that assumption at all.
(The fact that his own shapeshifted blood doesn't taste good, he's realized, is because Monster blood doesn't taste good to him. He is a Monster even if he's shapeshifted into a human, and that's immutable. It has no bearing on how worthwhile he is.)
Mettaton feels himself being rubbed back, Emet-Selch shifting against his arousal. He's hard, he realizes. Very hard. He bites at his lip, a slight noise slipping from his throat as he meets that rub with a firmer one, needy and thankful for reciprocated attention. Emet-Selch's body is the center of his focus aside from his own, but they come in pairs. Of course the Puca would consider his own body in relation to Emet-Selch's, so often entwined as they are — and how much he wants them entwined now only increases steadily, sure to become something he can't resist any longer. He wonders, then, if Emet-Selch will offer himself up to his attentions each full moon. If he'd sate this monstrous desire for him, if he'd be receptive to appeasing his cravings. Being in the same room with him would undoubtedly lead to a thirst for them together.
Shifting his upper body slightly, the idol dips down to Emet-Selch's neck again to lick and agitate wounds. Deliberate work: he wants to disrupt any attempt at clotting to give himself blood, to entice himself further into wanting to break skin. Mettaton doesn't mind being teased, either.]
You- taste of me... but you also tempt me on your own, darling. [Were Mettaton to lose control completely to his Monstrous instincts, Emet-Selch would be his favored victim, Puca or not.] Not that there's any question, what the outcome of my temptation is.
[There's really not, because Mettaton likes to get what he wants. His hand slips lower yet, squeezing Emet-Selch's ass with that same air of contented possessiveness. He knows Emet-Selch's been claimed by him, belonging to nobody but him. They belong to each other, and that's a state he's pleased to be in. And since Emet-Selch's his, he's only readying himself to pounce, acclimating his lover to further submitting to him. With taste like theirs, only the best would do, and each of them views themselves as among the best of the bunch.]
[Muscles tighten underneath the path of Mettaton's hand, knowing how easily a gentle stroke could turn into a piercing of skin, and finds himself content with both options. Caresses both gentle and bloody, bruising and invisible- they each had their place, and the Ascian could appreciate the variations, the possibilities, knowing only that the result is whatever they both wanted the most at any particular moment.
But he thinks as well on their collected work, finding it strange to consider a time back when he hadn't possessed patterns of purples and reds decorating his neck, his chest, his thighs. To see himself with none of them would speak of something being wrong, their presence a continued visual sign of their connection. They would be connected regardless of the state of his body, it was true, but- it was reassuring. He nuzzles slowly at him with swollen lips.]
Well... I'd say we both have the finest taste then.
[In imagery, in partners, in inclinations. With egos like theirs, it was a small wonder that they found they complemented one another, rather than only contrasted in great severity. But then, with egos like theirs, who else but someone similarly self-assured, demanding, emotional- could ever hope to live up to expectations?
And similarly insatiable, for that matter, if on a different key of energy- though that (along with a desire to see himself marked, visibly claimed by another) remained something the Ascian hadn't expected to ever develop.
But if this was how Mettaton was every full moon, Emet-Selch wondered how he'd been managing on his own. Did his presence help sate an endless desire that was already there (or if not sate, provide some manner of appropriate outlet)? Or did it only incite predilections and impulses that wouldn't have been quite as strong, had he not been exposed to the temptation of his lover? In either case, he thought he might take better care to be available during any future full moons. Were it the former, he felt- not quite guilty, as such, but regretful to have not been there to distract him. And for the latter- well. If it led to outcomes like these, it would only be the most pleasant sort of consequence.
Mettaton dips his head, and Emet-Selch tilts his to accommodate, feeling him unerringly drawn to those places where he'd already recently pulled blood, reopening any fragile clots that had dared to attempt forming when he'd been otherwise distracted. It was a pleasing sensation in itself, the press of tongue and lips to open wounds, the drinking up of whatever fresh blood that flowed from them, a warm sting that he couldn't distinguish from his lover's own appreciation for the fluid. Of course his was the best, of witches and otherwise. That Mettaton still had a greater-than-entirely-healthy want for it was- expected.
--But it was fine. They'd learned their lesson, he thought, to not bite so deeply in the wrong place, to provide him scars, and Mettaton blood, in a more sustainable way. Encouraging his bloodletting in feral-leaning states was a bit like tempting fate, but they knew what they were doing, he was certain. There was only the pulse-increasing satisfaction of it, of feeling his blood drawn here and there, points of sharpest detail to enhance the backdrop of wider-spreading bruises.
But Mettaton wasn't the only one being tempted. Straddling him with more deliberation, Emet-Selch presses his own cock against the puca's with a faint sound, and a shiver of tension. As Mettaton had commented on their adventures into the Wilde, he really did end up with his legs spread around him for long stretches of time.... Slowly rubbing himself against his erection, he lets out a shuddered sigh, feeling a rush of heat from the thought, as well as the position itself. Altogether, it's little surprise when his own length begins to fill again, something that would be quite evident against his lover's erection, and something that fills him with satisfaction in itself. The kiss he presses to the side of his neck is open-mouthed, heated- more a press of saliva and breath than a kiss.]
But does it even count as temptation, when there's no chance of not giving in...?
[A voice that would've been low already, lowered further by the raw treatment of his throat. But neither of them required encouraging, neither was teasing the other into something they thought they shouldn't do. The outcome truly was one untouched by chance or hesitation.
Especially as his breathing catches as Mettaton's hand lowers, casually groping his ass though it belonged to him. Which it did, along with the rest of him. Which was still a bit of a dizzying thing to dwell on, to apply thought to- how it was both comforting and enticing and a source of unexpected pleasure.
But Mettaton was just as much his in the process. He resists the urge to bite him at the thought.]
What direction, then... will your temptation take us?
[Mettaton hums into his neck, wrapping his lips around one of those puncture wounds and treating it to the flat of his tongue, coaxing fluid to leak into the similarly wet confines of his mouth. He bleeds slowly, nothing enough to serve as replacement for the rush of delight a fresh bite offers, but it's pleasing all the same. Pleasing, and nearly mind-numbing. If he got one of those rushes of blood filling his mouth, what would he do with it in a state like this...? Mettaton is unconcerned, because he simply wants it. A small taste leads to wanting a greater one, and a greater one... It could be fine. They'd already made the mistake of excessive bloodletting before, so it's a mistake he'd never wish to repeat intentionally.
He is within his mind, not feral beyond control. Emet-Selch's blood only seems to have a calming effect on him, somehow. Soporific and enticing at once, something he wants more of, but something that soothes any madness that could develop in him during such a state. If ever he found himself losing control, the safest thing he imagines he could do is bite Emet-Selch to come down from it all (and hopefully not kill him in the process of tempering his madness).
With a voice that could have already been low made lower, Mettaton only smiles into his neck and lets off of his bite/puncture. He licks at him and presses lips to the scantest oozing of blood, sucking into him the most sensual, warm of kisses, sure to let his lips barely rise from his skin. For feeling so invited by Emet-Selch's tone, scent, and gesture to expose his neck, he's fairly tamed for the moment.
But then, the Ascian rolls his hips into his, spreading his legs around Mettaton's hips and rubs, cock to cock.]
Ah-
[His voice is soft and surprised, catching dead in his throat as he rocks back into him. He holds back a moan, both of his hands squeezing his Bonded's ass with a grip firm enough to spread him — spread for nothing, unfortunately (?). Mettaton's erection remains solidly against his cock as he buries his nose into his lover's neck, senses filled with blood and skin and sweat and the smell of his lover in general. He rubs his shaft against the other man, delighting in the firm, intimate friction of his filling cock.
The thought does occur to him, that Emet-Selch looks lovely with his legs so spread. It's a look he'd be hesitant to give up on him, and his head fills with imagery of him still: bent forward and hips raised, legs spread; holding him atop his body and keeping his hands on his hips, forcing him to sit firmly upon his arousal, legs spread; pinning him upon his back and lifting his legs high up upon Mettaton's shoulders, legs definitely spread. Spreading him for Mettaton's eyes, for his pleasure, for his indulgence, all of it is something he finds himself grinding harder into his Bonded just for the crime of thinking about it.]
Not- temptation, but inevitability. That's something I can get behind.
[The magic words to help Mettaton make a choice. If there's something Mettaton isn't, it's indecisive, even when he has an abundance of choices to select from. He wants his cake and his pie and he wants to eat it all, too, so why shouldn't sex positions be the same? Picking one doesn't mean he can't have them all at some point. Emet-Selch knows that. Temptation leads him in one direction, but the direction it leads them is the correct decision for that moment.
And this moment, Mettaton bares his teeth. He snaps down on Emet-Selch's shoulder in a vicious display for a moment, a claim upon his skin and his blood, but he only bruises him with a temporary restraint, as opposed to breaking skin. He can bite him bleeding when he's well and ready. For now, he takes that pent-up energy and yanks Emet-Selch off of him, pushing him upon the surface of the bed face down. Like this, Mettaton climbs atop him and pins him down by his wrists with his whole weight, sliding his knees between his thighs — spreading his legs, just as he likes. The expanse of his back is most readily available for his eye to drink in, angry lines upon his shoulder blades where he'd earlier clawed him in the throes of passion visible.
And he takes a moment just to appraise him, making a low sound in his throat. He examines his neck, follows his spine down his back; lets his gaze linger upon his lover's waist, trim and so unscathed, something he imagines marking up if he ever chose to grab him there with nails made sharp. (He could grab him by the waist and force him to sit upon him sometime, sinking claws into flesh—) Lower does his eye flit, down to his ass, the sight of agitated red from where he's gripped into skin with sharpened nails.
Naturally, lower yet, his thighs... are beautifully marked up. Inner thighs bear marks so recent, and the backs of them, too, are marked. Just staring at him makes his cock ache with lust, and he lowers his body to press his erection against Emet-Selch's ass.]
And behind you is where inevitability might lead me... What do you think? Tell me how you want me.
[Emet-Selch could think what he wants, as long as it flatters Mettaton's starving ego. It would be words to seduce, surely. But if his idea of a position differs, Mettaton expects that Emet-Selch will only sell it to him in the most enticing of ways, in a way that appeals to the robot's senses so thoroughly that he'll have no choice but to pursue it. One of their cravings will override the other's if they're not already matched. It would become a craving mutual, all else becoming a craving for the next moment. Mettaton shifts his hips, pressing more direly his cock against Emet-Selch's ass — waiting to be praised, waiting to be accepted, waiting to hear his lover's feedback.]
[It remained flattering, that Mettaton would enjoy his blood as he did. Even if he was predisposed to, being a monster, and himself a witch- well, it was one more reason to be relieved at entering this world as a mage, even if he were a drastically reduced one. Delicious blood was a strange consolation prize, but there was no reason not to make the most of it.
And should Mettaton ever require a hit of his blood for mental clarity in the midst of madness otherwise unrestrained- Emet-Selch would willingly provide it. He'd willingly provide it regardless, but were it a matter of seeking more than particular pleasure, red indulgence and metallic scents- he'd give as much as needed to clear his thoughts. And if he considered it in serious terms, he'd even conclude that so long as Mettaton didn't tear out anything immediately fatal, any danger would be minimal. If blood would restore him to sanity, then he'd be able to stop himself from pulling too much, after all.
But there was no suggestion of that at the moment, this sharing of blood a healthy endeavor only, a touch of decadence, a trading of essences; if he had the opportunity to take Mettaton's come, then his lover should have an equal opportunity to claim his blood.
Mostly, though, he's focused on the tighter grip he'd provoked in him through his change in position, a touch smug at the way Mettaton responded, and more than a touch breathless at the increased rubbing. Even if there wasn't the opportunity yet to make anything of the opportunity of having his ass spread, he appreciated the sensation, the reaction- his own cock rapidly hardening, as though inspired by the stiffness of what it was pressed against.
It was enough to cause a soft moan to form, as his arousal continued to physically manifest- though it's a sound that's abruptly turned into a sharp, startled cry when Mettaton's teeth sink into his shoulder. It's hard enough that it takes him a few moments to notice that his skin hadn't been pierced, that any dampness he felt was from his lover's mouth alone. And his cry itself is a louder sound than anything else he'd uttered in some time, the rasp in it far more noticeable at this volume. And the discomfort too, as he shudders a wince.
But he's distracted all over again when he's pushed suddenly away, maneuvered and shoved down, face against the bed, and his back to the air, Mettaton above him, the predator with his prey successfully brought low. It happened so quickly that he had little time for more than a few sharp breaths, a tensing of limbs and body as he's hauled around and pushed into place.
How did he want him? For once, it was an easier question.]
--Right there. Like this.
[It was something he'd realized the moment he'd been flipped over, pressed down, legs spread, with Mettaton so close. And he knew it ever harder in those moments immediately after, when he could practically feel his lover's eye on him, taking in every detail of this arrangement. The expanse of his back, every scratch or bruise- every place where he wasn't scratched or bruised, his legs open to him. And harder still did he know this was exactly right, on the sensation of Mettaton's cock sliding against his ass, an enticing suggestion of his impending fate.
Like Mettaton he wanted every position (with a not-surprising number of them with his legs pulled apart, to either wrap around him again, or be held open like this, but being accessible to his Bonded's cock was a theme), but this was also a point where patience was less of a problem. They could have it all, but in succession. Satisfaction and anticipation at once- it wasn't the worst of fates, to be caught ever-wanting, when the wanting was this.
His arms tense and pull at Mettaton's grip, testing it with no desire to escape; his hips likewise attempt to press up, but with the clear desire to feel more of his cock.]
Held down by your body and taken. To feel- all of you. Pushing yourself inside of me.
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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.
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(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.]
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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.]
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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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This was another sort of claim, a devotion applied with more deliberation to the soft tip of his cock, with his tongue to stroke, and his lips to press, a suction given around moans. A clear desire to not only swallow his come, but to taste it as well, another sense to be given ever more powerfully to his lover. An involuntary reflex of his body becoming a conscious acceptance, taking the ejaculate that would be spilling into his mouth and choosing to swallow it down.
Not that Emet-Selch is thinking of that in any specific detail, struck only by the impulse of feeling this specific sensation, in wanting to press and lick and suck around the head of his lover's erection at the moment of release.
Around him, he can feel the tension of thighs- one of the few areas that can demonstrate Mettaton's eagerness, though even without that, it would've been unmistakable. Between the moans and the thrusts, it was a robotic body that felt more alive than ever, the greater covering of fur only adding to the organic impression of him. Claws scratch his upper back and Emet-Selch would writhe into it if he could, and the muscles in his back tense pleasingly underneath the pointed pressure of it regardless, another sting to join the others, to add to all that was enveloping him.
With Mettaton still thrusting against the bed the Ascian's tongue provided, his body goes automatically taut, trembling when the first burst of come hits his tongue, eyes closed as he sucks with slow, deliberate ardor. Allowing it to gather in his mouth for a time, his senses are completely overwhelmed by every aspect of it. Between the sympathetic rapture present through Bond, to the thickness and heat of the fluid coating his tongue and his throat when he finally swallows part of him down, to the continued feeling of having the head of Mettaton's cock in his mouth- he's nearly startled at his own complementary climax.
Enough so that he cries out around his lover's yet-ejaculating cock, his gasps, however hoarse, causing his lips to part around him, allowing come to trail over his lower lip, to drip down his chin. But it's an oversight he corrects a few moments later, swallowing hard at what remains in his mouth, and renewing the slick seal around the glans of Mettaton's cock, to take whatever more he could give him. The Ascian's hand continues, but gradually slows its squeezing drags along the shaft, milking every drop that he can from him.
But eventually his touch slows to a pause, though trembling fingers remain loosely wrapped around him. His tongue licks slowly across the slit, though nothing more is forthcoming.
Even his own orgasm finally begins to fade, and Emet-Selch is dimly aware of additional wetness and heat running down his cock, dripping over his skin. The scent of their combined sex was nearly as overwhelming as the taste of Mettaton's come at his lips, which remain slick from it, with an undercurrent of his own saliva, and hint of blood. Finally parting from his cock, letting it slip from his mouth, Emet-Selch pants with greater ease... comparatively. His throat remains raw, and he has to push back the impulse to cough. His groan is a similarly uncomfortable sound to make, but he doesn't mind that either, shivering as he allows his head to rest back against Mettaton's crotch, his cock, breathing quickly against him.]
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Dutiful and flawless at it first, Emet-Selch sucks his cock with such attention and enjoyment that Mettaton's sure his body could only react by giving him more of himself, all while it works on making this sight a centerpiece for his next arousal. That work is done for him as soon as the other man finds himself succumbing to orgasm and parts his lips for it, allowing for come to mark up his face — evidence of error and sloppiness, but an attractive one that serves only to give Mettaton a show more erotic. The sight of his own cock resting upon his tongue, ejaculating into his lover's mouth as he slips up in his pleasure could only truly invite either a harder thrust, a more thorough load, a newly hardened erection, or all three.
He wasn't even touched. Mettaton knows where the Ascian's hands are, and Mettaton vaguely realizes that Emet-Selch has climaxed three times without direct touch, solely pleasured by the experience of swallowing his cock. It's sensational enough for his final cries, relieved as they are, to become desperate, his thrusts to pound harder. He loves him, and he adores his succumbing to vice in these moments, feeling his pleasure run him through by their Bond.
A hand squeezes upwards, yanking from his cock each and every drop he could manage with this orgasm while he seals himself upon the head of him, sucking and squeezing him of his load. Mettaton can hardly stand it, and he finally closes his eye as his nails return to curling into Emet-Selch's hair, his body shifting erratically... Until he's not. Until he's stilling, slowly finding himself slipping into something numbing and pleasant, being eased down from arousal by a tongue swirling around the sensitive tip, by loosely gripping fingers.
Moments are spent with his eye closed like this, lips parted and body riding these shockwaves of pleasure that bounce between the both of them.
Panting fills his ears, the cold of air finally enveloping his slick cock instead of the heady, inviting heat of mouth and fingers. He opens his eye to witness his lover collapsing fully into his lap, face pressed against his crotch, his well-used cock, and he finds his thighs attempting to tighten around his body in reassurance and in love. His fingers, too, rub into Emet-Selch's hair as he makes a slight soft noise from his throat, one that could only mean to express some infatuation with Emet-Selch. He's beautiful, pressed into his crotch like this, Mettaton thought — a rare moment of clarity amidst this sea of pure delight and losing himself to carnality. And the thought, he assumes, is fueled by the way which he can see Emet-Selch come apart for him, the way everything seems to lift from him, the way nothing but this matters. How focused and wanting he renders himself on the outcome of his blowjob, a task that can override all others for a spell.
Mettaton has plenty of arousing imagery still playing in his head, and he's nearly content to let Emet-Selch remain in his lap, to remain even as his erection returns to its full stiffness (as it's bound to; in Emet-Selch's presence, is there any other outcome for the Puca?), but the robot finds himself reaching for Emet-Selch's body, bruised and bleeding, clawed and bitten and kissed.
He manhandles the Ascian and shifts himself around, fighting his own weakened legs as he brings Emet-Selch to his chest. where he clutches him close. He kisses the top of his head over and over, nuzzling his nose into his hair.]
Y... You astound me, Hades. I... feel. Incredible.
[He does. He takes stock of his body, and the amount of come he's had sucked from him should make his cock oversensitive and spent, a satisfaction to permeate him deep, deep down. And satisfy it does, but oversensitivity only feels like something worth more and more sex and arousal, though Mettaton pays his own genitals no mind for not going fully flaccid, for remaining firm and engorged — a normal thing, in such a state. The dark-furred Puca kisses his scalp some more, realizing that he wants to know how Emet-Selch thinks of him, how the Ascian feels about their sex, about Mettaton.]
How are you? [A kiss to his head again.] You liked that a lot, I noticed...
[His words are slow and labored, syrupy and just as sluggish. But equally as sweet: his fondness permeates above all, and though he fixates still on erotic imagery in his mind's eye, he also wonders if Emet-Selch could be made more comfortable in his arms if he were blanketed, if he had the pressure of his weight atop him, anything. He wraps his arms more tightly around the Ascian's frame.]
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An erection which... remained by his face, used but undaunted, slick and hard still. A tempting sensation to have so close, and one he nuzzles his face against automatically, the gesture uncoordinated, affectionate, breathless. Mettaton was insatiable in body as well as mind... it was flattering to be the recipient of his attention. And something he'd feel smug about if he were a bit more together; instead Emet-Selch only loves him for his responsiveness. Puca and Mettaton-energy combined were... a force to be reckoned with, but the Ascian was undaunted to match it, even if his mortal body inevitably lagged behind him.
An embrace of thighs becomes an embrace of arms, as Emet-Selch feels himself hauled upwards, away from his lover's cock and against his chest instead. But it's a movement he labors to assist in, pressing himself against him, not caring if it was a surface of metal and jewelry and fur (so, unyielding, and only slightly softened, and with more rough bits than usual). His own arms can't wrap around him like this, but he makes an attempt regardless, nestling his face against Mettaton's neck with a sigh. Both his words and the kisses bestown to his head get a quiet, approving sound from him, as he shifts and stretches in his arms.]
Was it that obvious...?
[But his amusement is clear, even with the softness and hoarseness of his voice. Emet-Selch would certainly not be speaking easily or often in the days to come. Possibly refusing to speak at all, communicating only in various expressions of irritation and disapproval, once he was away from the immediate throes of arousal and sex. But for now, it was a positive condition only, and even at his most disgruntled, he'll consider it worthwhile, worth repeating, and terribly arousing if he thought too closely about it.]
It's unpleasant to speak. I imagine it shall be.... [Mild as it is, it's hard to even qualify that much as chiding. Especially when it's spoken in a tone that is best described as a shade above a whisper.] And yet you've made the process enjoyable.
[Emet-Selch couldn't imagine tolerating this kind of treatment from anyone else- much less actually approving of it, encouraging it, aroused by it to the point of climaxing solely from the experience of it.
And so long as Mettaton remained in contact with him, he qualified as comfortable. Heat still ran through his blood, blood still ran over his skin (drying or clotted mostly), any soreness was acceptable, his lover's erection remained nudging enticingly against him. Eventually the exposed back side of his body would chill and he would shiver from cold as well as pleasure, but Emet-Selch wasn't thinking that far ahead at all. Not when he could kiss Mettaton's throat now, and even tilt his head to spread his affection to the underside of his jaw. The one downside to being shoved against his crotch was being unable to do things like this- but then, the downside of kissing his face, was not being able to suck his cock, so really, the lesson to learn was that there was a time for everything.
And this was... absurdly, unbelievably nice, to have both his body painted in reds and purples, to be scratched and scented, his throat rubbed raw, the taste of his come still strong in his mouth- along with this incredible fondness. It was surreal, almost, to be made so vulnerable in both form and emotion, and to not feel uneasy about it. To care for someone this much, and to trust him....]
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Of course he recognizes these Monstrous notions of his. (Exasperating, but he's also since come to terms with the nature of this world and its effects on him. He likes being a Puca nowadays: the benefits (shapeshifting) outweigh the drawbacks (plenty).) He's already realized what those pendants do, too, and the fact that the pendants (jewelry) do something makes him wonder if the diamonds he wears (more jewelry) have some kind of effect. He's not worried about it, and this is barely a thought to consider as he holds his lover flush to these jewels, as Emet-Selch tilts his head up to kiss his jaw. Peppered in affection and appreciation, Mettaton only holds him tighter in a vice grip. ...One that he relaxes when he considers the tightness of it.
The very sound of Emet-Selch's voice would be enough to arouse, if he weren't already gradually coming right back to the same sort of need, and his ears spring upright. They slant forward next as Mettaton laughs low in his throat, amused, and he stoops down to nudge himself against his Bonded's neck to press a kiss to his throat. Blood still lives there, but a kiss isn't enough to agitate his clotting wounds. Even so, he feels enticed to lick, to taste the metallic flavor of him.]
Your poor throat. Think of it this way: [Another kiss, one with more heat inherently added to it: open-mouthed, tongue flirting and agitating wounds.] you'll be spared the effort of speech... and given the ever-present reminder of me. Unless you'd like me to fill that space again, and distract you from the ache. I'd be glad to, you know...
[It's said teasingly, even though Mettaton... is aroused. It's with the awareness that Emet-Selch's soreness would likely make him reluctant to want to continue having his throat fucked, but when would the suggestion of remedying a sore throat with more cock be a poor one? It's an impeccable salve. Fill it back up so that the soreness has a reason to be there.
Because he nips his throat next, voice darkening to match the shade his fur's taken on.]
It was obvious, after all... How am I going to think of anything else but this? You captivate me.
[Right now especially, the idea of going an hour without considering Emet-Selch's passion for him feels impossible. And right now, with an erection pressed to his lover's skin, it feels that much more difficult of a thought to divorce from at all. If he couldn't manifest such anatomy, Mettaton wonders how frustrating it would be just to exist, no relief in sight for any arousal: this hike in libidinous appetite rose to being only once he started indulging at all, once he'd been Bonded and once he'd had sex with Emet-Selch. It feels impossible to him right now (even though it would actually solve this problem to not have a cock to stroke off)...
But Mettaton persists, even when his hips shift. Even when he thinks about the sight of Emet-Selch nuzzling his recently-used erection, even when he fixates on the texture of his skin. Even when he imagines the feeling of his throat made to house the swollen head of his arousal. And then he thinks about the tantalizing taste of Emet-Selch's mouth, how he'd swallowed so much come, had ejaculated all over himself. The sight of his cock standing erect for Mettaton's gaze, the sight of him tensing and panting until he erupted in climax—
...This would be difficult to not do, made more difficult by the pendants, made more difficult yet by his desire to be paid extra attention to, to be lauded and soothed with words that stroke his ego. Mettaton is insatiable and driven mad by the work of enchantment and of his own mind.]
Well! We know what those pendants do. [The ones on the bed with them both. Mettaton pulls back from mouthing Emet-Selch's neck to smile at him with the flash of teeth and eye. But he snorts next.] And all jewelry, on principle, only makes me stand out that much more. They're not bad finds. I'd make it all look ravishing. You agree, don't you?
[Poor Emet-Selch, with his faded voice, aching throat, and his Bonded's demands. Every demand. The demand for use of oral functions.]
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At Mettaton's 'solution' for his sore throat, Emet-Selch snorts, and then winces; sharp noises were definitely to be avoided. And yet--]
Don't tempt me.
[Because though it wouldn't exactly be his first preference for Mettaton to use his throat once more, to fuck his mouth, to give him another load to swallow down- just thinking about it has him shudder. Even if it would be to his detriment, the Ascian knew it wouldn't be the most difficult thing to convince him. Mettaton was a terrible influence, and the hardness of the cock pressing against him was a terrible lure.
But the effects of the pendants were fairly clear, Emet-Selch would have to agree. As soon as they had been found, placed together, Mettaton's already heightened emotional state had turned to the beautifully feral. The physical changes were also pretty obvious, with the darker expanses of fur and longer, sharpened claws- and even his eye, he thought, held a brighter (yet darker) light to it at times....
A libido already high turned into something endless was another feature, though he wasn't sure if the heightened possessiveness was a feature of that, or something they had developed to that degree of their own accord. But Mettaton's repeated marking and claiming of him through sex was more insistent than usual, he'd have to admit, though he had no qualm, no hesitation when it came to indulging it. Encouraging it. Even if his throat was giving out, there was still the rest of his body.
Because when Mettaton's voice could darken like that, when he could still feel where his lover's tongue had pressed to his neck, left damp, warm kisses there, when his hips moved underneath him, further underlying a readiness to continue- how could he think to resist him? Even with his own cock temporarily sated, he still wanted him.
When Mettaton leans back, his own eyes open to meet his, though they linger on his jewelry as well, taking them in as a set.]
...They do suit you.
[Stricken voice or not, Emet-Selch will still use it when called to, and when he wanted to. Why did the condition of his throat get to decide what he could or couldn't say? And so long as he kept his tone particularly soft, it didn't strain anything- well, more than was already strained. He kisses Mettaton's neck, around the glittering diamonds- some of which had drops of blood on them. Something that added to the effect, he thought, even if it should probably be cleaned off eventually.
Without moving from his neck, he touches the strings of diamonds with a hand, indicating it specifically as he murmurs against his face.]
Most would be swallowed up by something like this. It would exceed them. But you more than match it.
[...He really was beautiful, and absurdly attractive to him. And while he would have always recognized that in a generally aesthetic sort of way, it was the sort of awareness that had only grown over time, that sometimes made his heart ache to consider. If Mettaton wanted someone to appreciate his appearance, Emet-Selch could do so with sincerity, whenever he could be motivated to say something at all.]
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The comment about temptation has Mettaton smirking, wondering how he could tempt his lover into falling into him some more, though the softer part of him recognizes the soreness of his throat as something not to agitate further. But temptation on his own part is a hard thing to deny, and Emet-Selch's body, prone and bruised, easily accessible and giving, is worth every shred of attention. He envisions so vividly kissing him passionately, moving to mouth his neck; traveling to his shoulder, groping his ass, then finding his lover situated in his lap. But oh, how he wants to push him down and fuck him from behind as well, to fill him with cock while Emet-Selch can scarcely moan. He'd still take him, he knows it, and he'd appreciate feeling so full of Mettaton's cock. Mettaton makes a short noise from his throat, wanting.
If he thinks about too hard, he finds himself focusing on how hard he is, an increasing amount as time ticks on.
He sighs. Focuses instead on Emet-Selch's fingers and kisses and attention to his neck, focuses on the sentiment through Bond. It's not with the intent to deny himself, but to consider his lover, to pace himself, to temper his need into something he wields by his own rule. But he's also capable of fixing his attention upon his compliment — and it is a compliment.]
I match it, and enhance it. Yes. [Bejeweled, silver-plated chain crosses along his body and somehow manages to fit his form perfectly, despite having a torso shape more exaggerated than most, with a broader chest and a narrow waist. One of Mettaton's hands lifts to meet Emet-Selch's against the diamond, nuzzling gently against the other man's lips.] You're the only one who's said so today. Can you believe it? Then again... Not many have such refined tastes in regal splendor and sophisticated beauty.
[refined tastes. sophisticated and regal.
But Mettaton doesn't want to think about being denied compliments. He wants to think about Emet-Selch, and how readily he treats him to flattery. It's addicting. What's more, his lips are close enough to kiss, and Mettaton's been wanting that.
He turns his head just enough to catch his lips before he can form a reply as though possessed by the sudden realization that he can, and he hums in a short ascending note of pleasure when his tongue runs over his lower lip. The taste of blood lingers, but so does the taste of his come. Were Mettaton in a more human-shaped body, he may have tensed completely. Instead, he sort of twitches against Emet-Selch in his interest, leaning into him and pushing his tongue past his lips, flirting deeper and clearly tasting him. His lips are sucked, gently nipped, and Mettaton pauses for a moment. He does not, however, pull from his mouth, smiling against him instead
His hips rock gently, grinding his cock into his lover's body for something to do. Something to provide friction, sensualist that he is.]
You taste of me. It's perfect.
[His voice is low and smooth, a tone that couldn't be heard even an arm's length away. That hand he has against his Bonded's upon flashy diamonds skirts down, pressing against Emet-Selch's shoulder and running along his upper back, pressing into muscle and splaying his fingers upon his shoulder blade in a move of fondness. He considers that he not only tastes of him, but he looks ravished by him: bleeding for him, bruised for him, and come-marked for him, Emet-Selch is lovely. It's been some time since he's seen him unmarked, but he still keeps that memory in his mind's eye: he's always been handsome, a figure he knows by heart. Every scar and feature was always a point of his curiosity, and now it's a point worth his care. He nuzzles his lips against Emet-Selch's in a sudden gesture of love for him, nothing particularly libidinous.]
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As even though he could only feel the effect of it secondhand, through Bond, in combination with their already considerable attraction to one another, he knew how very easy it would be to slip back into ever fiercer passions. Kissings of increasing heats, whispered compliments turned to moans, embraces turned hard and demanding, in a desire to give everything to one another....
He has to take a steadying breath himself, and he's not even the one currently hard.
So he focuses instead on Mettaton's voice, his reply, the scarcely conceivable truth that no one else had thought to praise either him or his choice of decorations. But Emet-Selch's tastes are extremely refined, sophisticated, and regal. He's been an emperor at least once and likely more than that, and he has a better soul than anyone else on his world, and likely most worlds (barring the other remaining unbroken Ascian). That meant his opinion mattered more (if it even counted as something as subjective as opinion). He liked the way Mettaton looked, and who else's judgement should even register? Only theirs. He can believe this as though it's some fundamental truth, and he doesn't even need a piece of cursed jewelry to do so.
Pressing back against both hand and lips, he does have to consider that Mettaton seemed unusually insistent on praise, and unusually offended at not receiving it. When Emet-Selch thinks back to the beginning of their encounter, and adds to it those strange spikes of fury preceding it- it was a bit different than the robot's normal condition. And if he added that together with the pendants' effects....
He would hum thoughtfully if he could. Instead he nuzzles thoughtfully at his lover's mouth when he catches him in a kiss, lips parting for an easier taste of him. And then his thoughts are disrupted once more by the combination of the grind of Mettaton's cock against him, a reminder of his persistent arousal, and by his words, a reminder of the taste of his come, a heady claim upon his mouth. Not that Emet-Selch had had any opportunity to forget either, but with the tension (or rather, the robotic equivalent of it) in Mettaton's body, and the smooth way his lover's tongue had slipped past his lips, getting a proper sample of himself, it was hard to consider anything else. Even the treatment of his torn lip was gentle, and the Ascian settles with greater ease against him, not relaxing per se, but accepting this slower burn of intensity.
The necklace was also cursed: yes, that was the thought he'd been having. But it was a curse that could be handled, though a part of him is amused at the coincidence that Mettaton would find his way under multiple curses that worked so effectively together. They were definitely pieces that were worth holding onto....]
Mm... it certainly adds to the effect.
[Of being possessed, marked, designated as being something of Mettaton's. It's a reply given against his lips as well, holding back a faint sigh as he rubs back against his cock, in idle appreciation of his continued want. In less-idle imaginings of taking it inside him again.]
Not that I would ever be allowed to forget your claim of me.
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Of course not! I was just thinking about how gorgeous you are after months of our work...
[Their work, he trails off, implying further their combined passion and lust for one another, their mutual possessiveness that can only manifest so blatantly upon Emet-Selch's body. Even so much as sparing though to it has Mettaton fantasizing about taking a bite of his shoulder, teeth slipping through muscle as it gushes blood into his mouth...
... Bruises, he was talking about, but bite marks accompany them. Bite marks are what has the chance of scarring for good, and he imagines the mark he made upon his lover's chest, even while he continues to pine for the taste of blood. He fixes on his lover's body again, casting his gaze down upon as much as he can see, especially those marks upon his shoulders.]
A lovely addition to a man already beautiful. But I think you know why you're only enhanced by me.
[The way jewelry is enhanced by Mettaton, Emet-Selch is also enhanced by Mettaton.
He hasn't quite gotten over addiction. It's one of those things that traumatizing himself was able to undo somewhat - possibly killing his Bonded would do that - but it's not completely gone. Every time he gets a taste of him, he yearns for more and more, every lick of fluid something worth consumption. And why shouldn't he covet Emet-Selch's specifically? Other Witches paled in comparison, he thought, to no surprise: as Emet-Selch hold such lofty expectations for things worth his consideration, Mettaton, too, holds standards difficult to meet, even when he offers more regard to that which doesn't meet it. Emet-Selch just happens to have the tastiest blood, and Mettaton would be willing to chalk it up to his superiority as well. His lover is special. He wouldn't mind that assumption at all.
(The fact that his own shapeshifted blood doesn't taste good, he's realized, is because Monster blood doesn't taste good to him. He is a Monster even if he's shapeshifted into a human, and that's immutable. It has no bearing on how worthwhile he is.)
Mettaton feels himself being rubbed back, Emet-Selch shifting against his arousal. He's hard, he realizes. Very hard. He bites at his lip, a slight noise slipping from his throat as he meets that rub with a firmer one, needy and thankful for reciprocated attention. Emet-Selch's body is the center of his focus aside from his own, but they come in pairs. Of course the Puca would consider his own body in relation to Emet-Selch's, so often entwined as they are — and how much he wants them entwined now only increases steadily, sure to become something he can't resist any longer. He wonders, then, if Emet-Selch will offer himself up to his attentions each full moon. If he'd sate this monstrous desire for him, if he'd be receptive to appeasing his cravings. Being in the same room with him would undoubtedly lead to a thirst for them together.
Shifting his upper body slightly, the idol dips down to Emet-Selch's neck again to lick and agitate wounds. Deliberate work: he wants to disrupt any attempt at clotting to give himself blood, to entice himself further into wanting to break skin. Mettaton doesn't mind being teased, either.]
You- taste of me... but you also tempt me on your own, darling. [Were Mettaton to lose control completely to his Monstrous instincts, Emet-Selch would be his favored victim, Puca or not.] Not that there's any question, what the outcome of my temptation is.
[There's really not, because Mettaton likes to get what he wants. His hand slips lower yet, squeezing Emet-Selch's ass with that same air of contented possessiveness. He knows Emet-Selch's been claimed by him, belonging to nobody but him. They belong to each other, and that's a state he's pleased to be in. And since Emet-Selch's his, he's only readying himself to pounce, acclimating his lover to further submitting to him. With taste like theirs, only the best would do, and each of them views themselves as among the best of the bunch.]
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But he thinks as well on their collected work, finding it strange to consider a time back when he hadn't possessed patterns of purples and reds decorating his neck, his chest, his thighs. To see himself with none of them would speak of something being wrong, their presence a continued visual sign of their connection. They would be connected regardless of the state of his body, it was true, but- it was reassuring. He nuzzles slowly at him with swollen lips.]
Well... I'd say we both have the finest taste then.
[In imagery, in partners, in inclinations. With egos like theirs, it was a small wonder that they found they complemented one another, rather than only contrasted in great severity. But then, with egos like theirs, who else but someone similarly self-assured, demanding, emotional- could ever hope to live up to expectations?
And similarly insatiable, for that matter, if on a different key of energy- though that (along with a desire to see himself marked, visibly claimed by another) remained something the Ascian hadn't expected to ever develop.
But if this was how Mettaton was every full moon, Emet-Selch wondered how he'd been managing on his own. Did his presence help sate an endless desire that was already there (or if not sate, provide some manner of appropriate outlet)? Or did it only incite predilections and impulses that wouldn't have been quite as strong, had he not been exposed to the temptation of his lover? In either case, he thought he might take better care to be available during any future full moons. Were it the former, he felt- not quite guilty, as such, but regretful to have not been there to distract him. And for the latter- well. If it led to outcomes like these, it would only be the most pleasant sort of consequence.
Mettaton dips his head, and Emet-Selch tilts his to accommodate, feeling him unerringly drawn to those places where he'd already recently pulled blood, reopening any fragile clots that had dared to attempt forming when he'd been otherwise distracted. It was a pleasing sensation in itself, the press of tongue and lips to open wounds, the drinking up of whatever fresh blood that flowed from them, a warm sting that he couldn't distinguish from his lover's own appreciation for the fluid. Of course his was the best, of witches and otherwise. That Mettaton still had a greater-than-entirely-healthy want for it was- expected.
--But it was fine. They'd learned their lesson, he thought, to not bite so deeply in the wrong place, to provide him scars, and Mettaton blood, in a more sustainable way. Encouraging his bloodletting in feral-leaning states was a bit like tempting fate, but they knew what they were doing, he was certain. There was only the pulse-increasing satisfaction of it, of feeling his blood drawn here and there, points of sharpest detail to enhance the backdrop of wider-spreading bruises.
But Mettaton wasn't the only one being tempted. Straddling him with more deliberation, Emet-Selch presses his own cock against the puca's with a faint sound, and a shiver of tension. As Mettaton had commented on their adventures into the Wilde, he really did end up with his legs spread around him for long stretches of time.... Slowly rubbing himself against his erection, he lets out a shuddered sigh, feeling a rush of heat from the thought, as well as the position itself. Altogether, it's little surprise when his own length begins to fill again, something that would be quite evident against his lover's erection, and something that fills him with satisfaction in itself. The kiss he presses to the side of his neck is open-mouthed, heated- more a press of saliva and breath than a kiss.]
But does it even count as temptation, when there's no chance of not giving in...?
[A voice that would've been low already, lowered further by the raw treatment of his throat. But neither of them required encouraging, neither was teasing the other into something they thought they shouldn't do. The outcome truly was one untouched by chance or hesitation.
Especially as his breathing catches as Mettaton's hand lowers, casually groping his ass though it belonged to him. Which it did, along with the rest of him. Which was still a bit of a dizzying thing to dwell on, to apply thought to- how it was both comforting and enticing and a source of unexpected pleasure.
But Mettaton was just as much his in the process. He resists the urge to bite him at the thought.]
What direction, then... will your temptation take us?
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He is within his mind, not feral beyond control. Emet-Selch's blood only seems to have a calming effect on him, somehow. Soporific and enticing at once, something he wants more of, but something that soothes any madness that could develop in him during such a state. If ever he found himself losing control, the safest thing he imagines he could do is bite Emet-Selch to come down from it all (and hopefully not kill him in the process of tempering his madness).
With a voice that could have already been low made lower, Mettaton only smiles into his neck and lets off of his bite/puncture. He licks at him and presses lips to the scantest oozing of blood, sucking into him the most sensual, warm of kisses, sure to let his lips barely rise from his skin. For feeling so invited by Emet-Selch's tone, scent, and gesture to expose his neck, he's fairly tamed for the moment.
But then, the Ascian rolls his hips into his, spreading his legs around Mettaton's hips and rubs, cock to cock.]
Ah-
[His voice is soft and surprised, catching dead in his throat as he rocks back into him. He holds back a moan, both of his hands squeezing his Bonded's ass with a grip firm enough to spread him — spread for nothing, unfortunately (?). Mettaton's erection remains solidly against his cock as he buries his nose into his lover's neck, senses filled with blood and skin and sweat and the smell of his lover in general. He rubs his shaft against the other man, delighting in the firm, intimate friction of his filling cock.
The thought does occur to him, that Emet-Selch looks lovely with his legs so spread. It's a look he'd be hesitant to give up on him, and his head fills with imagery of him still: bent forward and hips raised, legs spread; holding him atop his body and keeping his hands on his hips, forcing him to sit firmly upon his arousal, legs spread; pinning him upon his back and lifting his legs high up upon Mettaton's shoulders, legs definitely spread. Spreading him for Mettaton's eyes, for his pleasure, for his indulgence, all of it is something he finds himself grinding harder into his Bonded just for the crime of thinking about it.]
Not- temptation, but inevitability. That's something I can get behind.
[The magic words to help Mettaton make a choice. If there's something Mettaton isn't, it's indecisive, even when he has an abundance of choices to select from. He wants his cake and his pie and he wants to eat it all, too, so why shouldn't sex positions be the same? Picking one doesn't mean he can't have them all at some point. Emet-Selch knows that. Temptation leads him in one direction, but the direction it leads them is the correct decision for that moment.
And this moment, Mettaton bares his teeth. He snaps down on Emet-Selch's shoulder in a vicious display for a moment, a claim upon his skin and his blood, but he only bruises him with a temporary restraint, as opposed to breaking skin. He can bite him bleeding when he's well and ready. For now, he takes that pent-up energy and yanks Emet-Selch off of him, pushing him upon the surface of the bed face down. Like this, Mettaton climbs atop him and pins him down by his wrists with his whole weight, sliding his knees between his thighs — spreading his legs, just as he likes. The expanse of his back is most readily available for his eye to drink in, angry lines upon his shoulder blades where he'd earlier clawed him in the throes of passion visible.
And he takes a moment just to appraise him, making a low sound in his throat. He examines his neck, follows his spine down his back; lets his gaze linger upon his lover's waist, trim and so unscathed, something he imagines marking up if he ever chose to grab him there with nails made sharp. (He could grab him by the waist and force him to sit upon him sometime, sinking claws into flesh—) Lower does his eye flit, down to his ass, the sight of agitated red from where he's gripped into skin with sharpened nails.
Naturally, lower yet, his thighs... are beautifully marked up. Inner thighs bear marks so recent, and the backs of them, too, are marked. Just staring at him makes his cock ache with lust, and he lowers his body to press his erection against Emet-Selch's ass.]
And behind you is where inevitability might lead me... What do you think? Tell me how you want me.
[Emet-Selch could think what he wants, as long as it flatters Mettaton's starving ego. It would be words to seduce, surely. But if his idea of a position differs, Mettaton expects that Emet-Selch will only sell it to him in the most enticing of ways, in a way that appeals to the robot's senses so thoroughly that he'll have no choice but to pursue it. One of their cravings will override the other's if they're not already matched. It would become a craving mutual, all else becoming a craving for the next moment. Mettaton shifts his hips, pressing more direly his cock against Emet-Selch's ass — waiting to be praised, waiting to be accepted, waiting to hear his lover's feedback.]
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And should Mettaton ever require a hit of his blood for mental clarity in the midst of madness otherwise unrestrained- Emet-Selch would willingly provide it. He'd willingly provide it regardless, but were it a matter of seeking more than particular pleasure, red indulgence and metallic scents- he'd give as much as needed to clear his thoughts. And if he considered it in serious terms, he'd even conclude that so long as Mettaton didn't tear out anything immediately fatal, any danger would be minimal. If blood would restore him to sanity, then he'd be able to stop himself from pulling too much, after all.
But there was no suggestion of that at the moment, this sharing of blood a healthy endeavor only, a touch of decadence, a trading of essences; if he had the opportunity to take Mettaton's come, then his lover should have an equal opportunity to claim his blood.
Mostly, though, he's focused on the tighter grip he'd provoked in him through his change in position, a touch smug at the way Mettaton responded, and more than a touch breathless at the increased rubbing. Even if there wasn't the opportunity yet to make anything of the opportunity of having his ass spread, he appreciated the sensation, the reaction- his own cock rapidly hardening, as though inspired by the stiffness of what it was pressed against.
It was enough to cause a soft moan to form, as his arousal continued to physically manifest- though it's a sound that's abruptly turned into a sharp, startled cry when Mettaton's teeth sink into his shoulder. It's hard enough that it takes him a few moments to notice that his skin hadn't been pierced, that any dampness he felt was from his lover's mouth alone. And his cry itself is a louder sound than anything else he'd uttered in some time, the rasp in it far more noticeable at this volume. And the discomfort too, as he shudders a wince.
But he's distracted all over again when he's pushed suddenly away, maneuvered and shoved down, face against the bed, and his back to the air, Mettaton above him, the predator with his prey successfully brought low. It happened so quickly that he had little time for more than a few sharp breaths, a tensing of limbs and body as he's hauled around and pushed into place.
How did he want him? For once, it was an easier question.]
--Right there. Like this.
[It was something he'd realized the moment he'd been flipped over, pressed down, legs spread, with Mettaton so close. And he knew it ever harder in those moments immediately after, when he could practically feel his lover's eye on him, taking in every detail of this arrangement. The expanse of his back, every scratch or bruise- every place where he wasn't scratched or bruised, his legs open to him. And harder still did he know this was exactly right, on the sensation of Mettaton's cock sliding against his ass, an enticing suggestion of his impending fate.
Like Mettaton he wanted every position (with a not-surprising number of them with his legs pulled apart, to either wrap around him again, or be held open like this, but being accessible to his Bonded's cock was a theme), but this was also a point where patience was less of a problem. They could have it all, but in succession. Satisfaction and anticipation at once- it wasn't the worst of fates, to be caught ever-wanting, when the wanting was this.
His arms tense and pull at Mettaton's grip, testing it with no desire to escape; his hips likewise attempt to press up, but with the clear desire to feel more of his cock.]
Held down by your body and taken. To feel- all of you. Pushing yourself inside of me.
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