[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.
[Mettaton lowers his face closer to the nape of Emet-Selch's neck, kissing him with a heat not at all contained. He drags his lips across his skin, continuing to slip his arousal along Emet-Selch's ass. He kisses him up to his ear, a hum on his voice still smooth, not raspy and worn like Emet-Selch's. A slight laugh rolls on it as though impossible to keep to himself, pleased at Emet-Selch's reply. He even nuzzles into the back of the Ascian's ear, pecking him with a lighter kiss. But his voice is still dark and low, sultry and warm.]
Perfect. I love it when our desires are the same.
[Another brief gesture of reassuring affection when the robotic Puca rubs his cheek into Emet-Selch's neck, still just pleased. Still just wanting to show him that he loves him, separate from all of the love made manifest in lust and sex.
But he draws his hips back, deliberately sliding the head of his cock teasingly against Emet-Selch's entrance. He presses into his body, spreading his own legs further apart to spread his lover's even more, nails pressing into his wrists in his struggle — and his thrusting grows a shade more fevered at Emet-Selch's ineffectual struggle, as though pleased to have him writhing, as though determined to put him in his place, if his place is total submission to his passion. He kisses his shoulders heatedly, fantasizing about the blood he could pull from any good bite and fantasizing even harder about the rush he'd get. He dreams of a bite's worth of blood and a load's worth of come, of sinking his cock into Emet-Selch's body and rubbing him that way. Pleasing Emet-Selch with the shape of his cock, to give him all of himself as he demands, and to stroke himself off in the process. This time, Emet-Selch would at least have the pressure of the mattress to rub against.
Not that he's proven he needs it much, Mettaton thinks smugly. But with how tantalizing it is to have Emet-Selch beneath him, with the prospect of pressing inside of him just beyond his reach... All of this is something he needs with immediacy.
The Puca shifts for a moment and kisses one of Emet-Selch's wrists as though to reassure him again as he unhands him. It's the arm closest to a side table, one where he reaches with ease for lubricant. (Being a robot continues to be a boon, for things like "having incredible reach so you don't need to leave your spot.") All he does, however, is unite it with Emet-Selch's hand, patting the back of it when he's placed it securely in his hand.]
I want to have you immediately. So you'll need to prepare yourself. You don't want me to.
[To demonstrate, Mettaton scrapes his nails lightly down the side of Emet-Selch's thigh to give him an idea: his claws would keep him from being very good at it, and that's just how it is. He further gives Emet-Selch a moment's worth of agency by unhanding his other wrist, kissing his shoulders and upper back some more.
And he finds himself pressing kisses all the way down his spine, letting his fingers and claws follow his ministrations as he pulls his body off of Emet-Selch to give him a chance to work on himself. Lips suck heated, open-mouthed kisses against his middle back, the small of it, then down to his ass, where he nips at him in his departure as he sets back upon his knees — his legs still spread so that Emet-Selch's made to remain that way. He gropes Emet-Selch's ass firmly, keeping his hands there and kneading him.]
Besides. I want to watch you touch yourself... I want to see how you imagine me taking you.
[All over again, Mettaton stares unabashed at his lover's body. It's his body to ogle, to enjoy, to pleasure and to be pleasured by, and watching him intimately like this merely one of the aspects of Emet-Selch belonging to him. And when he asks for Emet-Selch to prepare himself, he expects to be more than a clinical preparation — it's something he wants for their pleasure, to build the anticipation for what will be there. They'll both get what they want, in this regard.
Neither of them would go wanting. Anticipation and the wait accompanying it would always go rewarded, and with that in mind, the thought of being teased into wanting to displace Emet-Selch's fingers, the build of pressure that would accompany it... It almost maddens him the moment he considers it. But Mettaton lets that pressure build, prodding his lover's ass while he waits for Emet-Selch to finger himself.]
[Heated nuzzling and kissing was good, though the simple show of affection was, somehow, even better- and something that stills him for a moment, wondering how such a small reminder could influence him to this degree. And Emet-Selch felt strangely exposed in those instants, vulnerable- or at least, more aware of it, with both his body and his desires on full display, with emotion less visible but no more hidden. He was available, utterly, to Mettaton, on more levels than he'd ever intended to be with anyone. It doesn't daunt, exactly, but he is conscious of it.
But it's a consideration he's distracted from at the distinct sensation of the tip of Mettaton's cock brushing against his entrance. Tensing in anticipation, he imagines the feeling of him thrusting inside at once, feeding him the full length of his erection, even if he knew that he couldn't, with the neither of them yet prepared. But he shudders anyway, as his legs are pushed further apart, as Mettaton strokes his cock against his body; it was a terrible tease, and his raspy breath quickens, feeling his own cock get ever harder as it's pushed against the covers beneath him. Every thrust was both arousing and frustrating both, feeling Mettaton's cock rubbing hot and stiff against his ass, but without that promising thickness filling him. Feeling Mettaton's weight over him, with the threat of teeth in his shoulders or back or neck, Emet-Selch shivers harder at the thought of being mounted like that, held down by a piercing bite, and fucked. Ravished against the mattress, while his own cock only had the friction of the bed for stimulation, and knowing that it would be more than sufficient, that he'd be brought to desperate orgasm from being penetrated alone.
So he writhes, futilely; his lover was not inside him at that instant, which was intolerable. And something that would soon be rectified, he was sure, especially when he feels his wrist released, knowing what his Bonded must be retrieving for them.
Though Mettaton placing the lubricant in his hand instead came as a small surprise- though it's one that's clarified immediately at the reminder of sharpened claws dragging across his thigh. Claws that had already been proven to be very effective at rending his skin... and wouldn't be very effective anyway at spreading much of anything. He takes a careful breath.]
--Ah. You do normally keep those filed down, don't you.
[Though the sharpened versions did have their benefits, when it came to scratching him up with ease. And even if this was a technical drawback at times- was it really, when he could just prepare himself anyway, under Mettaton's watchful stare?
It's something that has his breathing catch as he considers it, as he feels Mettaton's lips and touch work their way down his back as he slides off of him, allowing him the ability to move a measure. Not too much, of course, with his legs kept parted like this- but it wasn't as though he wouldn't have to spread them anyway. Still feeling the path Mettaton's attentions had taken along his back, he shivers, even as he takes some of the lubricant onto his fingers.
It would be impossible for it to remain a clinical preparation under these conditions, with his lover's hands on him, with his eye able to regard every part of it, from a particularly good vantage point. Bracing himself a bit, Emet-Selch twists his neck to look back to Mettaton for a few moments before relaxing back, keeping his eyes closed then, rather than stare down at the mattress. His sigh is quiet, with more than a touch of heat, of longing.]
Yet no matter how thoroughly I fantasize on it, I... it won't begin to compare to reality.
[Stretching his arm behind him, Emet-Selch lets out a shaky breath when slick, slightly-chilled fingers brush against his entrance. And for all that he wanted Mettaton to be able to take to him as quickly as possible, he forces himself to slow, to trace slow patterns against his skin, finding it not difficult at all to imagine the sensation of his lover's glans pressing to him there instead. Soft and hot and thick, with both of their bodies made slick in order to allow him access, Mettaton would thrust, and he'd be made to give way to him again, to form around him....
It's with that thought in mind that he pushes a finger inside himself, a sensation that's paired with a sharp breath, and followed by a soft moan as he presses it deeper, as far as he can reach. Slowly stroking the inside of his body with his own finger, he's struck by his own warmth- not even warmth, but heat, something to quickly raise the temperature of his lone invading digit. Without needing to think about it, he begins to smoothly thrust that finger inside of himself, spreading lubrication on each pass, but mostly taken by how giving his body could be. Mettaton had said he was soft... and he could believe it.
There was some tension as well, but his movements remain firm, steady, and the slight strangeness of what he was doing is quickly absorbed by the pleasure of it. Even the tension was a reminder of how tight he could be, both snug and accommodating at once. Breathing elevated, exhalations given into the covers of the bed, Emet-Selch even tries to part his legs slightly further, as though to give himself, to give Mettaton, ever deeper access to his body. But there was a limit to what his finger could reach.]
[A slight noise of confirmation is provided to Emet-Selch's initial musing, dragging those dark, sharpened claws along the backs of his thighs as another show of their new build, one surely meant to rend and tear: sturdy, sharp, and long. These claws were better suited for puncturing and raking, for making him bleed wherever he wished for a mark to become present, but even so, he only uses them in this present moment to give Emet-Selch a texture of sensation as he watches his newly lubed fingers reach behind him with a keen glint to his eye, fingers running over skin to return to the supple flesh of his Bonded's ass.
How could he not wish to touch him and get in on the action when he has a view like this? Mettaton sees his lover teasing himself first, running slick fingers over his entrance, and Mettaton's made to imagine precisely the same thing: the tip of him pressing and prodding Emet-Selch, threatening to slip inside (as much as a threat only yields a good thing for them both). He swallows, aching already... and he sighs then, a stream of heated air, in almost a gesture of exasperation. Not even moments into this and the pressure ever builds in him, the ache in his cock growing exponentially as he feels himself get somehow harder. The robot glances down at his own erection, its stiffness practically a feature during these full moon effects — so long as Emet-Selch was available, or even on the mind. So long as the Puca had sex available, arousal would quickly follow — and become a temptation difficult to defy.
It doesn't especially bother him to be so aroused. Even on his own, even thinking about Emet-Selch, it doesn't bring him to a point of irritation — only want, only anticipation, only a state of daydreaming and fantasizing. Here, now, those fantasies can become immediate realities, one after another in succession and able to be revisited as daydreams. This sight is one he wants to return to — Emet-Selch's finger slipping inside of himself with a short, soft moan, and Mettaton knows what he's imagining instead. A slight digit is transposed with the texture, the supple, firm give of the glans in his mind.
Mettaton finds he desperately wants to touch himself to the new rhythm of those strokes. His hand hovers over his length, but he does not touch. He watches: the idol imagines the softness of his lover's body squeezing around a rigid erection, so accommodating, as Emet-Selch thought. Accommodating and capable of wrapping around him tight and warm, his lover's body is so terribly soft, and Mettaton wants it immediately. He may be using his knees to pin apart Emet-Selch's legs, but the very sight of him thrusting his fingers into his body has his hips wanting to imitate that smooth, steady rhythm.
There is one thing he permits, and Mettaton reaches easily for the bottle of lubricant, which he plucks neatly from its place. Unhanding Emet-Selch is a necessity for the moment, but he gives himself only as much time and lube as he needs when he deposits some on his own fingers, swiping more clinically over his length — pleasured as far as he is, he doesn't need nor want anything other than his lover's body, even when he'd delight in stroking himself to completion. That's why he refrains. A sigh slips from his throat, hypnotized by the sight of Emet-Selch fucking himself with his finger and yearning to be in its place, even to palpate his body with his own digit, to curl that finger and hear Emet-Selch groan and sigh, to feel him writhe—
A terrible tease to behold, so vivid to his eye with his vantage point. He adores him terribly, and he wants to give him exactly what he fantasizes. Wiping his hand off on the throw he'd earlier used on Emet-Selch's face, he returns his hands back to squeeze at his ass.]
Reality's not too far behind, dear. And... Oh, you're a wonderful tease, you know. Hah.
[Once again, he's a robot who sounds breathless. He takes note of his cock again, comparing its thickness to the slender digit Emet-Selch works himself with, his hips impossible to still, and Mettaton gets another wicked idea. His smile is practically audible in the way he laughs low.
But it's quickly followed by Mettaton unhanding Emet-Selch, placing his hands instead on either side of his body as he leans forward. He wants dearly to join in on the action, and, hovering above Emet-Selch's body, he lowers his hips and directs the head of his lengths to crowd next to the Ascian's finger — as though trying to take its place, as though demanding occupancy, he even offers lube to the equation in his rub. He shows himself off, showing Emet-Selch that he's prepared with slick lube and far, far thicker than a finger.
And surely longer. They both know that, and Mettaton knows it's another point toward temptation. His next sigh sounds like a hiss of breath, and he shoves his cock against the other man with a demand for entry, a pushiness to replace fingers. But his words contradict.]
I think you'll need more fingers, if you wish to compare! Here. I'm even... I can be a tease, myself. What do you think, Hades...?
[Mettaton clearly likes it. He gasps, his cock slipping against Emet-Selch with nowhere to thrust into, no body to hold him tight when it's being occupied by something else. But he realigns his erection and crowds into Emet-Selch's finger again, pushing the head firmly against his hand and his digit and, therefore, his entrance.]
[A sound that would've been a low hum attempts to form in his throat. From the heady sense of anticipation, his quick pulse, the movement of his finger, the very nature of his position- all of it was thoroughly pleasurable, an arousal warm and dizzying both. And just as important were the prick of claws, those hard points of pressure and interest, along with the sound of sighs from a robot who had no requirement for breath. Emet-Selch didn't need to look behind him to imagine the stiffness of his erection, and that everything set before him would do nothing but further inspire that arousal.
And that Mettaton would want in on the action comes as no surprise- how could he not, with himself spread out like this for his sake, fingering himself to evident pleasure, with most of that being due to the imagining of being taken by something better than his hand? That Mettaton would even seek to be involved somehow, in a way other than observation- that too doesn't surprise him, as the only reason to hold back would be for deliberate effect, to draw out a specific sort of anticipation. Mettaton letting go of his ass entirely does surprise him, though, as he surely didn't require both hands to apply lubrication to his own cock, and why would he not take an opportunity to touch him if he could?
But then he feels Mettaton shifting on the bed, the peculiar sort of pressure of being leaned over. And he still sucks in a breath at the telling nudge of the tip of Mettaton's cock against his entrance, crowding the intruding slide of a finger. More than a nudge, it spoke of a readiness that was difficult to not take advantage of. As though Emet-Selch needed any more help imagining what would soon enough take the place of his hand- or for that matter, another temptation to slip his finger free right then, to allow his lover to fill him up properly.
There was truly no comparison, no matter how many fingers he applied. The thrust against him seems to indicate Mettaton's agreement, his cock feeling so slick against him, the Ascian nearly stopping in his motion entirely for a few seconds, just to temper back that impulse to pull free for him. He had lubrication, surely- surely it would be fine, what did it matter if he needed to shove a bit harder? He wanted him so much, his body would have to adapt. Satisfying Mettaton was the same as satisfying himself in the end; and there was only so much his hand could do for either of them like this.]
You can't... even wait your turn, can you?
[It's accompanied by a low huff, an attempt at exasperation, as though there were some problem with Mettaton telling him to prepare himself, and then making it difficult to do so properly. Not only by getting his cock in the way (as though it could ever be in the way), but by tempting him to remove his finger prematurely. But Emet-Selch bites his lip (a point of pain to sharpen his willpower) even as he swallows back a moan at the feeling of that thickness rubbing insufficiently against his hand, his entrance. Crowding them both.
But if anything, Emet-Selch deliberately slows down, as he gradually works a second finger into himself, letting out a breath and tension both. This was still nothing compared to the cock he actually wanted, but it was still better, and he allows himself to groan quietly as he strokes the interior of his body with those digits.
Steadily, if not quite easygoing, he moves them. His body even tries to rock back against his hand, as though to drive them deeper, to add to the sense of being thrust into.
But he can't ignore the steady presence of his lover's cock so close, and nor does he even try to. But it does add to his imaginings- that he'd be stretched further by him, Mettaton's girth already slick, and the both of them made hotter by the interior of his body, a friction to lose himself to. It wasn't as though Emet-Selch went around thinking about how empty he was, but in times like this, he couldn't consider anything else- and his fingers didn't even begin to give him what he wanted.
--But he'll still draw it out while he can, rocking his hips back against himself (and incidentally, against his lover's waiting cock), as though to further underline what he could be having of him. And though soft, he makes no effort now to hold back the pleased noises he was making, as though what he was doing to himself was somehow sufficient.]
[At first, Mettaton only laughs again, forcing his length to push against Emet-Selch some more in a show of want, and knowing he'd get what he wants soon enough. Legs spread for him, it would be easy if only he weren't currently tight around his finger, if only he were unoccupied and relaxed enough for him. But that's what the purpose of this is, and the robot's on standby, waiting for that moment where his lover is relaxed and slick enough for his own intrusion to take place of fingers.
Logically, this is the plan. He can't prepare Emet-Selch himself, so he'll make his lover show him his thirst for him. And at first, he bends down to kiss Emet-Selch at the back of his neck.]
I can hardly hold back... My excitement for you grows by the second. You're right.
[And he expects some overt demonstration of desire on Emet-Selch's part. He demands it, in some part of his mind: he ought to be slipping his fingers out recklessly to make way for his cock. He ought to be moaning outright at the presence of him, he should be speaking his desire for his length in place of the insufficiency of his fingers. Emet-Selch should be rocking back not into his hand, but into his cock; should be making a demonstration of wishing to be filled by Mettaton.
And though Emet-Selch can't really ignore him and uses him to his imagination, he makes the choice to draw things out. He rocks his hips back into his fingers (even though that's where Mettaton is), teasing him, showing him the pleasure he derives from the addition of this second finger to stretch him. His noises are soft, slight things, but not at all restrained.
He sounds lovely. They're noises that have Mettaton aching, pressure building in his lower body, his cock thoroughly engorged at the mere sound of him — and the fact that these sounds are being made separate from a usually accompanying stimuli is... intolerable. He normally hears the Ascian making such noises while stuffed full of cock, while being penetrated and thrust into, and obviously while Mettaton could feel him squeezing around his length. That feeling is absent, and it's more noticeable than ever. He longs for him even more. He wants his fingers gone so much and so suddenly that he can barely stand it, the motion of crowding Emet-Selch's hand out that much more agitated and aggressive. He presses the head of himself with more firmness against the other man, more deliberation against his entrance, as though if he couldn't rid him of fingers, he could shove himself inside and push deeper.
...To no avail. Mettaton finds his temper flaring.
Emet-Selch is pleasing himself on his fingers and making it so obvious in sound that he's somehow okay with this arrangement, and Mettaton knows he'd prefer him. But he demands to know. He wants to hear Emet-Selch give him all of the words and sounds especially for him, the praise toward his length and toward his pleasure, the blatant desire for more of him rather than making all of these noises through a throat made hoarse... for his own fingers. He feels jilted, irrationally, and it compounds upon such an irrational, feral nature. He growls close to his partner's neck, suddenly impatient, even when he's trying to give off the air of control and possession.]
Surely, you're thinking about having more of me...
[It's said in a low voice, coupled with an insistent push of his cock — a reminder not to stop thinking about him at all. Speaking against his skin has Mettaton parting his lips and mouthing his lover's neck, dragging teeth along his flesh. He wants terribly to pound into him and to hear him cry out as he did earlier, sharp and sudden, when he bit his shoulder... Mettaton salivates over his neck, impossibly wanting and with a temper that grows ever hotter, a body that follows suit, a need to move his hips winding tight in him. He feels an ever increasing need to mount his Bonded and displace those fingers, to give him something thicker than them, and to hear him making those noises especially for the sensation of his arousal made Emet-Selch's focal point.
None of it's rational. Mettaton could have easily found himself amused at Emet-Selch's noises, enticed into further frustrated want, enjoying the way he was made to abstain. But right now, it's not enough attention on him.]
[A frustration and displeasure evident through Bond, through act, through word. And were Emet-Selch not aware of the effects those pieces of jewelry must be having on his Bonded, he might've been surprised at it- would've expected Mettaton to be either entertained or further excited by his display, any frustration only of a pleasant variety. A tease he would appreciate. With those effects applied, however, the Ascian can understand why his response began to darken into insulted ferality, dissatisfied at his lover demonstrating pleasure that wasn't wholly directed towards Mettaton and his cock.
A flare of temper that's enough to catch his breath and speed his pulse- but not to still his hand, and not to remove it either. His lover's grinding, his growling- it both made Emet-Selch want him with more ferocity, a need sharp enough to hurt- but at the same time kept him from making way for the puca, denying them both by blatantly pleasuring himself in front of him. That it was all ultimately for the sake of preparing himself for his cock didn't matter- inciting him took sudden priority. His own temper hissed to life. As--]
Am I...?
[--is all Emet-Selch says at first, and if he could spare him a look, it'd be a surprisingly haughty one- as though he weren't the one currently with fingers inside of himself for the sake of taking his lover's cock, or the one with a throat made raw by repeated application of said cock, or the one who had already swallowed several loads of his come with obvious pleasure. But Emet-Selch was stubborn, capricious, contrary. Sometimes he would give Mettaton the compliments he wanted- that he needed, in his current frame of mind- but now, however, he was struck with the impulse to withhold them. Mettaton could take them from him, if he wanted them so dearly. Somehow.
Oh, of course Emet-Selch desired him more than ever. Whatever pleasure his fingers could give him was only due to his thoughts on having Mettaton fill him instead, further aided by the feeling of his cock jabbing him with ever more insistence, a thick heat that was trying its hardest to force its way inside. And it was tempting to give in, to capitulate to what they wanted- what they would both ultimately have of one another.
But with a shuddered breath he persists. A jerk back of his hips against his hand, to underline where his attention was.]
Perhaps I'm still- comparing. You said I- I would need. More fingers. Didn't you?
[Mettaton was drooling over his neck, threatening it with incisors, drags of pressure that he could imagine sinking into him just as effectively as his erection. Just as possessively, and he holds back a moan at the thought. Instead, Emet-Selch takes a third finger and begins working it inside of himself, only allowing himself any noise of satisfaction- a raspy sound to strain his well-used throat- once he'd slid it all the way within.
This much was- closer, but not enough, and not the same at all, neither long nor thick enough- and even if it were, somehow, it wouldn't be Mettaton, and was therefore inferior. Emet-Selch knew this; he had no pretensions otherwise. And stretching himself like this, pushing back into the slow thrusting of three fingers only made him crave him that much harder.
But he continues; the lower sounds he continues to make also seem to indicate his greater pleasure, his preference, for this thicker intrusion, as though it weren't only an illusion of fullness that could never satisfy him. But the Ascian continues to fuck himself with his hand, as though Mettaton weren't available at all, as though he didn't have his body encroaching on his freedom, his legs between his, his cock at his ass, his teeth at his neck, and his voice threatening his ear. As though the darkness of his mood didn't underline all the rest, if the Ascian didn't give him his rightful attention.
...Emet-Selch both loved him terribly, and was a touch self-destructive.]
[Is he. Why even ask? Of course he is. Of course Emet-Selch is fantasizing about replacing slender digits with the girth of his arousal, of course he wants to feel Mettaton indulging in his body, of course he wants to feel all of the heat the robot could bring him. He wants it as much as Mettaton does. And the Monster knows this, knows him, knows of their passionate love for one another. Emet-Selch would take him to satisfy his pleasure just as readily as he'd stimulate him for his own use.
His voice is a strained hiss. It's the imitation of slipping control at best, but a poor one.]
It's. Not. Me.
[The idol remembers what he suggested, that Emet-Selch should add more fingers to compare, and it frustrates him that Emet-Selch would think it ever could. It couldn't compare because there's no way it would be him, and Emet-Selch knows that! It would never compare to his viciousness, it would never be his manner, and it would never stroke him as deeply as the glans of his erection would, just the way they both like it. Mettaton grinds his teeth and presses his cock with firm insistence against his entrance, tip nestled against fingers — only to find that he's moments too late when his lover slips a third digit inside of himself. Mettaton stammers on the sound of a growl, which ends up sounding a bit more like a whine for it.
And as soon as that finger plunges deep, as soon as Mettaton can tell that Emet-Selch's penetrated himself down to the first knuckle, his lover arches into them. Emet-Selch moans for them, paying attention to fingers in a dare to see if it would compare to the rigid, hot length he could be enjoying. This would have been enough, Mettaton thought, to make a ruling, but his lover continues to press back into his hand (and thus, Mettaton's cock, but he's not the one filling him and therefore he's the afterthought). And not only that, he continues to thrust into himself with them, as if he hasn't yet had enough. Emet-Selch makes noises of pleasure at the fit of this intrusion, and were Mettaton in a more steady state of mind, he may have imagined that his lover prefers this thicker filling of himself.
Naturally, if thicker was better, it would mean that his cock would be easily preferred. He could enjoy this sign and tease Emet-Selch with words about how how tight he could fit, how full he'd feel. But the Puca, maddened by conceit and lunacy, is possessive and slighted by this show of contentment when there's a perfectly good cock for Emet-Selch to arch into instead. He can't stand it: his lover is angering him terribly.
A whine turns back into a growl as Mettaton slips down to the Ascian's right shoulder, letting his jaw snap shut. Teeth slip through flesh in a heavy, hearty bite, full of his agitation and fury. Emet-Selch should be jumping at the opportunity to replace fingers with his slick, hot erection, not fucking himself on fingers, not when Mettaton's so accessible. Even thinking upon it has him tearing at his shoulder, a short jerk of his neck as he moans into the taste of blood - minor compensation for this insufferable slight to his ego.
There's no room for speech as liquid crimson fills his mouth and coats his tongue, and Mettaton doesn't need words to convey his feelings when his hips start moving, demanding the space his fingers occupy. The head of his cock only manages to slip futilely against fingers and against his ass, given its current fullness, and this serves to frustrate the robot further. He shifts his weight so that he can pin down his lover's remaining hand under sharp, clawed fingers, his lips peeling back in his aggression, even as he lets his teeth remain solidly in his Bonded's flesh. He was the one who told him to fuck himself on his fingers, but Mettaton doesn't feel like he's being given enough attention otherwise to justify this. Emet-Selch should be describing to him his Mettaton-related fantasies, should be overtly desiring his cock, should be ready to displace his hand with Mettaton at the most inadvisable moment, even to his detriment. Obviously.
He loves him horribly, enough to tear him apart in a moment where he wants him like none other. This would get his attention, this would make him recoil, would displace those fingers and give him an opening to slip inside, and there, he'd make Emet-Selch remember to laud him with all of the glory and compliments he should be given by compulsion. Mettaton moans more heavily at the thought, harsh enough to turn to a growl in the depths of his throat as he curls fingers into his arm, pressing nails into him. He wants his lover's whole attention on him, and he wants to hear him crave his body. Mettaton's ears flatten in his outrage.]
Edited (actually i still dislike mobile tagging) 2020-09-02 05:32 (UTC)
[The sound of the robot's voice in shades of righteous fury was far more provocative than it should've been, a tone that made it that much harder to not give into him (particularly when paired with all of his other wants, as this was another case when Emet-Selch was taunting himself as well as Mettaton). It was like when his Bonded commanded him to one movement or another- with this demand given through anger, through gesture, rather than strictly spoken- and how appealing he found that, for reasons he didn't care to examine particularly closely. He wanted to obey, to submit.
So there was the developed reflex to pull out, to be explicitly available to him, to wrap up in and bury himself in Mettaton's spite, even as Mettaton's erection buried itself in his body. And he shuddered with barely-restrained longing, something that's agitated by each brush and shove of the tip of the puca's cock against his hand, a persistent reminder of how hot and rigid he was, and how much better it would feel pushing inside him. More than any other aspect though, was how he wanted his lover to be overwhelmed and sated, to use his body to his satisfaction- he loved him, after all. In fulfilling him, he fulfilled himself; there was no greater pleasure than that.
And yet the Ascian was also aggressively stubborn, the worst of that coming through as he continues to withhold himself, even when Mettaton's impatience and dissatisfaction with him was ramping up with every instant, every thrust that he made, every sound that wasn't directed explicitly towards him. A renewed growl is Emet-Selch's greatest warning when that thread of control snaps- followed closely by the snapping of Mettaton's jaws, sinking teeth deep into his shoulder.
Pain blossomed, blinding, eclipsing all else for a time. He cries out, loud and sharp, without hearing it, and his body jerks and writhes underneath him- though there's no where for him to go, other than deeper into his lover's teeth. Clenching down around his hand in one moment, he pulls his fingers free in the next, without being entirely aware of it. But there was the need to brace himself somehow, against the pain and the heat and the pressure- that of both bite and application of fury. Pain dripped and flowed into Mettaton's mouth, taking the form of blood, and with it, not clarity as such, but a focus switching to a need to be fucked by him over all else. How could he even consider holding himself back, in the wake of such beautiful madness? There were no considerations to be made, no one else to think about other than him.
Emet-Selch's other hand was now captured and shoved down, claws digging into flesh, but that was as desirable as the tearing of his shoulder, the awareness that he was suddenly empty of anything (though he couldn't recall exactly when he'd withdrawn his fingers), which in itself was unacceptable, but for now only meant there was space for his lover's cock. Which was very acceptable. Freed of all other thoughts, it was impossible to think of even pretending to want anything else, to have even spared the patience for preparation; his lover's growling, his moans, carried the truth of it. Mettaton deserved his complete devotion, and there was no point in denying either of them that right.
His shoulder throbbed with his pulse (which meant that it never stopped throbbing), but his own arousal was undaunted, perhaps even inspired by it- by not only the pain itself, the wetness that flowed over skin, the suddenly stronger scent of blood, but that it was Mettaton providing it all. Reveling, even, in the concept of being torn apart by him; who else could love him more than this? Could spare him this delight, this insanity? And he would love him just as terribly in return.]
Mettaton--
[Is all he manages to say, though, strangled by pain and lust and forgetting to breathe, and harshened on top of that by previous use. But Emet-Selch can fit a lot of longing into a single cry, and his hips jerk back, as though Mettaton needed any further suggestion when it came to shoving his length inside of him. But any instant without his erection filling him, taking him, fucking him, was an instant too long.]
[It's all beautifully according to plan, for all that Mettaton possesses the mental faculties for "planning." Emet-Selch would always do for him what he wants, and if he was going to be contrary about it, it was part of the show, all of it to the greater effect of enticing them both into further maddening arousal.
But the taste of him is to die for. Mettaton sighs into the bite of his shoulder, once more wondering to himself how he could ever think to go long without the taste of him on this tongue or painting his lips. He's his, after all, above all others; it only follows that the fluid in his body is for him to enjoy, every square inch of his skin for him to revel in, and his soul... he wants that, too. All he feels of their Bond is the sudden spike of intensity to match his own as his own sort of warning of his lover's reaction, and it compounds upon his own insanity.
An insanity that is met with a cry. Impulsively he rocks his hips some more, thinking only of how his Bonded would give him his body if he was going to take it. The next beats of their connection share that pain as his lover braces himself, but it also breaks to an overwhelming submission to him. Mettaton's thrilled, feeling Emet-Selch's attention completely fixed upon him. Infuriating fingers - the ones he asked to watch stroke Emet-Selch, yes, but the ones he wanted to merely decorate a desire for Mettaton - are so swiftly removed in a bid for stability on his Bondmate's part, when Mettaton knows that the only stable thing he'll be given is his length. His ire lessens immediately for his lover who prioritizes him with abundant clarity, who would call out his name on a voice worn down by lust, love, and indulgence of and for him.
But his fervor does not lessen, and the robot nearly pants as he drools against the purchase he has upon Emet-Selch's shoulder, made of flesh and teeth. To make everything that much more enticing, the other man's hips jerk into him, the sound of his breathing as harsh as his cry, clearly lusting and equally maddened. The idol groans; his free hand stabilizes his length at the base of him, Emet-Selch so freshly vacated that mounting the very tip inside of him ends up being no trial at all.
Except for the fact that he's tensing, but it doesn't deter the Puca. Mettaton's body tightens as he presses the head of his cock to his lover's slicked entrance, and it's with little fight that their slick bodies are made to fit together, as they've done so many times before. Emet-Selch's made to give way around the head of his cock, and he squeezes so divinely around the corona, the end of his shaft. Mettaton groans again, his ears springing upright as he manages to get this sort of hold on his lover. Finally! Excitement overwhelms him.
Properly recognized, properly desired. Fed the blood of his Bonded Witch, given what he demands. Mettaton's on the fast track to coming down from that unmitigated fury. But for the moment, he presses forward his hips: as Emet-Selch felt that moments spent unfilled were instants too long, Mettaton feels likewise, and having his cock exposed to the air and not to the heat of his lover's body is a slight against him. A firm, steady thrust pushes gradually his cock inside of Emet-Selch, the sloping tip of the glans making way for the curving shaft of him a he presses deeper, deeper... So deep, in fact, that Mettaton finds himself blinded with his delight in claiming Emet-Selch.
Another moan has Mettaton thrusting his cock ever deeper inside of his lover, lubricant offering plenty of glide. He doesn't stop until he feels Emet-Selch perfectly pinioned between teeth and cock before Mettaton begins to thrust, desperate to feel the hot friction of their bodies entwined. Sharp jerks of his hips draw his cock out, only to shove it back in; a consistent, feverish rhythm of desire and claim, the want to have the Ascian for himself and the willpower to make it so, as far as he could reach. He wants him in body and soul, and he'll take him as harshly or as gradually as necessary to express that claim.
Searing pleasure overwhelms him, the ache in his cock soothed by the squeezing, heated pressure of his lover's body, stroking over his whole length absolutely. He moans again, and again, incapable of stopping now that he's had a taste both of blood and of sex, his thrusts quick and deepening with each in his burgeoning satisfaction. He can't fully claim Emet-Selch until he can feel him squeezing the root of his cock, and it's clear with each pound, the robot's aiming to sink as deeply into him as his body will allow. Having his teeth lodged in his flesh is no big deal: his ability to speak at all is replaced by primal need, the urge to dominate and fuck Emet-Selch overwhelming, his body his vice and the only soothing of his addiction the way he can pound into him. He wants to hear his lover's worn voice, wants to feel his body squeeze and hold his cock; he wants to push his length so deep that Emet-Selch can't think of anything but his erection and their immense pleasure; he wants to ejaculate deep inside of his Bonded and, in this maddened state, he feels that marking him multiple times over is the only thing that would do. If he's going to be obstinate, his punishment for it ought to be pleasure and claim so great that he'll only ever be enticed by Mettaton, his body and his sex impossible to defy.
And soothed though he's so quickly become, Mettaton is still leaning feral: he still growls, and still sucks at any excess blood that drips from his Bonded's shoulder. Even so, some of it manages to trickle past his lips, running over the slope of Emet-Selch's shoulder. But Emet-Selch's caught under weight, under claws, and between teeth and a heavy cock. Struggling any which way would land him yanking at teeth or impaling himself more firmly against cock. This is a thought to deepen Mettaton's stroke, another heady, pleasurable moan erupting from his throat as he drags the glans against his lover with deep, curved thrusts, a pride swelling in him at his subjugation, at his size, at this display of affection and dominance both, and his thrusts take on an energy as if showing off his cock and the drag of it. His ears poise themselves high and likewise confident, pleased in having rendered his Bonded so receptive.]
[Whatever sort of glimmers of pleasure he had showed when taking himself are rendered truly minor in comparison when given Mettaton's body instead. The continued drag of his shoulder was one point of possession- that of pain and demand, of damage and markings that would remain long afterward. And the press of Mettaton's cock was another, a shove that pushed the slick glans inside him as naturally as his teeth entered his shoulder. If there was any discomfort caused by his own tension, it didn't register, due to the pain he was already in.
Between the two Emet-Selch was left panting for air against the bed, the sound further broken up by low, ecstatic moans as Mettaton slides him the rest of his length. Stretching and taking, a thrusting that stuffed him ever fuller with each pass, every retreat only leaving him in aching anticipation for the next. He was caught, in both body and attention; it was like being tempered, his will subsumed, the only consequence his adoration.
Fingers gripped in spasming grasps against the bedcovers as his body was pounded into. Every movement jostled Mettaton's hold in his shoulder, teeth scraping against flesh raw and bloody, drooled over and essence swallowed, torn nerves sending regular bolts of intensity coursing through Emet-Selch's system. But that's all that it was truly registering as- intensity, an ache that blurred so thoroughly with arousal that he couldn't distinguish them. His erection hurt too, as it dragged stiffly against the bed, though any friction was at least a mercy, a kind of stimulation. More than it was usually afforded this night, so it counted as a luxury.
And he presses back, the muscles in his thighs shuddering, tensing, as he arches into the cock Mettaton was providing him, was filling and stroking him with. And every time, Emet-Selch also tugged at the grip his lover's jaws had on him, the resulting pang causing the movement of his arousal to hit him that much harder, that much more pleasurably and right. A deep and thorough rubbing that he couldn't escape, and would never dare to. How had he ever managed to hold out at all, knowing that this was waiting for him? It was unthinkable, to be without this, without him.
Clenching around him, Emet-Selch chokes on a moan. Mettaton's fury- his own obstinacy- though the Ascian wasn't in a place to consider it at the moment, he would admit that it gave the inevitable claiming a certain spark- the kind that could only be obtained through the tearing of flesh, of growling and anger and the foundation of love that underlined it all. It wasn't the sort of intensity he would want all the time- but that was part of why this chemistry with Mettaton had become so addictive, so volatile. They could have everything, extremes of gentleness and viciousness alike, as what were they in the end, but committed to one another's welfare, heights of pleasure included?
And the feeling then, clear through their alarmingly-open Bond, of fury gradually giving way to satisfaction and fierce delight- just as the Ascian's body was giving way to his erection and his incisors- was nearly the headiest part of it all. Dizzying in contrast, dark as though it might remain, it warmed him to experience. Mettaton clearly reveled in obtaining his subjugation, his compliance- and the Ascian took strange pleasure in finally providing it to him, in giving himself up to him again. It was worth inciting him, for moments like this. Particularly when some ferality remained, this roughness of mounting and having.
Mettaton could be aggressive and vicious, and Emet-Selch could be rebellious and perverse, and they would both somehow come out ahead....
--Ultimately, they loved one another.
And Emet-Selch was certainly fully receptive to him now, crying out against the bed with greater abandon, hardly noticing how hoarse he sounded, or the further strain he was causing his throat. As though having a cock thrusting down it wasn't enough, he was treating it like this. But how couldn't he, when Mettaton was making it clear how thick he was, how deep he could press, the pleasure he could leave him in with each stroke? His clear intention to fill him up with his come, and mark him that way?]
You... you're-- [Coherent words were the hardest of all, and interrupted by sounds that were more rasp than voice.] More of you, I... I want you, more than anyone, I....
[It's a rush. Emet-Selch's pure enjoyment of Mettaton's dominance, paired with Mettaton's pleasure in his submission, is enough to pull a cry from Mettaton as well. They're so available to one another that Mettaton may have wondered what it was like, being without their signatures so woven together, if he had much ability to contemplate things beyond what was happening just beneath his body. As it happens, he doesn't have much room for that: he has only room for his cock and each thrust, each drag of his length along Emet-Selch's body eliciting a syllable of pleasure from the robot. The addition of blood has soothed him well into relief, sex and blood nearly enough to calm him completely into a switch of ferality — but it's not yet enough, even with the sound of his lover's sheer enjoyment.
He could listen to Emet-Selch's cries forever, raspy or not. They'd be enough to arouse him alone, even if he were somehow capable of separating them from the feeling of his cock being squeezed — for what would his lover be moaning about if it didn't involve his own pleasure? They're connected, their eroticism an effort combined and inseparable. And he couldn't possibly dream of separating them from his body language, could he? Emet-Selch curves his body into his cock, shifting so prominently the length he holds within his body and aiding in how deep this next thrust pushes. Harsh and firm, he can feel the sensitive ridge of his cock dragging along Emet-Selch delectably, enough that he's sure Emet-Selch can only adores it. Mettaton can't help it when he collapses face-down into Emet-Selch's shoulder, moaning against bloodied skin at the sensation of his arching back, of his overwhelming heat, of Emet-Selch's softness, his form so receptive to Mettaton's. Truly, everything about him ought to give itself over to being inundated by the robotic idol, he thought: Mettaton loves him, and wants him completely.
But what really sets Mettaton's ferality from one of righteous fury into one of indelible ecstasy is the sound of his lover's voice in words he can barely speak: his desire for him. More of him, more than anyone else. Mettaton splits into a wide smile and a sprightly laugh pleased and swinging into complete adoration for the Ascian's attempts at words. But his manner remains blazing hot and his hips pound into him with a firmness that won't cease, a rhythm he couldn't bear to stop when it feels so good. He smears his lips against bloodied skin and sucks kisses into his shoulder, cleaning him of blood that keeps leaking — a reprieve by way of affection. But the slight nip of teeth suggests a promise to continue biting him — Mettaton hasn't had enough of his lover's blood.
He kisses up his neck, sucking and heated and each nearly blossoming into a full-fledged bite. All the while, his tempo never breaks, his pleasure never yields. Mettaton moans close to his ear when he tries to speak.]
More of me... No. Y... You'll take all of me.
[A precursor to a series of deeper, tighter thrusts, ones that have Mettaton crying out in pleasure as he sinks the rest of his length inside of his lover. Slowly, surely, the head of his cock only presses deeper, Emet-Selch made to ride down to the base of his cock, where his ass sits flush to Mettaton's hips. Their bodies collide with each thrust, Mettaton so deep that the whole of his crotch is against Emet-Selchs' body: his entire cock swallowed by his body, hot and thick, the presence of his balls settling between Emet-Selch's too-spread legs. Mettaton groans deep in his throat at the knowledge of this depth and still somewhat, just to nestle his place deeply into his lover, to let him know he's his with the nuzzling of his cheek against his neck.
And with Mettaton's only free hand he grips down on Emet-Selch's remaining wrist, pinning him down fully. Emet-Selch wouldn't try to escape, but he dares him to try: he'd fail every time, and even if he somehow got away, Mettaton makes it clear that this isn't something he'd ever, ever give up on. He slips back down to his shoulder and collects a mouthful of it to suck a bruise into, right next to his bite. It's a taste and sensation intense enough to have him growling into skin again, hips resuming their rhythmic pounding.
How deep, how close they are. Mettaton marvels at the sensation of Emet-Selch's body tightening rhythmically around his cock, forced to defer to the force of his unyielding form. His cock, hard and thick and heavy, would no doubt make Emet-Selch's softer figure give way to him — and why give him a reason to want to if he could pleasure him with curved, deliberate thrusts intended to please his lover, filling him with the head of him, shoving the smooth, cushioned glans against his body and allowing his form to squeeze and massage his length? He is unbelievably hard, dizzyingly so (though he wonders if that's a feeling he's gaining from his lover, or if he's imagining it), his erection pounding with need and pressure and the desire to fuck his lover until he was crying out with pleasure, until he was full of come and made sticky and messy by his own ejaculation. It would understandably be hard to escape from under his weight and harder to want to, and when he bites down upon him and pins him the sinking of teeth and of cock, there's nowhere to go. Emet-Selch is his, and he finds himself growling anew at the thought.
As soon as he sucks an angry red bruise into his shoulder, Mettaton arouses himself with thoughts of words, pounding ever harder into his lover's body with a possession as he licks up his neck.]
You're... Hmm, not full enough to my standard. You... need more of me. More- more than three... ah...
[Mettaton's voice is slurred and idle enough to sound like musings to himself, but he pants, intoxicated by lust and power over his Bonded. He thinks so vividly upon forcing Emet-Selch's head against a wall, forcing him against his crotch, capturing him between his legs, then imagines this next filling: a filling not of his throat, but of his ass, deep in his body. And Mettaton makes the critical mistake of remembering the sight of Emet-Selch dripping with come, something that has him biting down against his shoulder with another groan.
He wants Emet-Selch to exhibit that use. He doesn't think he'll ever know the feeling of not being aroused again, he feels so achingly, painfully turned on. He's positive Emet-Selch can feel the depths of his need to fill him, his hunger for his body, his absolute love of him. His protectiveness, his adoration, his comfort and his simple fondness of him. Fucking Emet-Selch is a web of intense feelings all around, even when he channels it all into the relentless stuffing of his Bonded, when he fixates on filling him so full of his shaft, the glans the only part of him that manages to feel thicker than that constant, filling presence.]
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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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Perfect. I love it when our desires are the same.
[Another brief gesture of reassuring affection when the robotic Puca rubs his cheek into Emet-Selch's neck, still just pleased. Still just wanting to show him that he loves him, separate from all of the love made manifest in lust and sex.
But he draws his hips back, deliberately sliding the head of his cock teasingly against Emet-Selch's entrance. He presses into his body, spreading his own legs further apart to spread his lover's even more, nails pressing into his wrists in his struggle — and his thrusting grows a shade more fevered at Emet-Selch's ineffectual struggle, as though pleased to have him writhing, as though determined to put him in his place, if his place is total submission to his passion. He kisses his shoulders heatedly, fantasizing about the blood he could pull from any good bite and fantasizing even harder about the rush he'd get. He dreams of a bite's worth of blood and a load's worth of come, of sinking his cock into Emet-Selch's body and rubbing him that way. Pleasing Emet-Selch with the shape of his cock, to give him all of himself as he demands, and to stroke himself off in the process. This time, Emet-Selch would at least have the pressure of the mattress to rub against.
Not that he's proven he needs it much, Mettaton thinks smugly. But with how tantalizing it is to have Emet-Selch beneath him, with the prospect of pressing inside of him just beyond his reach... All of this is something he needs with immediacy.
The Puca shifts for a moment and kisses one of Emet-Selch's wrists as though to reassure him again as he unhands him. It's the arm closest to a side table, one where he reaches with ease for lubricant. (Being a robot continues to be a boon, for things like "having incredible reach so you don't need to leave your spot.") All he does, however, is unite it with Emet-Selch's hand, patting the back of it when he's placed it securely in his hand.]
I want to have you immediately. So you'll need to prepare yourself. You don't want me to.
[To demonstrate, Mettaton scrapes his nails lightly down the side of Emet-Selch's thigh to give him an idea: his claws would keep him from being very good at it, and that's just how it is. He further gives Emet-Selch a moment's worth of agency by unhanding his other wrist, kissing his shoulders and upper back some more.
And he finds himself pressing kisses all the way down his spine, letting his fingers and claws follow his ministrations as he pulls his body off of Emet-Selch to give him a chance to work on himself. Lips suck heated, open-mouthed kisses against his middle back, the small of it, then down to his ass, where he nips at him in his departure as he sets back upon his knees — his legs still spread so that Emet-Selch's made to remain that way. He gropes Emet-Selch's ass firmly, keeping his hands there and kneading him.]
Besides. I want to watch you touch yourself... I want to see how you imagine me taking you.
[All over again, Mettaton stares unabashed at his lover's body. It's his body to ogle, to enjoy, to pleasure and to be pleasured by, and watching him intimately like this merely one of the aspects of Emet-Selch belonging to him. And when he asks for Emet-Selch to prepare himself, he expects to be more than a clinical preparation — it's something he wants for their pleasure, to build the anticipation for what will be there. They'll both get what they want, in this regard.
Neither of them would go wanting. Anticipation and the wait accompanying it would always go rewarded, and with that in mind, the thought of being teased into wanting to displace Emet-Selch's fingers, the build of pressure that would accompany it... It almost maddens him the moment he considers it. But Mettaton lets that pressure build, prodding his lover's ass while he waits for Emet-Selch to finger himself.]
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But it's a consideration he's distracted from at the distinct sensation of the tip of Mettaton's cock brushing against his entrance. Tensing in anticipation, he imagines the feeling of him thrusting inside at once, feeding him the full length of his erection, even if he knew that he couldn't, with the neither of them yet prepared. But he shudders anyway, as his legs are pushed further apart, as Mettaton strokes his cock against his body; it was a terrible tease, and his raspy breath quickens, feeling his own cock get ever harder as it's pushed against the covers beneath him. Every thrust was both arousing and frustrating both, feeling Mettaton's cock rubbing hot and stiff against his ass, but without that promising thickness filling him. Feeling Mettaton's weight over him, with the threat of teeth in his shoulders or back or neck, Emet-Selch shivers harder at the thought of being mounted like that, held down by a piercing bite, and fucked. Ravished against the mattress, while his own cock only had the friction of the bed for stimulation, and knowing that it would be more than sufficient, that he'd be brought to desperate orgasm from being penetrated alone.
So he writhes, futilely; his lover was not inside him at that instant, which was intolerable. And something that would soon be rectified, he was sure, especially when he feels his wrist released, knowing what his Bonded must be retrieving for them.
Though Mettaton placing the lubricant in his hand instead came as a small surprise- though it's one that's clarified immediately at the reminder of sharpened claws dragging across his thigh. Claws that had already been proven to be very effective at rending his skin... and wouldn't be very effective anyway at spreading much of anything. He takes a careful breath.]
--Ah. You do normally keep those filed down, don't you.
[Though the sharpened versions did have their benefits, when it came to scratching him up with ease. And even if this was a technical drawback at times- was it really, when he could just prepare himself anyway, under Mettaton's watchful stare?
It's something that has his breathing catch as he considers it, as he feels Mettaton's lips and touch work their way down his back as he slides off of him, allowing him the ability to move a measure. Not too much, of course, with his legs kept parted like this- but it wasn't as though he wouldn't have to spread them anyway. Still feeling the path Mettaton's attentions had taken along his back, he shivers, even as he takes some of the lubricant onto his fingers.
It would be impossible for it to remain a clinical preparation under these conditions, with his lover's hands on him, with his eye able to regard every part of it, from a particularly good vantage point. Bracing himself a bit, Emet-Selch twists his neck to look back to Mettaton for a few moments before relaxing back, keeping his eyes closed then, rather than stare down at the mattress. His sigh is quiet, with more than a touch of heat, of longing.]
Yet no matter how thoroughly I fantasize on it, I... it won't begin to compare to reality.
[Stretching his arm behind him, Emet-Selch lets out a shaky breath when slick, slightly-chilled fingers brush against his entrance. And for all that he wanted Mettaton to be able to take to him as quickly as possible, he forces himself to slow, to trace slow patterns against his skin, finding it not difficult at all to imagine the sensation of his lover's glans pressing to him there instead. Soft and hot and thick, with both of their bodies made slick in order to allow him access, Mettaton would thrust, and he'd be made to give way to him again, to form around him....
It's with that thought in mind that he pushes a finger inside himself, a sensation that's paired with a sharp breath, and followed by a soft moan as he presses it deeper, as far as he can reach. Slowly stroking the inside of his body with his own finger, he's struck by his own warmth- not even warmth, but heat, something to quickly raise the temperature of his lone invading digit. Without needing to think about it, he begins to smoothly thrust that finger inside of himself, spreading lubrication on each pass, but mostly taken by how giving his body could be. Mettaton had said he was soft... and he could believe it.
There was some tension as well, but his movements remain firm, steady, and the slight strangeness of what he was doing is quickly absorbed by the pleasure of it. Even the tension was a reminder of how tight he could be, both snug and accommodating at once. Breathing elevated, exhalations given into the covers of the bed, Emet-Selch even tries to part his legs slightly further, as though to give himself, to give Mettaton, ever deeper access to his body. But there was a limit to what his finger could reach.]
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How could he not wish to touch him and get in on the action when he has a view like this? Mettaton sees his lover teasing himself first, running slick fingers over his entrance, and Mettaton's made to imagine precisely the same thing: the tip of him pressing and prodding Emet-Selch, threatening to slip inside (as much as a threat only yields a good thing for them both). He swallows, aching already... and he sighs then, a stream of heated air, in almost a gesture of exasperation. Not even moments into this and the pressure ever builds in him, the ache in his cock growing exponentially as he feels himself get somehow harder. The robot glances down at his own erection, its stiffness practically a feature during these full moon effects — so long as Emet-Selch was available, or even on the mind. So long as the Puca had sex available, arousal would quickly follow — and become a temptation difficult to defy.
It doesn't especially bother him to be so aroused. Even on his own, even thinking about Emet-Selch, it doesn't bring him to a point of irritation — only want, only anticipation, only a state of daydreaming and fantasizing. Here, now, those fantasies can become immediate realities, one after another in succession and able to be revisited as daydreams. This sight is one he wants to return to — Emet-Selch's finger slipping inside of himself with a short, soft moan, and Mettaton knows what he's imagining instead. A slight digit is transposed with the texture, the supple, firm give of the glans in his mind.
Mettaton finds he desperately wants to touch himself to the new rhythm of those strokes. His hand hovers over his length, but he does not touch. He watches: the idol imagines the softness of his lover's body squeezing around a rigid erection, so accommodating, as Emet-Selch thought. Accommodating and capable of wrapping around him tight and warm, his lover's body is so terribly soft, and Mettaton wants it immediately. He may be using his knees to pin apart Emet-Selch's legs, but the very sight of him thrusting his fingers into his body has his hips wanting to imitate that smooth, steady rhythm.
There is one thing he permits, and Mettaton reaches easily for the bottle of lubricant, which he plucks neatly from its place. Unhanding Emet-Selch is a necessity for the moment, but he gives himself only as much time and lube as he needs when he deposits some on his own fingers, swiping more clinically over his length — pleasured as far as he is, he doesn't need nor want anything other than his lover's body, even when he'd delight in stroking himself to completion. That's why he refrains. A sigh slips from his throat, hypnotized by the sight of Emet-Selch fucking himself with his finger and yearning to be in its place, even to palpate his body with his own digit, to curl that finger and hear Emet-Selch groan and sigh, to feel him writhe—
A terrible tease to behold, so vivid to his eye with his vantage point. He adores him terribly, and he wants to give him exactly what he fantasizes. Wiping his hand off on the throw he'd earlier used on Emet-Selch's face, he returns his hands back to squeeze at his ass.]
Reality's not too far behind, dear. And... Oh, you're a wonderful tease, you know. Hah.
[Once again, he's a robot who sounds breathless. He takes note of his cock again, comparing its thickness to the slender digit Emet-Selch works himself with, his hips impossible to still, and Mettaton gets another wicked idea. His smile is practically audible in the way he laughs low.
But it's quickly followed by Mettaton unhanding Emet-Selch, placing his hands instead on either side of his body as he leans forward. He wants dearly to join in on the action, and, hovering above Emet-Selch's body, he lowers his hips and directs the head of his lengths to crowd next to the Ascian's finger — as though trying to take its place, as though demanding occupancy, he even offers lube to the equation in his rub. He shows himself off, showing Emet-Selch that he's prepared with slick lube and far, far thicker than a finger.
And surely longer. They both know that, and Mettaton knows it's another point toward temptation. His next sigh sounds like a hiss of breath, and he shoves his cock against the other man with a demand for entry, a pushiness to replace fingers. But his words contradict.]
I think you'll need more fingers, if you wish to compare! Here. I'm even... I can be a tease, myself. What do you think, Hades...?
[Mettaton clearly likes it. He gasps, his cock slipping against Emet-Selch with nowhere to thrust into, no body to hold him tight when it's being occupied by something else. But he realigns his erection and crowds into Emet-Selch's finger again, pushing the head firmly against his hand and his digit and, therefore, his entrance.]
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And that Mettaton would want in on the action comes as no surprise- how could he not, with himself spread out like this for his sake, fingering himself to evident pleasure, with most of that being due to the imagining of being taken by something better than his hand? That Mettaton would even seek to be involved somehow, in a way other than observation- that too doesn't surprise him, as the only reason to hold back would be for deliberate effect, to draw out a specific sort of anticipation. Mettaton letting go of his ass entirely does surprise him, though, as he surely didn't require both hands to apply lubrication to his own cock, and why would he not take an opportunity to touch him if he could?
But then he feels Mettaton shifting on the bed, the peculiar sort of pressure of being leaned over. And he still sucks in a breath at the telling nudge of the tip of Mettaton's cock against his entrance, crowding the intruding slide of a finger. More than a nudge, it spoke of a readiness that was difficult to not take advantage of. As though Emet-Selch needed any more help imagining what would soon enough take the place of his hand- or for that matter, another temptation to slip his finger free right then, to allow his lover to fill him up properly.
There was truly no comparison, no matter how many fingers he applied. The thrust against him seems to indicate Mettaton's agreement, his cock feeling so slick against him, the Ascian nearly stopping in his motion entirely for a few seconds, just to temper back that impulse to pull free for him. He had lubrication, surely- surely it would be fine, what did it matter if he needed to shove a bit harder? He wanted him so much, his body would have to adapt. Satisfying Mettaton was the same as satisfying himself in the end; and there was only so much his hand could do for either of them like this.]
You can't... even wait your turn, can you?
[It's accompanied by a low huff, an attempt at exasperation, as though there were some problem with Mettaton telling him to prepare himself, and then making it difficult to do so properly. Not only by getting his cock in the way (as though it could ever be in the way), but by tempting him to remove his finger prematurely. But Emet-Selch bites his lip (a point of pain to sharpen his willpower) even as he swallows back a moan at the feeling of that thickness rubbing insufficiently against his hand, his entrance. Crowding them both.
But if anything, Emet-Selch deliberately slows down, as he gradually works a second finger into himself, letting out a breath and tension both. This was still nothing compared to the cock he actually wanted, but it was still better, and he allows himself to groan quietly as he strokes the interior of his body with those digits.
Steadily, if not quite easygoing, he moves them. His body even tries to rock back against his hand, as though to drive them deeper, to add to the sense of being thrust into.
But he can't ignore the steady presence of his lover's cock so close, and nor does he even try to. But it does add to his imaginings- that he'd be stretched further by him, Mettaton's girth already slick, and the both of them made hotter by the interior of his body, a friction to lose himself to. It wasn't as though Emet-Selch went around thinking about how empty he was, but in times like this, he couldn't consider anything else- and his fingers didn't even begin to give him what he wanted.
--But he'll still draw it out while he can, rocking his hips back against himself (and incidentally, against his lover's waiting cock), as though to further underline what he could be having of him. And though soft, he makes no effort now to hold back the pleased noises he was making, as though what he was doing to himself was somehow sufficient.]
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Logically, this is the plan. He can't prepare Emet-Selch himself, so he'll make his lover show him his thirst for him. And at first, he bends down to kiss Emet-Selch at the back of his neck.]
I can hardly hold back... My excitement for you grows by the second. You're right.
[And he expects some overt demonstration of desire on Emet-Selch's part. He demands it, in some part of his mind: he ought to be slipping his fingers out recklessly to make way for his cock. He ought to be moaning outright at the presence of him, he should be speaking his desire for his length in place of the insufficiency of his fingers. Emet-Selch should be rocking back not into his hand, but into his cock; should be making a demonstration of wishing to be filled by Mettaton.
And though Emet-Selch can't really ignore him and uses him to his imagination, he makes the choice to draw things out. He rocks his hips back into his fingers (even though that's where Mettaton is), teasing him, showing him the pleasure he derives from the addition of this second finger to stretch him. His noises are soft, slight things, but not at all restrained.
He sounds lovely. They're noises that have Mettaton aching, pressure building in his lower body, his cock thoroughly engorged at the mere sound of him — and the fact that these sounds are being made separate from a usually accompanying stimuli is... intolerable. He normally hears the Ascian making such noises while stuffed full of cock, while being penetrated and thrust into, and obviously while Mettaton could feel him squeezing around his length. That feeling is absent, and it's more noticeable than ever. He longs for him even more. He wants his fingers gone so much and so suddenly that he can barely stand it, the motion of crowding Emet-Selch's hand out that much more agitated and aggressive. He presses the head of himself with more firmness against the other man, more deliberation against his entrance, as though if he couldn't rid him of fingers, he could shove himself inside and push deeper.
...To no avail. Mettaton finds his temper flaring.
Emet-Selch is pleasing himself on his fingers and making it so obvious in sound that he's somehow okay with this arrangement, and Mettaton knows he'd prefer him. But he demands to know. He wants to hear Emet-Selch give him all of the words and sounds especially for him, the praise toward his length and toward his pleasure, the blatant desire for more of him rather than making all of these noises through a throat made hoarse... for his own fingers. He feels jilted, irrationally, and it compounds upon such an irrational, feral nature. He growls close to his partner's neck, suddenly impatient, even when he's trying to give off the air of control and possession.]
Surely, you're thinking about having more of me...
[It's said in a low voice, coupled with an insistent push of his cock — a reminder not to stop thinking about him at all. Speaking against his skin has Mettaton parting his lips and mouthing his lover's neck, dragging teeth along his flesh. He wants terribly to pound into him and to hear him cry out as he did earlier, sharp and sudden, when he bit his shoulder... Mettaton salivates over his neck, impossibly wanting and with a temper that grows ever hotter, a body that follows suit, a need to move his hips winding tight in him. He feels an ever increasing need to mount his Bonded and displace those fingers, to give him something thicker than them, and to hear him making those noises especially for the sensation of his arousal made Emet-Selch's focal point.
None of it's rational. Mettaton could have easily found himself amused at Emet-Selch's noises, enticed into further frustrated want, enjoying the way he was made to abstain. But right now, it's not enough attention on him.]
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A flare of temper that's enough to catch his breath and speed his pulse- but not to still his hand, and not to remove it either. His lover's grinding, his growling- it both made Emet-Selch want him with more ferocity, a need sharp enough to hurt- but at the same time kept him from making way for the puca, denying them both by blatantly pleasuring himself in front of him. That it was all ultimately for the sake of preparing himself for his cock didn't matter- inciting him took sudden priority. His own temper hissed to life. As--]
Am I...?
[--is all Emet-Selch says at first, and if he could spare him a look, it'd be a surprisingly haughty one- as though he weren't the one currently with fingers inside of himself for the sake of taking his lover's cock, or the one with a throat made raw by repeated application of said cock, or the one who had already swallowed several loads of his come with obvious pleasure. But Emet-Selch was stubborn, capricious, contrary. Sometimes he would give Mettaton the compliments he wanted- that he needed, in his current frame of mind- but now, however, he was struck with the impulse to withhold them. Mettaton could take them from him, if he wanted them so dearly. Somehow.
Oh, of course Emet-Selch desired him more than ever. Whatever pleasure his fingers could give him was only due to his thoughts on having Mettaton fill him instead, further aided by the feeling of his cock jabbing him with ever more insistence, a thick heat that was trying its hardest to force its way inside. And it was tempting to give in, to capitulate to what they wanted- what they would both ultimately have of one another.
But with a shuddered breath he persists. A jerk back of his hips against his hand, to underline where his attention was.]
Perhaps I'm still- comparing. You said I- I would need. More fingers. Didn't you?
[Mettaton was drooling over his neck, threatening it with incisors, drags of pressure that he could imagine sinking into him just as effectively as his erection. Just as possessively, and he holds back a moan at the thought. Instead, Emet-Selch takes a third finger and begins working it inside of himself, only allowing himself any noise of satisfaction- a raspy sound to strain his well-used throat- once he'd slid it all the way within.
This much was- closer, but not enough, and not the same at all, neither long nor thick enough- and even if it were, somehow, it wouldn't be Mettaton, and was therefore inferior. Emet-Selch knew this; he had no pretensions otherwise. And stretching himself like this, pushing back into the slow thrusting of three fingers only made him crave him that much harder.
But he continues; the lower sounds he continues to make also seem to indicate his greater pleasure, his preference, for this thicker intrusion, as though it weren't only an illusion of fullness that could never satisfy him. But the Ascian continues to fuck himself with his hand, as though Mettaton weren't available at all, as though he didn't have his body encroaching on his freedom, his legs between his, his cock at his ass, his teeth at his neck, and his voice threatening his ear. As though the darkness of his mood didn't underline all the rest, if the Ascian didn't give him his rightful attention.
...Emet-Selch both loved him terribly, and was a touch self-destructive.]
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His voice is a strained hiss. It's the imitation of slipping control at best, but a poor one.]
It's. Not. Me.
[The idol remembers what he suggested, that Emet-Selch should add more fingers to compare, and it frustrates him that Emet-Selch would think it ever could. It couldn't compare because there's no way it would be him, and Emet-Selch knows that! It would never compare to his viciousness, it would never be his manner, and it would never stroke him as deeply as the glans of his erection would, just the way they both like it. Mettaton grinds his teeth and presses his cock with firm insistence against his entrance, tip nestled against fingers — only to find that he's moments too late when his lover slips a third digit inside of himself. Mettaton stammers on the sound of a growl, which ends up sounding a bit more like a whine for it.
And as soon as that finger plunges deep, as soon as Mettaton can tell that Emet-Selch's penetrated himself down to the first knuckle, his lover arches into them. Emet-Selch moans for them, paying attention to fingers in a dare to see if it would compare to the rigid, hot length he could be enjoying. This would have been enough, Mettaton thought, to make a ruling, but his lover continues to press back into his hand (and thus, Mettaton's cock, but he's not the one filling him and therefore he's the afterthought). And not only that, he continues to thrust into himself with them, as if he hasn't yet had enough. Emet-Selch makes noises of pleasure at the fit of this intrusion, and were Mettaton in a more steady state of mind, he may have imagined that his lover prefers this thicker filling of himself.
Naturally, if thicker was better, it would mean that his cock would be easily preferred. He could enjoy this sign and tease Emet-Selch with words about how how tight he could fit, how full he'd feel. But the Puca, maddened by conceit and lunacy, is possessive and slighted by this show of contentment when there's a perfectly good cock for Emet-Selch to arch into instead. He can't stand it: his lover is angering him terribly.
A whine turns back into a growl as Mettaton slips down to the Ascian's right shoulder, letting his jaw snap shut. Teeth slip through flesh in a heavy, hearty bite, full of his agitation and fury. Emet-Selch should be jumping at the opportunity to replace fingers with his slick, hot erection, not fucking himself on fingers, not when Mettaton's so accessible. Even thinking upon it has him tearing at his shoulder, a short jerk of his neck as he moans into the taste of blood - minor compensation for this insufferable slight to his ego.
There's no room for speech as liquid crimson fills his mouth and coats his tongue, and Mettaton doesn't need words to convey his feelings when his hips start moving, demanding the space his fingers occupy. The head of his cock only manages to slip futilely against fingers and against his ass, given its current fullness, and this serves to frustrate the robot further. He shifts his weight so that he can pin down his lover's remaining hand under sharp, clawed fingers, his lips peeling back in his aggression, even as he lets his teeth remain solidly in his Bonded's flesh. He was the one who told him to fuck himself on his fingers, but Mettaton doesn't feel like he's being given enough attention otherwise to justify this. Emet-Selch should be describing to him his Mettaton-related fantasies, should be overtly desiring his cock, should be ready to displace his hand with Mettaton at the most inadvisable moment, even to his detriment. Obviously.
He loves him horribly, enough to tear him apart in a moment where he wants him like none other. This would get his attention, this would make him recoil, would displace those fingers and give him an opening to slip inside, and there, he'd make Emet-Selch remember to laud him with all of the glory and compliments he should be given by compulsion. Mettaton moans more heavily at the thought, harsh enough to turn to a growl in the depths of his throat as he curls fingers into his arm, pressing nails into him. He wants his lover's whole attention on him, and he wants to hear him crave his body. Mettaton's ears flatten in his outrage.]
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So there was the developed reflex to pull out, to be explicitly available to him, to wrap up in and bury himself in Mettaton's spite, even as Mettaton's erection buried itself in his body. And he shuddered with barely-restrained longing, something that's agitated by each brush and shove of the tip of the puca's cock against his hand, a persistent reminder of how hot and rigid he was, and how much better it would feel pushing inside him. More than any other aspect though, was how he wanted his lover to be overwhelmed and sated, to use his body to his satisfaction- he loved him, after all. In fulfilling him, he fulfilled himself; there was no greater pleasure than that.
And yet the Ascian was also aggressively stubborn, the worst of that coming through as he continues to withhold himself, even when Mettaton's impatience and dissatisfaction with him was ramping up with every instant, every thrust that he made, every sound that wasn't directed explicitly towards him. A renewed growl is Emet-Selch's greatest warning when that thread of control snaps- followed closely by the snapping of Mettaton's jaws, sinking teeth deep into his shoulder.
Pain blossomed, blinding, eclipsing all else for a time. He cries out, loud and sharp, without hearing it, and his body jerks and writhes underneath him- though there's no where for him to go, other than deeper into his lover's teeth. Clenching down around his hand in one moment, he pulls his fingers free in the next, without being entirely aware of it. But there was the need to brace himself somehow, against the pain and the heat and the pressure- that of both bite and application of fury. Pain dripped and flowed into Mettaton's mouth, taking the form of blood, and with it, not clarity as such, but a focus switching to a need to be fucked by him over all else. How could he even consider holding himself back, in the wake of such beautiful madness? There were no considerations to be made, no one else to think about other than him.
Emet-Selch's other hand was now captured and shoved down, claws digging into flesh, but that was as desirable as the tearing of his shoulder, the awareness that he was suddenly empty of anything (though he couldn't recall exactly when he'd withdrawn his fingers), which in itself was unacceptable, but for now only meant there was space for his lover's cock. Which was very acceptable. Freed of all other thoughts, it was impossible to think of even pretending to want anything else, to have even spared the patience for preparation; his lover's growling, his moans, carried the truth of it. Mettaton deserved his complete devotion, and there was no point in denying either of them that right.
His shoulder throbbed with his pulse (which meant that it never stopped throbbing), but his own arousal was undaunted, perhaps even inspired by it- by not only the pain itself, the wetness that flowed over skin, the suddenly stronger scent of blood, but that it was Mettaton providing it all. Reveling, even, in the concept of being torn apart by him; who else could love him more than this? Could spare him this delight, this insanity? And he would love him just as terribly in return.]
Mettaton--
[Is all he manages to say, though, strangled by pain and lust and forgetting to breathe, and harshened on top of that by previous use. But Emet-Selch can fit a lot of longing into a single cry, and his hips jerk back, as though Mettaton needed any further suggestion when it came to shoving his length inside of him. But any instant without his erection filling him, taking him, fucking him, was an instant too long.]
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But the taste of him is to die for. Mettaton sighs into the bite of his shoulder, once more wondering to himself how he could ever think to go long without the taste of him on this tongue or painting his lips. He's his, after all, above all others; it only follows that the fluid in his body is for him to enjoy, every square inch of his skin for him to revel in, and his soul... he wants that, too. All he feels of their Bond is the sudden spike of intensity to match his own as his own sort of warning of his lover's reaction, and it compounds upon his own insanity.
An insanity that is met with a cry. Impulsively he rocks his hips some more, thinking only of how his Bonded would give him his body if he was going to take it. The next beats of their connection share that pain as his lover braces himself, but it also breaks to an overwhelming submission to him. Mettaton's thrilled, feeling Emet-Selch's attention completely fixed upon him. Infuriating fingers - the ones he asked to watch stroke Emet-Selch, yes, but the ones he wanted to merely decorate a desire for Mettaton - are so swiftly removed in a bid for stability on his Bondmate's part, when Mettaton knows that the only stable thing he'll be given is his length. His ire lessens immediately for his lover who prioritizes him with abundant clarity, who would call out his name on a voice worn down by lust, love, and indulgence of and for him.
But his fervor does not lessen, and the robot nearly pants as he drools against the purchase he has upon Emet-Selch's shoulder, made of flesh and teeth. To make everything that much more enticing, the other man's hips jerk into him, the sound of his breathing as harsh as his cry, clearly lusting and equally maddened. The idol groans; his free hand stabilizes his length at the base of him, Emet-Selch so freshly vacated that mounting the very tip inside of him ends up being no trial at all.
Except for the fact that he's tensing, but it doesn't deter the Puca. Mettaton's body tightens as he presses the head of his cock to his lover's slicked entrance, and it's with little fight that their slick bodies are made to fit together, as they've done so many times before. Emet-Selch's made to give way around the head of his cock, and he squeezes so divinely around the corona, the end of his shaft. Mettaton groans again, his ears springing upright as he manages to get this sort of hold on his lover. Finally! Excitement overwhelms him.
Properly recognized, properly desired. Fed the blood of his Bonded Witch, given what he demands. Mettaton's on the fast track to coming down from that unmitigated fury. But for the moment, he presses forward his hips: as Emet-Selch felt that moments spent unfilled were instants too long, Mettaton feels likewise, and having his cock exposed to the air and not to the heat of his lover's body is a slight against him. A firm, steady thrust pushes gradually his cock inside of Emet-Selch, the sloping tip of the glans making way for the curving shaft of him a he presses deeper, deeper... So deep, in fact, that Mettaton finds himself blinded with his delight in claiming Emet-Selch.
Another moan has Mettaton thrusting his cock ever deeper inside of his lover, lubricant offering plenty of glide. He doesn't stop until he feels Emet-Selch perfectly pinioned between teeth and cock before Mettaton begins to thrust, desperate to feel the hot friction of their bodies entwined. Sharp jerks of his hips draw his cock out, only to shove it back in; a consistent, feverish rhythm of desire and claim, the want to have the Ascian for himself and the willpower to make it so, as far as he could reach. He wants him in body and soul, and he'll take him as harshly or as gradually as necessary to express that claim.
Searing pleasure overwhelms him, the ache in his cock soothed by the squeezing, heated pressure of his lover's body, stroking over his whole length absolutely. He moans again, and again, incapable of stopping now that he's had a taste both of blood and of sex, his thrusts quick and deepening with each in his burgeoning satisfaction. He can't fully claim Emet-Selch until he can feel him squeezing the root of his cock, and it's clear with each pound, the robot's aiming to sink as deeply into him as his body will allow. Having his teeth lodged in his flesh is no big deal: his ability to speak at all is replaced by primal need, the urge to dominate and fuck Emet-Selch overwhelming, his body his vice and the only soothing of his addiction the way he can pound into him. He wants to hear his lover's worn voice, wants to feel his body squeeze and hold his cock; he wants to push his length so deep that Emet-Selch can't think of anything but his erection and their immense pleasure; he wants to ejaculate deep inside of his Bonded and, in this maddened state, he feels that marking him multiple times over is the only thing that would do. If he's going to be obstinate, his punishment for it ought to be pleasure and claim so great that he'll only ever be enticed by Mettaton, his body and his sex impossible to defy.
And soothed though he's so quickly become, Mettaton is still leaning feral: he still growls, and still sucks at any excess blood that drips from his Bonded's shoulder. Even so, some of it manages to trickle past his lips, running over the slope of Emet-Selch's shoulder. But Emet-Selch's caught under weight, under claws, and between teeth and a heavy cock. Struggling any which way would land him yanking at teeth or impaling himself more firmly against cock. This is a thought to deepen Mettaton's stroke, another heady, pleasurable moan erupting from his throat as he drags the glans against his lover with deep, curved thrusts, a pride swelling in him at his subjugation, at his size, at this display of affection and dominance both, and his thrusts take on an energy as if showing off his cock and the drag of it. His ears poise themselves high and likewise confident, pleased in having rendered his Bonded so receptive.]
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Between the two Emet-Selch was left panting for air against the bed, the sound further broken up by low, ecstatic moans as Mettaton slides him the rest of his length. Stretching and taking, a thrusting that stuffed him ever fuller with each pass, every retreat only leaving him in aching anticipation for the next. He was caught, in both body and attention; it was like being tempered, his will subsumed, the only consequence his adoration.
Fingers gripped in spasming grasps against the bedcovers as his body was pounded into. Every movement jostled Mettaton's hold in his shoulder, teeth scraping against flesh raw and bloody, drooled over and essence swallowed, torn nerves sending regular bolts of intensity coursing through Emet-Selch's system. But that's all that it was truly registering as- intensity, an ache that blurred so thoroughly with arousal that he couldn't distinguish them. His erection hurt too, as it dragged stiffly against the bed, though any friction was at least a mercy, a kind of stimulation. More than it was usually afforded this night, so it counted as a luxury.
And he presses back, the muscles in his thighs shuddering, tensing, as he arches into the cock Mettaton was providing him, was filling and stroking him with. And every time, Emet-Selch also tugged at the grip his lover's jaws had on him, the resulting pang causing the movement of his arousal to hit him that much harder, that much more pleasurably and right. A deep and thorough rubbing that he couldn't escape, and would never dare to. How had he ever managed to hold out at all, knowing that this was waiting for him? It was unthinkable, to be without this, without him.
Clenching around him, Emet-Selch chokes on a moan. Mettaton's fury- his own obstinacy- though the Ascian wasn't in a place to consider it at the moment, he would admit that it gave the inevitable claiming a certain spark- the kind that could only be obtained through the tearing of flesh, of growling and anger and the foundation of love that underlined it all. It wasn't the sort of intensity he would want all the time- but that was part of why this chemistry with Mettaton had become so addictive, so volatile. They could have everything, extremes of gentleness and viciousness alike, as what were they in the end, but committed to one another's welfare, heights of pleasure included?
And the feeling then, clear through their alarmingly-open Bond, of fury gradually giving way to satisfaction and fierce delight- just as the Ascian's body was giving way to his erection and his incisors- was nearly the headiest part of it all. Dizzying in contrast, dark as though it might remain, it warmed him to experience. Mettaton clearly reveled in obtaining his subjugation, his compliance- and the Ascian took strange pleasure in finally providing it to him, in giving himself up to him again. It was worth inciting him, for moments like this. Particularly when some ferality remained, this roughness of mounting and having.
Mettaton could be aggressive and vicious, and Emet-Selch could be rebellious and perverse, and they would both somehow come out ahead....
--Ultimately, they loved one another.
And Emet-Selch was certainly fully receptive to him now, crying out against the bed with greater abandon, hardly noticing how hoarse he sounded, or the further strain he was causing his throat. As though having a cock thrusting down it wasn't enough, he was treating it like this. But how couldn't he, when Mettaton was making it clear how thick he was, how deep he could press, the pleasure he could leave him in with each stroke? His clear intention to fill him up with his come, and mark him that way?]
You... you're-- [Coherent words were the hardest of all, and interrupted by sounds that were more rasp than voice.] More of you, I... I want you, more than anyone, I....
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He could listen to Emet-Selch's cries forever, raspy or not. They'd be enough to arouse him alone, even if he were somehow capable of separating them from the feeling of his cock being squeezed — for what would his lover be moaning about if it didn't involve his own pleasure? They're connected, their eroticism an effort combined and inseparable. And he couldn't possibly dream of separating them from his body language, could he? Emet-Selch curves his body into his cock, shifting so prominently the length he holds within his body and aiding in how deep this next thrust pushes. Harsh and firm, he can feel the sensitive ridge of his cock dragging along Emet-Selch delectably, enough that he's sure Emet-Selch can only adores it. Mettaton can't help it when he collapses face-down into Emet-Selch's shoulder, moaning against bloodied skin at the sensation of his arching back, of his overwhelming heat, of Emet-Selch's softness, his form so receptive to Mettaton's. Truly, everything about him ought to give itself over to being inundated by the robotic idol, he thought: Mettaton loves him, and wants him completely.
But what really sets Mettaton's ferality from one of righteous fury into one of indelible ecstasy is the sound of his lover's voice in words he can barely speak: his desire for him. More of him, more than anyone else. Mettaton splits into a wide smile and a sprightly laugh pleased and swinging into complete adoration for the Ascian's attempts at words. But his manner remains blazing hot and his hips pound into him with a firmness that won't cease, a rhythm he couldn't bear to stop when it feels so good. He smears his lips against bloodied skin and sucks kisses into his shoulder, cleaning him of blood that keeps leaking — a reprieve by way of affection. But the slight nip of teeth suggests a promise to continue biting him — Mettaton hasn't had enough of his lover's blood.
He kisses up his neck, sucking and heated and each nearly blossoming into a full-fledged bite. All the while, his tempo never breaks, his pleasure never yields. Mettaton moans close to his ear when he tries to speak.]
More of me... No. Y... You'll take all of me.
[A precursor to a series of deeper, tighter thrusts, ones that have Mettaton crying out in pleasure as he sinks the rest of his length inside of his lover. Slowly, surely, the head of his cock only presses deeper, Emet-Selch made to ride down to the base of his cock, where his ass sits flush to Mettaton's hips. Their bodies collide with each thrust, Mettaton so deep that the whole of his crotch is against Emet-Selchs' body: his entire cock swallowed by his body, hot and thick, the presence of his balls settling between Emet-Selch's too-spread legs. Mettaton groans deep in his throat at the knowledge of this depth and still somewhat, just to nestle his place deeply into his lover, to let him know he's his with the nuzzling of his cheek against his neck.
And with Mettaton's only free hand he grips down on Emet-Selch's remaining wrist, pinning him down fully. Emet-Selch wouldn't try to escape, but he dares him to try: he'd fail every time, and even if he somehow got away, Mettaton makes it clear that this isn't something he'd ever, ever give up on. He slips back down to his shoulder and collects a mouthful of it to suck a bruise into, right next to his bite. It's a taste and sensation intense enough to have him growling into skin again, hips resuming their rhythmic pounding.
How deep, how close they are. Mettaton marvels at the sensation of Emet-Selch's body tightening rhythmically around his cock, forced to defer to the force of his unyielding form. His cock, hard and thick and heavy, would no doubt make Emet-Selch's softer figure give way to him — and why give him a reason to want to if he could pleasure him with curved, deliberate thrusts intended to please his lover, filling him with the head of him, shoving the smooth, cushioned glans against his body and allowing his form to squeeze and massage his length? He is unbelievably hard, dizzyingly so (though he wonders if that's a feeling he's gaining from his lover, or if he's imagining it), his erection pounding with need and pressure and the desire to fuck his lover until he was crying out with pleasure, until he was full of come and made sticky and messy by his own ejaculation. It would understandably be hard to escape from under his weight and harder to want to, and when he bites down upon him and pins him the sinking of teeth and of cock, there's nowhere to go. Emet-Selch is his, and he finds himself growling anew at the thought.
As soon as he sucks an angry red bruise into his shoulder, Mettaton arouses himself with thoughts of words, pounding ever harder into his lover's body with a possession as he licks up his neck.]
You're... Hmm, not full enough to my standard. You... need more of me. More- more than three... ah...
[Mettaton's voice is slurred and idle enough to sound like musings to himself, but he pants, intoxicated by lust and power over his Bonded. He thinks so vividly upon forcing Emet-Selch's head against a wall, forcing him against his crotch, capturing him between his legs, then imagines this next filling: a filling not of his throat, but of his ass, deep in his body. And Mettaton makes the critical mistake of remembering the sight of Emet-Selch dripping with come, something that has him biting down against his shoulder with another groan.
He wants Emet-Selch to exhibit that use. He doesn't think he'll ever know the feeling of not being aroused again, he feels so achingly, painfully turned on. He's positive Emet-Selch can feel the depths of his need to fill him, his hunger for his body, his absolute love of him. His protectiveness, his adoration, his comfort and his simple fondness of him. Fucking Emet-Selch is a web of intense feelings all around, even when he channels it all into the relentless stuffing of his Bonded, when he fixates on filling him so full of his shaft, the glans the only part of him that manages to feel thicker than that constant, filling presence.]
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