[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.]
[From growling to laughter; a graceful slide from one manner of intensity to another, and the sort of switch he'd come to expect from him. That they regularly inspired in one another, and had come to feel natural.
But there's no time for contemplation, when Emet-Selch is fully taken with what's taking place directly above his body- a thrusting even more tireless than usual, considering Mettaton's only partial transformation. And all the Ascian can spare a thought to then is an odd kind of relief, that the idol could possess such continuous energy to devote to sex. In this more animalistic state, influenced by curses and the false pull of the moons, it was surely only a boon to have a form that could make the most use of both violence and libido.
A boon... rather than yet another curse, to make even a temporary sating next to impossible to obtain. Especially since while the pull of the genuine moons would eventually fade as the night passed, and the sisters moved onward- these pendants were not necessarily as forgiving. They had no orbit. They were always full.
The sound of Mettaton's moan has his breathing catch, enticed by all of his responses. By the way he was made to lose the grip on his shoulder (even if he had appreciated that as well, a maintaining of an injury already raw), because of the puca's need to cry out from his own pleasure. And also at all of the affectionate treatment he spared his wounds- which also felt like a natural part of the cycle. Mettaton would bestow and treat (licking the blood from him counted as treatment, a balm to sooth punctured and torn skin), inflict and admire, allow some marks to rest, and force others toward scarring.
Warm kisses that he knows must be tinged with blood trail up his neck, Mettaton leaving imprints of more than that, sucking pressure that Emet-Selch could tell would bruise. Pressure strong enough, or with the edge of a tooth sharp enough, that there are times when he's not sure whether the puca had broken skin or not. The slight damp left behind further muddled his way of knowing, unable to tell whether it was saliva or fresh bleeding.
It hardly mattered; either would be a record of Mettaton's design, and in an area more towards the back of his neck, a location Emet-Selch would have a harder time seeing without the use of several mirrors. But even that was fine; just knowing that it was there would be an arousing thought in future, brands that he could touch and think back to this moment, his lover's lips at his neck, his blood on his lips, and his cock sinking deeper yet into his body. And his body itself, holding him down ever more solidly, with his other wrist restrained, pushed into the bed. A gesture he automatically tests, his arms taut, his body writhing, breathing rapid- but there was nowhere to go, he was there to be fucked, and to enjoy every part of it. Held down and legs spread, all he can do is arch and press into every thrust, his struggling taking the form of desperation for his cock, for his pleasure, to feel the giving tip of him squeezed so thoroughly by his body, and the firm ridge give him that massage that would leave him trembling.
And Emet-Selch can only cry out with him, a rougher accompaniment to the idol's voice, when Mettaton begins making good on his claim that he would take all of him. And- of course he would. It was absurd to think of accepting anything less than everything. He wanted all of his cock, down to the root, and with it a pounding hard enough to linger. He wanted all of his love, and all of his emotions. And he would give him everything he had, his despair and his fears, his solitude and this love that scalded.
Their desires, at least, were easily shared, even if it felt that for every instance of satisfaction, more needs manifested. But as he felt his body rocked into the bed, pinned down, his lover's hips meeting his ass, and his length shoved fully inside of him, a thickness and heat that he can't keep from tightening around- it was nothing but a reassurance. To know that Mettaton could keep taking him, would never, ever let him go empty of himself, in one way or another.
How could he ever bear being empty again? He couldn't- and each slick drag of cock was an assurance that he wouldn't have to. If he ever pulled out, it would only be after leaving his come behind- and surely he wouldn't think of leaving him without having made him properly full of his ejaculate?
As Emet-Selch thinks as well on the sensation of taking so much of Mettaton's come that he couldn't keep it from leaking from him, an unsubtle sign of his Bonded's use and presence, a claim obvious and obscene. And intensely arousing... which was a strange thing to note, considering how hard he already was, his stiffness shoved against the bed, where he'd eventually come himself, to make a sticky mess of both the covers and his own body (as though he hadn't already, considering how much had already been spread down his abdomen or thighs). But Mettaton's release deserved to rest inside his body, where he could feel his claim, hot and thick. That he'd already swallowed several rounds made him dwell on the lingering taste of it at his tongue, what bit had dripped and dried against his face- and now there was only to be made full in another way.]
[Flush to his neck, Mettaton grins wildly, pressing the flat of his teeth against his skin in a pleased snarl. (Could a snarl sound that way? Mettaton makes it happen.) Emet-Selch's movement is only to test his grip and not with any real intent to escape, but perhaps that's what makes it all the more delectable a gesture. A writhing to ensure he's been caught by the Puca before he can submit fully, a gesture enough to incite the Monster into snapping back down upon his shoulder — his other shoulder this time, and now with less of the tearing, jerking action he'd pulled on Emet-Selch before. Incisors and canines cut through flesh with ease, sinking through flesh in a clean bite that Mettaton groans into once more, settling himself firmly in place. His teeth can serve as just as much a grip as hands, and Mettaton's one to employ the full use of his body.
Because when Emet-Selch's finished testing his grip, he does submit. He bends to their carnal need, knowing that his fate is to be fucked, to be stroked by a heavy cock, to be pounded into rhythmically until he can't take it any longer. And though Mettaton occasionally finds himself staring down climax as though it's ready to hit him at any moment, he holds himself back for his lover's sake, wanting to stroke him and please him and bring them both to greater heights of wanting. Emet-Selch's movement is rendered into the curve of his back, pressing into Mettaton's hips for lack of anything else he can do but please them both.
Even though he's not seeing it with his eyes, it's a beautiful sight. Mettaton only wishes he had the ability to see them here together like this, Emet-Selch curving into his cock as he buries himself inside of his body, Emet-Selch made to stretch around his girth and to submit to the weight and hold of his form. The idol fancies himself a presence undeniable, and to feel these kinds of acknowledgements manages to stroke his ego some more: Emet-Selch giving in, arching into his thrusts, crying out in delight.
They both relished their sex, found it a means to express the depth and intensity of their love for each other. Mettaton thinks about that love as he stuffs his cock down to the base, sucking on his bite to swallow down pooling blood with a hearty shudder. His tongue prods skin and all he can smell is them together, topped off with the cherry red of blood... It's delectable, undeniable, desirable to his most basest pleasure and sense.
His whole body goes taut, pressing his lover's wrists more firmly into the bed as he curls into the Ascian with a renewed force, solidly mounting him. Fucking him. Taking him and claiming him, making sure that he knows he belongs to him. Each rock of his hips forces Emet-Selch's body into teeth, a pounding where he's immobilized by weight, by teeth, and by claws, pinned and preyed upon: a rough, ferocious claim, each curve of his body nestling the head of his cock deep in preparation for climax.
All the robot can think about anymore is the compatibility of them. They please each other, incite each other, swing from mood to mood and facilitate each other's intensity. They hold each other and love each other, and equally, that tension of testiness and conceit agitates them both. In moments like this, they fall into rhythm so easily, fulfilling each other's needs that they didn't know they had: if Emet-Selch takes solace in feeling Mettaton's endless libido and succumbing to the comfort of being so claimed with no escape, Mettaton takes deep satisfaction in the unfettered contact with his lover, the ache and the pain and the full-bodied expression of their selves they could give each other. He loves the feeling and the connection, the intensity of pleasure and of emotions.
His pounding is made up of strokes that only pull out so far, reluctant to withdraw his cock much at all, and Emet-Selch's held so firmly in place between teeth and cock that there's no way he can't feel the full brunt of his use. The squeeze of his body is rapturous, the pleasure immense, the animalistic way he can mount him and fuck him and stroke his cock on his body a delight, and each of Mettaton's thrusts are accompanied by a short, sweet moan, soft and barely escaping his throat. He radiates ecstasy, each push into his Bonded enough to rock them against the bed, even while he holds his lover firmly against his hips.]
[Another grip through teeth, another burst of pain that registered only as another pleasure, another mark to match the one so recently left on his opposite shoulder. A wound that still bled sluggishly, to drip a slow trail down his back (a faintly ticklish sensation that barely registers, lost to all else Emet-Selch was feeling), now matched by a similar one across from it. Less aggressive in design but still deep, the sensation of his lover's teeth hard and piercing in his body was something in itself to revel in. And when it served as well to keep him in place, to be held by hands and jaws, all to be impaled by a thick cock, remorselessly thrusting, he could only tense and shudder from the strength of it all. His body would be made to submit in more than one way.
And even more than in body was the submission in spirit, to not only Mettaton's particular designs on his form, but to the inundation of his feelings. That was even more inescapable than the penetration of incisor or erection, that absolute need to have him and keep him, that protectiveness and care- a boundless wanting that would be easy to drown in. And in a way, the Ascian was, but then- he'd recently learned of the ecstasy to be found in suffocation.
But he could be both consumed by it, while swallowing up in turn. It wasn't a defense- how could he defend against anything of Mettaton's? even if he desired it, it would be a futile gesture- but the only possible response. He would match it, and ever attempt to surpass it. He would demand to be preyed on, the only one for Mettaton to hunt down and capture, tear apart and devour and love like this. And Emet-Selch would protect him, even if he had to burn the world to do it. It was natural for his adoration to occur to him in those terms, involving the mass death or sacrifice of others. How else could love manifest, but in a willingness to ruin all others for the sake of one beloved?
And yet he felt so tenderly for him at the same time, a feeling that didn't register as contradictory. What else was Mettaton doing but expressing the same, through the hardness of each thrust, and the dig of his teeth? They were doing all of this for one another, expressing feelings in a way effective, overwhelming, and ecstatic. A gentleness of heart expressed through the tearing of flesh, the drinking of blood, and the pounding of their bodies.
--How deeply, Emet-Selch could feel him. Even if Mettaton's erection was only the conduit, the Ascian trembled from the force of it, his body bracing itself only to help drive him deeper, to feel the way he curved and fit so precisely inside him. He was hot, and made ever hotter by the friction of their union, evident no matter the slickness of Mettaton's glide, or the accommodation of his body. And he was rigid, no matter the softness of the glans, or the hint of give to his skin, with a stiffness more than capable of forcing him to meld to him, to adapt and take and pleasure his length with tightness and heat.
Every moan on Mettaton's part caught his breath, to the point where it felt like Emet-Selch could scarcely remember to breathe at all, except to add his own voice to the mix. His own sounds of pleasure, of desperation, of pleading- to keep taking him like this. That he would give him everything he wanted, if he wouldn't stop, would always love him and have him--
His voice is a rough whine, reduced past words, and damaged further by each sound he manages to produce. Each rock of his body was pushing him closer to the edge, and it took everything the Ascian had to not only hold on, but to keep from collapsing entirely underneath him. His own erection throbbed with something more than ache, and his own jaws bite absently at the bedcovers beneath him, in some need to tear into something as his body was ravished.
It felt like Mettaton barely left his body at all, which was ideal, the meeting of their hips continuous and hard, a connection that left them so flush that Emet-Selch could feel much of the puca's crotch against his ass. Another reminder, another thrill, of truly understanding how deeply he was taking him- and for all that he wished as well that he could see it, see the impression of that thickness stretching and stuffing him, there was no opportunity for anything like regret. But he knew without doubt that they were beautiful like this together, a carnal intertwining, brutality and adoration expressed in their truest form- something that deserved an audience, despite also knowing that no one else deserved to see such perfection.]
[Mettaton realizes how close they are like this, amidst the cries and breaths of his lover that he can barely take. Emet-Selch's been stripped down and laid prone before his robotic body, sweaty, bleeding, come-marked, and bruised, beautiful and made of Mettaton's ministrations. Body to body, Mettaton penetrates Emet-Selch with as much of himself as possible: teeth puncture skin and hold him firmly in place while he repeatedly impales Emet-Selch with the length of his erection, dragging and rolling his hips into his body to firmly establish the presence of himself for Emet-Selch to enjoy. It's among some of the closest ways they could interact physically, and though this pleasures and satisfies, Mettaton always feels that they'd aim for more if only they could.
With sounds so lovely and pushed beyond their limits, Mettaton feels both flattered and softened for Emet-Selch. He wants to kiss his neck and tell him he loves him and that his voice sounds wonderful, to keep treating him to the reminder of himself made so fucked; it only serves to remind him of the swell in his throat, in the swallow, the choking, the rapture of holding his cock in favor of air and drinking it down, filling himself with load after load of come. Mettaton imagines vividly the chance to watch Emet-Selch in full arousal, watching his cock hard and curved and desperate for relief, a relief the Ascian found not necessarily in touch, but in sucking on Mettaton's arousal, in breathing him and swallowing him. Emet-Selch gets off on being inundated by Mettaton, he realizes all over again.
And that, along with this primal fucking and animalistic taking, is enough to push the robot over the edge. Of course he'd like this, his every sense overcome by himself, and it serves to compliment him, that someone would want to drown in him. Why shouldn't he? Mettaton is worthy of being drowned in.
But on a level that deals with his love for Emet-Selch, he wants only to drown in him right back. He wants his most tempestuous of feelings and wants his every trouble, wants to soothe him and hold him and keep him close and protect, to hurt him and love him; he wants to be served and protected and treated to dedication, to be hurt and loved in return. Right now, this marking and mounting and ravenous fucking would be the only appropriate way to communicate his lust, so he pounds into him, with fervor, dedicating to Emet-Selch deep, firm thrusts with erratic, unpredictable longer ones, just so he could reassert to Emet-Selch each impale of his cock.
It's delightful. Mettaton cries out into his bite, lapping still at blood that slowly drains into his mouth. He can't imagine anything beyond this moment between them, only the taste of his blood and skin and the smell of his body, decorated by blood and sex. He can feel his tightness and hear his breathing and feel their pleasure radiating off of each other. If they had an audience, Mettaton knows they would fathom that which they couldn't understand, and crave it: they'd inspire by pure expression alone, and that's what he desires. (He doesn't hold the haughty opinion that nobody deserved them, however. Even if they were a sight exalted, people deserved to see Mettaton even when they were most undeserving, because he would want them to.)
More gasps of pleasure around bloodied skin that he refuses to detach from, Mettaton only curls into Emet-Selch more firmly, mounting him more prominently. He strokes his cock on Emet-Selch's body, feeling his tightness grip around the shaft of him, rub divinely along the glans as his body pulls and massages his erection. Each push forward feels tight and slick, Emet-Selch's body hugging around the head of his cock. It's nothing like the suction of a swallow but it's hot and so soft. Mettaton knows he can deposit his load deep within him this way, too, and Emet-Selch would feel thick heat. He would feel delightful, being given another of Mettaton's releases to enjoy, and it would be another reminder of him to savor.
Relentless in his pursuit of pleasure, Mettaton's only warning are sharp cries and the grip of claws. He unhands Emet-Selch in this moment, clutching his shoulders and sinking too-sharp nails into his upper back instead, his grip pulling back on his lover's body to more firmly push his cock inside of him.
The robot pushes Emet-Selch's ass flush to his hips, rolling thrusts the only thing that jostles his cock inside of him in as release hits him. Not at all does he remove the full of his length. He ejaculates only to the beat of pleasure found in burying his length, rubbing and massaging the head of his cock in his Bonded's body, and appreciating all over again the depth and exposure of their Bond, of their souls made as close to being one as they could be. He can feel his come spilling from his cock, a gush of filling heat that he knows Emet-Selch can't deny — and with whatever mind he possesses left, he thinks only of two things besides their present sex: of the taste in Emet-Selch's mouth reflecting the taste of his come, and of how much he adores Emet-Selch.
This man who has killed millions, who he'd love anyway. Who reduces the people Mettaton loves as though they're not living at all, who MTT would protect anyway. He appreciates him so much, and is agitated by him as well. Who else could Mettaton love so strongly but someone who could evoke the full depth and range of his expression? Emet-Selch is also deeply emotional and contradictory, finding love where he thinks it shouldn't be; unpredictable and volatile and persistently low-energy, gloomy, and Mettaton loves him for all of it. He couldn't even help falling so in love and it makes it that much more magnificent to behold.
Upon his completion, Mettaton still pushes his cock inside of Emet-Selch, rubbing his still-hard length into his Bonded in an effort to squeeze from him every drop of his own release. Even if it ends up on his abdomen and the bed, he craves it all. Each shift of his hips is accompanied by a low moan as he spreads his come inside of his lover deliberately, dipping the head of his cock into ejaculate and agitating it further.]
[Sometimes, Emet-Selch fails to produce sounds at all, for reasons that have nothing to do with a lack of air, or Mettaton-related obstructions. And the more he tries to make, the more pronounced it becomes, his voice a mess of raspy, intermittent static, though the intent behind it all remains as clear as ever. Even the lack of success in itself is an expression of pleasure, of rapturous attention and involvement; even without asphyxiation, the Ascian's thoughts had mostly dwindled onto these moments. Focused on every thrust, the way he received them, the way Mettaton provided them.
There was little space for anything outside of that, as though Mettaton's grip on him was holding more than his body in place, but had a firm, piercing grip on his mind. Even his soul hardly went unmarked, the Bond only facilitating the way their spirits could merge- at least, as far as they could merge, with an inundation of emotion attempting to make up for any gaps that came as a result of not being able to literally meld.
And the slightly erratic nature of Mettaton's thrusts further destabilized him, a rhythm persistent but unreliable, that he could trust to continue, but not know exactly how long, or how far his lover would move his cock inside him. Even if his attention could hardly become distracted, it certainly kept Emet-Selch alert, and slightly off-balance, unable to ever completely brace himself for the pleasure each stroke brought him.
A pleasure that continued to be considerable, as their bodies continued to massage one another with a squeezing grip and softness alike, of heat made slick, and a heavy rubbing worthy of rapture.
Though he notices when Mettaton lets go of his wrists, technically freeing them, there's not much Emet-Selch can do with his new opportunity, pressed otherwise into the bed by the heavy jerks of his lover's body. His hands don't shift much at all in their grip on the covers, the muscles in his arms taut and aching, his fingers clutching and digging at fabric for purchase unachievable. There was no escape possible, and none required; the only inevitability was orgasm, a promise of release that was becoming ever more prominent in his thoughts (as far as they could be considered thoughts) with every moment.
Nails pierce his back, his shoulders, and Emet-Selch can barely cry out from that either, though he tries to. His throat hurt, and his back and shoulders hurt, and everything smelled of blood and sex and Mettaton, and it was perfect. Later on, he would wonder if, on viewing the marks left to his back, whether he'd be able to imagine exactly the hold his lover had on him; he would assume so, a raw trail of claw marks and teeth, a precise imprint of how he'd kept him in place.
And from there, a memory of how he'd been moved, dragged further onto his erection, an endless rocking heat that felt like it could build forever- until it finally bursts, come flooding and burning and filling him. A satisfaction of sensation in a basic, primal way, uncomplicated and direct: Mettaton was claiming him like this, marking him as his own, spilling his ejaculate inside him so he would have no way of missing it, or missing him.
And Emet-Selch moans (it doesn't sound like one), and shudders and clenches around him, further wringing everything he could from Mettaton's still thrusting cock, feeling the way his motion was surely smearing his come against them both, giving them both a fine coating of the thick fluid.
It's the awareness of his pleasure- both through the physical heat and wet that his come provided, as well as all of his ecstasy through Bond- that finally triggers his own climax moments later. Hips jerking- partially into Mettaton's, partially to further rub his own trapped cock against the mattress- his own come spills out, another load to end up spread stickily against his own body- and this time, the covers of the bed as well.
By degrees, his body slackens, limbs going from rigid to boneless, body collapsing underneath the weight of his lover's. And Emet-Selch pants, every breath as raw sounding as all of his emotions felt.]
[But how rapturous Emet-Selch feels when he's being fucked. Energy and love and pleasure well up in him and in them both, and it would be hard to tell if it originated from one of them or not. Did it matter? They loved each other, and they belonged to one another. Their pain would be shared, and their happiness, too, could be shared. Pleasure and bliss and sorrow alike, the both of them felt strongly enough to make up for the other in spades. But moreover, they could overwhelm one another to their heart's content: Mettaton couldn't drown, and Emet-Selch enjoyed suffocating.
His voice is always a pleasure to hear, but in a state like this, Mettaton's sure he'll remember it. Practically a whisper of its former self, it's the evidence of their engagement with one another. And even though it lacks the full depth of its sound, Mettaton can practically hear what sorts of noises the Asican means to make when he shudders, breathes, rasps desperately as he feels Mettaton pounding into him, the sight of his fingers balled into the bedspread a delectable one. Mettaton can only imagine that his poor lover's made to brace himself for unpredictability, for handing over control to Mettaton and being met with such erratic drags of his cock, pleasure he can't begin to anticipate layered on top of the searing of pain.
Intensity enough to lose his mind. Mettaton can scarcely think himself, only capable in the afterglow of wanting more and more. He's insatiable, after all, and the breathing of his lover first tells him that he hasn't yet come. He feels Emet-Selch's body tightening around his length, pulling and squeezing from him everything he has to give, and he's made to bite his lip and moan. He has commentary for it, but it all dies before he could think to verbalize it, focusing all of his energy instead on thrusting.
When Emet-Selch comes, it feels like a bolt of pleasure, an indulgence, felt through their connection to one another. He squeezes his shaft still, rubbing over the head of his cock as he thrusts into the bed and then back into Mettaton's hips, as though stroking himself on his cock for beats more of arousal. But Emet-Selch's body is taught, Mettaton practically able to taste the imaginings of his abdomen made taut. Just thinking about how tense his body gets for the sake of pleasure, for the jerking of his hips and the full-bodied orgasm, makes him want to lick and kiss the whole of him some more. Mettaton moans all over again, a note of relief decorating his exhalation as he lets go of his shoulder and buries his face in his neck instead, blood and all.
Though he remains semi-stiff, as soon as Emet-Selch goes weak, Mettaton stills his hips to the best of his ability. The echoes of their movement still rub into Emet-Selch, but Mettaton presses damp, open-mouthed kisses to Emet-Selch's neck, licking at blood and skin both and relishing the taste of him, loving him and the way he could tell he wore Emet-Selch raw in all ways.
Emotions, especially, were spent. Drained and made into their most core feelings, no resistance or contrariness left between them. ...Except for Mettaton's cursed jewelry, which demands appeasement still. Emet-Selch's obvious enjoyment of him is enough for the moment, still reflecting on the push of his ass into his hips.
He listens to his rapid, raspy gasps, satisfied that he's worn Emet-Selch down so thoroughly. The robot hums low next to his neck, impassioned kisses taking on a sucking quality.
Mouth feeling numb, Mettaton tries for words as he lowers his body down to press against his lover more firmly. His fingers loosen in their grip, releasing their puncturing hold in his flesh. ...Emet-Selch is bloodied severely, wounds appearing more vast than they really are with all of this spatter, and Mettaton is suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to clean him. He moves down his shoulder, laving him with tongue and lapping at the smears of fresh blood with a sort of gentleness to accompany the afterglow of sex.
Applying a kiss against his wound, Mettaton licks gently there, too.]
Oh, H... Hades. You're... [He's a bloody mess, but he's beautiful. Exhausted, stroked to pleasure, even he's come four times over with a body like his. Mettaton smiles at him fondly, finding it flattering and terribly erotic that he'd be so receptive to him.] I love you. Was that to... your liking? How are you, my dear?
[Bloody or not, saliva-covered or not, Mettaton rests his cheek against his upper back even as he cleans, nuzzling him some more — an idle gesture, one of fondness, further making sure that he's bitten, scarred, marked, bruised, scented, and Mettaton's.]
[Distantly, Emet-Selch notices the thoughtful slowing of Mettaton's hips, avoiding too much additional stimulation when he was already overcome and given in, sensitive in more ways than he could count.
It's all he can do to breathe (uncomfortably) and only barely begin to take stock of the status of his body, and the position he was in with any detail (underneath Mettaton, legs spread, was about all he knew, but it probably covered the important parts). Mettaton was providing him both affection and love, a combination which results in him slackening even further into the bed, as though he could melt into it. There were no pretenses to keep in regards to his own condition, and there was a subtle relief to that.
Mettaton's voice was another small pleasure, and the Ascian's only regret is that hearing it also meant that he'd have to produce words of his own, through a throat that was not quite up to the task.]
I love you.
[...Definitely worse off than before, in both quality of sound and level of soreness. But Emet-Selch manages this part first, the most important part, in case he found himself too raw to continue. In case only rasp emerged.
Neverminding that he was already raw in every other sense as well, from that of scratched or punctured skin, to the vigorous thrusting in his ass, to the sense of being emotionally scraped clean. It felt like he didn't have the energy left to be stubborn or disruptive, or to do anything other than appreciate all that had occurred. All that rested on top of him and inside him, gently cleaning his wounds that he'd less-gently inflicted. But no less lovingly.
Emet-Selch would nuzzle back at him if he could, or at least make some sound to indicate his liking of Mettaton's gestures of affection, the soft rubs of his face at his back, the attempts to sooth or clean his injuries. But a sound like that was beyond him; he can only tremble a little underneath his Bonded's form, with a shiver too faint to even be called that. Emet-Selch ached terribly but he was... content. Four orgasms without much of a break between them would do that, but the comfort of being in contact with his lover's body afterward accounted for just as much of it.
Even Mettaton still being inside him was fine, and he wondered if the man would ever be less than somewhat hard. Like many thoughts, it would be an arousing one if he weren't so drained, so spent.
It's with effort that he drags his thoughts back to Mettaton's usual show of concern over his condition, rather than drift in a vague haze of calm soreness, basking in his lover's presence and their shared afterglow.]
--And I- loved that. [Quiet, and not only because it was uncomfortable to speak, causing him to choose his words with more care, and considering how difficult it was to gather his thoughts in the first place, it takes him some moments. But it feels like something of an admittance, for all that his pleasure hadn't exactly been hidden. But to recognize an enjoyment of being used like that, mounted and fucked- it was another thing he hadn't expected to discover about himself.
He'd sigh if it wouldn't hurt.] I feel- better for it, I think.
[A strange outlet for some of his impulses that wouldn't work with anyone else. To come out of it only feeling more tender towards Mettaton, softened entirely... it causes his throat to tighten, which hurts.]
How-- [A swallow that he immediately regrets.] You are. Are you. [One of those. Asking how Mettaton is, it seems, but he's not going to use more words just for the sake of coherency. He'd huff against the bed if it wouldn't also hurt.]
[Hearing his attempts at speech earns a sort of loving pity from Mettaton that he couldn't begin to describe having ever felt for anyone else, an endearment that accompanies finding him in such a sorry, but well-deserved, state. (Yes, being screwed by Mettaton into submission - tired, bloody, aching, used - is a well-deserved state.) He shifts to the nape of his neck, nuzzling him with his nose and pressing a kiss there. Surely detectable by Bond, all of Emet-Selch's exhaustion is something for Mettaton to enjoy and to take stock of, this state of being so spent a product wrought by them both.
But his ease and contentment is also present. It softens Mettaton further, imagining the sort of relief and release temporarily gained from being put through so much both physically and emotionally. His hand rises to stroke through Emet-Selch's hair, claws gentle against his scalp despite his more ferocious-leaning transformation.
It never stops making him want relax in a sort of woozy, love-stricken state, hearing Emet-Selch tell him he loves him. And hearing him confess that he loved this... A penchant for enjoying being put through pain at the hand of someone who cares for him, the intensity mounting to crowd out coherent thought. Combined with the use by Mettaton's hand, body offered up to stroke his cock until he reached orgasmic sensation, Mettaton thinks he understands what he loved. It's not only a pleasure to feel through their Bond, but a pleasure to be so subdued, trapped and penetrated, used and treated like prey by someone who loves him.
Feeling better for it is the natural result of being someone in such possession of frequently unsettled depths. Mettaton keeps his fingers in his hair, but uses his arms to enclose his shoulders more tightly at the admittance, nuzzling his neck with his cheek this time. He'd be glad to help him unwind and feel better, and it's not only because he enjoys doing this so much. But it helps that Mettaton enjoys this, anyway.
He could bask in this sensation. Sex is a thing he'd do for physical pleasure and for the delight he might get out of the social aspect, but it's a different thing with Emet-Selch. It always has been: intimate, raw, untested and unrestrained, full of emotion — slight opportunities to open up to each other, to render each other vulnerable until they found themselves... here, in this moment.
It rubbed them so raw that they'd find themselves loving each other and caring for one another so deeply, after all.
Mettaton closes his eye. Emet-Selch stumbles over his question, and he smiles, a short snort exhaled against his lover's neck. Another aspect endearing him.]
Wonderful, Hades. And... glad.
[It goes without saying that he's glad to hear Emet-Selch loved it, loves him, and feels better for it all. Feels contented to have been so fucked and secured, wrapped up in Mettaton even while he's wrapped around Mettaton. He pulls his fingers through tousled locks of dark brown hair, messy with the result of their sex and some of it surely with the residue of it — come, saliva, sweat, blood. A common way the two of them find themselves.
(After rendering Emet-Selch blind, Mettaton almost gets excited at the thought of taking him into the shower with him and surely staying completely on task by cleaning him, even though he needs no help with it anymore and Mettaton would only be a hindrance. He knows it. He would say he wouldn't, but he wouldn't make any promises.)
One of Mettaton's hands shifts as he allows the full of his weight to press into Emet-Selch's back, hand moving down to his lover's hip. He strokes him there, claws skimming over skin in his adoration and voice made soft, as if not wanting to talk over any soundless words from the Ascian.]
You must be exhausted. [Whereas Mettaton doesn't appear to be hardly at all. Not like this, teeth sharp, claws long, fur dark and presence darker, the sway of the false moons capable of rendering him into a diet state of his full moon shift.] Even if you're wanting more of me... Not that I'd blame you. I want more myself.
[At least Mettaton has the capacity to understand that Emet-Selch is undoubtedly spent, no matter how much he wants him. Although there's that vain part of the robot decked out in diamonds who believes it should be possible for arousal to hit his Bonded once more because it's for Mettaton. A fifth time! How flattering. He finds his hips moving with a touch more pronouncement.
Mettaton wants more already, but he's also grounded in the moment, perfectly complimented and sated by his lover's obvious adoration for him. He sighs dreamily.]
You always please me, darling. I loved that... a lot.
[A way of saying that he adores being on the other end of the equation, treating Emet-Selch to such thorough, vicious use, rendering them both raw and exposed to one another.]
[It was a strange state to find himself relaxing in (though calling it something like relaxing didn't really even begin to suffice), for all that it wasn't an entirely unfamiliar one, these days. Mettaton could have this effect on him, wearing him down and hollowing him out, yet leaving him full, his edges softened a bit by his use.
A bit more worn down than usual, though, in more than throat. A consequence, he suspected, of the kind of intensity brought by Mettaton's influenced state. And while those pendants offered only a limited version of the effect of the full moons (even if it was also enhanced, in a way, by the rest of Mettaton's cursed jewelry), it was enough to be... effective (as well as lead him to wondering what the puca would be like underneath the genuine article; it's enough to cause a shiver).
His eyes were already closed, but Emet-Selch continues to settle with the continuous affection Mettaton was showing him. The more gentle use of claws threading through his hair, the pressure of his arms in what embrace he could manage, every nuzzle and kiss. Every sigh and word.
It was so loving, and such a contrast to his viciousness, and yet so natural as well. And his own mood reflected that appreciation for it- that Mettaton would show him both of these extremes, would be as open as he was to him, giving over so much of himself... it made the Ascian feel that much more protective, devoted to him. Even if they had such differing views to so much... it hadn't changed anything of how they could feel for one another.
That Mettaton remained undaunted by their activity was expected, and for all that Emet-Selch was physically worn down himself, it yet remained intensely flattering to know, to feel. Their attraction to each other was... considerable.]
The limitations. Of the physical, organic form.
[That was to say that yes, he was exhausted. It was not, of course, to say that he didn't want more of him- when didn't he? That little movement of Mettaton's hips, the hint of jostling of his cock that he still had stuffed in his body- it wasn't exactly a way to dissuade him otherwise. Even if his own body couldn't follow along, he wouldn't discourage him, and it wasn't as though he wouldn't yet enjoy it in a way. But he was undoubtedly sore and tired. And while the emotional part of it was the most significant aspect, there were plenty of physical reminders as well....
Such as aching that would only become more pronounced as his various claw marks and scrapes and lovebites sought to remind him that they continued to exist in ways that weren't inherently erotic and weren't accompanied by an erection to match, blurring the boundary between suffering and pleasure. And as he began to cool down from all of that activity, (though Mettaton's body was at least trapping and reflecting some of his heat (all that additional fur likely also helped), as he rested against his back) that would only provide additional discomfort as his muscles chilled.
Not to mention all of the mess he was in, spattered with a mix of their fluids, something that would also become distinctly less pleasant as it dried. It's not as though he'd turn down the offer of a wash... but Emet-Selch knows exactly the nature of Mettaton's help, and that it would be both pleasant and completely inefficient, and quite possibly counter-productive (though at least any additional residue would be a trivial thing to clean). But at least less frustrating, compared to anything during that week of not being able to see him. The Ascian loved Mettaton terribly, terribly far... but it had certainly been a test of his patience with him.
Emet-Selch sighs internally, stretching a little underneath his robotic body (insofar as he can, anyway, with the puca on top of him). He does nudge his head back up against his, in place of any kind of returned nuzzling. Though he knew well enough that Mettaton had enjoyed himself, it was gratifying to hear it, to know that in this too they were matched. It was a different sort of rawness, perhaps, but one no less exposed, no less vulnerable, ultimately, despite being in a position of control.
Would he ever really be used to trusting someone and being trusted so far in return?]
--But I would always have you. [To want to satisfy him with his body, with his attention and his concern- how couldn't he, knowing of Mettaton's love for it?]
[There are two terrible paths, given Mettaton's state.
The first of these paths is the one easiest for Mettaton, and the one more risky. Mettaton would remain exactly where he is, and he'd try to fuck Emet-Selch. He'd mount him again and stroke himself off on his lover's body and leave more of his come behind, stopping only when he felt at all sated, which is an achievement that won't happen. And with Emet-Selch's limited ability to speak and become aroused again, Mettaton wouldn't feel adequately appreciated and become ever more incensed. His sex would become increasingly violent, more sore-inducing.
The other path might spare Emet-Selch of this impending disaster. Taking the Ascian to shower, though Mettatons libidinous inclination paint racy pictures in his mind of the ordeal, would likely mean he'll remove the jewelry while stepping out of range of the pendants for the moment. Even when they returned to bed, at least he would be merely influenced by the pendants rather than the double trouble of the pendants and the diamonds.
He's decided, after all, that it would be a blessing for him to take Emet-Selch again. And again. And again. Emet-Selch would continue to worship him and make him feel sensual and attractive, and he would spare his voice either to compliment his beauty, or he'd use it on tones of satisfaction. Even thinking about it has his hips shifting even more, eager for more. He is attracted to Emet-Selch, after all. Attracted to them together, bodies intertwined, and he longs for them to be in the heights of passion again. He's so easy to arouse in this state — not necessarily a default for him while influenced by the moons, but one easily provoked, and Emet-Selch's presence could almost always guarantee to be that provocation. And once started, how could he stop? Why would he, when Emet-Selch would be so blessed to have Mettaton's attention, so lucky to be filled with his come and marked from head to toe with bloody bite marks? It makes perfect sense.
Though for the moment, he remains tender and placated in affection. He'd always trust his lover, feeling his body moving and alive beneath him, and even hearing him attempt for speech has him kissing his shoulder some more. He feels likewise trusted, all of his emotions met for intensity.
He considers which path he'd like to take. And then he settles on one of them: whimsically, fueled only by a flash of thought of his lover made clean and comfortable (after Mettaton took him in the shower) (and made clean and comfortable for further use, for more loving, affectionate praise of his splendor). The excitement to both see him made comfortable enough to sink into his arms, and the thrill of being able to take him in other ways... He begins to rock his hips with more pronouncement, incapable of stilling himself, and he swallows.]
Of course. [Of course his body's limited, but of course he'd always have him. Mettaton nuzzles his neck.] But how about I clean you up, beautiful?
[Clean him up to do him all over again, obviously. The heated press of lips turns into something more of a suck of flesh against Emet-Selch's neck, short and sweet but obviously aroused. (As if his erection didn't make that plenty obvious, swollen and still embedded in his lover, still stroking himself.) His hand moves from Emet-Selch's hip to touch at a tender-looking bite in his shoulder, imagining what he'd look like washed of blood to expose all of the more bodily-bound marks Mettaton would have to appreciate, both bruises and wounds. He licks his lips.
He'd describe it all to Emet-Selch, and he would no doubt appreciate it all. By extension, he'd appreciate Mettaton's artistry of him. Yes, seeking out Emet-Selch while he's so hungry for everything is always the best choice.
Without waiting for a response, Mettaton reluctantly shifts around to withdraw his arousal — something that only grows more pressing with each instant, and should he remain like this, Mettaton's positive he'll end up fucking him into the bed all over again. He wouldn't mind that... But he could also do that after getting Emet-Selch unwound and clean, a different sort of beauty to ravish. Warm and unwound and clean, hair wet and ready to be marked up anew.
He loves him immensely, and feels loved in return. Mettaton couldn't resist having him in any way.]
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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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But there's no time for contemplation, when Emet-Selch is fully taken with what's taking place directly above his body- a thrusting even more tireless than usual, considering Mettaton's only partial transformation. And all the Ascian can spare a thought to then is an odd kind of relief, that the idol could possess such continuous energy to devote to sex. In this more animalistic state, influenced by curses and the false pull of the moons, it was surely only a boon to have a form that could make the most use of both violence and libido.
A boon... rather than yet another curse, to make even a temporary sating next to impossible to obtain. Especially since while the pull of the genuine moons would eventually fade as the night passed, and the sisters moved onward- these pendants were not necessarily as forgiving. They had no orbit. They were always full.
The sound of Mettaton's moan has his breathing catch, enticed by all of his responses. By the way he was made to lose the grip on his shoulder (even if he had appreciated that as well, a maintaining of an injury already raw), because of the puca's need to cry out from his own pleasure. And also at all of the affectionate treatment he spared his wounds- which also felt like a natural part of the cycle. Mettaton would bestow and treat (licking the blood from him counted as treatment, a balm to sooth punctured and torn skin), inflict and admire, allow some marks to rest, and force others toward scarring.
Warm kisses that he knows must be tinged with blood trail up his neck, Mettaton leaving imprints of more than that, sucking pressure that Emet-Selch could tell would bruise. Pressure strong enough, or with the edge of a tooth sharp enough, that there are times when he's not sure whether the puca had broken skin or not. The slight damp left behind further muddled his way of knowing, unable to tell whether it was saliva or fresh bleeding.
It hardly mattered; either would be a record of Mettaton's design, and in an area more towards the back of his neck, a location Emet-Selch would have a harder time seeing without the use of several mirrors. But even that was fine; just knowing that it was there would be an arousing thought in future, brands that he could touch and think back to this moment, his lover's lips at his neck, his blood on his lips, and his cock sinking deeper yet into his body. And his body itself, holding him down ever more solidly, with his other wrist restrained, pushed into the bed. A gesture he automatically tests, his arms taut, his body writhing, breathing rapid- but there was nowhere to go, he was there to be fucked, and to enjoy every part of it. Held down and legs spread, all he can do is arch and press into every thrust, his struggling taking the form of desperation for his cock, for his pleasure, to feel the giving tip of him squeezed so thoroughly by his body, and the firm ridge give him that massage that would leave him trembling.
And Emet-Selch can only cry out with him, a rougher accompaniment to the idol's voice, when Mettaton begins making good on his claim that he would take all of him. And- of course he would. It was absurd to think of accepting anything less than everything. He wanted all of his cock, down to the root, and with it a pounding hard enough to linger. He wanted all of his love, and all of his emotions. And he would give him everything he had, his despair and his fears, his solitude and this love that scalded.
Their desires, at least, were easily shared, even if it felt that for every instance of satisfaction, more needs manifested. But as he felt his body rocked into the bed, pinned down, his lover's hips meeting his ass, and his length shoved fully inside of him, a thickness and heat that he can't keep from tightening around- it was nothing but a reassurance. To know that Mettaton could keep taking him, would never, ever let him go empty of himself, in one way or another.
How could he ever bear being empty again? He couldn't- and each slick drag of cock was an assurance that he wouldn't have to. If he ever pulled out, it would only be after leaving his come behind- and surely he wouldn't think of leaving him without having made him properly full of his ejaculate?
As Emet-Selch thinks as well on the sensation of taking so much of Mettaton's come that he couldn't keep it from leaking from him, an unsubtle sign of his Bonded's use and presence, a claim obvious and obscene. And intensely arousing... which was a strange thing to note, considering how hard he already was, his stiffness shoved against the bed, where he'd eventually come himself, to make a sticky mess of both the covers and his own body (as though he hadn't already, considering how much had already been spread down his abdomen or thighs). But Mettaton's release deserved to rest inside his body, where he could feel his claim, hot and thick. That he'd already swallowed several rounds made him dwell on the lingering taste of it at his tongue, what bit had dripped and dried against his face- and now there was only to be made full in another way.]
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Because when Emet-Selch's finished testing his grip, he does submit. He bends to their carnal need, knowing that his fate is to be fucked, to be stroked by a heavy cock, to be pounded into rhythmically until he can't take it any longer. And though Mettaton occasionally finds himself staring down climax as though it's ready to hit him at any moment, he holds himself back for his lover's sake, wanting to stroke him and please him and bring them both to greater heights of wanting. Emet-Selch's movement is rendered into the curve of his back, pressing into Mettaton's hips for lack of anything else he can do but please them both.
Even though he's not seeing it with his eyes, it's a beautiful sight. Mettaton only wishes he had the ability to see them here together like this, Emet-Selch curving into his cock as he buries himself inside of his body, Emet-Selch made to stretch around his girth and to submit to the weight and hold of his form. The idol fancies himself a presence undeniable, and to feel these kinds of acknowledgements manages to stroke his ego some more: Emet-Selch giving in, arching into his thrusts, crying out in delight.
They both relished their sex, found it a means to express the depth and intensity of their love for each other. Mettaton thinks about that love as he stuffs his cock down to the base, sucking on his bite to swallow down pooling blood with a hearty shudder. His tongue prods skin and all he can smell is them together, topped off with the cherry red of blood... It's delectable, undeniable, desirable to his most basest pleasure and sense.
His whole body goes taut, pressing his lover's wrists more firmly into the bed as he curls into the Ascian with a renewed force, solidly mounting him. Fucking him. Taking him and claiming him, making sure that he knows he belongs to him. Each rock of his hips forces Emet-Selch's body into teeth, a pounding where he's immobilized by weight, by teeth, and by claws, pinned and preyed upon: a rough, ferocious claim, each curve of his body nestling the head of his cock deep in preparation for climax.
All the robot can think about anymore is the compatibility of them. They please each other, incite each other, swing from mood to mood and facilitate each other's intensity. They hold each other and love each other, and equally, that tension of testiness and conceit agitates them both. In moments like this, they fall into rhythm so easily, fulfilling each other's needs that they didn't know they had: if Emet-Selch takes solace in feeling Mettaton's endless libido and succumbing to the comfort of being so claimed with no escape, Mettaton takes deep satisfaction in the unfettered contact with his lover, the ache and the pain and the full-bodied expression of their selves they could give each other. He loves the feeling and the connection, the intensity of pleasure and of emotions.
His pounding is made up of strokes that only pull out so far, reluctant to withdraw his cock much at all, and Emet-Selch's held so firmly in place between teeth and cock that there's no way he can't feel the full brunt of his use. The squeeze of his body is rapturous, the pleasure immense, the animalistic way he can mount him and fuck him and stroke his cock on his body a delight, and each of Mettaton's thrusts are accompanied by a short, sweet moan, soft and barely escaping his throat. He radiates ecstasy, each push into his Bonded enough to rock them against the bed, even while he holds his lover firmly against his hips.]
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And even more than in body was the submission in spirit, to not only Mettaton's particular designs on his form, but to the inundation of his feelings. That was even more inescapable than the penetration of incisor or erection, that absolute need to have him and keep him, that protectiveness and care- a boundless wanting that would be easy to drown in. And in a way, the Ascian was, but then- he'd recently learned of the ecstasy to be found in suffocation.
But he could be both consumed by it, while swallowing up in turn. It wasn't a defense- how could he defend against anything of Mettaton's? even if he desired it, it would be a futile gesture- but the only possible response. He would match it, and ever attempt to surpass it. He would demand to be preyed on, the only one for Mettaton to hunt down and capture, tear apart and devour and love like this. And Emet-Selch would protect him, even if he had to burn the world to do it. It was natural for his adoration to occur to him in those terms, involving the mass death or sacrifice of others. How else could love manifest, but in a willingness to ruin all others for the sake of one beloved?
And yet he felt so tenderly for him at the same time, a feeling that didn't register as contradictory. What else was Mettaton doing but expressing the same, through the hardness of each thrust, and the dig of his teeth? They were doing all of this for one another, expressing feelings in a way effective, overwhelming, and ecstatic. A gentleness of heart expressed through the tearing of flesh, the drinking of blood, and the pounding of their bodies.
--How deeply, Emet-Selch could feel him. Even if Mettaton's erection was only the conduit, the Ascian trembled from the force of it, his body bracing itself only to help drive him deeper, to feel the way he curved and fit so precisely inside him. He was hot, and made ever hotter by the friction of their union, evident no matter the slickness of Mettaton's glide, or the accommodation of his body. And he was rigid, no matter the softness of the glans, or the hint of give to his skin, with a stiffness more than capable of forcing him to meld to him, to adapt and take and pleasure his length with tightness and heat.
Every moan on Mettaton's part caught his breath, to the point where it felt like Emet-Selch could scarcely remember to breathe at all, except to add his own voice to the mix. His own sounds of pleasure, of desperation, of pleading- to keep taking him like this. That he would give him everything he wanted, if he wouldn't stop, would always love him and have him--
His voice is a rough whine, reduced past words, and damaged further by each sound he manages to produce. Each rock of his body was pushing him closer to the edge, and it took everything the Ascian had to not only hold on, but to keep from collapsing entirely underneath him. His own erection throbbed with something more than ache, and his own jaws bite absently at the bedcovers beneath him, in some need to tear into something as his body was ravished.
It felt like Mettaton barely left his body at all, which was ideal, the meeting of their hips continuous and hard, a connection that left them so flush that Emet-Selch could feel much of the puca's crotch against his ass. Another reminder, another thrill, of truly understanding how deeply he was taking him- and for all that he wished as well that he could see it, see the impression of that thickness stretching and stuffing him, there was no opportunity for anything like regret. But he knew without doubt that they were beautiful like this together, a carnal intertwining, brutality and adoration expressed in their truest form- something that deserved an audience, despite also knowing that no one else deserved to see such perfection.]
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With sounds so lovely and pushed beyond their limits, Mettaton feels both flattered and softened for Emet-Selch. He wants to kiss his neck and tell him he loves him and that his voice sounds wonderful, to keep treating him to the reminder of himself made so fucked; it only serves to remind him of the swell in his throat, in the swallow, the choking, the rapture of holding his cock in favor of air and drinking it down, filling himself with load after load of come. Mettaton imagines vividly the chance to watch Emet-Selch in full arousal, watching his cock hard and curved and desperate for relief, a relief the Ascian found not necessarily in touch, but in sucking on Mettaton's arousal, in breathing him and swallowing him. Emet-Selch gets off on being inundated by Mettaton, he realizes all over again.
And that, along with this primal fucking and animalistic taking, is enough to push the robot over the edge. Of course he'd like this, his every sense overcome by himself, and it serves to compliment him, that someone would want to drown in him. Why shouldn't he? Mettaton is worthy of being drowned in.
But on a level that deals with his love for Emet-Selch, he wants only to drown in him right back. He wants his most tempestuous of feelings and wants his every trouble, wants to soothe him and hold him and keep him close and protect, to hurt him and love him; he wants to be served and protected and treated to dedication, to be hurt and loved in return. Right now, this marking and mounting and ravenous fucking would be the only appropriate way to communicate his lust, so he pounds into him, with fervor, dedicating to Emet-Selch deep, firm thrusts with erratic, unpredictable longer ones, just so he could reassert to Emet-Selch each impale of his cock.
It's delightful. Mettaton cries out into his bite, lapping still at blood that slowly drains into his mouth. He can't imagine anything beyond this moment between them, only the taste of his blood and skin and the smell of his body, decorated by blood and sex. He can feel his tightness and hear his breathing and feel their pleasure radiating off of each other. If they had an audience, Mettaton knows they would fathom that which they couldn't understand, and crave it: they'd inspire by pure expression alone, and that's what he desires. (He doesn't hold the haughty opinion that nobody deserved them, however. Even if they were a sight exalted, people deserved to see Mettaton even when they were most undeserving, because he would want them to.)
More gasps of pleasure around bloodied skin that he refuses to detach from, Mettaton only curls into Emet-Selch more firmly, mounting him more prominently. He strokes his cock on Emet-Selch's body, feeling his tightness grip around the shaft of him, rub divinely along the glans as his body pulls and massages his erection. Each push forward feels tight and slick, Emet-Selch's body hugging around the head of his cock. It's nothing like the suction of a swallow but it's hot and so soft. Mettaton knows he can deposit his load deep within him this way, too, and Emet-Selch would feel thick heat. He would feel delightful, being given another of Mettaton's releases to enjoy, and it would be another reminder of him to savor.
Relentless in his pursuit of pleasure, Mettaton's only warning are sharp cries and the grip of claws. He unhands Emet-Selch in this moment, clutching his shoulders and sinking too-sharp nails into his upper back instead, his grip pulling back on his lover's body to more firmly push his cock inside of him.
The robot pushes Emet-Selch's ass flush to his hips, rolling thrusts the only thing that jostles his cock inside of him in as release hits him. Not at all does he remove the full of his length. He ejaculates only to the beat of pleasure found in burying his length, rubbing and massaging the head of his cock in his Bonded's body, and appreciating all over again the depth and exposure of their Bond, of their souls made as close to being one as they could be. He can feel his come spilling from his cock, a gush of filling heat that he knows Emet-Selch can't deny — and with whatever mind he possesses left, he thinks only of two things besides their present sex: of the taste in Emet-Selch's mouth reflecting the taste of his come, and of how much he adores Emet-Selch.
This man who has killed millions, who he'd love anyway. Who reduces the people Mettaton loves as though they're not living at all, who MTT would protect anyway. He appreciates him so much, and is agitated by him as well. Who else could Mettaton love so strongly but someone who could evoke the full depth and range of his expression? Emet-Selch is also deeply emotional and contradictory, finding love where he thinks it shouldn't be; unpredictable and volatile and persistently low-energy, gloomy, and Mettaton loves him for all of it. He couldn't even help falling so in love and it makes it that much more magnificent to behold.
Upon his completion, Mettaton still pushes his cock inside of Emet-Selch, rubbing his still-hard length into his Bonded in an effort to squeeze from him every drop of his own release. Even if it ends up on his abdomen and the bed, he craves it all. Each shift of his hips is accompanied by a low moan as he spreads his come inside of his lover deliberately, dipping the head of his cock into ejaculate and agitating it further.]
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There was little space for anything outside of that, as though Mettaton's grip on him was holding more than his body in place, but had a firm, piercing grip on his mind. Even his soul hardly went unmarked, the Bond only facilitating the way their spirits could merge- at least, as far as they could merge, with an inundation of emotion attempting to make up for any gaps that came as a result of not being able to literally meld.
And the slightly erratic nature of Mettaton's thrusts further destabilized him, a rhythm persistent but unreliable, that he could trust to continue, but not know exactly how long, or how far his lover would move his cock inside him. Even if his attention could hardly become distracted, it certainly kept Emet-Selch alert, and slightly off-balance, unable to ever completely brace himself for the pleasure each stroke brought him.
A pleasure that continued to be considerable, as their bodies continued to massage one another with a squeezing grip and softness alike, of heat made slick, and a heavy rubbing worthy of rapture.
Though he notices when Mettaton lets go of his wrists, technically freeing them, there's not much Emet-Selch can do with his new opportunity, pressed otherwise into the bed by the heavy jerks of his lover's body. His hands don't shift much at all in their grip on the covers, the muscles in his arms taut and aching, his fingers clutching and digging at fabric for purchase unachievable. There was no escape possible, and none required; the only inevitability was orgasm, a promise of release that was becoming ever more prominent in his thoughts (as far as they could be considered thoughts) with every moment.
Nails pierce his back, his shoulders, and Emet-Selch can barely cry out from that either, though he tries to. His throat hurt, and his back and shoulders hurt, and everything smelled of blood and sex and Mettaton, and it was perfect. Later on, he would wonder if, on viewing the marks left to his back, whether he'd be able to imagine exactly the hold his lover had on him; he would assume so, a raw trail of claw marks and teeth, a precise imprint of how he'd kept him in place.
And from there, a memory of how he'd been moved, dragged further onto his erection, an endless rocking heat that felt like it could build forever- until it finally bursts, come flooding and burning and filling him. A satisfaction of sensation in a basic, primal way, uncomplicated and direct: Mettaton was claiming him like this, marking him as his own, spilling his ejaculate inside him so he would have no way of missing it, or missing him.
And Emet-Selch moans (it doesn't sound like one), and shudders and clenches around him, further wringing everything he could from Mettaton's still thrusting cock, feeling the way his motion was surely smearing his come against them both, giving them both a fine coating of the thick fluid.
It's the awareness of his pleasure- both through the physical heat and wet that his come provided, as well as all of his ecstasy through Bond- that finally triggers his own climax moments later. Hips jerking- partially into Mettaton's, partially to further rub his own trapped cock against the mattress- his own come spills out, another load to end up spread stickily against his own body- and this time, the covers of the bed as well.
By degrees, his body slackens, limbs going from rigid to boneless, body collapsing underneath the weight of his lover's. And Emet-Selch pants, every breath as raw sounding as all of his emotions felt.]
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His voice is always a pleasure to hear, but in a state like this, Mettaton's sure he'll remember it. Practically a whisper of its former self, it's the evidence of their engagement with one another. And even though it lacks the full depth of its sound, Mettaton can practically hear what sorts of noises the Asican means to make when he shudders, breathes, rasps desperately as he feels Mettaton pounding into him, the sight of his fingers balled into the bedspread a delectable one. Mettaton can only imagine that his poor lover's made to brace himself for unpredictability, for handing over control to Mettaton and being met with such erratic drags of his cock, pleasure he can't begin to anticipate layered on top of the searing of pain.
Intensity enough to lose his mind. Mettaton can scarcely think himself, only capable in the afterglow of wanting more and more. He's insatiable, after all, and the breathing of his lover first tells him that he hasn't yet come. He feels Emet-Selch's body tightening around his length, pulling and squeezing from him everything he has to give, and he's made to bite his lip and moan. He has commentary for it, but it all dies before he could think to verbalize it, focusing all of his energy instead on thrusting.
When Emet-Selch comes, it feels like a bolt of pleasure, an indulgence, felt through their connection to one another. He squeezes his shaft still, rubbing over the head of his cock as he thrusts into the bed and then back into Mettaton's hips, as though stroking himself on his cock for beats more of arousal. But Emet-Selch's body is taught, Mettaton practically able to taste the imaginings of his abdomen made taut. Just thinking about how tense his body gets for the sake of pleasure, for the jerking of his hips and the full-bodied orgasm, makes him want to lick and kiss the whole of him some more. Mettaton moans all over again, a note of relief decorating his exhalation as he lets go of his shoulder and buries his face in his neck instead, blood and all.
Though he remains semi-stiff, as soon as Emet-Selch goes weak, Mettaton stills his hips to the best of his ability. The echoes of their movement still rub into Emet-Selch, but Mettaton presses damp, open-mouthed kisses to Emet-Selch's neck, licking at blood and skin both and relishing the taste of him, loving him and the way he could tell he wore Emet-Selch raw in all ways.
Emotions, especially, were spent. Drained and made into their most core feelings, no resistance or contrariness left between them. ...Except for Mettaton's cursed jewelry, which demands appeasement still. Emet-Selch's obvious enjoyment of him is enough for the moment, still reflecting on the push of his ass into his hips.
He listens to his rapid, raspy gasps, satisfied that he's worn Emet-Selch down so thoroughly. The robot hums low next to his neck, impassioned kisses taking on a sucking quality.
Mouth feeling numb, Mettaton tries for words as he lowers his body down to press against his lover more firmly. His fingers loosen in their grip, releasing their puncturing hold in his flesh. ...Emet-Selch is bloodied severely, wounds appearing more vast than they really are with all of this spatter, and Mettaton is suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to clean him. He moves down his shoulder, laving him with tongue and lapping at the smears of fresh blood with a sort of gentleness to accompany the afterglow of sex.
Applying a kiss against his wound, Mettaton licks gently there, too.]
Oh, H... Hades. You're... [He's a bloody mess, but he's beautiful. Exhausted, stroked to pleasure, even he's come four times over with a body like his. Mettaton smiles at him fondly, finding it flattering and terribly erotic that he'd be so receptive to him.] I love you. Was that to... your liking? How are you, my dear?
[Bloody or not, saliva-covered or not, Mettaton rests his cheek against his upper back even as he cleans, nuzzling him some more — an idle gesture, one of fondness, further making sure that he's bitten, scarred, marked, bruised, scented, and Mettaton's.]
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It's all he can do to breathe (uncomfortably) and only barely begin to take stock of the status of his body, and the position he was in with any detail (underneath Mettaton, legs spread, was about all he knew, but it probably covered the important parts). Mettaton was providing him both affection and love, a combination which results in him slackening even further into the bed, as though he could melt into it. There were no pretenses to keep in regards to his own condition, and there was a subtle relief to that.
Mettaton's voice was another small pleasure, and the Ascian's only regret is that hearing it also meant that he'd have to produce words of his own, through a throat that was not quite up to the task.]
I love you.
[...Definitely worse off than before, in both quality of sound and level of soreness. But Emet-Selch manages this part first, the most important part, in case he found himself too raw to continue. In case only rasp emerged.
Neverminding that he was already raw in every other sense as well, from that of scratched or punctured skin, to the vigorous thrusting in his ass, to the sense of being emotionally scraped clean. It felt like he didn't have the energy left to be stubborn or disruptive, or to do anything other than appreciate all that had occurred. All that rested on top of him and inside him, gently cleaning his wounds that he'd less-gently inflicted. But no less lovingly.
Emet-Selch would nuzzle back at him if he could, or at least make some sound to indicate his liking of Mettaton's gestures of affection, the soft rubs of his face at his back, the attempts to sooth or clean his injuries. But a sound like that was beyond him; he can only tremble a little underneath his Bonded's form, with a shiver too faint to even be called that. Emet-Selch ached terribly but he was... content. Four orgasms without much of a break between them would do that, but the comfort of being in contact with his lover's body afterward accounted for just as much of it.
Even Mettaton still being inside him was fine, and he wondered if the man would ever be less than somewhat hard. Like many thoughts, it would be an arousing one if he weren't so drained, so spent.
It's with effort that he drags his thoughts back to Mettaton's usual show of concern over his condition, rather than drift in a vague haze of calm soreness, basking in his lover's presence and their shared afterglow.]
--And I- loved that. [Quiet, and not only because it was uncomfortable to speak, causing him to choose his words with more care, and considering how difficult it was to gather his thoughts in the first place, it takes him some moments. But it feels like something of an admittance, for all that his pleasure hadn't exactly been hidden. But to recognize an enjoyment of being used like that, mounted and fucked- it was another thing he hadn't expected to discover about himself.
He'd sigh if it wouldn't hurt.] I feel- better for it, I think.
[A strange outlet for some of his impulses that wouldn't work with anyone else. To come out of it only feeling more tender towards Mettaton, softened entirely... it causes his throat to tighten, which hurts.]
How-- [A swallow that he immediately regrets.] You are. Are you. [One of those. Asking how Mettaton is, it seems, but he's not going to use more words just for the sake of coherency. He'd huff against the bed if it wouldn't also hurt.]
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But his ease and contentment is also present. It softens Mettaton further, imagining the sort of relief and release temporarily gained from being put through so much both physically and emotionally. His hand rises to stroke through Emet-Selch's hair, claws gentle against his scalp despite his more ferocious-leaning transformation.
It never stops making him want relax in a sort of woozy, love-stricken state, hearing Emet-Selch tell him he loves him. And hearing him confess that he loved this... A penchant for enjoying being put through pain at the hand of someone who cares for him, the intensity mounting to crowd out coherent thought. Combined with the use by Mettaton's hand, body offered up to stroke his cock until he reached orgasmic sensation, Mettaton thinks he understands what he loved. It's not only a pleasure to feel through their Bond, but a pleasure to be so subdued, trapped and penetrated, used and treated like prey by someone who loves him.
Feeling better for it is the natural result of being someone in such possession of frequently unsettled depths. Mettaton keeps his fingers in his hair, but uses his arms to enclose his shoulders more tightly at the admittance, nuzzling his neck with his cheek this time. He'd be glad to help him unwind and feel better, and it's not only because he enjoys doing this so much. But it helps that Mettaton enjoys this, anyway.
He could bask in this sensation. Sex is a thing he'd do for physical pleasure and for the delight he might get out of the social aspect, but it's a different thing with Emet-Selch. It always has been: intimate, raw, untested and unrestrained, full of emotion — slight opportunities to open up to each other, to render each other vulnerable until they found themselves... here, in this moment.
It rubbed them so raw that they'd find themselves loving each other and caring for one another so deeply, after all.
Mettaton closes his eye. Emet-Selch stumbles over his question, and he smiles, a short snort exhaled against his lover's neck. Another aspect endearing him.]
Wonderful, Hades. And... glad.
[It goes without saying that he's glad to hear Emet-Selch loved it, loves him, and feels better for it all. Feels contented to have been so fucked and secured, wrapped up in Mettaton even while he's wrapped around Mettaton. He pulls his fingers through tousled locks of dark brown hair, messy with the result of their sex and some of it surely with the residue of it — come, saliva, sweat, blood. A common way the two of them find themselves.
(After rendering Emet-Selch blind, Mettaton almost gets excited at the thought of taking him into the shower with him and surely staying completely on task by cleaning him, even though he needs no help with it anymore and Mettaton would only be a hindrance. He knows it. He would say he wouldn't, but he wouldn't make any promises.)
One of Mettaton's hands shifts as he allows the full of his weight to press into Emet-Selch's back, hand moving down to his lover's hip. He strokes him there, claws skimming over skin in his adoration and voice made soft, as if not wanting to talk over any soundless words from the Ascian.]
You must be exhausted. [Whereas Mettaton doesn't appear to be hardly at all. Not like this, teeth sharp, claws long, fur dark and presence darker, the sway of the false moons capable of rendering him into a diet state of his full moon shift.] Even if you're wanting more of me... Not that I'd blame you. I want more myself.
[At least Mettaton has the capacity to understand that Emet-Selch is undoubtedly spent, no matter how much he wants him. Although there's that vain part of the robot decked out in diamonds who believes it should be possible for arousal to hit his Bonded once more because it's for Mettaton. A fifth time! How flattering. He finds his hips moving with a touch more pronouncement.
Mettaton wants more already, but he's also grounded in the moment, perfectly complimented and sated by his lover's obvious adoration for him. He sighs dreamily.]
You always please me, darling. I loved that... a lot.
[A way of saying that he adores being on the other end of the equation, treating Emet-Selch to such thorough, vicious use, rendering them both raw and exposed to one another.]
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A bit more worn down than usual, though, in more than throat. A consequence, he suspected, of the kind of intensity brought by Mettaton's influenced state. And while those pendants offered only a limited version of the effect of the full moons (even if it was also enhanced, in a way, by the rest of Mettaton's cursed jewelry), it was enough to be... effective (as well as lead him to wondering what the puca would be like underneath the genuine article; it's enough to cause a shiver).
His eyes were already closed, but Emet-Selch continues to settle with the continuous affection Mettaton was showing him. The more gentle use of claws threading through his hair, the pressure of his arms in what embrace he could manage, every nuzzle and kiss. Every sigh and word.
It was so loving, and such a contrast to his viciousness, and yet so natural as well. And his own mood reflected that appreciation for it- that Mettaton would show him both of these extremes, would be as open as he was to him, giving over so much of himself... it made the Ascian feel that much more protective, devoted to him. Even if they had such differing views to so much... it hadn't changed anything of how they could feel for one another.
That Mettaton remained undaunted by their activity was expected, and for all that Emet-Selch was physically worn down himself, it yet remained intensely flattering to know, to feel. Their attraction to each other was... considerable.]
The limitations. Of the physical, organic form.
[That was to say that yes, he was exhausted. It was not, of course, to say that he didn't want more of him- when didn't he? That little movement of Mettaton's hips, the hint of jostling of his cock that he still had stuffed in his body- it wasn't exactly a way to dissuade him otherwise. Even if his own body couldn't follow along, he wouldn't discourage him, and it wasn't as though he wouldn't yet enjoy it in a way. But he was undoubtedly sore and tired. And while the emotional part of it was the most significant aspect, there were plenty of physical reminders as well....
Such as aching that would only become more pronounced as his various claw marks and scrapes and lovebites sought to remind him that they continued to exist in ways that weren't inherently erotic and weren't accompanied by an erection to match, blurring the boundary between suffering and pleasure. And as he began to cool down from all of that activity, (though Mettaton's body was at least trapping and reflecting some of his heat (all that additional fur likely also helped), as he rested against his back) that would only provide additional discomfort as his muscles chilled.
Not to mention all of the mess he was in, spattered with a mix of their fluids, something that would also become distinctly less pleasant as it dried. It's not as though he'd turn down the offer of a wash... but Emet-Selch knows exactly the nature of Mettaton's help, and that it would be both pleasant and completely inefficient, and quite possibly counter-productive (though at least any additional residue would be a trivial thing to clean). But at least less frustrating, compared to anything during that week of not being able to see him. The Ascian loved Mettaton terribly, terribly far... but it had certainly been a test of his patience with him.
Emet-Selch sighs internally, stretching a little underneath his robotic body (insofar as he can, anyway, with the puca on top of him). He does nudge his head back up against his, in place of any kind of returned nuzzling. Though he knew well enough that Mettaton had enjoyed himself, it was gratifying to hear it, to know that in this too they were matched. It was a different sort of rawness, perhaps, but one no less exposed, no less vulnerable, ultimately, despite being in a position of control.
Would he ever really be used to trusting someone and being trusted so far in return?]
--But I would always have you. [To want to satisfy him with his body, with his attention and his concern- how couldn't he, knowing of Mettaton's love for it?]
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The first of these paths is the one easiest for Mettaton, and the one more risky. Mettaton would remain exactly where he is, and he'd try to fuck Emet-Selch. He'd mount him again and stroke himself off on his lover's body and leave more of his come behind, stopping only when he felt at all sated, which is an achievement that won't happen. And with Emet-Selch's limited ability to speak and become aroused again, Mettaton wouldn't feel adequately appreciated and become ever more incensed. His sex would become increasingly violent, more sore-inducing.
The other path might spare Emet-Selch of this impending disaster. Taking the Ascian to shower, though Mettatons libidinous inclination paint racy pictures in his mind of the ordeal, would likely mean he'll remove the jewelry while stepping out of range of the pendants for the moment. Even when they returned to bed, at least he would be merely influenced by the pendants rather than the double trouble of the pendants and the diamonds.
He's decided, after all, that it would be a blessing for him to take Emet-Selch again. And again. And again. Emet-Selch would continue to worship him and make him feel sensual and attractive, and he would spare his voice either to compliment his beauty, or he'd use it on tones of satisfaction. Even thinking about it has his hips shifting even more, eager for more. He is attracted to Emet-Selch, after all. Attracted to them together, bodies intertwined, and he longs for them to be in the heights of passion again. He's so easy to arouse in this state — not necessarily a default for him while influenced by the moons, but one easily provoked, and Emet-Selch's presence could almost always guarantee to be that provocation. And once started, how could he stop? Why would he, when Emet-Selch would be so blessed to have Mettaton's attention, so lucky to be filled with his come and marked from head to toe with bloody bite marks? It makes perfect sense.
Though for the moment, he remains tender and placated in affection. He'd always trust his lover, feeling his body moving and alive beneath him, and even hearing him attempt for speech has him kissing his shoulder some more. He feels likewise trusted, all of his emotions met for intensity.
He considers which path he'd like to take. And then he settles on one of them: whimsically, fueled only by a flash of thought of his lover made clean and comfortable (after Mettaton took him in the shower) (and made clean and comfortable for further use, for more loving, affectionate praise of his splendor). The excitement to both see him made comfortable enough to sink into his arms, and the thrill of being able to take him in other ways... He begins to rock his hips with more pronouncement, incapable of stilling himself, and he swallows.]
Of course. [Of course his body's limited, but of course he'd always have him. Mettaton nuzzles his neck.] But how about I clean you up, beautiful?
[Clean him up to do him all over again, obviously. The heated press of lips turns into something more of a suck of flesh against Emet-Selch's neck, short and sweet but obviously aroused. (As if his erection didn't make that plenty obvious, swollen and still embedded in his lover, still stroking himself.) His hand moves from Emet-Selch's hip to touch at a tender-looking bite in his shoulder, imagining what he'd look like washed of blood to expose all of the more bodily-bound marks Mettaton would have to appreciate, both bruises and wounds. He licks his lips.
He'd describe it all to Emet-Selch, and he would no doubt appreciate it all. By extension, he'd appreciate Mettaton's artistry of him. Yes, seeking out Emet-Selch while he's so hungry for everything is always the best choice.
Without waiting for a response, Mettaton reluctantly shifts around to withdraw his arousal — something that only grows more pressing with each instant, and should he remain like this, Mettaton's positive he'll end up fucking him into the bed all over again. He wouldn't mind that... But he could also do that after getting Emet-Selch unwound and clean, a different sort of beauty to ravish. Warm and unwound and clean, hair wet and ready to be marked up anew.
He loves him immensely, and feels loved in return. Mettaton couldn't resist having him in any way.]
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