[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.]
[Emet-Selch can more or less guess at the two most pressing options in Mettaton's head: fucking him now, or (probably) fucking him while he's being cleaned. Just letting him go to sleep wasn't even a distant third of a choice, which reduced the future to options that involved consciousness and touching each other. It was... pleasant, in a way he had a hard time understanding, to have his options made so straightforward, with anything beyond that not something he needed to consider.
And as more noticeable as his Bonded's erection became (something the Ascian was in a perfect location to pay attention to, something to elevate his pulse, though his own body had little means of following through on any interest), the more likely he thought it would be that the puca would give in to what was most readily available. All he would have to do is resume thrusting, continue to claim a body already prepared and stretched around him, further slicked by his come. He had already been shifting his hips with ever more suggestion of what he wanted to do (which was continue to have sex).
And then Mettaton's decision comes, accompanied by the warmth of his nuzzles, and followed by kisses to his neck that were anything but chaste. On one hand, Emet-Selch is slightly surprised by it, by this forestalling of satisfaction in favor of anything that did not include immediately continuing to fuck him. On the other, he knew that it was anything but a mercy (a mercy that he wouldn't have wanted anyway), and that Mettaton's assistance in cleaning him would be anything but clinical. A choice of having him under different circumstances only, and that's something the Ascian can accept readily.
So Mettaton pulling from his body was an acceptable development (and still gave him that mix of relief-and-regret, wanting that fullness, especially when his lover was still hard), the man having already decided for them their course of action. A decision that Emet-Selch had no problem accepting, as he attempts to push himself up, to look back at him over his shoulder. A movement that in itself hurt, straining several bites, but he ignores that.]
Would you? --Then I'll. Accept your help.
[He did like the mess sex left him in. The disarray of sweat and blood and come, a display of excess that both hid and enhanced the bruises and bites left underneath them. An indulgence arousing to think upon, an aftermath worth appreciation and reflection. Emet-Selch also liked being clean.
And that would bring its own sort of appreciation and comfort, to wrap up with Mettaton while damp with water, relaxed and enticed all at once. Comfortable, in a different sort of way, that any ache he felt would only enhance. It was an appealing thought... and worth a few moments of patience.
Getting his wounds washed would undoubtedly sting, but considering how frequently Mettaton bit him, this was a not unfamiliar part of the process. Having Mettaton able to inspect everything he'd applied though- it was a pleasing thought, to know he could admire his handiwork while it was at its freshest, and with minimal blood (delicious as it apparently was) getting in the way.
If Mettaton permits, he'll make the slow, shuffling effort of taking a position that wasn't face down on the bed with his legs spread. Anything that stretched his back was uncomfortable, and a few slowly-clotting wounds tear a bit in his effort, but at least only having been fucked this way once meant that he would still be able to walk without any real trouble. Even if his lover was more than capable of carrying him. No blind teleportation required either.
But once able to face him, Emet-Selch was struck again by how beautiful he was, long-clawed and bright-eye'd and blood-smeared. Glittering with jewelry and potential fervor, and a thick erection on display that he'd already taken several times. Another moment of recognizing his beauty, and even had the Ascian been more capable of speech, he probably would've still been just as inclined instead to respond to the sight by leaning over to kiss him. A gesture more tender than heated, though the hint of tongue suggested no reduction in attraction no matter the condition of his own body. Emet-Selch felt a mess by comparison, but that was fine; it was all a part of their shared efforts, and there was no one else he'd want to look like this for.]
[At his assent, Mettaton hums. His eye slips closed as he places a kiss to the back of his head, listening to the struggle Emet-Selch goes through to speak. Withdrawing and pulling off of him, he gets a good look at Emet-Selch from behind when he pulls back: legs awfully spread by Mettaton's demand, spread enough that he can see the bruises he sucked into his inner thighs with perfect clarity...
His cock aches hard from that alone, the pressure reminding him of what it might feel like if he had a heart. The pulsing of engorgement, distracting in a way totally unlike the continuous build of need and hypnotizing in its own right. But Emet-Selch's also bitten all over his upper back, bruises and bites and still fresh blood, much of it cleaned by tongue. Emet-Selch rises, a process labored by wounds that end up becoming agitated all over again. Watching the Ascian move to face him feels like it takes so long, a process made more pronounced by the ache in his abdomen.
His eyes skirt down his figure, taking in his waist, his hips, his ass again, watching him shift around to face him better — then, his chest, his abdomen, his crotch. What a sight he is. The bed's responsible for having smeared much of his come, but evidence of ejaculation rests above his Bonded's cock, the smell of their sex still hot in to his senses. Mettaton fantasizes hard about those thighs, his ass, the sight of his cock smeared with come, and those bright eyes of his eye him hungrily all over again.
He abstains only because he's not fully under the sway of the sisters.
Emet-Selch leans in, however, to place a kiss to his lips. It's sweet and soft, but the touch of tongue lights Mettaton up anew — and he can feel that adoration of him without words exchanged at all, striking in him ever more eagerness. With that predatory verve, he kisses the other man back with tongue, thrusting past his lips as one of his hands presses to the back of Emet-Selch's head, slipping and twisting into hair. Mettaton looms with more strength to his demeanor as though ready to pounce, ready to push Emet-Selch back all over again, ready to topple him over and fuck him. His erection practically feels like it's pulsing with his sudden need, his head filled with the sight of his Bonded's thighs spread, come smeared on skin, bruises sucked between his thighs—
(And when he thinks about Emet-Selch's lovebitten thighs, he fantasizes some more about Emet-Selch wrapped between his own legs, face shoved into his crotch, made to suck and lick at his balls, lips parted over the whole of his arousal and made to suck down his shaft and swallow around the head—)
(And when he thinks about that, he also thinks about Emet-Selch's contrariness, his design to fuck himself frustratingly with fingers, the taste of his blood and the sudden relief of conquering Emet-Selch's body with enough persuasion; the way he could bury his erection between his thighs, massaging his cock with the use of his body—)
Mettaton has doomed himself to endless temptation, and he doesn't know if he cares to pull away. They'd... make it to the shower? Surely he could just take a moment to kiss him harder, to push him down, to...
At least he pulls him into his lap, forcing him into a straddle as though he's ready to pick him up and take him to the shower. He gets that far — as Emet-Selch projected, Mettaton would be capable of carrying him. But as soon as he collects him in his lap, seated on the edge of the bed and ready to lift him into his arms, Mettaton exhales. He shifts his hips, rubbing his cock against Emet-Selch's front, dragging the head of himself along his abdomen as he buries his nose into his neck.]
Ah...
[How does patience work? He could take him in the shower... but he could also take him one more time here, then take him to the shower, couldn't he? He could have him endlessly, he could have him all. Mettaton knows it would only be Emet-Selch's delight to have him over and over as well, after all.
He giggles a bit, almost abashed, if he had any shame to spare. He doesn't: and Mettaton instead opts to raise Emet-Selch's hips so that he can rub against his ass.]
We're... Yes, we're still going to shower. Don't you worry, darling. I...
[Emet-Selch's also covered in his own saliva along his face and neck, then Mettaton's saliva coats his back. He's really, truly marked by their sex... That in itself is a thought arresting, one that has Mettaton's arm wrapping around Emet-Selch's hips to prod his entrance with the pad of his finger (gentle still with that claw), once more shameless in his palpation. His need to fuck him only rears its head some more, and he groans at the sensation of him, yearning to press the swollen head of his arousal there in place of a digit.]
You are a mess, and... Well, I could... carry you... Or.
[Or, he could be more of a mess, says one half of him. The other half says he could be made a mess of under running water. Both halves say he could be made a mess of regardless, so either way, he's not losing anything. Mettaton's finger rubs circles against his lover's entrance, the head of his cock close by as though waiting to take place of his hand.]
[As he observes Mettaton, he was just as aware of being observed- and of all there was to observe. If the robot hadn't already been achingly erect, even a portion of a sight like this would've been more than enough to achieve it. Even one aspect of it- be it the sound of their voices, the taste of blood and come and sweat, the smell of all of the above, any touch of their bodies together, and, of course, the vision of it all before them... it was inescapably erotic.
So it doesn't surprise Emet-Selch when his kiss is turned into a deeper affair, lips parting to suck and lick at his lover's tongue, arm going around him in turn to help reduce the space between their bodies once more. His gasp is rough, stifled against Mettaton's mouth as he feels his head gripped by clawed hands, feels the energy behind it that was more than a suggestion, aware that he was under the distinct threat of being brought down once again, only to be filled back up by his cock and his come, mounted and claimed.
They were at the edge of the bed, but would they ever manage to leave it?
Being pulled into Mettaton's lap was helpful on one hand, if the idol planned on carrying him (and the opposite of helpful if he intended on the Ascian walking, as this was not a position conductive towards that whatsoever). On the other, it was... dangerous, incredibly so, if the intention was to go anywhere at all. Emet-Selch was fully conscious of the spread of his legs (the natural position for them), the cock at his front, an erection just waiting for somewhere to be placed (that place being inside of his body, where he could warm and stroke it some more). He rubs the side of his face against Mettaton's as he feels the drag of that length against his abdomen, against the smears of ejaculate the Ascian had left there.
A danger that only increases as his hips are moved- a gesture he's only too willing to cooperate with, and he has the slide of Mettaton's cock against his ass instead, a sensation in itself to cause a shiver. His Bonded had only just pulled out of him, and Emet-Selch had to admit that he was already feeling the loss, not being anywhere near full of come to make up for Mettaton's absence. Even if he wasn't hard himself, he desired that thickness, that heat, his lover's cries as he pleasured himself on his body, leaving him ever more of a mess....
He bites his swollen lip at the teasing press of a finger, the reminder of his claws the only thing keeping him from pressing back into it. Turning his head, he bites Mettaton's lip instead, sucking it between his own as he considers. The only thing tempering his desire for him now was his own lack of an erection, the only point of something resembling moderation, the only way to have a clarity of thought that wasn't entirely consumed by lust. It wasn't as though waiting would be particularly arduous, even as needy as Mettaton was; it wasn't as though they wouldn't fuck under running water, cleaning and dirtying himself further all at once.
...But what was the harm, the rest of him says. Emet-Selch wanted him here, and he would want him again while he was being made clean.]
Or.
[Is all he says, all he repeats, a bare breath of a word against his lover's lips. One arm remaining about Mettaton's neck and shoulders, he shifts his other one behind him, gently nudging his finger away from his entrance. Not to turn him down or tell him to wait (and certainly not to use his own fingers again), but only to reach for his lover's cock instead. Shifting his hips up again, his breath stills in his concentration as he maneuvers Mettaton's length, pressing the swell of the glans to his still-slick entrance. A moan hoarsened to the point of silence, reduced to a breath against the robot's lips, he lowers his hips onto him, feeling his body begin to give way once more to the cushion of the tip, to feel him push inside.
[Gazing down upon them both - upon Emet-Selch's supple skin made to bear kisses of purple, his thighs made to straddle Mettaton's hips of fur and silicone and metal framework beneath (and an appropriate look for him, spreading his legs and wrapping them around Mettaton) - it becomes harder to deny his own immediate desires. The need to rock his hips into Emet-Selch becomes too great for him to handle, succumbing to lust with another exhale of heat from the core of his body.
... Even though Mettaton's already made a decision fueled by his sexual appetite, Emet-Selch's refined it further. His Bonded speaks close to his lips (enough to intoxicate on its own) before he reaches behind himself, surely agitating bruises and wounds both. But it's for a greater purpose: he ushers away his hand and reaches for his cock blindly, his hand scooping at the underside of his length. It so quickly demands a short thrust out of Mettaton against his hand, against the air, hungry for the body of his lover made available to him. Available he is, as Emet-Selch rocks his own hips just enough to settle down right on the tip of him, the pressure of his weight the most divine of hints that invites him inside.
He stammers. The Ascian sits atop the glans proper, nudging him inside with push of his own hips, sinking his cock inside of his body with a sound from his throat barely realized, a whisper of its former self. This close, he can almost feel the vibration of it in his throat enough to recognize it as a moan. Mettaton bites at his lower lip, suddenly overwhelmed with needy covetousness, fingers grabbing and sinking into flesh, carnal craving manifest as claws and fingers knead into every square inch of Emet-Selch's body.
A solicitation and suggestion that he be fucked all over again, right here. Mettaton gaze glazes over, primal want overcoming him, and his hips do the rest of the work.
As Emet-Selch obeys gravity, Mettaton fights it, pushing upwards with his hips. But he also cooperates with gravity, taking his lover's hips and slipping him over the whole of his cock in a single stroke — and the moan it tears from Mettaton's throat is immense. To go from having fucked Emet-Selch, laid deep in his body; to pulling out, aching and wanting him all over again; to pulling his lover over his erection as he rides his lap is a thing most pleasurable. He inhales sharply as if he had lungs to treat, but it's more of a gasp in response to pleasure. It's no surprise that Emet-Selch should slip over a thick cock with ease, being that he was just filled with it not even minutes ago, but it still evokes another moan just to think about. Just to feel the swollen head of himself hugged tightly in Emet-Selch's body is worthy of it, and Mettaton's body seizes and shudders at the sudden assault of sensation.
(It's difficult to believe that he'd only ever been experiencing sensation for a year. He never tires of it, always wants it, could become a lusting glutton for it, could imagine himself reclining and demanding he be touched forever. Touched and fucked and sucked off and swallowed around, his body prodded and teased and stroked, his lips kissed and bitten, legs treated to the same, the want to feel Emet-Selch adore him is enough to craze him.)
Mettaton's always been a monster, even prior to arriving here. A monster made into a monster even in instinct, made into a monster even further by Emet-Selch's treatment. Insatiable and ever wanting, ruthless in his designs, sultry and dark in his execution... Even here, Mettaton grips down onto Emet-Selch's hips and holds him steady above his hips, finding in him the desperate urge to pound into Emet-Selch. He gnashes his teeth and keeps him steadily above him, stroking himself on his lover's body with full, firm thrusts of his hips. It's a pleasure he cries out at, the way he curves his abdomen in managing to fully stroke over the glans, rubbing him and massaging himself in his lover's body.]
Ohh, Hades, I can't stop... I always- want you!
[He doesn't know why he feels the need to say so, but he's desperate to explain his ravenous need for his lover's body. But a deeper part of him just wants to show Emet-Selch what he does to him, to show off his cock and his fervor, his thickness and hardness and the rapidity of his thrusts, his need and his desire and love all elements of the ordeal.
Just as soon as he finishes speaking, Mettaton groans, rocking into the other man deeply. He kneads the head of his cock in the depths of his body, getting himself off on the tight rub he's always treated to, all while he kisses passionately at his neck, his shoulders, his collar, his chest, sometimes dragging teeth along his skin. Any restraint he was practicing just to get them from one place to another is gone completely, replaced by feverish sex, the rock of his hips and the pleasuring of his cock, Emet-Selch as the focal point to his pleasure.]
[It was automatic to thrust, but the Ascian still moans at the immediacy of it, a rough sound made rougher from having forgotten to resume breathing. It didn't matter that they had intended to move elsewhere- and that they still did- that didn't preclude them from falling upon one another every step of the way. Even before they'd taken any steps, for that matter. Emet-Selch's hiss is as rough as his moan when Mettaton sinks his claws back into him- a welcome piercing, and a welcome pain, even if he didn't have the answering of physical arousal to fully counter the discomfort. But how else could his lover hold onto him now- and how pleasant would it be afterward, to see and feel the imprint of his fingers around hips, to know exactly how he'd been holding him, even when he had let go?
Not that there would be any reason to let go, not when he knew exactly where the Ascian's hips needed to go, and that was down. Holding just the glans inside him for only the briefest moment, Emet-Selch takes in the pleasure of it, both ongoing and impending. The firm way the head so snugly fit, just inside that taut ring of muscle, and how its shape would make the penetration of the rest of Mettaton's length a simple task. A truth that manifests before he even has time to recognize it, the choked sound he makes as he huddles against Mettaton's body is a low, underlying sound to the far louder moaning that escapes the puca's undamaged throat.
Gravity won, but it was encouraged. Emet-Selch's legs squeeze around him, and the interior of his body squeezes more than that, tightening out of reflex at going from empty to completely full, to having the entirety of Mettaton's cock slid inside him again. A single motion was all it took, from the willing jerk of his own hips downward, assisted further by the drag of the puca's hands on them, and again with the way the man thrusted upward- it was impossible for his body to resist. Even if much of the ease was due to having been fucked by him so recently, it was still immensely satisfying to take to him so readily, to have all of him so swiftly.
And overwhelming. Nearly reeling from it, his arm- Mettaton's cock more than guided into position- wraps back around the puca's shoulder to join the other, needing the grip on him for some attempt at balance. Pressed close to his body, his grip is tight, burying his face against the other man's neck, panting from the depth of his thrusts, of the force of them. Kissing, biting, groaning in his raspy voice- his thoughts slip from some manner of clarity back into that carnal haze, the concept of restraint lost. There was a better answer found in his lover's teeth and lips, every bit of contact a physical manifestation of his words.
In part, Emet-Selch can only hold on as he feels himself taken, stretched tight around the thickness rubbing into him, focused utterly on the way Mettaton's cock felt, every inch that had been slammed into his body, and how quickly his Bonded could move. Thrusts that felt like they shook the whole of his body, that he could feel him throughout- and thrusts that he's yet desperate to meet, to arch into, to shove his hips down harder still onto his erection with every rasping breath. It was a fever that burned hotter for being encouraged with such rapidity, and yet he knew it was a flash that would never truly flare out entirely. It would always be there, smoldering, waiting for either (or both) of them to allow the smallest spark to set the world aflame.
While the last time Mettaton had taken him had begun with defiance, was met with demands and a mutual viciousness of love, and ended with capitulation and possession- this was pure hedonistic indulgence. Dark in its delight, but it was delight all the same, with no trace of anything outside of a desire to give into it. It hardly mattered that he wasn't hard himself, he loved the way Mettaton felt in itself, he loved every sound he made, and every roll of his hips and drag of his length. He loved seeing him enjoy himself.]
Mettaton--
[It's croaked out with as little control as the other raspy sounds he produces, the other shivers and tensings. And he clings as his hips continue moving, as Mettaton continues moving them, as their bodies continue to meet, as that heat only builds, because what was the point of being insatiable, if it wasn't indulged in?]
[A tightness to pull yet another moan from Mettaton, stretching and baring his throat as though about to throw back his head. Emet-Selch feels so tight around him, squeezing around his length in rhythmic pulses as his lover's body goes taut as well, curling into Mettaton's arms. Squeezing around his length from under the ridge and all the way down to the root of his cock, Mettaton thinks for a blinding instant that the pleasure of this, of being so rhythmically squeezed over by that slick ring of muscle, would be enough to lose it. To come all over the Ascian, marking him messily from within and by complete surprise — and he knows he'd clamp down along him, a thought to reduce all thought.
Having him fucked before and penetrating him all over again is a sensation divine, he thought. He's done it before, back when he had a double of himself to pass Emet-Selch back from hard cock to hard cock, and the ease with which he could slip his lover over his erection was a turn-on in itself.
But here, it's just him and his insatiability for his lover to fit around, from tip to base. He squeezes around his length as they hold onto each other, bracing against pleasure as it rocks them. But they don't stop inundating each other: Emet-Selch's fate to be inundated by the brunt of Mettaton's full arousal, and Mettaton with Emet-Selch's provocative arches into him, the way he responds to his thrusts with thrusts of his own. It means they're never given a chance to cool down, allowing for that fire to engulf and incinerate them.
All Mettaton knows right now is to keep thrusting, and that he loves Emet-Selch.
Having Emet-Selch grip onto him for dear life while he fucks him senseless satisfies Mettaton terribly. He gets a rush from it, being the only thing his lover has to depend on in this moment, the sound of his name on his choked voice, the feeling of his arms wrapped about him, the steady pounding he's treated to... and it flatters Mettaton, to be so welcomed by his Bonded. Even with his voice gone, he occupies it with his name, as is right. Even sore and fucked to exhaustion, he spreads his legs around Mettaton's hips, as is right. Emet-Selch knows where he belongs, and that's flush to Mettaton's hips, wrapped around his torso, his hips, and his cock.
He gnashes his teeth with the pleasure of that thought, leaning forward as though to threaten that he might push them both to the ground in his voracious taking, ritual and fierce and full of love so hot that they scald each other at every turn. He feels he'd only harden if he could at the thought of how well-made Emet-Selch is to receive him, enthralled by Mettaton always, and he doesn't think he imagines it when he feels that much more engorged. He feels terribly stiff and aching, his balls heavy with the want to spill over and claim his Bonded Witch. He'd claim and possess his beloved so often that all would know how often he's fucked and ravished, upon his lap or into the mattress, against the wall or with lips wrapped around his erection.
His thoughts run salacious and graphic, and his inclination toward mounting him increases. His sharp-clawed fingers curl into his hips some more as he continues to rock his hips into Emet-Selch, ears splaying senselessly as a groan slides up his throat. He nuzzles into the other man's neck, breathing him in: blood, sweat, him, sex, and Mettaton greet him enough to elicit another deep, animalistic noise.
His voice is smooth and deep, sometimes hissed through teeth as he leans forward some more, arms wrapping around Emet-Selch's back to hold him firmly against his hips.]
Tell me- how much you like being- taken by me.
[A demand to hear him exhaust his voice only on praise for Mettaton, and the robot's certain Emet-Selch has something to say about being fucked by him. They've discovered in so short a time that he loves to be suffocated by cock, that he loves to be filled repeatedly until he loses sense, and Mettaton's sure he loves to be so subdued by his passion, used to Mettaton's pleasure. Even here, Mettaton grips onto him and strokes his cock along that tight ring of muscle, long, broad thrusts to pull out and sink back in, dropping Emet-Selch against his hips. A short whine slips from his throat at the blinding pleasure of it.
There's all of the sensation he takes pleasure in, but there's also the reception Emet-Selch gives him without fail. They give each other the whole of themselves, and Mettaton couldn't be more delighted. They'd fall into each other anywhere, whether that meant falling into teeth, into bodies, into passion, or into arms, and they were never more than a half step from doing it. Mettaton shivers at the thought of his lust for Emet-Selch, and heat grows in him to hear of Emet-Selch's lust for him.
It's the only thing that would quell and satisfy this furious want in him, this desire to snarl and the spring-loaded nature of his body, ready to pounce, to tear him apart until he sings his praises on a voice made raw.]
[Even if he can't dig into skin or flesh, or into the give of muscles that Mettaton doesn't have, Emet-Selch's fingers latch onto fur. He pulls and clings at it for purchase, even as his arms tighten around the other man for whatever stability they can provide, as the rest of his body is continuously jolted by the meeting of their hips. And with every moment, there was the threat of losing even this suggestion of balance, of maintaining his position in his lap. As though if he offered even the barest hint of faltering, Mettaton would complete his pouncing upon his body, would rend him apart in his ravishing of him.
Though did it really count as a threat, when the Ascian loved every possible outcome? Just knowing Mettaton held control over not only the location of his body, but its condition, that he would decide how he would be used for him at any one moment, with Emet-Selch made to accommodate each demand, each whim, each desire- it was something of a rush. And in these moments, how could he do anything other than adapt to everything that he wanted- because he wanted the same thing after all, their pleasure was the same.
And he reveled in drawing it from him, in feeling how engorged and hot he was, something that could only lead to another proper coating of come, another load that he wanted nothing more than to contain, to have decorating the inside of his body, a heat that would linger and burn much like the rest of their passions. And Emet-Selch would squeeze and coax it all from him, but how could there ever be an end to it, when Mettaton felt so hard? Even after orgasm, he would still be stiff, he would still be aching for him surely- would still have a hard cock for him to wrap around, to stroke, to encourage to leave ever more of his release with him. Until his lover was empty, how could he ever be considered full of him?
He was being held in place and tirelessly fucked, thighs trembling, taut, all of his own movements dedicated to increasing the force Mettaton had available to him. Every time his ass met his Bondmate's body, each time he could feel himself tight around his girth, Mettaton's cock buried up to the root in him- it forced a breath from him, along with small things that would've been sounds had his throat not been so ravaged. And yet the puca was demanding words from him, to exalt him when his throat was so raw, and his thoughts were so scattered, pounded from him with each thick drag of his cock.
But yet he had to try, because he was told to, because he wanted to. Though his first attempts don't produce words at all, only sharper cries, and Emet-Selch bites down at Mettaton's neck in his own frustration, his body not doing what was expected of it. He has to stop himself from growling, because noises like that would only make the situation for his throat worse. Panting damply against him, the Ascian shudders, his hands grope through fur, and his sweaty, blood-streaked body arches into his cock, clinging tight to his lover's form.
Words. Verbal adoration.]
More-- more than, I--
[The rest is croaked off into noise, certainly, but it's too raspy to be terribly discernible as language. And without being understood, does it really qualify as praise?
Emet-Selch is aware that it's hardly sufficient, and for once his delay has little to do with his own contrariness, viewing the condition of his throat as a betrayal by his own body, spiting him for the sake of it, as though it had a rebellious streak separate from the Ascian's own. And not, just, having suffered getting a thick cock shoved into it repeatedly, rubbed and stretched and made to suffocate, followed by continued reckless use through various vocalizations. No, it was failing him out of some throat-based deliberation.
With effort, Emet-Selch attempts to not make any sounds at all, to limit the roughness of his breathing- anything to reduce the strain on his throat, to spare it briefly (so he can use it some more). But it does mean time spent not making the right praise-shaped noises in Mettaton's direction.]
[It doesn't matter to Mettaton that Emet-Selch's failing voice is the product of their previous entanglements, that Emet-Selch's been rendered without a voice because he swallowed three loads worth of come and cock atop all of his moaning and crying out. Sounds of pleasure and the rub of a too-thick erection would certainly rob him of some of his vocal capabilities, sure. However, his ability to summon it will find him if he wishes to... to be spared, to be saved, to be treated to another side of the robot other than the one who is snappishly impatient. Yes: Emet-Selch will form words and create sounds to properly worship the robot worthy of being deified, after all. Mettaton's expectations for Emet-Selch are not only high, but rigid.
Because Mettaton deserves the praise. He deserves it for being so virile and lascivious, and he deserves it for being so capable of filling Emet-Selch up. He knows Emet-Selch craves being taken by him, would hop on his lap at the sight of a thick, hard cock, because it's Mettaton he wants to please and be pleased in turn. This is all aside from how much Emet-Selch covets him for his bearing, his beauty, his inherent grace and the scarcest hint of eye contact that can communicate volumes. His best traits are known to himself. Mettaton licks his lips at the thought of having Emet-Selch in any way he can dream, even while he's already rubbing himself off on the man he fantasizes about.
The sensation of teeth in his neck only serves to up not only his fever, but the ante. Mettaton sucks in air through teeth only to expel it as pure heat and a growl, patience growing that much thinner, fury swallowing his form and making his own jaw feel stiff. He leans forward some more, noticing that Emet-Selch's taken the proper course of action by depending wholly on his form for the balance, balance he's given only because he's worthy of it, and could lose such a right at the drop of a hat. The Ascian grips into his fur and slams his hips down against his lap, arching his back, and Mettaton's cry is decorated by a feral growl: ecstatic at the gesture, but remaining stormy in temper.
The Ascian's attempt comes. His voice fails. Mettaton waits for more, waits to hear more than the word more — a consolation rather than the cure to his righteous rage. Mettaton feels like he's on fire with need, and he gives into his more animalistic tendencies.
With something that sounds to be a cross between a whine and a growl, Mettaton shifts them down to the floor, firmly shoving Emet-Selch against the carpet. He's lifted by his knees, hips raised to Mettaton's hip level and his body made to curl up for Mettaton's extended use, rendered into a position granting perfect, unrestrained access.
Like this, with Emet-Sech pressed against the floor, Mettaton mounts him with all of his weight, with the whole of his length stuffed inside of his lover. Mettaton glares at him with his lips peeled back, his fury pure and worn over a smile.]
Tell me. You like this.
[That's undisputed, as far as Mettaton cares. But Emet-Selch ought to be saying it, telling Mettaton what he loves best about being ravished by him. His voice could fail afterwards, but not a moment sooner.
Like this, Mettaton begins a rhythmic, firm rocking of his hips. The robot forces Emet-Selch to wrap his legs around his hips even as he mounts him, pinned in place by the cock he has buried inside of him. With his arms freed, Mettaton grabs for Emet-Selch's wrists all over again and pins him back, forces him back against the floor and under Mettaton's grip and weight. But he can't take it, he can't wait a moment longer to rub his shaft against Emet-Selch's body, he needs that heady, deep heat and massage of the glans and the tightness of his Bonded's body around his length, the squeeze at the root of his cock that indicates how full he is of him. He aches, he feels swollen, he needs some manner of relief.
With another hybrid whine-growl, he sinks his teeth into his Bonded's shoulder once more. He's a masterpiece of bites and bruises, a work of Mettaton's efforts and beautiful in that right, a body of flesh and blood made rent and bleeding, the sign of being touched by a heavenly creature such as himself. So heavenly that he's dark and ghastly, vicious and brutal, teeth sharp and cutting as he feels incisors sink into his lover's skin and body as easily as his cock could penetrate. Blood gushes into his mouth — the most satisfying part of a hearty bite, and one that pulls a moan from his chest as his mind goes numb.
What an honor it must be to be consumed by Mettaton, both in physical form and in the fires of lust. Mettaton growls past his teeth, in disbelief at the slight of his lover for not giving him the words he deserves, but placated (momentarily) by this offering of body and blood. He rolls his hips deeply, thoroughly, paying heavy mind to the way Emet-Selch's body rubs along the tip of his cock, the way it squeezes along his entire length. It's divine, could be made moreso if only his lover would laud him with the compliments he deserves... It's a thought that has his thrusts firming, pounding Emet-Selch with the weight of his arousal that feels heavier, needier the more moments pass without the sound of his Mettaton-used voice to accompany the sight and sensation of his Mettaton-used body.]
[Emet-Selch was no stranger to high, perhaps even unreasonable expectations. He had many himself, and could appreciate a good ruthlessness appropriately directed. The growling and increasing impatience came as little surprise to him, and even in the midst of heat and haze, he can fathom no other response to his failure to match what was required of him. So when he feels the darkness of Mettaton's temper deepen into a righteous fury, he can only shiver at it, pulse racing, as though he were in the presence of something dangerous and truly feral, and not only fiercely erotic. That there would be consequences for not lauding him to his satisfaction in a reasonable amount of time (that time being immediate, or without needing to be prompted), penalties to be clawed into his flesh by claw and tooth, and a blackened tempest of a mood to drown in.
(And yet it was... exciting to see and feel Mettaton like this, in some terrible way, and for all that Emet-Selch hadn't deliberately incited him, he's still stricken breathless at the pleasure of being subdued. Of knowing, with utter clarity, how much he wanted to please him, how he needed to, what other purpose did he have here--)
But before he can try again, that patience (if it could even be called that) on his Bonded monster's part snaps with a vengeance, and Emet-Selch loses his allowance of balance. Shoved to the floor instead, it's a movement to force the air from his lungs as his body is pushed down and spread apart, permitted only the feeling of being mounted again, legs dragged upward, Mettaton bearing down on him with the whole of his body. Robotic strength pinning him easily, the Ascian's hands, which reflexively attempted to grasp at him, at anything for purchase, are instead crushed to the ground as well, furthering the sensation of being caught. Trapped in a maelstrom of fury, he jerks at his confines out of habit, even as a moan of abject pleasure escapes his throat despite his best efforts to restrain it, to save his voice for words instead.
(It's a gradual process, limitations of mortality remaining, but it's this, in the moment of being crushed under by Mettaton in both spirit and body, fucked and pinned and drowning in darkness, that his own cock begins to stiffen.)
A position like this was not very good for Emet-Selch's back or shoulders, the pressure only agitating the wounds on both, tearing anew anything that had dared to begin clotting, or just otherwise reminding him of all those bruises. But even that becomes a backdrop to the fresher, and much sharper pain of Mettaton burying his incisors into the front of his shoulder. Another inescapable reminder of his place, that he had a reason for being there, and that it was to exalt his lover in every way he deserved. His body, his blood, his service- Mettaton could call on it all.
So even if Emet-Selch had the voice to spare on a protest- to argue that it was because of Mettaton's own actions that his conversational ability was somewhat reduced- he wouldn't. Partially because he knows he'd only encouraged him to this end, so it was equally his responsibility, but mostly because he found his lover's response justified, aggravated at his own voice's failure to comply with his control.
It didn't matter that Mettaton knew that he loved this, loved having him like this, every part of the thickness of his cock, and the brutality of his taking. It was his right as well to hear it, to have voice given over to his delectation, along with his body and soul. Emet-Selch gasps soundlessly as that pounding into him continues, that rough slide of Mettaton's erection, from the swell of the tip, to the heaviness of the shaft, shuddering hard at how well he fit inside him. His legs cling tighter around him, wanting him to take every bit of depth he could. He writhes, struggling to press up into both teeth and cock.
But none of that was language, so Emet-Selch tries again to force out some kind of speech. Knowing the condition of his throat, he'd have to try and be concise, even if Mettaton deserved more than that.]
I do, I--
[But it was more than that, more than he could express even if his throat wasn't failing them both. Gaze half-lidded as he looks up at him, blearily, his words are soft, so soft, but plaintive.]
I need this, you...
[A concluding rasp that may have been his name, may have been another moan; his body is tight as it continues to shudder.]
[The first signs of sound on Emet-Selch's voice: a moan, pleasure on his tone, a beautiful disruption to his raspy, weakened silence. Mettaton closes his eye, delighted by the sound as his teeth are bared in a smile, the whole of him increasingly vicious and mad, further enhanced by the sway of the pendants' magic. There are no thoughts for him to spare toward anything other than bodily satisfaction and love, aside from the fury and darkness, his constant companion.
For a moment, Mettaton hardly understands language at all, meaning that anything Emet-Selch did was communicated perfectly as long as it had no words to it. The sharp push against his hips, a wordless insistence for his sex, his body; the push of air through his throat without sound, incapable of manifesting. He basks in it, letting out a shuddering sigh of heat. (His core's so hot. He can't feel it, but he knows it subconsciously... even when it's hard to differentiate between the need to fuck, the vicious energy of the pendants versus the jewelry, and the urgency of his body to move, to release that heat stored within him.
There's a lot of heat to release, actually.)
His lover, bleeding and helpless and prone before him, filled with his cock and with a split lip, softened and beautiful in his weakness, tries his hand at speech once more. It's with a tone that manages to touch Mettaton's heart, even when it hardly satisfies his need for compliments. Near pleading, gentle and scarcely audible, his voice falters on the sound of his name (salt to the wound), but at the same time...
Emet-Selch shudders, tense and pinned beneath him, eyes fixed on him in a way that surpasses even a curse (even when that fury exists alongside his pity). His body rocks into Mettaton's sharp thrusts and from Mettaton's angle, examining the bruises and bites and flesh of his lover, he can see his filling cock — a sure sign of Emet-Selch's enjoyment.
So there's a demand further for words to enjoy, more than the seven he's offered up. But Mettaton is willing to take something else where his voice fails, his growl turning into a rumble in his throat. His voice, for the moment, dips lower, softer to match his heart.]
Sweetheart... How- how badly?
[The dichotomy: his mercy, his violence. They coexist, softened in heart by his show of bleary want, by his inabilities, while his temper flares at the lack of verbose praise.
The Puca, too, tenses some more over his Bonded's body, scooping him closer to his form. Closer, easier to mount, more prone to each and every roll of his hips. If he can't have his words, he'll make him give him his voice at any opportunity — and that means forcing sound from him in whatever form it takes, be they cries or moans or screams of pleasure or pain. His thrusts become quick and deep, pounding and barely leaving his body, though the shifting rock of his hips is enough to thoroughly jostle his length deep within Emet-Selch's body. The head of his cock is kneaded and rocked, the shaft rubbing against his lover's body in every which way. Each thrust inward is sharp and pounding, his entire body tangible to his lover beneath him, especially as he pushes with the strength of his legs. They're strokes to die for, and Mettaton finds himself moaning loudly, nearly crying out at the sensation of his own movement.]
Ohhh, Hades-!
[His next inhale is cut short by another snarl. The sacrifice for his inability to speak, after all, is his blood. His madness overcomes him.
Mettaton leans forward and takes another bite of his lover, close to his neck — flirting with danger again, not at all considering the potential consequence in his pleasure- and feral-addled mind. He wants blood, the only thing to temper his animosity, to soothe his passionate violence. And he gets blood, enough to moan into as he sucks and laps and drinks his lover's body some more, all while it oozes lazily from other wounds he's left in his wake. Opened ones, fresh ones, Emet-Selch bleeds out all while Mettaton pounds into him some more, massaging his cock, aching and thick, against his Bonded's body.
That he missed a dangerous point in his neck is surely the work of his luck. That he hit something that still bleeds enough to satisfy would also be his luck, as long as he's made to back off and stop sucking on it. He can hardly think past all of his emotion and indulgence, his anger and pleasure and mind-numbing fixation on love, carnage, and sex.
He couldn't begin to come down from this insanity without appropriate recognition and respect, given to him in words. His lover's gaze, his lust, and his filling cock do something for him; his blood soothes more yet. But he deserves words, he needs to hear Emet-Selch tell him he's addicted to his cock, that he couldn't live without the sight of his figure, that he'd kiss him from head to toe and, along the way, swallow his cock out of desperation for it; that he'd finger him and tease him and coax him into arousal forever.
If anyone's addicted, it's Mettaton. He's addicted and lost to diamonds and pendants, to Emet-Selch's body and his every response, to the sound of his voice and the work of his throat and every sensation he brings him. From pleasure to pain, to gentle, lighthearted touches, Mettaton reflects upon it all and drowns gladly in it while he licks at his latest wound, his thrusts feverish and needy as he works to a point of release.]
[The tone is what registers first, when Mettaton speaks- and like his body, it's something that captivates Emet-Selch entirely, something for his consciousness and his concentration to hold onto, just the sound of him. Like his cock, like the rest of his body in any of his forms, like his love and fury and every other emotion- they all were his. This was incontrovertible.
So he's reassured and soothed by his voice itself, before the comprehension of language catches up to him, making it clear that his lover expected more detail from him, more descriptions forced from a damaged throat. Mettaton's words may have been softer, a balm of mercy, yet remained crystal clear in just how easily the puca would dip ever further into frustrated aggression, if the Ascian failed to continue giving him his spoken adoration. Saying this much hadn't quite earned him a reprieve (how could it, as brief as he'd had to be), but at least he hadn't been a complete disappointment either. A maintenance of potential terror at best- or the addition of softness layered over razors; Mettaton's sharpness remained.
And for all that Emet-Selch needs to spare his throat he can't keep from emitting low noises regardless, when Mettaton holds him closer, takes him yet harder, his cock providing him a continuous rub he had no hope of defending against. A hard stuffing of his body that made coherent thoughts that much harder to collect, and even more so now that his own erection was beginning to form. A stiffness clear to them both, it was the most blatant sign of his adoration and attraction to him, in how starved his body was for Mettaton's cock, how much it yearned for its size and shape, its curve and rigidity. And on receiving it, how could Emet-Selch do anything but stiffen in reply, aroused by being fucked without relent? In this much, at least, the Ascian's body could gradually overcome exhaustion and use (that, and time being the most important component in recovery) when faced with overwhelming stimulation.
But he tries to gather his voice, his breath, his thoughts- all to have them scattered again completely when Mettaton drives his teeth into a place close to his neck- a place already rubbed raw on the inside, clawed and bruised on the outside, and now facing a piercing bite near enough that the pain seemed to join it. Merge with it. His cry would be loud, but it's rendered into only air- an attempt that hurts him nonetheless, his non-cry choking itself down into a wheezing noise of pain. The Ascian's head jerks automatically at the hold, though he knows he can't get away from it- and doesn't want to regardless.
Was it a penalty for his lack of speech? Or an inevitability that he would have faced regardless of how satisfactory he'd been? But he's soothed a little in turn by Mettaton's own blood-soaked mollification. It didn't replace speech, it didn't even make it easier to think, but he felt slightly better for it all the same, that he could give this much to his lover.
That it was a dangerous place to sink into doesn't occur to Emet-Selch either, aware of only the pain of it- and as the seconds pass, and as Mettaton drinks from the wound, lapping at it with firm swipes of his tongue, closing his lips around it to suck more blood from him- pleasure gradually begins to join the discomfort. Whether it was due to Mettaton's own reaction to taking on more of his blood filtering through the Bond, or his own growing predilection of correlating pain with arousal, but the sheer intensity of it all renders him temporarily stricken once more, trembling against his body.
He would worship him. Press his lips to every part of his body, devote himself to his pleasure, and how endless he would make that pleasure be if it would make him happy. His heart ached from the want for it, to bury himself in attending to Mettaton and not... not have to think about anything else. Not his despair, not his failures in affairs unrelated to providing Mettaton with sufficient praise. That was all Emet-Selch would ask of him in return: to command his devotion to the exclusion of all else. If only for a while... he wouldn't have to feel anything more.]
Mettaton....
[He begins with his name. Soft and wispy, but more easily discerned this time, not an accident of breath and gasp.]
I would- live for you... alone.
[The quality of his voice is atrocious. It's agonizing to speak at all, especially with the new dripping wound in his neck. Every word costs, and is worse than the next.]
For your pleasure. Your- body, your touch, I would- lose myself entirely with- without you.
[Swallowing; he tastes blood. A hollowed-out version of a whine is all else that escapes his throat. His legs tighten.]
[Mettaton's short, firm thrusts that hunger toward greater fulfillment, a perfect pleasure, bear fruit when he finds an impeccable rocking motion that kneads and manipulates the whole of the glans, his lover tense and tight around him. A moan that sounds almost like a gasp leaks between teeth, a force and determination behind each with purpose.
He loves this. And in his fury, Mettaton doesn't think it could get any better.
But it does. He can practically feel Emet-Selch's struggle for air under his lips, a struggle for a reason other than sucking and swallowing around a thick cock. (A memory to further pleasure Mettaton's present delight, at any rate. His eye glazes over for a moment, pumps of his cock becoming firmer, each thrust decorated by a short, soft noise of bliss as he enjoys this, but also enjoys his memory.) No, it's for the struggle against a raw throat. He also struggles against this assault of pleasure and pain, he knows that much, and that's fine.
What happens to up Mettaton's pleasure is that Emet-Selch manages speech, though his voice is scarcely there. But Mettaton hears every word of it. His ears stand tall, swiveled toward the Ascian as he soaks up every word and inflection, his sentiment soft and voice softer. His speech is labored and Mettaton basks in it all, every single word, moaning after his pledge to live for him, to service his pleasure, to his body and touch.
This is what he wanted to hear. Pacified by Emet-Selch's words, rage diminishes; desire and love and abject enjoyment take its place. And he's finally reached peak ecstasy when thought leaves him completely. Emet-Selch is devoted and his, purely his, and he can't begin to think of anything but his Bonded tasked to... just being in love with him. Knowing him, letting himself be known. Touching him, being touched by him. Living moments with him. Pleasuring him, and being pleasured in turn. The robot cries out, drawing out his teeth and keeping his lips wrapped around that wound instead, laving him with tongue as though he's the injury and the cure, sometimes leaving it only to plant a rapid series of kisses against it before returning.]
Yes! Hades—
[He thrusts. His body demands this relief be realized, this softness be made love incarnate, and fucking Emet-Selch is the only appropriate way in this moment. His hips maintain that rocking motion that massages his length against Emet-Selch, rubbing is cock so deeply in his lover all the while. The Puca can't see it with his lips wrapped around his neck, but he knows his Bonded lover's developed an arousal of his own, something worth moaning for all over again at the mere thought. He looks terribly attractive in his mind's eye, and he can't help but bearing down on him some more as he mounts him, obeying the tightening of his legs.
Words don't happen anymore when a few final thrusts precede come gushing from the tip of Mettaton's cock, heat deposited as deeply as his hips will allow. Marking his lover again, filling him with a fifth load of come, fucking him hunched over and mounting him in as primal as a manner as his desperation feels. Each push of his hips drives Emet-Selch back against the floor, pinned between it, teeth, hands, and cock, and made to take the full force of Mettaton's adoration of him.
His voice is loud and clear in each cry, pleasure washing over him so entirely that he's sure he'd lose his own voice, if it were possible for him to do. He buries his face in blood, kissing and vocalizing against skin and loving every moment of this. He's feverish and hot and his body's need to move is frantic, near- near overheating in his fantastic desire. If Emet-Selch offered himself up to an eternity spent pleasuring Mettaton in this moment, he'd accept it in a heartbeat, feeling that an eternity of sensuality and ecstasy would be the only thing to appease him.
He thinks about marrying him again. Another way to have, another expression of their possession. Souls bound, socially bonded, legally entwined... He has to have him.
When Mettaton finishes his release, he doesn't quite collapse... but he lowers himself down, pressing his weight against his lover. He nuzzles into Emet-Selch's neck, caring not for the blood that smears itself all over his features. His consciousness is temporarily dazed, words a difficult thing to do. Until...]
My dear... You're all right?
[He always asks something like that, but he has the hazy recollection suddenly of the quality of his poor lover's throat. And, prominently... the last sentence Emet-Selch managed. Mettaton holds him tighter.]
[That steady, insistent stroke of the glans was enough to have his body attempting to twist under him, into it, to roll his hips into every short thrust, to squeeze and be massaged by the tip, while reveling in the fullness provided by the shaft. His legs felt weak from the successive waves of pleasure, but they continued to tighten with spasming twitches of muscle. The same was true internally, as though to hold him there, to feel that rolling motion forever. A heat that could just keep building, until they were both burned away, left charred and wrecked entirely. It would've been more than enough to set him moaning, crying out with every breath from it, but only the ghost of the sound remains, a rasping shell of a voice that had given up on him.
It was a relief to feel through Bond that his words had been more acceptable this time, that he hadn't struggled while still leaving Mettaton dissatisfied. It's not enough to have him slacken, but there was a desperate kind of ease to it, the barest edge of catharsis. And fortunate, too, as Emet-Selch doubted that he would have had much chance of saying more than an additional word or two, not right away. And his lover was not in a patient mood. So he shivers at the way his Bonded's feelings course through him; as enticing as Mettaton was in his fury, having it followed by emotions like this, by his satisfaction and enjoyment, was the other part to it. There would always be other expectations, but for now he'd done what he'd needed to, and there was pleasure in that.
And mounted like this, bleeding and sore, he felt touched all the same at having any and all gentleness applied to wounds that Mettaton had himself inflicted. But his body was... entirely for his use, available for both damaging and treating. With love present in either aspect, he loved him for both sides of it, no matter how badly it hurt. He wanted to be bound to him; he wanted to stay bound to him, in every way that existed.
Mettaton crying out stole his breath entirely, and his whole body seems to lock up in response to the other man's orgasm, tight and hot and ecstatic. It didn't feel strange at all that the sensation of Mettaton ejaculating inside him also brought a sense of satisfaction that was as deeply-reaching as his cock and his release, for all that he wasn't the one being presently sated. It was even a feeling, of heat and thickness and claiming that fills his own cock further, rendering him fully erect. That much wasn't strange at all- just the thought of Mettaton bearing down on him, holding him in place as his hips jerk, as he leaves his mark in him with another load of come- it was a deeply arousing one. Experiencing that moment was doubly so, and Emet-Selch moans without intending to, before he can stop himself, for all that there wasn't really any sound to it, awash with the force of his lover's ecstasy.
With his arms pressed down he can't wrap them around Mettaton, but Emet-Selch tries to nudge his head against his, and his legs squeeze a little at him in a kind of hug. His breathing is fast- something that's a bit uncomfortable in itself- as he closes his eyes, shivering, as he feels the weight of the robot's body encroaching further on him. A comfort in his current state, emotions as raw as his throat, while tense and hard in body. He wanted to be closed in on, kept safe... he was safe with him, no matter how dark he became, how feral or furious. In that regard, there was never any need for concern. The tapestry of blood and bruise that adorned him now was only a testament to his trust, an expression of Mettaton's affection, and the only way a love like theirs could appropriately manifest.
...Even if this was a bit more piercing than usual, there was no danger in it. Some days would be bloodier than others, passions expressed through the dig of claws and teeth.
The question would've been difficult to answer normally, and now- an instant of something like sound vibrates his throat before he thinks better of it. So the Ascian nods against his head instead, though it's not very different of a motion from just trying to rub at it. He was fine, for certain values of fine. He loved him, and he had Mettaton inside his body; were there any other conditions that mattered? He didn't want to know of any.
Though his breathing was unsteady and quite a lot of things hurt, that was how it needed to be.]
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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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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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And as more noticeable as his Bonded's erection became (something the Ascian was in a perfect location to pay attention to, something to elevate his pulse, though his own body had little means of following through on any interest), the more likely he thought it would be that the puca would give in to what was most readily available. All he would have to do is resume thrusting, continue to claim a body already prepared and stretched around him, further slicked by his come. He had already been shifting his hips with ever more suggestion of what he wanted to do (which was continue to have sex).
And then Mettaton's decision comes, accompanied by the warmth of his nuzzles, and followed by kisses to his neck that were anything but chaste. On one hand, Emet-Selch is slightly surprised by it, by this forestalling of satisfaction in favor of anything that did not include immediately continuing to fuck him. On the other, he knew that it was anything but a mercy (a mercy that he wouldn't have wanted anyway), and that Mettaton's assistance in cleaning him would be anything but clinical. A choice of having him under different circumstances only, and that's something the Ascian can accept readily.
So Mettaton pulling from his body was an acceptable development (and still gave him that mix of relief-and-regret, wanting that fullness, especially when his lover was still hard), the man having already decided for them their course of action. A decision that Emet-Selch had no problem accepting, as he attempts to push himself up, to look back at him over his shoulder. A movement that in itself hurt, straining several bites, but he ignores that.]
Would you? --Then I'll. Accept your help.
[He did like the mess sex left him in. The disarray of sweat and blood and come, a display of excess that both hid and enhanced the bruises and bites left underneath them. An indulgence arousing to think upon, an aftermath worth appreciation and reflection. Emet-Selch also liked being clean.
And that would bring its own sort of appreciation and comfort, to wrap up with Mettaton while damp with water, relaxed and enticed all at once. Comfortable, in a different sort of way, that any ache he felt would only enhance. It was an appealing thought... and worth a few moments of patience.
Getting his wounds washed would undoubtedly sting, but considering how frequently Mettaton bit him, this was a not unfamiliar part of the process. Having Mettaton able to inspect everything he'd applied though- it was a pleasing thought, to know he could admire his handiwork while it was at its freshest, and with minimal blood (delicious as it apparently was) getting in the way.
If Mettaton permits, he'll make the slow, shuffling effort of taking a position that wasn't face down on the bed with his legs spread. Anything that stretched his back was uncomfortable, and a few slowly-clotting wounds tear a bit in his effort, but at least only having been fucked this way once meant that he would still be able to walk without any real trouble. Even if his lover was more than capable of carrying him. No blind teleportation required either.
But once able to face him, Emet-Selch was struck again by how beautiful he was, long-clawed and bright-eye'd and blood-smeared. Glittering with jewelry and potential fervor, and a thick erection on display that he'd already taken several times. Another moment of recognizing his beauty, and even had the Ascian been more capable of speech, he probably would've still been just as inclined instead to respond to the sight by leaning over to kiss him. A gesture more tender than heated, though the hint of tongue suggested no reduction in attraction no matter the condition of his own body. Emet-Selch felt a mess by comparison, but that was fine; it was all a part of their shared efforts, and there was no one else he'd want to look like this for.]
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His cock aches hard from that alone, the pressure reminding him of what it might feel like if he had a heart. The pulsing of engorgement, distracting in a way totally unlike the continuous build of need and hypnotizing in its own right. But Emet-Selch's also bitten all over his upper back, bruises and bites and still fresh blood, much of it cleaned by tongue. Emet-Selch rises, a process labored by wounds that end up becoming agitated all over again. Watching the Ascian move to face him feels like it takes so long, a process made more pronounced by the ache in his abdomen.
His eyes skirt down his figure, taking in his waist, his hips, his ass again, watching him shift around to face him better — then, his chest, his abdomen, his crotch. What a sight he is. The bed's responsible for having smeared much of his come, but evidence of ejaculation rests above his Bonded's cock, the smell of their sex still hot in to his senses. Mettaton fantasizes hard about those thighs, his ass, the sight of his cock smeared with come, and those bright eyes of his eye him hungrily all over again.
He abstains only because he's not fully under the sway of the sisters.
Emet-Selch leans in, however, to place a kiss to his lips. It's sweet and soft, but the touch of tongue lights Mettaton up anew — and he can feel that adoration of him without words exchanged at all, striking in him ever more eagerness. With that predatory verve, he kisses the other man back with tongue, thrusting past his lips as one of his hands presses to the back of Emet-Selch's head, slipping and twisting into hair. Mettaton looms with more strength to his demeanor as though ready to pounce, ready to push Emet-Selch back all over again, ready to topple him over and fuck him. His erection practically feels like it's pulsing with his sudden need, his head filled with the sight of his Bonded's thighs spread, come smeared on skin, bruises sucked between his thighs—
(And when he thinks about Emet-Selch's lovebitten thighs, he fantasizes some more about Emet-Selch wrapped between his own legs, face shoved into his crotch, made to suck and lick at his balls, lips parted over the whole of his arousal and made to suck down his shaft and swallow around the head—)
(And when he thinks about that, he also thinks about Emet-Selch's contrariness, his design to fuck himself frustratingly with fingers, the taste of his blood and the sudden relief of conquering Emet-Selch's body with enough persuasion; the way he could bury his erection between his thighs, massaging his cock with the use of his body—)
Mettaton has doomed himself to endless temptation, and he doesn't know if he cares to pull away. They'd... make it to the shower? Surely he could just take a moment to kiss him harder, to push him down, to...
At least he pulls him into his lap, forcing him into a straddle as though he's ready to pick him up and take him to the shower. He gets that far — as Emet-Selch projected, Mettaton would be capable of carrying him. But as soon as he collects him in his lap, seated on the edge of the bed and ready to lift him into his arms, Mettaton exhales. He shifts his hips, rubbing his cock against Emet-Selch's front, dragging the head of himself along his abdomen as he buries his nose into his neck.]
Ah...
[How does patience work? He could take him in the shower... but he could also take him one more time here, then take him to the shower, couldn't he? He could have him endlessly, he could have him all. Mettaton knows it would only be Emet-Selch's delight to have him over and over as well, after all.
He giggles a bit, almost abashed, if he had any shame to spare. He doesn't: and Mettaton instead opts to raise Emet-Selch's hips so that he can rub against his ass.]
We're... Yes, we're still going to shower. Don't you worry, darling. I...
[Emet-Selch's also covered in his own saliva along his face and neck, then Mettaton's saliva coats his back. He's really, truly marked by their sex... That in itself is a thought arresting, one that has Mettaton's arm wrapping around Emet-Selch's hips to prod his entrance with the pad of his finger (gentle still with that claw), once more shameless in his palpation. His need to fuck him only rears its head some more, and he groans at the sensation of him, yearning to press the swollen head of his arousal there in place of a digit.]
You are a mess, and... Well, I could... carry you... Or.
[Or, he could be more of a mess, says one half of him. The other half says he could be made a mess of under running water. Both halves say he could be made a mess of regardless, so either way, he's not losing anything. Mettaton's finger rubs circles against his lover's entrance, the head of his cock close by as though waiting to take place of his hand.]
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So it doesn't surprise Emet-Selch when his kiss is turned into a deeper affair, lips parting to suck and lick at his lover's tongue, arm going around him in turn to help reduce the space between their bodies once more. His gasp is rough, stifled against Mettaton's mouth as he feels his head gripped by clawed hands, feels the energy behind it that was more than a suggestion, aware that he was under the distinct threat of being brought down once again, only to be filled back up by his cock and his come, mounted and claimed.
They were at the edge of the bed, but would they ever manage to leave it?
Being pulled into Mettaton's lap was helpful on one hand, if the idol planned on carrying him (and the opposite of helpful if he intended on the Ascian walking, as this was not a position conductive towards that whatsoever). On the other, it was... dangerous, incredibly so, if the intention was to go anywhere at all. Emet-Selch was fully conscious of the spread of his legs (the natural position for them), the cock at his front, an erection just waiting for somewhere to be placed (that place being inside of his body, where he could warm and stroke it some more). He rubs the side of his face against Mettaton's as he feels the drag of that length against his abdomen, against the smears of ejaculate the Ascian had left there.
A danger that only increases as his hips are moved- a gesture he's only too willing to cooperate with, and he has the slide of Mettaton's cock against his ass instead, a sensation in itself to cause a shiver. His Bonded had only just pulled out of him, and Emet-Selch had to admit that he was already feeling the loss, not being anywhere near full of come to make up for Mettaton's absence. Even if he wasn't hard himself, he desired that thickness, that heat, his lover's cries as he pleasured himself on his body, leaving him ever more of a mess....
He bites his swollen lip at the teasing press of a finger, the reminder of his claws the only thing keeping him from pressing back into it. Turning his head, he bites Mettaton's lip instead, sucking it between his own as he considers. The only thing tempering his desire for him now was his own lack of an erection, the only point of something resembling moderation, the only way to have a clarity of thought that wasn't entirely consumed by lust. It wasn't as though waiting would be particularly arduous, even as needy as Mettaton was; it wasn't as though they wouldn't fuck under running water, cleaning and dirtying himself further all at once.
...But what was the harm, the rest of him says. Emet-Selch wanted him here, and he would want him again while he was being made clean.]
Or.
[Is all he says, all he repeats, a bare breath of a word against his lover's lips. One arm remaining about Mettaton's neck and shoulders, he shifts his other one behind him, gently nudging his finger away from his entrance. Not to turn him down or tell him to wait (and certainly not to use his own fingers again), but only to reach for his lover's cock instead. Shifting his hips up again, his breath stills in his concentration as he maneuvers Mettaton's length, pressing the swell of the glans to his still-slick entrance. A moan hoarsened to the point of silence, reduced to a breath against the robot's lips, he lowers his hips onto him, feeling his body begin to give way once more to the cushion of the tip, to feel him push inside.
...He could always be more of a mess.]
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... Even though Mettaton's already made a decision fueled by his sexual appetite, Emet-Selch's refined it further. His Bonded speaks close to his lips (enough to intoxicate on its own) before he reaches behind himself, surely agitating bruises and wounds both. But it's for a greater purpose: he ushers away his hand and reaches for his cock blindly, his hand scooping at the underside of his length. It so quickly demands a short thrust out of Mettaton against his hand, against the air, hungry for the body of his lover made available to him. Available he is, as Emet-Selch rocks his own hips just enough to settle down right on the tip of him, the pressure of his weight the most divine of hints that invites him inside.
He stammers. The Ascian sits atop the glans proper, nudging him inside with push of his own hips, sinking his cock inside of his body with a sound from his throat barely realized, a whisper of its former self. This close, he can almost feel the vibration of it in his throat enough to recognize it as a moan. Mettaton bites at his lower lip, suddenly overwhelmed with needy covetousness, fingers grabbing and sinking into flesh, carnal craving manifest as claws and fingers knead into every square inch of Emet-Selch's body.
A solicitation and suggestion that he be fucked all over again, right here. Mettaton gaze glazes over, primal want overcoming him, and his hips do the rest of the work.
As Emet-Selch obeys gravity, Mettaton fights it, pushing upwards with his hips. But he also cooperates with gravity, taking his lover's hips and slipping him over the whole of his cock in a single stroke — and the moan it tears from Mettaton's throat is immense. To go from having fucked Emet-Selch, laid deep in his body; to pulling out, aching and wanting him all over again; to pulling his lover over his erection as he rides his lap is a thing most pleasurable. He inhales sharply as if he had lungs to treat, but it's more of a gasp in response to pleasure. It's no surprise that Emet-Selch should slip over a thick cock with ease, being that he was just filled with it not even minutes ago, but it still evokes another moan just to think about. Just to feel the swollen head of himself hugged tightly in Emet-Selch's body is worthy of it, and Mettaton's body seizes and shudders at the sudden assault of sensation.
(It's difficult to believe that he'd only ever been experiencing sensation for a year. He never tires of it, always wants it, could become a lusting glutton for it, could imagine himself reclining and demanding he be touched forever. Touched and fucked and sucked off and swallowed around, his body prodded and teased and stroked, his lips kissed and bitten, legs treated to the same, the want to feel Emet-Selch adore him is enough to craze him.)
Mettaton's always been a monster, even prior to arriving here. A monster made into a monster even in instinct, made into a monster even further by Emet-Selch's treatment. Insatiable and ever wanting, ruthless in his designs, sultry and dark in his execution... Even here, Mettaton grips down onto Emet-Selch's hips and holds him steady above his hips, finding in him the desperate urge to pound into Emet-Selch. He gnashes his teeth and keeps him steadily above him, stroking himself on his lover's body with full, firm thrusts of his hips. It's a pleasure he cries out at, the way he curves his abdomen in managing to fully stroke over the glans, rubbing him and massaging himself in his lover's body.]
Ohh, Hades, I can't stop... I always- want you!
[He doesn't know why he feels the need to say so, but he's desperate to explain his ravenous need for his lover's body. But a deeper part of him just wants to show Emet-Selch what he does to him, to show off his cock and his fervor, his thickness and hardness and the rapidity of his thrusts, his need and his desire and love all elements of the ordeal.
Just as soon as he finishes speaking, Mettaton groans, rocking into the other man deeply. He kneads the head of his cock in the depths of his body, getting himself off on the tight rub he's always treated to, all while he kisses passionately at his neck, his shoulders, his collar, his chest, sometimes dragging teeth along his skin. Any restraint he was practicing just to get them from one place to another is gone completely, replaced by feverish sex, the rock of his hips and the pleasuring of his cock, Emet-Selch as the focal point to his pleasure.]
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Not that there would be any reason to let go, not when he knew exactly where the Ascian's hips needed to go, and that was down. Holding just the glans inside him for only the briefest moment, Emet-Selch takes in the pleasure of it, both ongoing and impending. The firm way the head so snugly fit, just inside that taut ring of muscle, and how its shape would make the penetration of the rest of Mettaton's length a simple task. A truth that manifests before he even has time to recognize it, the choked sound he makes as he huddles against Mettaton's body is a low, underlying sound to the far louder moaning that escapes the puca's undamaged throat.
Gravity won, but it was encouraged. Emet-Selch's legs squeeze around him, and the interior of his body squeezes more than that, tightening out of reflex at going from empty to completely full, to having the entirety of Mettaton's cock slid inside him again. A single motion was all it took, from the willing jerk of his own hips downward, assisted further by the drag of the puca's hands on them, and again with the way the man thrusted upward- it was impossible for his body to resist. Even if much of the ease was due to having been fucked by him so recently, it was still immensely satisfying to take to him so readily, to have all of him so swiftly.
And overwhelming. Nearly reeling from it, his arm- Mettaton's cock more than guided into position- wraps back around the puca's shoulder to join the other, needing the grip on him for some attempt at balance. Pressed close to his body, his grip is tight, burying his face against the other man's neck, panting from the depth of his thrusts, of the force of them. Kissing, biting, groaning in his raspy voice- his thoughts slip from some manner of clarity back into that carnal haze, the concept of restraint lost. There was a better answer found in his lover's teeth and lips, every bit of contact a physical manifestation of his words.
In part, Emet-Selch can only hold on as he feels himself taken, stretched tight around the thickness rubbing into him, focused utterly on the way Mettaton's cock felt, every inch that had been slammed into his body, and how quickly his Bonded could move. Thrusts that felt like they shook the whole of his body, that he could feel him throughout- and thrusts that he's yet desperate to meet, to arch into, to shove his hips down harder still onto his erection with every rasping breath. It was a fever that burned hotter for being encouraged with such rapidity, and yet he knew it was a flash that would never truly flare out entirely. It would always be there, smoldering, waiting for either (or both) of them to allow the smallest spark to set the world aflame.
While the last time Mettaton had taken him had begun with defiance, was met with demands and a mutual viciousness of love, and ended with capitulation and possession- this was pure hedonistic indulgence. Dark in its delight, but it was delight all the same, with no trace of anything outside of a desire to give into it. It hardly mattered that he wasn't hard himself, he loved the way Mettaton felt in itself, he loved every sound he made, and every roll of his hips and drag of his length. He loved seeing him enjoy himself.]
Mettaton--
[It's croaked out with as little control as the other raspy sounds he produces, the other shivers and tensings. And he clings as his hips continue moving, as Mettaton continues moving them, as their bodies continue to meet, as that heat only builds, because what was the point of being insatiable, if it wasn't indulged in?]
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Having him fucked before and penetrating him all over again is a sensation divine, he thought. He's done it before, back when he had a double of himself to pass Emet-Selch back from hard cock to hard cock, and the ease with which he could slip his lover over his erection was a turn-on in itself.
But here, it's just him and his insatiability for his lover to fit around, from tip to base. He squeezes around his length as they hold onto each other, bracing against pleasure as it rocks them. But they don't stop inundating each other: Emet-Selch's fate to be inundated by the brunt of Mettaton's full arousal, and Mettaton with Emet-Selch's provocative arches into him, the way he responds to his thrusts with thrusts of his own. It means they're never given a chance to cool down, allowing for that fire to engulf and incinerate them.
All Mettaton knows right now is to keep thrusting, and that he loves Emet-Selch.
Having Emet-Selch grip onto him for dear life while he fucks him senseless satisfies Mettaton terribly. He gets a rush from it, being the only thing his lover has to depend on in this moment, the sound of his name on his choked voice, the feeling of his arms wrapped about him, the steady pounding he's treated to... and it flatters Mettaton, to be so welcomed by his Bonded. Even with his voice gone, he occupies it with his name, as is right. Even sore and fucked to exhaustion, he spreads his legs around Mettaton's hips, as is right. Emet-Selch knows where he belongs, and that's flush to Mettaton's hips, wrapped around his torso, his hips, and his cock.
He gnashes his teeth with the pleasure of that thought, leaning forward as though to threaten that he might push them both to the ground in his voracious taking, ritual and fierce and full of love so hot that they scald each other at every turn. He feels he'd only harden if he could at the thought of how well-made Emet-Selch is to receive him, enthralled by Mettaton always, and he doesn't think he imagines it when he feels that much more engorged. He feels terribly stiff and aching, his balls heavy with the want to spill over and claim his Bonded Witch. He'd claim and possess his beloved so often that all would know how often he's fucked and ravished, upon his lap or into the mattress, against the wall or with lips wrapped around his erection.
His thoughts run salacious and graphic, and his inclination toward mounting him increases. His sharp-clawed fingers curl into his hips some more as he continues to rock his hips into Emet-Selch, ears splaying senselessly as a groan slides up his throat. He nuzzles into the other man's neck, breathing him in: blood, sweat, him, sex, and Mettaton greet him enough to elicit another deep, animalistic noise.
His voice is smooth and deep, sometimes hissed through teeth as he leans forward some more, arms wrapping around Emet-Selch's back to hold him firmly against his hips.]
Tell me- how much you like being- taken by me.
[A demand to hear him exhaust his voice only on praise for Mettaton, and the robot's certain Emet-Selch has something to say about being fucked by him. They've discovered in so short a time that he loves to be suffocated by cock, that he loves to be filled repeatedly until he loses sense, and Mettaton's sure he loves to be so subdued by his passion, used to Mettaton's pleasure. Even here, Mettaton grips onto him and strokes his cock along that tight ring of muscle, long, broad thrusts to pull out and sink back in, dropping Emet-Selch against his hips. A short whine slips from his throat at the blinding pleasure of it.
There's all of the sensation he takes pleasure in, but there's also the reception Emet-Selch gives him without fail. They give each other the whole of themselves, and Mettaton couldn't be more delighted. They'd fall into each other anywhere, whether that meant falling into teeth, into bodies, into passion, or into arms, and they were never more than a half step from doing it. Mettaton shivers at the thought of his lust for Emet-Selch, and heat grows in him to hear of Emet-Selch's lust for him.
It's the only thing that would quell and satisfy this furious want in him, this desire to snarl and the spring-loaded nature of his body, ready to pounce, to tear him apart until he sings his praises on a voice made raw.]
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Though did it really count as a threat, when the Ascian loved every possible outcome? Just knowing Mettaton held control over not only the location of his body, but its condition, that he would decide how he would be used for him at any one moment, with Emet-Selch made to accommodate each demand, each whim, each desire- it was something of a rush. And in these moments, how could he do anything other than adapt to everything that he wanted- because he wanted the same thing after all, their pleasure was the same.
And he reveled in drawing it from him, in feeling how engorged and hot he was, something that could only lead to another proper coating of come, another load that he wanted nothing more than to contain, to have decorating the inside of his body, a heat that would linger and burn much like the rest of their passions. And Emet-Selch would squeeze and coax it all from him, but how could there ever be an end to it, when Mettaton felt so hard? Even after orgasm, he would still be stiff, he would still be aching for him surely- would still have a hard cock for him to wrap around, to stroke, to encourage to leave ever more of his release with him. Until his lover was empty, how could he ever be considered full of him?
He was being held in place and tirelessly fucked, thighs trembling, taut, all of his own movements dedicated to increasing the force Mettaton had available to him. Every time his ass met his Bondmate's body, each time he could feel himself tight around his girth, Mettaton's cock buried up to the root in him- it forced a breath from him, along with small things that would've been sounds had his throat not been so ravaged. And yet the puca was demanding words from him, to exalt him when his throat was so raw, and his thoughts were so scattered, pounded from him with each thick drag of his cock.
But yet he had to try, because he was told to, because he wanted to. Though his first attempts don't produce words at all, only sharper cries, and Emet-Selch bites down at Mettaton's neck in his own frustration, his body not doing what was expected of it. He has to stop himself from growling, because noises like that would only make the situation for his throat worse. Panting damply against him, the Ascian shudders, his hands grope through fur, and his sweaty, blood-streaked body arches into his cock, clinging tight to his lover's form.
Words. Verbal adoration.]
More-- more than, I--
[The rest is croaked off into noise, certainly, but it's too raspy to be terribly discernible as language. And without being understood, does it really qualify as praise?
Emet-Selch is aware that it's hardly sufficient, and for once his delay has little to do with his own contrariness, viewing the condition of his throat as a betrayal by his own body, spiting him for the sake of it, as though it had a rebellious streak separate from the Ascian's own. And not, just, having suffered getting a thick cock shoved into it repeatedly, rubbed and stretched and made to suffocate, followed by continued reckless use through various vocalizations. No, it was failing him out of some throat-based deliberation.
With effort, Emet-Selch attempts to not make any sounds at all, to limit the roughness of his breathing- anything to reduce the strain on his throat, to spare it briefly (so he can use it some more). But it does mean time spent not making the right praise-shaped noises in Mettaton's direction.]
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Because Mettaton deserves the praise. He deserves it for being so virile and lascivious, and he deserves it for being so capable of filling Emet-Selch up. He knows Emet-Selch craves being taken by him, would hop on his lap at the sight of a thick, hard cock, because it's Mettaton he wants to please and be pleased in turn. This is all aside from how much Emet-Selch covets him for his bearing, his beauty, his inherent grace and the scarcest hint of eye contact that can communicate volumes. His best traits are known to himself. Mettaton licks his lips at the thought of having Emet-Selch in any way he can dream, even while he's already rubbing himself off on the man he fantasizes about.
The sensation of teeth in his neck only serves to up not only his fever, but the ante. Mettaton sucks in air through teeth only to expel it as pure heat and a growl, patience growing that much thinner, fury swallowing his form and making his own jaw feel stiff. He leans forward some more, noticing that Emet-Selch's taken the proper course of action by depending wholly on his form for the balance, balance he's given only because he's worthy of it, and could lose such a right at the drop of a hat. The Ascian grips into his fur and slams his hips down against his lap, arching his back, and Mettaton's cry is decorated by a feral growl: ecstatic at the gesture, but remaining stormy in temper.
The Ascian's attempt comes. His voice fails. Mettaton waits for more, waits to hear more than the word more — a consolation rather than the cure to his righteous rage. Mettaton feels like he's on fire with need, and he gives into his more animalistic tendencies.
With something that sounds to be a cross between a whine and a growl, Mettaton shifts them down to the floor, firmly shoving Emet-Selch against the carpet. He's lifted by his knees, hips raised to Mettaton's hip level and his body made to curl up for Mettaton's extended use, rendered into a position granting perfect, unrestrained access.
Like this, with Emet-Sech pressed against the floor, Mettaton mounts him with all of his weight, with the whole of his length stuffed inside of his lover. Mettaton glares at him with his lips peeled back, his fury pure and worn over a smile.]
Tell me. You like this.
[That's undisputed, as far as Mettaton cares. But Emet-Selch ought to be saying it, telling Mettaton what he loves best about being ravished by him. His voice could fail afterwards, but not a moment sooner.
Like this, Mettaton begins a rhythmic, firm rocking of his hips. The robot forces Emet-Selch to wrap his legs around his hips even as he mounts him, pinned in place by the cock he has buried inside of him. With his arms freed, Mettaton grabs for Emet-Selch's wrists all over again and pins him back, forces him back against the floor and under Mettaton's grip and weight. But he can't take it, he can't wait a moment longer to rub his shaft against Emet-Selch's body, he needs that heady, deep heat and massage of the glans and the tightness of his Bonded's body around his length, the squeeze at the root of his cock that indicates how full he is of him. He aches, he feels swollen, he needs some manner of relief.
With another hybrid whine-growl, he sinks his teeth into his Bonded's shoulder once more. He's a masterpiece of bites and bruises, a work of Mettaton's efforts and beautiful in that right, a body of flesh and blood made rent and bleeding, the sign of being touched by a heavenly creature such as himself. So heavenly that he's dark and ghastly, vicious and brutal, teeth sharp and cutting as he feels incisors sink into his lover's skin and body as easily as his cock could penetrate. Blood gushes into his mouth — the most satisfying part of a hearty bite, and one that pulls a moan from his chest as his mind goes numb.
What an honor it must be to be consumed by Mettaton, both in physical form and in the fires of lust. Mettaton growls past his teeth, in disbelief at the slight of his lover for not giving him the words he deserves, but placated (momentarily) by this offering of body and blood. He rolls his hips deeply, thoroughly, paying heavy mind to the way Emet-Selch's body rubs along the tip of his cock, the way it squeezes along his entire length. It's divine, could be made moreso if only his lover would laud him with the compliments he deserves... It's a thought that has his thrusts firming, pounding Emet-Selch with the weight of his arousal that feels heavier, needier the more moments pass without the sound of his Mettaton-used voice to accompany the sight and sensation of his Mettaton-used body.]
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(And yet it was... exciting to see and feel Mettaton like this, in some terrible way, and for all that Emet-Selch hadn't deliberately incited him, he's still stricken breathless at the pleasure of being subdued. Of knowing, with utter clarity, how much he wanted to please him, how he needed to, what other purpose did he have here--)
But before he can try again, that patience (if it could even be called that) on his Bonded monster's part snaps with a vengeance, and Emet-Selch loses his allowance of balance. Shoved to the floor instead, it's a movement to force the air from his lungs as his body is pushed down and spread apart, permitted only the feeling of being mounted again, legs dragged upward, Mettaton bearing down on him with the whole of his body. Robotic strength pinning him easily, the Ascian's hands, which reflexively attempted to grasp at him, at anything for purchase, are instead crushed to the ground as well, furthering the sensation of being caught. Trapped in a maelstrom of fury, he jerks at his confines out of habit, even as a moan of abject pleasure escapes his throat despite his best efforts to restrain it, to save his voice for words instead.
(It's a gradual process, limitations of mortality remaining, but it's this, in the moment of being crushed under by Mettaton in both spirit and body, fucked and pinned and drowning in darkness, that his own cock begins to stiffen.)
A position like this was not very good for Emet-Selch's back or shoulders, the pressure only agitating the wounds on both, tearing anew anything that had dared to begin clotting, or just otherwise reminding him of all those bruises. But even that becomes a backdrop to the fresher, and much sharper pain of Mettaton burying his incisors into the front of his shoulder. Another inescapable reminder of his place, that he had a reason for being there, and that it was to exalt his lover in every way he deserved. His body, his blood, his service- Mettaton could call on it all.
So even if Emet-Selch had the voice to spare on a protest- to argue that it was because of Mettaton's own actions that his conversational ability was somewhat reduced- he wouldn't. Partially because he knows he'd only encouraged him to this end, so it was equally his responsibility, but mostly because he found his lover's response justified, aggravated at his own voice's failure to comply with his control.
It didn't matter that Mettaton knew that he loved this, loved having him like this, every part of the thickness of his cock, and the brutality of his taking. It was his right as well to hear it, to have voice given over to his delectation, along with his body and soul. Emet-Selch gasps soundlessly as that pounding into him continues, that rough slide of Mettaton's erection, from the swell of the tip, to the heaviness of the shaft, shuddering hard at how well he fit inside him. His legs cling tighter around him, wanting him to take every bit of depth he could. He writhes, struggling to press up into both teeth and cock.
But none of that was language, so Emet-Selch tries again to force out some kind of speech. Knowing the condition of his throat, he'd have to try and be concise, even if Mettaton deserved more than that.]
I do, I--
[But it was more than that, more than he could express even if his throat wasn't failing them both. Gaze half-lidded as he looks up at him, blearily, his words are soft, so soft, but plaintive.]
I need this, you...
[A concluding rasp that may have been his name, may have been another moan; his body is tight as it continues to shudder.]
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For a moment, Mettaton hardly understands language at all, meaning that anything Emet-Selch did was communicated perfectly as long as it had no words to it. The sharp push against his hips, a wordless insistence for his sex, his body; the push of air through his throat without sound, incapable of manifesting. He basks in it, letting out a shuddering sigh of heat. (His core's so hot. He can't feel it, but he knows it subconsciously... even when it's hard to differentiate between the need to fuck, the vicious energy of the pendants versus the jewelry, and the urgency of his body to move, to release that heat stored within him.
There's a lot of heat to release, actually.)
His lover, bleeding and helpless and prone before him, filled with his cock and with a split lip, softened and beautiful in his weakness, tries his hand at speech once more. It's with a tone that manages to touch Mettaton's heart, even when it hardly satisfies his need for compliments. Near pleading, gentle and scarcely audible, his voice falters on the sound of his name (salt to the wound), but at the same time...
Emet-Selch shudders, tense and pinned beneath him, eyes fixed on him in a way that surpasses even a curse (even when that fury exists alongside his pity). His body rocks into Mettaton's sharp thrusts and from Mettaton's angle, examining the bruises and bites and flesh of his lover, he can see his filling cock — a sure sign of Emet-Selch's enjoyment.
So there's a demand further for words to enjoy, more than the seven he's offered up. But Mettaton is willing to take something else where his voice fails, his growl turning into a rumble in his throat. His voice, for the moment, dips lower, softer to match his heart.]
Sweetheart... How- how badly?
[The dichotomy: his mercy, his violence. They coexist, softened in heart by his show of bleary want, by his inabilities, while his temper flares at the lack of verbose praise.
The Puca, too, tenses some more over his Bonded's body, scooping him closer to his form. Closer, easier to mount, more prone to each and every roll of his hips. If he can't have his words, he'll make him give him his voice at any opportunity — and that means forcing sound from him in whatever form it takes, be they cries or moans or screams of pleasure or pain. His thrusts become quick and deep, pounding and barely leaving his body, though the shifting rock of his hips is enough to thoroughly jostle his length deep within Emet-Selch's body. The head of his cock is kneaded and rocked, the shaft rubbing against his lover's body in every which way. Each thrust inward is sharp and pounding, his entire body tangible to his lover beneath him, especially as he pushes with the strength of his legs. They're strokes to die for, and Mettaton finds himself moaning loudly, nearly crying out at the sensation of his own movement.]
Ohhh, Hades-!
[His next inhale is cut short by another snarl. The sacrifice for his inability to speak, after all, is his blood. His madness overcomes him.
Mettaton leans forward and takes another bite of his lover, close to his neck — flirting with danger again, not at all considering the potential consequence in his pleasure- and feral-addled mind. He wants blood, the only thing to temper his animosity, to soothe his passionate violence. And he gets blood, enough to moan into as he sucks and laps and drinks his lover's body some more, all while it oozes lazily from other wounds he's left in his wake. Opened ones, fresh ones, Emet-Selch bleeds out all while Mettaton pounds into him some more, massaging his cock, aching and thick, against his Bonded's body.
That he missed a dangerous point in his neck is surely the work of his luck. That he hit something that still bleeds enough to satisfy would also be his luck, as long as he's made to back off and stop sucking on it. He can hardly think past all of his emotion and indulgence, his anger and pleasure and mind-numbing fixation on love, carnage, and sex.
He couldn't begin to come down from this insanity without appropriate recognition and respect, given to him in words. His lover's gaze, his lust, and his filling cock do something for him; his blood soothes more yet. But he deserves words, he needs to hear Emet-Selch tell him he's addicted to his cock, that he couldn't live without the sight of his figure, that he'd kiss him from head to toe and, along the way, swallow his cock out of desperation for it; that he'd finger him and tease him and coax him into arousal forever.
If anyone's addicted, it's Mettaton. He's addicted and lost to diamonds and pendants, to Emet-Selch's body and his every response, to the sound of his voice and the work of his throat and every sensation he brings him. From pleasure to pain, to gentle, lighthearted touches, Mettaton reflects upon it all and drowns gladly in it while he licks at his latest wound, his thrusts feverish and needy as he works to a point of release.]
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So he's reassured and soothed by his voice itself, before the comprehension of language catches up to him, making it clear that his lover expected more detail from him, more descriptions forced from a damaged throat. Mettaton's words may have been softer, a balm of mercy, yet remained crystal clear in just how easily the puca would dip ever further into frustrated aggression, if the Ascian failed to continue giving him his spoken adoration. Saying this much hadn't quite earned him a reprieve (how could it, as brief as he'd had to be), but at least he hadn't been a complete disappointment either. A maintenance of potential terror at best- or the addition of softness layered over razors; Mettaton's sharpness remained.
And for all that Emet-Selch needs to spare his throat he can't keep from emitting low noises regardless, when Mettaton holds him closer, takes him yet harder, his cock providing him a continuous rub he had no hope of defending against. A hard stuffing of his body that made coherent thoughts that much harder to collect, and even more so now that his own erection was beginning to form. A stiffness clear to them both, it was the most blatant sign of his adoration and attraction to him, in how starved his body was for Mettaton's cock, how much it yearned for its size and shape, its curve and rigidity. And on receiving it, how could Emet-Selch do anything but stiffen in reply, aroused by being fucked without relent? In this much, at least, the Ascian's body could gradually overcome exhaustion and use (that, and time being the most important component in recovery) when faced with overwhelming stimulation.
But he tries to gather his voice, his breath, his thoughts- all to have them scattered again completely when Mettaton drives his teeth into a place close to his neck- a place already rubbed raw on the inside, clawed and bruised on the outside, and now facing a piercing bite near enough that the pain seemed to join it. Merge with it. His cry would be loud, but it's rendered into only air- an attempt that hurts him nonetheless, his non-cry choking itself down into a wheezing noise of pain. The Ascian's head jerks automatically at the hold, though he knows he can't get away from it- and doesn't want to regardless.
Was it a penalty for his lack of speech? Or an inevitability that he would have faced regardless of how satisfactory he'd been? But he's soothed a little in turn by Mettaton's own blood-soaked mollification. It didn't replace speech, it didn't even make it easier to think, but he felt slightly better for it all the same, that he could give this much to his lover.
That it was a dangerous place to sink into doesn't occur to Emet-Selch either, aware of only the pain of it- and as the seconds pass, and as Mettaton drinks from the wound, lapping at it with firm swipes of his tongue, closing his lips around it to suck more blood from him- pleasure gradually begins to join the discomfort. Whether it was due to Mettaton's own reaction to taking on more of his blood filtering through the Bond, or his own growing predilection of correlating pain with arousal, but the sheer intensity of it all renders him temporarily stricken once more, trembling against his body.
He would worship him. Press his lips to every part of his body, devote himself to his pleasure, and how endless he would make that pleasure be if it would make him happy. His heart ached from the want for it, to bury himself in attending to Mettaton and not... not have to think about anything else. Not his despair, not his failures in affairs unrelated to providing Mettaton with sufficient praise. That was all Emet-Selch would ask of him in return: to command his devotion to the exclusion of all else. If only for a while... he wouldn't have to feel anything more.]
Mettaton....
[He begins with his name. Soft and wispy, but more easily discerned this time, not an accident of breath and gasp.]
I would- live for you... alone.
[The quality of his voice is atrocious. It's agonizing to speak at all, especially with the new dripping wound in his neck. Every word costs, and is worse than the next.]
For your pleasure. Your- body, your touch, I would- lose myself entirely with- without you.
[Swallowing; he tastes blood. A hollowed-out version of a whine is all else that escapes his throat. His legs tighten.]
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He loves this. And in his fury, Mettaton doesn't think it could get any better.
But it does. He can practically feel Emet-Selch's struggle for air under his lips, a struggle for a reason other than sucking and swallowing around a thick cock. (A memory to further pleasure Mettaton's present delight, at any rate. His eye glazes over for a moment, pumps of his cock becoming firmer, each thrust decorated by a short, soft noise of bliss as he enjoys this, but also enjoys his memory.) No, it's for the struggle against a raw throat. He also struggles against this assault of pleasure and pain, he knows that much, and that's fine.
What happens to up Mettaton's pleasure is that Emet-Selch manages speech, though his voice is scarcely there. But Mettaton hears every word of it. His ears stand tall, swiveled toward the Ascian as he soaks up every word and inflection, his sentiment soft and voice softer. His speech is labored and Mettaton basks in it all, every single word, moaning after his pledge to live for him, to service his pleasure, to his body and touch.
This is what he wanted to hear. Pacified by Emet-Selch's words, rage diminishes; desire and love and abject enjoyment take its place. And he's finally reached peak ecstasy when thought leaves him completely. Emet-Selch is devoted and his, purely his, and he can't begin to think of anything but his Bonded tasked to... just being in love with him. Knowing him, letting himself be known. Touching him, being touched by him. Living moments with him. Pleasuring him, and being pleasured in turn. The robot cries out, drawing out his teeth and keeping his lips wrapped around that wound instead, laving him with tongue as though he's the injury and the cure, sometimes leaving it only to plant a rapid series of kisses against it before returning.]
Yes! Hades—
[He thrusts. His body demands this relief be realized, this softness be made love incarnate, and fucking Emet-Selch is the only appropriate way in this moment. His hips maintain that rocking motion that massages his length against Emet-Selch, rubbing is cock so deeply in his lover all the while. The Puca can't see it with his lips wrapped around his neck, but he knows his Bonded lover's developed an arousal of his own, something worth moaning for all over again at the mere thought. He looks terribly attractive in his mind's eye, and he can't help but bearing down on him some more as he mounts him, obeying the tightening of his legs.
Words don't happen anymore when a few final thrusts precede come gushing from the tip of Mettaton's cock, heat deposited as deeply as his hips will allow. Marking his lover again, filling him with a fifth load of come, fucking him hunched over and mounting him in as primal as a manner as his desperation feels. Each push of his hips drives Emet-Selch back against the floor, pinned between it, teeth, hands, and cock, and made to take the full force of Mettaton's adoration of him.
His voice is loud and clear in each cry, pleasure washing over him so entirely that he's sure he'd lose his own voice, if it were possible for him to do. He buries his face in blood, kissing and vocalizing against skin and loving every moment of this. He's feverish and hot and his body's need to move is frantic, near- near overheating in his fantastic desire. If Emet-Selch offered himself up to an eternity spent pleasuring Mettaton in this moment, he'd accept it in a heartbeat, feeling that an eternity of sensuality and ecstasy would be the only thing to appease him.
He thinks about marrying him again. Another way to have, another expression of their possession. Souls bound, socially bonded, legally entwined... He has to have him.
When Mettaton finishes his release, he doesn't quite collapse... but he lowers himself down, pressing his weight against his lover. He nuzzles into Emet-Selch's neck, caring not for the blood that smears itself all over his features. His consciousness is temporarily dazed, words a difficult thing to do. Until...]
My dear... You're all right?
[He always asks something like that, but he has the hazy recollection suddenly of the quality of his poor lover's throat. And, prominently... the last sentence Emet-Selch managed. Mettaton holds him tighter.]
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It was a relief to feel through Bond that his words had been more acceptable this time, that he hadn't struggled while still leaving Mettaton dissatisfied. It's not enough to have him slacken, but there was a desperate kind of ease to it, the barest edge of catharsis. And fortunate, too, as Emet-Selch doubted that he would have had much chance of saying more than an additional word or two, not right away. And his lover was not in a patient mood. So he shivers at the way his Bonded's feelings course through him; as enticing as Mettaton was in his fury, having it followed by emotions like this, by his satisfaction and enjoyment, was the other part to it. There would always be other expectations, but for now he'd done what he'd needed to, and there was pleasure in that.
And mounted like this, bleeding and sore, he felt touched all the same at having any and all gentleness applied to wounds that Mettaton had himself inflicted. But his body was... entirely for his use, available for both damaging and treating. With love present in either aspect, he loved him for both sides of it, no matter how badly it hurt. He wanted to be bound to him; he wanted to stay bound to him, in every way that existed.
Mettaton crying out stole his breath entirely, and his whole body seems to lock up in response to the other man's orgasm, tight and hot and ecstatic. It didn't feel strange at all that the sensation of Mettaton ejaculating inside him also brought a sense of satisfaction that was as deeply-reaching as his cock and his release, for all that he wasn't the one being presently sated. It was even a feeling, of heat and thickness and claiming that fills his own cock further, rendering him fully erect. That much wasn't strange at all- just the thought of Mettaton bearing down on him, holding him in place as his hips jerk, as he leaves his mark in him with another load of come- it was a deeply arousing one. Experiencing that moment was doubly so, and Emet-Selch moans without intending to, before he can stop himself, for all that there wasn't really any sound to it, awash with the force of his lover's ecstasy.
With his arms pressed down he can't wrap them around Mettaton, but Emet-Selch tries to nudge his head against his, and his legs squeeze a little at him in a kind of hug. His breathing is fast- something that's a bit uncomfortable in itself- as he closes his eyes, shivering, as he feels the weight of the robot's body encroaching further on him. A comfort in his current state, emotions as raw as his throat, while tense and hard in body. He wanted to be closed in on, kept safe... he was safe with him, no matter how dark he became, how feral or furious. In that regard, there was never any need for concern. The tapestry of blood and bruise that adorned him now was only a testament to his trust, an expression of Mettaton's affection, and the only way a love like theirs could appropriately manifest.
...Even if this was a bit more piercing than usual, there was no danger in it. Some days would be bloodier than others, passions expressed through the dig of claws and teeth.
The question would've been difficult to answer normally, and now- an instant of something like sound vibrates his throat before he thinks better of it. So the Ascian nods against his head instead, though it's not very different of a motion from just trying to rub at it. He was fine, for certain values of fine. He loved him, and he had Mettaton inside his body; were there any other conditions that mattered? He didn't want to know of any.
Though his breathing was unsteady and quite a lot of things hurt, that was how it needed to be.]
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