glitzandglamour: (💣162)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-04 11:56 pm (UTC)(link)
[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.]
glitzandglamour: (💣120)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-05 06:55 am (UTC)(link)
[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.]
glitzandglamour: (💣062)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-05 06:12 pm (UTC)(link)
[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.]
glitzandglamour: i just thought you should know. (💣109)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-05 11:05 pm (UTC)(link)
[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.]
glitzandglamour: it's a microphone, i promise... (💣141)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-06 05:55 am (UTC)(link)
[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.]
glitzandglamour: (💣124)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-06 05:43 pm (UTC)(link)
[Each of Emet-Selch's desires become his own, slowly but surely as his head is capable of parsing emotion or sentiment. He unhands his wrists; wraps his arms close to his Bonded in something that couldn't be a hug, but he sidles them close, flush to his figure. He pushes into that space between Emet-Selch's legs, allowing himself to be dragged that much closer in his pseudo-embrace, and he begins to suck a long, painstaking bruise into Emet-Selch's neck.

It's one that occupies his mouth too much for speech, anyway. Mettaton only hums in response to Emet-Selch's nod.

And in these moments of repose, he collects himself. Sex with Emet-Selch feels- it feels warm, hot, or it feels like warmth against a chilly world, never minding that they're still in the depths of Summer. If he could liken it in this body, it would definitely be walking into the embrace of Emet-Selch against the cold, taking from him his heat and feeling their bodies so close, the pleasure of finding that basic need met... And among those basic needs isn't only pleasure, but an outlet for relief, for emotion, and for new emotion to blossom in its place. A process of alchemy, converting passion, appetite, infatuation, and libido into something new and unique every time. Sometimes it was bruises, blood, memories, relief, new appetites, untouched spaces, memories, or peace, but it always carried love and trust, deeper and deeper with each contact. Something to be carried into their lives and their next entanglement.

The taste of blood is on his tongue and his lips, though his process at sucking a bruise into Emet-Selch is lasting a long time. He wants it to be deep, he wants it to rest just above that bite mark he left. He forces Emet-Selch down, makes him bide his time and wait patiently — it's not as though he has the words to protest this need of his. His cock, something that has only begun to soften within the Ascian's body, begins to lazily harden all over again in response to Mettaton's possessiveness. The pendants still exert their pressure on him, his moon-influenced body reacting on impulse by merely being in Emet-Selch's presence, smelling his skin and his blood and feeling his body naked and flush t his own, his cock still buried inside of him... How's he supposed to not be turned on? And Mettaton is far too mindful of his body to not feel Emet-Selch's arousal, even if he doesn't feel his cock directly — it's a sort of knowing via Bond, if the squeezing around his cock that he's come to identify as arousal wasn't any indication in itself.

When Mettaton releases Emet-Selch's neck, only then does he untangle them from this sort of half-mounting, slumped position. He lifts his weight from him, wrapping his arms about the back of his neck and upper back, where Mettaton scoops Emet-Selch up and off of the floor. His destination: sitting in Mettaton's lap, legs still wrapped around his hips and still seated upon his cock, but this time upright and with Mettaton's arms wrapped around his shoulders.

Situating himself to pull back and meet Emet-Selch's good eye with his own, Mettaton's smile is soft, his gaze half-lidded and near intoxicated in its heat. He's regained sense, expelled his fever and fury in the process of fucking Emet-Selch, and he regards his neck more heavily. His eye goes wide.]


Oh, my. You're a constellation of bruises and teeth...

[The way he looks at Emet-Selch suggests that he didn't know his own passion, eye roving over his neck, shoulders, and torso in general. It's still hard to see past the blood, though... The robot meets Emet-Selch's gaze again, still warm and placated by sex and the adoration fed to him. His long ears don't ever stand in any normal emotive position, his body so overwhelmed by numbing pleasure that they obey gravity some, crooked and leaning at each side of his head, bobbing with each movement.]

You're... Wonderful, Hades. [That lust overcomes him again, and one of his hands moves to rub softly over Emet-Selch's throat.] Though you've been run ragged, haven't you?

[As if he weren't the cause, as if he wasn't the one who made Emet-Selch's throat so sore by repeated use and demand. And his eye flits downward to drink in the sight of Emet-Selch's arousal, his smile only growing, his eye taking on that predatory glint again, the want for more seeping between them in Bond. But it's accompanied far more by love and protectiveness, as Mettaton holds him closer in his arms.

He presses his hand against the back of Emet-Selch's head and guides him to his shoulder, making manifest some of that desire to protect him from... something. The world, Emet-Selch himself, Mettaton himself, who could say. He nuzzles him possessively, but gently, giving Emet-Selch a moment to react, for as much as "response" isn't something he expects much of in a verbal sense.]
glitzandglamour: (💣112)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-06 09:46 pm (UTC)(link)
[Emet-Selch could somehow manage to mollify Mettaton even without satisfying any demands of his, he thought. The way he leans into his touch, a throat so sore and raw as his presentation of himself (both physically and by Bond), has Mettaton sparing him a smile that could only be described as lovesick, and he imagines the way his heart should react to that. He remembers finding it so fascinating that a crucial muscle could be made to falter by feelings of adoration and infatuation... And he's sure then that his heart would be skipping beats if he only had one. An addicting sensation that demonstrates itself in no way at all in his robotic body, no part to respond to feelings of love save for his own soul and consciousness, unless the heat of his core counted. He can't feel that, however, even though it instills in him a feeling of restlessness.

Whether it was by an appeal to Mettaton's emotions or by giving over some of his potent, intoxicating blood, Mettaton would inevitably be calmed at his treatment, always. Even like this, even when he's finding himself so frequently angered (and not at all questioning why that might be), Emet-Selch could tide him over with blood and sweet words... But what of now, where his words failed him?

As it turns out, he'd just have to read his lips. 'Somewhat,' he says, and the robot smiles some more.]


Only somewhat. Haha... I'll be gentle with you.

[With him against his shoulder, he leans down to kiss his cheek. He wraps his arms fully around Emet-Selch: tightly, winding, letting one of his arms slip down to cover more of his back. Secure and possessive—]

Oh...

[But there's the sensation of Emet-Selch shifting in his lap, Mettaton's cock demonstrating its own signs of use and overuse. He's terribly sensitive, but Emet-Selch's movement's gentle enough to not overwhelm him, at least. His lover shivers and tenses because of it, holding tight around his cock, which Mettaton's made to focus on with greater attention and an even greater sigh.

With them both like this... Yes, a sixth round was in order, Mettaton decides whimsically. Even the thought has him thrilled, his skewed ears perking up, feeling perfectly at home held within his Bonded like this. He holds Emet-Selch in his arms while his lover clings to his waist in turn, keeping his cock nestled inside of his body: warm and tight, each movement and response on his lover's part something for him to enjoy.

As they are, however... Against an unyielding floor, Mettaton can hardly rock his hips into Emet-Selch (though he tries), and he deserves all of the rubbing he can get. He clicks his tongue. His voice is not at all affected by use, smooth and sultry and close to Emet-Selch's ear.]


You always did say you'd never want me to stop. You mean it. [A small laugh remains in his throat, fondness overwhelming him at the man he holds in his arms. He sighs.] If I move us to the bed, you'll spare some of that strength to cling to my hips, won't you?

[Another mercy spared. Mettaton doesn't want to withdraw from him at all, and he feels for Emet-Selch's back and hips. He wants to lay them both down, wants to grab Emet-Selch's ass and force him to ride him with the manipulation of hands against his hips and his ass, where Emet-Selch could be viewed by Mettaton and Mettaton, by Emet-Selch. He finds himself that much more riled up, even feeling the way his erection gains the pressure of being so filled.]
glitzandglamour: (💣205)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-07 08:22 am (UTC)(link)
[Of course Emet-Selch would meet Mettaton's needy, short thrusts, impeded by the hardness of floor, with unobstructed shifting of his hips. He'd roll his hips and tighten over his length, and Mettaton would be left to moan, his capacity for speech rendered into use by vocalizations of pleasure instead, as he is right now. Yes, this is what he wants in this instant. More of this, more of his Bonded riding his cock and the way tightening muscle from shifting about feels wrapped around his shaft, massaging the head of him so soon, so sensitive.

He pulls himself together, haphazardly at best. His lover's curling against him, holding onto him and making a show of clinging tight, shoving his ass so firmly against his cock. He's equally reluctant to feel him leave his body at all, and Mettaton's body seizes and trembles at that thought and sensation, short, weak thrusts there to decorate the weight of his need. He has a task to perform now, and that's toting the Ascian back to the bed to fuck him some more.

The shower would be a diversion that would have to wait until they found themselves at the very least spent from this instance of sex, as aligned as they are in their need.

Mettaton gives Emet-Selch a squeeze of his own, adorned by a kiss to the side of his face. He's still warmed and reflecting over that heated mouthing of his jaw, a kiss to betray some measure of that want that the robot feels sympathetic to... The sheer amount of want between them is something so visible in the signs of his Bonded lover, something that anybody could see and know precisely how amorous a lover Emet-Selch has. And how possessive, especially if they were a Monster like Mettaton himself: why else does he dedicate himself so strongly to making sure Emet-Selch is thoroughly scented by him? A primal instinct that grows even stronger like this, the very smell of himself so prominent on his Bonded's body that manifests as a concoction of them together, intoxicating like a drug to the Puca. Emet-Selch is possessed.

He turns his face to receive some of those kisses near his lips, desperate to feel the heat of his mouth. His sigh is a shudder more than anything as he tries to shift them together to move.]


Of course... It's like I said. You're well-practiced... at anything involving spreading your legs around me. Tight as you can.

[He should be. Emet-Selch can use it to capture him and keep him close, to wrap around his hips and pull his cock into his body. What a flawless defense, if defense means that he's taking his cock.

When Mettaton shifts his body to rise, he's suddenly so impassioned by a feverish want that in trying to rise at all to wander to their bed, balancing Emet-Selch's ass against one arm and wrapping him secure across his back with the other, leads to a few firm thrusts that have Emet-Selch bouncing against his body. He shudders some more, holding Emet-Selch tight as can be against his body as he stammers around words he can't think to make.]


Ah... You. You feel so nice...

[Mettaton presses down against his ass, but even with that effort, standing up means that he's forced to withdraw just the root of his cock while he carries his lover to bed. It's a balancing act, but Mettaton is bestowed with the robotic strength to see it through. He slides first atop the mattress on his knees, setting himself down half-propped up against pillows, where he unfolds his legs. The robot sits back, letting Emet-Selch remain seated in his lap.

And here, he grabs his ass fiercely, spreading him apart as he pushes him back down against his cock. He forces Emet-Selch to sit firmly against the root of his shaft, shifting his hips in a gesture almost affectionate, if it weren't so horny and obvious about it. He sighs, smiling up at his lover.]


Perfect... Y-You can pleasure yourself on me, or. Or, I'll make you move...

[To demonstrate this, Mettaton takes Emet-Selch by the hold on his ass and slips him up his cock, then back down upon it, grinding him against his hips to his pleasure. He grits his teeth, making a soft 'Nnnn,' sound in self-afflicted inundation.]
glitzandglamour: (💣130)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-07 06:03 pm (UTC)(link)
[Emet-Selch's reaction has Mettaton's own gaze mirroring his, that sharpness of his bright golden stare clouded over by the hazy craving for Emet-Selch. But his focus remains. How could it not? All he needs to focus on is right before him, sitting on his lap, wrapped around his arousal and encasing him in delectable heat and squeezing along him. Lifting Emet-Selch up and pushing him back down causes that squeeze to alter, to press and shift differently all along his length: a ring of tight muscle first slides up his shaft, giving Mettaton the distinct sort of heat that feels almost like release, until he slips him back over the whole of his cock, settling him firmly at the base. All of his body, then, is made to squeeze and rub along him, and he can't do anything but watch desperately his lover, biting at his lower lip with the size of his want set between them to combine with Emet-Selch's.

There's the doubly lethal act, then, of just... looking at Emet-Selch. Mettaton's eye rakes over him in agonizing detail, following from bruise to bruise on a journey southbound. Each bite and bruise, sometimes decorated by saliva-diluted blood, is an easy jump from one to the next, a vast collection of them centered about his neck and shoulders... but anywhere there's flesh Mettaton can suck and bite, bruises are sure to follow. Around his nipples, his abdomen, sides, hips (somehow, determination probably), his groin, his crotch, and— there, Mettaton's eye settles upon his cock.

Curving upwards, a head he just wants to squeeze between lips and circle with his tongue. Emet-Selch's body looks so soft and inviting to the robot, something he wants to nip and suck and mouth and touch in its entirety. He swallows, aching; one of his hands departs from Emet-Selch's ass if just for a moment, an indulgence, wrapping his fingers around his Bonded's cock and pressing along its shaft. Both rigid and soft... Mettaton moans, lovesick and lusting and wanting everything all at once. Fingers skip to the glans, where he probes and prods him with fingers, pinching him gently and still biting his lower lip in that bleary want for him.

But his hips don't still, especially not while Emet-Selch begins his gradual shifting of hips. A change of pace that has Mettaton arrested, shuddering and slowing his own ministrations just to feel Emet-Selch's body squeeze and slide along him on its own accord...

Mettaton nearly tosses his head back, but he throws it toward his shoulder instead as though writhing, but wanting not at all to escape.]


Oh- Oh-

[He can practically feel how the Ascian's body squeezes and glides along his cock, pulling along the whole of his cock even as Emet-Selch rises from his lap, dragging along the sensitive, swollen glans. He begins to pant, lips parted as his attention darts back to his lover's face upon hearing the attempt at his name.

He's captivated. Emet-Selch is beautiful; Mettaton swallows. Decorated by bloody kisses, lips still flush and split, gaze hazy in arousal but attention honed (just like Mettaton's), lips parted, and... deeply in love with him, no hope of escape. Mettaton wants to kiss him until he suffocates in his arms then, gasping and panting— and how nice, then, that Emet-Selch would close that distance between them, pressing lips to his in a messy mouthing of lips. Where Emet-Selch's moan fails to sound, Mettaton makes plenty of it, moaning against the intrusion of tongue in his mouth as he concedes to being so kissed by his lover, pressing into him in a want for this to be endless.

Emet-Selch rocks against him, rolling his hips and shoving his ass down, engulfing his cock and tensing around him completely. Each one has Mettaton seizing and moaning, the fingers around his cock gripping and stroking as though finding stability and comfort there to brace against the sheer pleasure that courses through him. He kisses like that's his breath and kneads the cock in his hand and his palm, trembling at his want. How desperately he wants to fill Emet-Selch over and over, the pressure building in him more than ever before, his cock feeling so heavy and used yet ready for more and more. He feels he could fill his lover endlessly, even if he had nothing to fill him with but an erection and his tongue, which he would do gladly. That Emet-Selch would never want him to stop is agreeable with him. He never wants to go without this pleasure stroking along his cock, his lover's body made to form around his thickness, made to hug every ridge and curve, subjecting him to every tensing of muscle as he fucks himself on Mettaton's length.

Mettaton moans loudly, overwhelmed by his own desires like the cherry atop the rest of his pleasure. Or maybe he's making up for the sound he stole from Emet-Selch. He gazes blearily, adoringly at his Bonded.]


I love you... I want- everything about you, ah...

[And he presses with more urgency against his lips, thrusting his hips gently into the rocking of Emet-Selch's hips, stroking over the length of his lover's come-marked cock. ...What a mess they both are. It's hardly something that could constitute a thought as much as an arousing notion, given how passionately they give each other over to one another. When Mettaton wants something, he gets it, and Emet-Selch is his.

The hand he has against his lover's ass squeezes him possessively, his nails indenting supple flesh.]
glitzandglamour: (💣194)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-07 09:48 pm (UTC)(link)
[The curse of the diamonds that rain down his neck, blood-dyed facets reflective and radiant, can't dare to compare to the sentiment from his Bonded spoken on no air at all. The obvious display of lust for him in body and soul, the want for his form and his closeness alongside the yearning for his love, is all of the satiation he needs when he's so vulnerable to it, and Mettaton locks himself into those tender kisses. Gentle as they are, they remain hot, a presence that could never be separated from his adoration of Emet-Selch.

Mettaton, too, is aware of how little in the ways of stimulation Emet-Selch's erection's gotten over the span of their engagement. And examining it any closer at all... He remembers watching him in orgasm, so taken by that sight that it's continuously visited him. The sight of his come decorating his abdomen in his feverish tensing, slick and dripping off the head of his cock, is another thing to have him moaning softly into their already tender kiss, imagining that he'll get the same sight now with the other man seated atop his cock, rocking his hips into him like this. Mettaton squeezes and pulls, hand warm as he rolls his thumb over the slit of his arousal, fingers lightly stroking along the ridge of him — appreciating the sensation of something he can handle while he feels Emet-Selch's body pulling and kneading over the head and corona of his own sensitive cock.

But that his lover could ejaculate so readily with little stimulation only testifies to how much he gets off on being so filled, how Mettaton's idea of an erection perfectly suits his Bonded partner and his inclination to be filled absolutely with cock. Stretched and made to acclimate himself over time, it's the most suitable sort of orientation to repeated fucking, he thinks.

Another thought to have him hiccuping into their kisses, feeling how readily Emet-Selch strokes along his length. Going from un-aroused to sitting on his length would surely be difficult, but when Emet-Selch's so worked up like this, it's the most natural thing in the world for him. He could remain stretched around his girth like this, come-filled and ready for more, just as soon as he could take him — and finding Emet-Selch in such a state is beyond arousing. The pressure only builds, a sort of feeling that pulsing blood might have at its deepest throb, but it inundates Mettaton endlessly, making him sore and aching and needing to be stroked and loved.

He shifts his hips violently, feeling so acutely the heavy ache between his legs. Each stroke is a balm, a relief both occurring and impending, and he delights in each shove of his hips downward, each time Emet-Selch's made to overstuff himself with his cock. He can practically feel that perfect pleasure for himself, and he wonders if he imagines it when he can nearly feel just how affected Emet-Selch is — the sort of pulsing want in his own cock, the fullness and the desire for release.

How beautiful he'll look, Mettaton belatedly realizes... Emet-Selch, as soon as he pulls off of his lap, will be six times filled with each of Mettaton's loads, definitely a libido and drive affected by the minute sway of the pendants he found. His lover will pull off of his cock and be dripping with come, filled with his essence to overfull, and Mettaton would want to lick and suck his body and kiss him hard, the taste of his own come and the knowledge that Emet-Selch holds so much of it something worth arousal all over again.]


I- Oh... Hades, you're so... full...

[Specific word choice: Emet-Selch is tight around his cock, massaging along his length as he does, a perfect match. But he can still feel that heat remaining, his previous ejaculation something that surrounds the heat of his length, a lubricant as though he needed more of it. What's worse, Mettaton knows he'll end up hard again. He knows he won't be able to stop: the moment he sees Emet-Selch dripping, the moment the Puca gets a hint of come dripping down his thighs, he's going to be raring and hungry, nudging Emet-Selch's hips so that he's hovering over the tip of his cock again. He'll be aching for more with startling immediacy, the only end in sight a dead battery...

And his battery feels too full to drain soon. Mettaton shudders again, rolling his hips fully into his Bonded and hastening the pace of his hand on Emet-Selch.

A part of him wants to unhand his cock and grip his hips, forcing them together so he could thrust and thrust and overwhelm his lover until he clutched him. But a larger part of him wants to kiss him, to stroke his erection and squeeze every inch of it, to feel Emet-Selch rock his hips into the thick cock that fills him. He wants to continue feeling Emet-Selch grind into him and forget to breathe in his love and obscene desire, and he wants to feel Emet-Selch pleasure himself on such a rigid, thick cock, one that provides him with the textures and firmness, the curve and swell, to fill himself and stroke himself.

As Emet-Selch gets off on Mettaton's use of his body, Mettaton gets off on Emet-Selch's use of his, especially if it's to fill himself and fuck himself on him, to swallow and suck and choke on him.

Every jostle of his length feels like moments from climax, and he can barely express it. All he does is lean forward, capturing Emet-Selch's lips in a soft, full kiss, a hum embellished by an ascending note of pleasure. The robot nuzzles into this kiss, secure and wanting.]
glitzandglamour: (💣107)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-08 03:15 am (UTC)(link)
[Mettaton's both awe- and love-struck at the sight of Emet-Selch in this moment, watching him in complete rapture, dazed and euphoric and unleashed from every worry or weight, tasked only with this. With fucking himself, with rubbing off Mettaton's cock with the application of his body, his body an embrace of heat and pressure around an erection likewise hot and full. Two things that, when put together, would create friction until it spilled over, inevitably.

But Emet-Selch loses himself right before Mettaton's sights, and it's about the only thing keeping the robot himself from just letting loose and succumbing to pure bliss: he wants to watch, he'll do anything he can to witness the unfolding of his beloved. A man pushed to such ends out of love and carnal want, to be held and to be fucked, to keep his company like this, and Mettaton loves every moment of this display. His lips are parted, his arousal is rigid and thrusts madly into his waiting fingers, but his attention is so clearly on pounding himself with Mettaton's thick cock, on massaging and kneading himself deep inside with the defined, sloping glans of him.

An observation made manifest as soon as his lover arches, all sounds rendered into nothing but air, but so loud for it. It becomes clear at the short, determined roll of his hips that his lover's found a perfect spot, and Mettaton nearly comes on a dime at the notion — and the sensation. The Puca stammers and nearly chokes, his head lolling as he cries out.]


Hades...! [His voice is high and strangled and on a gasp, loud yet clear, smooth and song-like.] There—!

[As though the Ascian needed to be told that to continue, his rocking a pleasure for them both. He rubs the glans so firmly, a rub that manages to run along the top of his shaft and tugs divinely at the whole of him, tension of Emet-Selch's body pulling back on his cock as though trying to keep it for good. Mettaton's thrusts are curving, short and hard to only compliment this particular drag, the shaft of him pushing and dragging completely along Emet-Selch's body. This arch of his back is beautiful, Mettaton thinks, and worthy of having his whole cock squeezed over, from root to tip.

And as if on cue, Emet-Selch finds his release, gasping and trying to cry out as his pleasure peaks and transcends them. Mettaton can feel it, it's his own pleasure now, and his thrusts firm as his lover maintains his diligence, even while come spurts from the tip, the curve of his cock so arched and body so tensed that his ejaculate paints his abdomen again, oozing plentifully over the idol's digits.

He chokes at the sight on a moan. Emet-Selch in his release is the picture of heavenly, a man suited to come all over Mettaton's fingers and to squeeze out every drop of himself by bearing down on Mettaton's cock, grinding and thrusting into him so that instances more of come drip and gush from the head of his cock. How suckable he looks then, Mettaton thinks, enraptured and full, body aching in heated pressure and feeling the throbbing pulse of his lover's body wrapped tight around him. The robot's awareness of his own body is that his balls feel so heavy, his cock even heavier in his lover's body, thick and engorged, the sheer pressure of him taking on the pounding, speeding pulse of Emet-Selch's body wrapped around him. He's clamped around the head of his cock, the glans swollen even compared to the thickness of him, something Emet-Selch could easily tense around to stroke his insides with until he peaked with pleasure.

Mettaton doesn't even realize it all at first, when climax hits him. Heat swallows his girth, pleasure bleeding into yet more pleasure - more than he could ever dream of - as he transitions from the ecstasy of his lover to the euphoria of his own release. Emet-Selch still rides his cock, still milks his own length as he does precisely the same to Mettaton. The Puca receives Emet-Selch into the crook of his neck and moans next to his ear, nuzzling into him for relief from it all while his body spasms and trembles under the weight of his lover, short, sharp thrusts of his hips to help spill ejaculate where it needs to go, to aid in filling his lover fuller and fuller of his come, of his cock.

Ass to Mettaton's hips, they collide into each other in desperation to somehow combine, wanting nothing more than to continue endlessly. Mettaton can't believe this is what he could obtain, that pleasure of this magnitude could be found with this man, that someone out there could match him and meet him in this way. That he could serve him so well, that Emet-Selch would be so tender in all of the right ways. He loves him; he adores him.

Their ecstasy only reflects off of each other, and their bodies never seem to take the cue to cease. Mettaton finds that he's wrapped one of his arms around Emet-Selch's back, holding him close as his body tries to pull them down to collapse into each other, still propped up, still in rapture, still connected. Dazed, blinded, seeing only Emet-Selch and wanting to keep him ever in his sights, to enrapture his attention. For him to always touch him and see him, to hear his name on his voice.

When Mettaton's body finally comes anywhere close to down, a soft, airy moan slips from his throat, holding more tightly onto his Bonded as the hand around his cock slackens somewhat.]
glitzandglamour: (💣080)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-08 06:54 pm (UTC)(link)
[Relief floods him upon the eventual conclusion of his release, every stroke and pull of Emet-Selch's body triggering a series more of thrusts as though his body had anything more to give. The hand he'd used to pull Emet-Selch off is splayed along his thigh, stroking and rubbing his skin while he continues to hold him close, all of this part of a long set of automatic impulses fostered in closeness. Emet-Selch curls into him, slack; all of the exhaustion is evidently catching up to him.

But he doesn't need to moan, not when Mettaton can feel wave after wave still impressing upon his lover of pleasure, residual from their orgasm and all of the little sensory details that present themselves to the two lovers. The smell of sex, the feeling of heat around Mettaton's cock, the pressure of weight from his lover's body, the sounds of them both, Emet-Selch's breath and Mettaton's shifting...

Mettaton focuses on the sound of his lover's breath. It's wonderful to hear, Emet-Selch spent and curling into him, his body prone and marked and his, the work of two efforts combined. Mettaton wants to hold him ever closer, but his arms are being disagreeable; he can only tighten the one, his thoughts scattered. But he does tighten that arm. He does pull him closer, for all that Emet-Selch is still seated atop his cock and unable to leave that spot; and when Emet-Selch mouths him, kisses too uncoordinated to be called such, he can only smile and let him. Endeared to it, he lets out a stream of air that carries a soft hum. He nuzzles him, and Mettaton returns the gesture, gentle in its application yet full of his intent.

There doesn't need to be any thoughts to distract them from this moment of gentle bliss, only the awareness of skin against his cheek, his lips. The Ascian's drawn to his lips by impulse and catches himself only as he skims them together like this. Awareness comes to them both, but only that they have each other's lips pressed together, waiting to be kissed: an agreeable pursuit, one that Mettaton takes to just as soon as Emet-Selch finds himself taking him in a soft, tender kiss.

Blood is smeared all over Mettaton's face, the most marked-up place on his whole body, an indication that the bejeweled idol has been feasting on his lover — who bears matching marks, streaks of blood that cascade down from his neck in rivulets and smears, both dried and drying. They tore into each other and ended up on the other side of it like this, in each other's arms, intimate and warmed and thoughtless save for each other. Gentle and kind, even after savagery and desire burned them down. They had each other's company, each other's hearts, and each other's lips at their own. It does feel natural: Mettaton finds himself gently sucking at his Bonded's lower lip before releasing it for further kisses, ones that aren't desperate for air or fiery hot, but tempered, warm, loving.

Ferocity and gentleness were two different applications of the same emotion, after all. Two extremes to the same emotion they felt strongly for one another, and Mettaton silently appreciates Emet-Selch for being so receptive. For prying himself open to this, for taking his hand and meeting him in this way.

All thoughts he can't precisely form in any coherent manner, but work themselves quietly in the depths of Mettaton's mind. The feeling of appreciation still seeps into his manner, and he breaks their kiss for a moment to nuzzle noses, to press their foreheads together as he closes his eye. His dark-tinged ears lean dangerously forward in his interest in his Bonded, heat on his "breath" in an effort for his body to cool down. There's really no point in opening his eye to meet Emet-Selch's gaze, but he does it anyway; the eye he meets is the one that cannot see, after all, but it's always been like that since they Bonded.

But he can still regard him. Can still see the details of his face, a scar that decorates his skin, eye shuttered closed with the gentle swoop of lashes, lips and skin flushed with vitality, and the hints of red decorating his body just out of sight from his current view. He's grown so familiar to the anatomy of this man, and he remembers finding him to be a bit more differentiated from the rest of humankind when he first saw him... Unique, and carrying himself with an air totally his own. That shock of white, the one he sees just within his sights—

Actually, like this, from Mettaton's view, white hair is all he sees on him. For a moment, his arm leaves Emet-Selch free of his grip, but only so he could pet over light strands of hair that frame his vision of Emet-Selch. Just as quickly, his claws graze down his lover's spine, and his arm is returned to its rightful embrace.

He's almost too love-struck to speak, even though all he can do is smile at Emet-Selch. His voice is low, as soft as their kiss.]


Hades, darling...

[Indeed, thoughts just aren't happening for the moment, tongue-tied besides. The little ways being overwhelmed and spent manifests on a robot, one reliant on the emotions of someone with independent thought and a soul besides. He squeezes Emet-Selch a little closer.]
Edited 2020-09-08 19:00 (UTC)

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