[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.]
[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.]
[With his wrists freed, they immediately seek out Mettaton's body, encouraging him closer even as his lover leans in, burying his face against his neck. Emet-Selch breathes out slowly as he feels his mouth close around his skin, and he would make a pleased sound if he could; the emotion remains evident through Bond, and the form of restfulness his body develops.
Stroking at Mettaton's neck, his upper back, his fur, Emet-Selch feels- not calm exactly, that would be difficult to manage when he was still aroused, still raw in ways deeper than flesh- but a quieter kind of contemplative as he focuses on the sensation of Mettaton's lips at his throat. A steady pressure, warm and sucking, but so consistent that he knew the result would be of particular depth, a shade deep and rich. While every touch Mettaton left on him was a mark, some were quick and sharp, passing scrapes and shallow cuts, snapping bites and the piercing indentation of claws- and others were like this. Gently held in place, his throat exposed to him, and a bruise slowly made to form.
It felt... right, in the way all contact with Mettaton felt, but which he now had the time to think slightly more on, appreciate more knowingly. Every moment together felt like it deepened their connection that bit more, or applied more detail to a union already secure. Even were their souls merged, he thought they would continue to learn more about one another, appreciate new aspects, take note of different things. Even if they had the whole of each other, there was always more to take. And sex in particular with him was... more meaningful than he thought it ever could be. That it was something other than a brief, indifferent distraction, but a way of taking one another into uncharted depths of closeness, a place deep and dark enough to crush, and yet....
And yet no matter the avenue they took, they came out that bit more tangled, that bit more knowing, that bit more wanting. And so it would always be, except--
...But eventually Mettaton pulls back from his work, the Ascian's eyes blinking open again, thoughts disrupted as they're shifted, his own grip on him tightening for purchase, to keep himself from being slid too far away. But of course his Bonded wouldn't permit that- wouldn't even let himself be slid from his body (which was a strange thing to be relieved by, but Emet-Selch no longer really questioned it). And soon enough he's settled in his lap once more, legs still around him, his own arms having adjusted themselves lower to wrap around Mettaton's lower back.
It was a little more comfortable of a position, something Emet-Selch only notices once the bites of his own back and shoulders are no longer being pushed into the ground. Watching him closely, his own gaze still slightly hazed, the heat in it not having faded despite this variation on calm, he takes in his lover's own taking in of the results of his efforts. Patterns numerous, and only seeming moreso with the drip of blood. It was a fine result. And Mettaton looked especially fine as well, with his ears splayed, and blood spread across his lips.
In response to Mettaton's commentary, he doesn't get much of a verbal, or even sound-based response at all, mostly a huff of air that probably indicated agreement, but it was of an entirely congenial sort. Mouthing a reply: 'Somewhat', Emet-Selch doesn't even try to apply voice to it. Nudging his throat against his hand just as gently, he encourages the petting, the kindness shown an area well-used. It didn't make any of it less sore, but it felt nice all the same, and a faint noise does form in the back of his throat anyway- something like contentment, appreciation, a matching affection.
And it doesn't escape his notice when Mettaton's eye traveled downward to the Ascian's erection, something that causes him to shift slightly in place, as though just his visual attention was enough to get him harder, add a note of aching to his stiffened cock.
With his own arousal remaining ongoing, untouched and unsatisfied, it was still a welcome sensation, not frustrating at all. It was a distraction from the state of his throat, and the state of the rest of his body, bitten and marked to perfection. Emet-Selch resists the impulse to touch that newest bruise that he couldn't see, but could imagine the darkness of, a lovely patch upon his throat that would linger for a long time. Damage so loving it was hard for him to think about; he tightens the hold of his arms around him instead.
They were both aroused, Emet-Selch reminds himself with no particular surprise, as he's noted that the suggestion of softening on Mettaton's part had already stiffened back up, in a process he couldn't imagine being any more intimate, his body yet containing the whole of his erection. His legs remained spread around him, and the Ascian wondered at how... quickly he became used to that, how natural it felt. How- immediate his desires would manifest on the sight of a hard cock ready to ride or suck- that he really would leap upon him one way or another.
But when it felt like this, when it was Mettaton's, how could he not? Shifting a bit more in his arms, face buried tightly against his shoulder, he incidentally jostles his lover's cock inside him, a sensation that has him freeze, then shiver, nuzzling a bit harder at his body, arms secure around him.
Above all he did feel... protected, wrapped in each other's arms and bodies, his eyes closed, nuzzling at one another. Protected from what, exactly, he wasn't sure either, but didn't think it mattered so much as the intent, the desire to, the feeling of safety and being cared for.]
[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.]
[It was a sort of tenderness of expression to be lost in, and for all that Mettaton may not have a physical heart to skip beats, the Ascian's performs the action in his stead. An uncomfortable sensation, really, as though his own body were being made to fail him in another way, due to the infliction of love alone, but it's one he's found himself addicted to, another sensation that only Mettaton could give him. Another sensation to ever want more of. Emet-Selch rubs his cheek back against his lover's, wondering at how it was possible to feel both so soft towards someone, and so heated at the same time. To feel both in the first place.
And his exhalation is shuddered as Mettaton's arms wind their way around him, and he curls against his body. Even in the midst of tenderness, there was undeniable lust and continued attraction, and when he turns his head to press a kiss to his jaw, it's more of a mouthing, sucking sort of gesture. And Mettaton's own attempts to rock his hips up into him are met with a more deliberate adjusting on his part this time, pressing his ass against the robot's hips with a slow roll of movement, pulse quickening at even the idea of being able to just- continue having sex like this. No pulling out, no real break to speak of, the idol's come was still warming him. Just a smooth transition from one instance of sex to another.
How could either of them pass that up? Mettaton was hard, and Emet-Selch didn't have to ask whether he was willing; even if his cock was rendered oversensitive from all this friction, this continuous stroking provided by the confines of the Ascian's body- surely he'd only consider that a bonus? A lover of intensity as he was. And Emet-Selch would groan, low and needy against his face at the sound of his voice, such an intimate tone murmured against his ear- but of course he can't, the hesitation in his breathing the only sign of it. But it was entirely true regardless: he never would want Mettaton to stop. Not taking him, not loving him, none of it.
So he nods against his face again at the question, arms and legs squeezing them to show their willingness to hold on as necessary. And that he'd continue holding on for as long as necessary, move however was required of him- in order to bring them both to additional pleasure.
Especially if Mettaton could avoid pulling out from him at all; as hard as they both were, and as good as his lover felt inside him, he could hardly bear the thought of being without his cock for an instant.
Though it does amuse him that the only reason that they were on the floor was because Mettaton had pushed them there, after a failed attempt at reaching the shower without fucking again (though it had led to more sex, so it wasn't really a failure in any sense of the word). And now Mettaton intended to haul them... back to the bed, a trajectory that did not surprise him whatsoever, because considering their current state, how could they not just continue fucking.
He can't even feel exasperated at it this time, only warmed at the pure insatiability, the indulgence of it all. When they loved each other like this, how could they know restraint? Why should they ever need to? That the Ascian's voice was essentially gone, and his body a network of bruises and bites- that wasn't a sign of anything but how much they were enjoying one another. A sign so clear anyone would be able to read it as such. A passion so unmistakable that it would leave anyone who saw it in awe of them and their peerless expression of adoration.
Filled with anticipation as well as an erection and several rounds worth of come, Emet-Selch presses kisses against the side of Mettaton's face, breath warm and his body warmer. And wanting only to be made more warm yet, from the motion of their bodies together.]
[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.]
[When his kisses are allowed to move closer to Mettaton's lips, Emet-Selch slows each press of them, but only to apply more deliberation, more heat. More than a suggestion of tongue and longing both, and breathing that remained unsteady. Reaching the corner of his mouth, he lingers there, feeling Mettaton's words spoken as much as hearing them- though he huffs at his comment, as true as it was. His legs even squeeze around him a bit more, as though they, at least, took it as a compliment, to be so familiar with parting for him. A defense to leave him exposed and available, and a defense he'd only continue to practice, continue to perfect, if it involved spreading his thighs for Mettaton and taking his erection.
When moving up at all leads to a few incidental thrusts, it's all Emet-Selch can do to cling on, hold tighter, fingers digging in, at the deliberate agitation from Mettaton's cock. A shoving inescapable, that jolts his entire body from the force of it. A feeling that leaves him aching for more of it when it's made to pause, at any delay in being fucked by him.
And that it's a pleasure that they're both absorbed by- that was one of the best parts, this mingling of appreciated sensations. Even if it was inversed, with the soft yielding of his body wrapping tight around him, or the thick rigidity of Mettaton's length inserting itself so far- it was an unmatched cooperation. They both felt nice... so it was inevitable that they would feel the best when their bodies were combined like this, joined and shifting and slick and hot--
--Gods, this would be the sixth time taking his erection this day, and the sixth time his body would be made to receive his come. He was the perfect container for it, he thought- no one else would want it like this, would appreciate it so much, this proof of his lover's claim on him. And with how heavy his releases had felt, how full he'd been made to feel from each one- he was certain that if Mettaton were to withdraw his cock from him after this one, that he'd feel his come dripping from his body once more. Perhaps he would already, but Emet-Selch didn't want him to pull out for even a moment just to find out. And he didn't have enough yet to tolerate losing any, besides.
But it was an intensely arousing thing to think of, to be taken so thoroughly that it was hard to imagine anyone looking at them and not knowing all they had done, how far they belonged to one another. No matter how cleaned up or presentable he appeared, Mettaton's scent, his very essence would linger on him, making it clear where it was that he belonged. And to who.
(To belong anywhere at all... it wasn't something Emet-Selch had expected to feel again.)
It was acceptable that there was minimal slippage of Mettaton's cock as the man finally successfully maneuvered them back onto the bed, the robot partially reclining and comfortable against pillows and covers, the Ascian remaining impaled on his lap. More than acceptable, satisfying, to both finally settle (as he automatically assists in his adjustment there, making himself at home- as though he hadn't already been thoroughly moved in, hadn't thoroughly claimed Mettaton's cock as his own). More comfortable than the floor, certainly, and his breath is sharp (uncomfortable), as his lover spreads his ass over his cock, pulls him down against his hips.
Arms on either side of Mettaton's body for some attempt at balance, legs (of course) still spread around him, his own erection stiff and fully visible between them, Emet-Selch watches him with cloudy-yet-focused eyes, all of his attention on his lover alone. Parted lips seem to indicate an attempt at crying out when the robot demonstrates his use of his body, but barely a whisper of sound remains. And it was an arousing thing to feel in itself, in addition to the (considerable) physical pleasure involved in the movement of his cock- the awareness of being a source of heat and constriction, perfectly melded to his lover's erection, something to be rubbed and used and eventually left soaked with ever more of his ejaculate.
But Emet-Selch was just as interested in making use of Mettaton's cock as well, raising his hips up, feeling the slide of his girth along his body, the ridge of the glans a firm, teasing drag against sensitive flesh- before shoving himself back down with a body-wide shudder. And it's a motion, thrusting himself against his hips, grinding his ass down to the root of him, that he can only continue to repeat, a force assisted by the pull of Mettaton's own hands. Pleasuring themselves on each other, while further aroused by the other's obvious pleasure in it- it would be enough to leave him sighing if he weren't already panting.]
Mettaton....
[If nothing else, his name manages to escape his suffering throat, though it's soft. And as though to make up for a lack of other speech, he kisses him hard, tongue sliding between Mettaton's lips with a noiseless moan, not caring about any lack of delicacy in the motion. Certainly not caring that it's a wetter, messier kiss than necessary, due to the persistent rocking of his body, the dampness of his breath, and an ardor for him that he had no hope of containing.]
[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.]
[Writhing and squirming, but only to draw closer, to press deeper- bodies slick with a combination of substances, they were a mess on all levels, but there would never be any stopping them, any holding them back. They would always take what they wanted, and take pleasure in the wanting of it.
Mettaton's fingers touch the stiffness of his erection, and his breathing chokes on an intake, the Ascian's entire body shivering, clenching. A particular tightness that continues on a lowering towards being flush against his lover's hips, and his eyes briefly squeeze shut, overcome at the sudden sensitivity. His cock had gone relatively untouched over these encounters, offered a few strokings by hand, and some incidental frottage against the bed, but his pleasure had been almost entirely sourced from contact with Mettaton's body- particularly his cock. Whether it was sucking on it, or being otherwise fucked by it, it had been more than enough.
So much so that this sudden attention leaves him temporarily weak and overwhelmed, barely holding back the impulse to come just from that, just from a few strokes and squeezes against the glans. Emet-Selch was so prone to him, so attuned, so craving of his touch that any contact with Mettaton at all felt hypersensitive.
But apart from a tremble to his thighs, and some seconds of an attempt to collect himself to the smallest degree, there's no delay in his movements, in the stroking of them both with his body. In the rolling and kneading of Mettaton's cock in the tightness of his own form, every shift upward followed by a satisfying push downward, filling himself back up again with a thickness it felt as though he could barely contain.
Kissing continues intermittently, while unintentionally but acceptably broken by louder cries and even panting on Mettaton's part, and harder breathing on the Ascian's. And Emet-Selch is torn between at least rubbing his lips back against his (torn and swollen, against reliable silicone, both tinged with blood and saliva, both tasting of one another) and leaning back enough to watch his expression. To watch him, to that matching hazy focus of his golden eye, to be caught all over again by memorizing the details of his visage, and how stunning he looks when rapt with pleasure....
And Emet-Selch is already watching him without making a decision about it at all, forgetting to breathe entirely for several seconds as his hips continue to move, as he rocks against his body incessantly. But he can't move far from his lips either, not quite fighting his desire to kiss him again so much as delaying it by taking in the sight of his face as well. Though at a particular stroke over his own erection, he makes the mistake of looking down at that instead.
A sight that nearly causes him to lose it again- his lover's four-fingered hand wrapped around his cock, evidence of his previous climaxes still visible on its swollen, heated length. A sticky residue that may have been partially wiped off or spread against the bedcovers, or otherwise smeared against his abdomen or dripped down to the inside of his thighs, but had never been deliberately cleaned. His come, his evidence of his attraction and lust towards Mettaton just left there to be seen against his erection- and where more would join it.
It's an awareness not in specific thought, but a knowledge nonetheless that grips him, in the same way that Mettaton was holding onto his cock, or was continuing to grip his ass.
His eyes flicker back up to his Bonded's face, so close to his own that it's made blurry, but with a wanting demonstrably undeniable.]
I-- I love you....
[It barely even qualifies as a whisper, breathy and soundless as it is, words mouthed against his lips between kisses. Kisses that are surprisingly tender despite the increasing abandon with which his hips move, thrusting himself onto his cock, meeting Mettaton's own pushes upward, nuzzling and loving him with each pant, each tense, each shiver.]
[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.]
[Swallowing up his lover's moan with his lips, he nuzzles at him with firm, rapturous adoration. Still breathing too hard to maintain a deeper kiss, he licks and kisses and presses, while his throat vibrates from the sounds he can't quite produce, and which hurt even in their attempts at existence. But Emet-Selch was hardly aware of that ache, not when he was as aroused as he was, not when every passing flick against his cock threatened to have him spill over in orgasm. Not when he had the thick heaviness of Mettaton's own cock to distract him, to fill his senses just as it was filling his body, a shape so ideal for him, that stretched him just so that he wished he could just keep riding his hips like this forever. The only pity was not being able to suck his cock at the same time.
More thoughts he never expected to be so natural or so common, just... casually wanting to have his lover's cock in his mouth or his ass. He felt no shame in his wantings, of course, only a distant surprise at being so... fiercely inclined towards anything.
His lips part further in a soundless, wordless cry at the brush of a thumb across the slit of his cock, the attention spread around the ridge of him, hips both thrusting up against Mettaton's hand, and then down again into his erection. Fucking himself on his length, while spared the touch of a hand on his engorged cock, even as light a touch as it is has him writhing, hardly able to stand it. Not that he wants to get away from it- of course not, no matter how sensitive he was, he was desperate for it. Desperate for any touch on Mettaton's part to his body, with his erection being naturally... receptive to any mercy given it.
Mettaton's hips shift harder, and he returns it with a shove downward that's nearly savage, choking again on a sound unmade, arching his back as he finds a particular angle to rub himself on, to feel the glans of his lover's cock stroke so perfectly against that he feels near tears just from the bliss of it. There was only this, and it was blinding, and he loved it.
And he loved Mettaton's voice, whether it was given on moans or words, and on words again once he understood them. He was... full. Mettaton was so right about that, and Emet-Selch can only shudder his concurrence. His Bondmate's cock and his come were both thick, both hot and both a sign of his claim on him. And the sheer awareness that with every slide of his length, that some of that slickness would be sourced from the idol's previous releases- it was unbearably erotic.
And yet he wanted still more from him, more of that heat, to be filled past overflowing, his lover's cock to be the only thing keeping him from dripping over them both. Bruised and scratched and bitten, his own come left drying against wherever it might land, while Mettaton's was taken carefully inside, to stain and mark him there, and only allowed to leak free just to demonstrate his body's use, what he was perfectly suited to doing.
He was there to take his cock, to lave it with attention, to stroke and worship it with his body and bring Mettaton to release after release. How comforting it was to know this, and how deeply he loved him for providing this purpose. It's a feeling he's ever more assured by as their lips touch once more, with such warmth and such wanting- something that could only be expressed with each meeting of their bodies, in endless affirmation.
It's with that thought and that kiss that the last threads of his control snap, abdomen tensing and body clenching hard as his orgasm hits.
Yet even as it crests, he continues moving, continues jerking his hips against Mettaton's lap, continues squeezing and taking himself- and taking his lover in the process. From swollen tip, to the slick thickness of his length, he couldn't stop, not having him, not wanting him- using the pounding of his cock inside him to milk as much of his own come from himself as he could, gasping and crying out in pathetic little rasps at the warmth he could feel spattering over himself, his abdomen and ejaculating length, over Mettaton's fingers.
His pulse was so loud and so quick that it hurt, but he still desperately moves, riding his length as though possessed by the need to, even as he buries his face against Mettaton's neck, eyes closed as he clings to him, legs shaking from the force of each thrust.]
[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.]
[Pleasure becomes more pleasure in a way that continues so seamlessly, that Emet-Selch couldn't be entirely certain that he wasn't still in the middle of his own orgasm when he feels Mettaton's climax. Feels it doubly, through the transcendence of the Bond, and through the conduit of his body.
Stubbornly, he rocks his hips throughout it, to drag and pull everything he could from him, or from himself, feeling as though he could come all over again just from the sensation of the thickness of Mettaton's ejaculate painting him once again, adding to all his body was already containing. From the sensation of his lover's spasming jerks, from the adoration present in his moans, in the security of his arms, in the ecstasy his erection was providing them both.
It felt infinite, those moments. There was only their combined effort, and combined reward; it might as well have been endless.
And yet it's an eternity that slowly fades, though when their feelings remained a constant, remained joined, remained devoted- it never really disappears entirely. Only shifts forms, into something less frenetic, more soft.
Gradually, the motion of his body slows, the movement of his hips becoming erratic. Rubbing twitches of muscle and energy, intermittent tensing around Mettaton's length as the Ascian shivers. But eventually even that comes to an eventual halt, less a deliberate stopping and more of a collapse, as if all of Emet-Selch's energy had been given over to this, draining himself once more for him. For them both.
Huddling against Mettaton's body, he feels more limp than precisely relaxed, arms loosely about him, head remaining against his neck as he pants. Yet he would moan again if he could, just from the aftercurrents of the moment, from the remnants of their shared orgasm, from the stronger scent of their sex, and the feeling of come dripping down his abdomen. The stronger feeling of incredible heat within him, that burned and soothed simultaneously. He had felt full before, but this was another level still.
Slowly, slowly he manages a more deliberate nuzzle against the side of Mettaton's neck, his own eyes still closed, and his breathing shaky. Ever tinier shudders still wrack a form otherwise languid, as he gently mouths his throat, his jaw, his cheek. It's without really intending to that he'd lifted his face at all, but on noticing it, he just as slowly rubs his cheek back against his with a sound that doesn't quite exist. An absence of sound is in its place, a pause in breath.
There were no thoughts yet; as ever, there was a blessed relief in that alone, the barest instants of nothing but sensations to fill him, nothing but warmth and heat, their feelings towards one another that required no word or comprehension to experience.
Without trying, his lips still eventually find their way to Mettaton's once more, meeting them by accident, a realization that causes his breath and movement to pause, before kissing him with that same measure of gentleness. Softness that was still firm, that didn't need to question its feelings, its affection. Gentleness that felt like the most natural thing in the world to express, despite his swollen lip, and all of the blood spread between them- those signs of anything but.
But Emet-Selch loved him fiercely, and he loved him gently, and those things were often one and the same.]
[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.]
[Such simple signs of affection are in the nudge of noses, the press of foreheads. Something that he doesn't need thought to understand, to recognize, to know as affection, as fondness, even if it would've once been a feeling that would've been next to invisible to him. And now, if he had the awareness to consider it, Emet-Selch wouldn't be sure which part was the most unexpected- the giving or the receiving of this kind of gentleness. That it was possible to be so fond of someone that it could only be expressed through both bloodshed and utmost concern- simultaneously. Even when at his most blackened and feral, the Ascian had no doubt in the puca's care for him.
From fierceness and lust, into tenderness, blood-tinged and all the sweeter for it.
But Emet-Selch doesn't require thought for a background of melancholy to join the quiet of the moment; it's not an unusual feature, inevitable, almost. As though something like this were so unbelievable that he had to inject a bit of unhappiness to make it seem realistic at all, to accept that it was happening. But it remains mild, though it softens another kiss to Mettaton's lips a degree more, brushing his own sore one against his with quiet deliberation.
And he was comfortable, despite claw marks and bites, despite remaining perched on Mettaton's cock, having been thoroughly penetrated for some time. And emotionally... he was grateful for his lover's patience and persistence with him- for giving so much of himself to him, even the parts that were personal and secret and unwanted. With the raw pieces of themselves exposed to one another, it would be easy to inflict damage, either deliberately or through carelessness. It was always a risk, what they were doing.
(The Ascian knew of his own spite, his capacity for hurting those he cared for- a flaw deeper and separate from his contrary nature. But for Mettaton he kept wanting to temper it, to not give himself over to it.)
Fingers brush his hair, and it's a soothing touch, something to both try and melt into, as well as hold still for. A small caress that draws his attention to the precise way it stirred his bangs, and from there, the delicacy of claws stroking along the center of his back. A faint shiver is all that stirs the Ascian before he relaxes again as Mettaton's arm resumes its hold around him, and he lets out a slow, warm breath.
This close to him, all Emet-Selch can see out of his good eye is dark hair, but at the sound of his name, his eyes open as well. But he didn't need sight, and Mettaton didn't need a fully organic body in order for there to be signs of exertion, of disarray. Huddled together, given over to nuzzling and softness, a kind of weakness in manner that was recognizable.
Even if he'd had more of a voice to speak, the Ascian would've found it difficult to form words, for much the same reason. Fondness like this... language was reduced to names, reutterances of the word love, and little else. Not for a lack of wanting, or a lack of willingness to try, but if a sentiment could be reduced so easily to spoken word, then was it that complicated to begin with? This ached too completely, too deeply, for any method of expression to suffice. But he presses closer that bit more, kisses him again.
He doesn't need to move his head in order to feel his lover's smile- not an uncommon expression at all, but in a context like now, it catches him. Catches him in the same way that the sound of his name does; opened as they were to one another, everything was made more sensitive. But he smiles in return- fleeting, as it ever is when it's sincere.]
Mettaton....
[It was worth trying to say his name, at least, as low as his tone inevitably is.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
... 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.]
no subject
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?]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
(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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
Stroking at Mettaton's neck, his upper back, his fur, Emet-Selch feels- not calm exactly, that would be difficult to manage when he was still aroused, still raw in ways deeper than flesh- but a quieter kind of contemplative as he focuses on the sensation of Mettaton's lips at his throat. A steady pressure, warm and sucking, but so consistent that he knew the result would be of particular depth, a shade deep and rich. While every touch Mettaton left on him was a mark, some were quick and sharp, passing scrapes and shallow cuts, snapping bites and the piercing indentation of claws- and others were like this. Gently held in place, his throat exposed to him, and a bruise slowly made to form.
It felt... right, in the way all contact with Mettaton felt, but which he now had the time to think slightly more on, appreciate more knowingly. Every moment together felt like it deepened their connection that bit more, or applied more detail to a union already secure. Even were their souls merged, he thought they would continue to learn more about one another, appreciate new aspects, take note of different things. Even if they had the whole of each other, there was always more to take. And sex in particular with him was... more meaningful than he thought it ever could be. That it was something other than a brief, indifferent distraction, but a way of taking one another into uncharted depths of closeness, a place deep and dark enough to crush, and yet....
And yet no matter the avenue they took, they came out that bit more tangled, that bit more knowing, that bit more wanting. And so it would always be, except--
...But eventually Mettaton pulls back from his work, the Ascian's eyes blinking open again, thoughts disrupted as they're shifted, his own grip on him tightening for purchase, to keep himself from being slid too far away. But of course his Bonded wouldn't permit that- wouldn't even let himself be slid from his body (which was a strange thing to be relieved by, but Emet-Selch no longer really questioned it). And soon enough he's settled in his lap once more, legs still around him, his own arms having adjusted themselves lower to wrap around Mettaton's lower back.
It was a little more comfortable of a position, something Emet-Selch only notices once the bites of his own back and shoulders are no longer being pushed into the ground. Watching him closely, his own gaze still slightly hazed, the heat in it not having faded despite this variation on calm, he takes in his lover's own taking in of the results of his efforts. Patterns numerous, and only seeming moreso with the drip of blood. It was a fine result. And Mettaton looked especially fine as well, with his ears splayed, and blood spread across his lips.
In response to Mettaton's commentary, he doesn't get much of a verbal, or even sound-based response at all, mostly a huff of air that probably indicated agreement, but it was of an entirely congenial sort. Mouthing a reply: 'Somewhat', Emet-Selch doesn't even try to apply voice to it. Nudging his throat against his hand just as gently, he encourages the petting, the kindness shown an area well-used. It didn't make any of it less sore, but it felt nice all the same, and a faint noise does form in the back of his throat anyway- something like contentment, appreciation, a matching affection.
And it doesn't escape his notice when Mettaton's eye traveled downward to the Ascian's erection, something that causes him to shift slightly in place, as though just his visual attention was enough to get him harder, add a note of aching to his stiffened cock.
With his own arousal remaining ongoing, untouched and unsatisfied, it was still a welcome sensation, not frustrating at all. It was a distraction from the state of his throat, and the state of the rest of his body, bitten and marked to perfection. Emet-Selch resists the impulse to touch that newest bruise that he couldn't see, but could imagine the darkness of, a lovely patch upon his throat that would linger for a long time. Damage so loving it was hard for him to think about; he tightens the hold of his arms around him instead.
They were both aroused, Emet-Selch reminds himself with no particular surprise, as he's noted that the suggestion of softening on Mettaton's part had already stiffened back up, in a process he couldn't imagine being any more intimate, his body yet containing the whole of his erection. His legs remained spread around him, and the Ascian wondered at how... quickly he became used to that, how natural it felt. How- immediate his desires would manifest on the sight of a hard cock ready to ride or suck- that he really would leap upon him one way or another.
But when it felt like this, when it was Mettaton's, how could he not? Shifting a bit more in his arms, face buried tightly against his shoulder, he incidentally jostles his lover's cock inside him, a sensation that has him freeze, then shiver, nuzzling a bit harder at his body, arms secure around him.
Above all he did feel... protected, wrapped in each other's arms and bodies, his eyes closed, nuzzling at one another. Protected from what, exactly, he wasn't sure either, but didn't think it mattered so much as the intent, the desire to, the feeling of safety and being cared for.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
And his exhalation is shuddered as Mettaton's arms wind their way around him, and he curls against his body. Even in the midst of tenderness, there was undeniable lust and continued attraction, and when he turns his head to press a kiss to his jaw, it's more of a mouthing, sucking sort of gesture. And Mettaton's own attempts to rock his hips up into him are met with a more deliberate adjusting on his part this time, pressing his ass against the robot's hips with a slow roll of movement, pulse quickening at even the idea of being able to just- continue having sex like this. No pulling out, no real break to speak of, the idol's come was still warming him. Just a smooth transition from one instance of sex to another.
How could either of them pass that up? Mettaton was hard, and Emet-Selch didn't have to ask whether he was willing; even if his cock was rendered oversensitive from all this friction, this continuous stroking provided by the confines of the Ascian's body- surely he'd only consider that a bonus? A lover of intensity as he was. And Emet-Selch would groan, low and needy against his face at the sound of his voice, such an intimate tone murmured against his ear- but of course he can't, the hesitation in his breathing the only sign of it. But it was entirely true regardless: he never would want Mettaton to stop. Not taking him, not loving him, none of it.
So he nods against his face again at the question, arms and legs squeezing them to show their willingness to hold on as necessary. And that he'd continue holding on for as long as necessary, move however was required of him- in order to bring them both to additional pleasure.
Especially if Mettaton could avoid pulling out from him at all; as hard as they both were, and as good as his lover felt inside him, he could hardly bear the thought of being without his cock for an instant.
Though it does amuse him that the only reason that they were on the floor was because Mettaton had pushed them there, after a failed attempt at reaching the shower without fucking again (though it had led to more sex, so it wasn't really a failure in any sense of the word). And now Mettaton intended to haul them... back to the bed, a trajectory that did not surprise him whatsoever, because considering their current state, how could they not just continue fucking.
He can't even feel exasperated at it this time, only warmed at the pure insatiability, the indulgence of it all. When they loved each other like this, how could they know restraint? Why should they ever need to? That the Ascian's voice was essentially gone, and his body a network of bruises and bites- that wasn't a sign of anything but how much they were enjoying one another. A sign so clear anyone would be able to read it as such. A passion so unmistakable that it would leave anyone who saw it in awe of them and their peerless expression of adoration.
Filled with anticipation as well as an erection and several rounds worth of come, Emet-Selch presses kisses against the side of Mettaton's face, breath warm and his body warmer. And wanting only to be made more warm yet, from the motion of their bodies together.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
When moving up at all leads to a few incidental thrusts, it's all Emet-Selch can do to cling on, hold tighter, fingers digging in, at the deliberate agitation from Mettaton's cock. A shoving inescapable, that jolts his entire body from the force of it. A feeling that leaves him aching for more of it when it's made to pause, at any delay in being fucked by him.
And that it's a pleasure that they're both absorbed by- that was one of the best parts, this mingling of appreciated sensations. Even if it was inversed, with the soft yielding of his body wrapping tight around him, or the thick rigidity of Mettaton's length inserting itself so far- it was an unmatched cooperation. They both felt nice... so it was inevitable that they would feel the best when their bodies were combined like this, joined and shifting and slick and hot--
--Gods, this would be the sixth time taking his erection this day, and the sixth time his body would be made to receive his come. He was the perfect container for it, he thought- no one else would want it like this, would appreciate it so much, this proof of his lover's claim on him. And with how heavy his releases had felt, how full he'd been made to feel from each one- he was certain that if Mettaton were to withdraw his cock from him after this one, that he'd feel his come dripping from his body once more. Perhaps he would already, but Emet-Selch didn't want him to pull out for even a moment just to find out. And he didn't have enough yet to tolerate losing any, besides.
But it was an intensely arousing thing to think of, to be taken so thoroughly that it was hard to imagine anyone looking at them and not knowing all they had done, how far they belonged to one another. No matter how cleaned up or presentable he appeared, Mettaton's scent, his very essence would linger on him, making it clear where it was that he belonged. And to who.
(To belong anywhere at all... it wasn't something Emet-Selch had expected to feel again.)
It was acceptable that there was minimal slippage of Mettaton's cock as the man finally successfully maneuvered them back onto the bed, the robot partially reclining and comfortable against pillows and covers, the Ascian remaining impaled on his lap. More than acceptable, satisfying, to both finally settle (as he automatically assists in his adjustment there, making himself at home- as though he hadn't already been thoroughly moved in, hadn't thoroughly claimed Mettaton's cock as his own). More comfortable than the floor, certainly, and his breath is sharp (uncomfortable), as his lover spreads his ass over his cock, pulls him down against his hips.
Arms on either side of Mettaton's body for some attempt at balance, legs (of course) still spread around him, his own erection stiff and fully visible between them, Emet-Selch watches him with cloudy-yet-focused eyes, all of his attention on his lover alone. Parted lips seem to indicate an attempt at crying out when the robot demonstrates his use of his body, but barely a whisper of sound remains. And it was an arousing thing to feel in itself, in addition to the (considerable) physical pleasure involved in the movement of his cock- the awareness of being a source of heat and constriction, perfectly melded to his lover's erection, something to be rubbed and used and eventually left soaked with ever more of his ejaculate.
But Emet-Selch was just as interested in making use of Mettaton's cock as well, raising his hips up, feeling the slide of his girth along his body, the ridge of the glans a firm, teasing drag against sensitive flesh- before shoving himself back down with a body-wide shudder. And it's a motion, thrusting himself against his hips, grinding his ass down to the root of him, that he can only continue to repeat, a force assisted by the pull of Mettaton's own hands. Pleasuring themselves on each other, while further aroused by the other's obvious pleasure in it- it would be enough to leave him sighing if he weren't already panting.]
Mettaton....
[If nothing else, his name manages to escape his suffering throat, though it's soft. And as though to make up for a lack of other speech, he kisses him hard, tongue sliding between Mettaton's lips with a noiseless moan, not caring about any lack of delicacy in the motion. Certainly not caring that it's a wetter, messier kiss than necessary, due to the persistent rocking of his body, the dampness of his breath, and an ardor for him that he had no hope of containing.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
Mettaton's fingers touch the stiffness of his erection, and his breathing chokes on an intake, the Ascian's entire body shivering, clenching. A particular tightness that continues on a lowering towards being flush against his lover's hips, and his eyes briefly squeeze shut, overcome at the sudden sensitivity. His cock had gone relatively untouched over these encounters, offered a few strokings by hand, and some incidental frottage against the bed, but his pleasure had been almost entirely sourced from contact with Mettaton's body- particularly his cock. Whether it was sucking on it, or being otherwise fucked by it, it had been more than enough.
So much so that this sudden attention leaves him temporarily weak and overwhelmed, barely holding back the impulse to come just from that, just from a few strokes and squeezes against the glans. Emet-Selch was so prone to him, so attuned, so craving of his touch that any contact with Mettaton at all felt hypersensitive.
But apart from a tremble to his thighs, and some seconds of an attempt to collect himself to the smallest degree, there's no delay in his movements, in the stroking of them both with his body. In the rolling and kneading of Mettaton's cock in the tightness of his own form, every shift upward followed by a satisfying push downward, filling himself back up again with a thickness it felt as though he could barely contain.
Kissing continues intermittently, while unintentionally but acceptably broken by louder cries and even panting on Mettaton's part, and harder breathing on the Ascian's. And Emet-Selch is torn between at least rubbing his lips back against his (torn and swollen, against reliable silicone, both tinged with blood and saliva, both tasting of one another) and leaning back enough to watch his expression. To watch him, to that matching hazy focus of his golden eye, to be caught all over again by memorizing the details of his visage, and how stunning he looks when rapt with pleasure....
And Emet-Selch is already watching him without making a decision about it at all, forgetting to breathe entirely for several seconds as his hips continue to move, as he rocks against his body incessantly. But he can't move far from his lips either, not quite fighting his desire to kiss him again so much as delaying it by taking in the sight of his face as well. Though at a particular stroke over his own erection, he makes the mistake of looking down at that instead.
A sight that nearly causes him to lose it again- his lover's four-fingered hand wrapped around his cock, evidence of his previous climaxes still visible on its swollen, heated length. A sticky residue that may have been partially wiped off or spread against the bedcovers, or otherwise smeared against his abdomen or dripped down to the inside of his thighs, but had never been deliberately cleaned. His come, his evidence of his attraction and lust towards Mettaton just left there to be seen against his erection- and where more would join it.
It's an awareness not in specific thought, but a knowledge nonetheless that grips him, in the same way that Mettaton was holding onto his cock, or was continuing to grip his ass.
His eyes flicker back up to his Bonded's face, so close to his own that it's made blurry, but with a wanting demonstrably undeniable.]
I-- I love you....
[It barely even qualifies as a whisper, breathy and soundless as it is, words mouthed against his lips between kisses. Kisses that are surprisingly tender despite the increasing abandon with which his hips move, thrusting himself onto his cock, meeting Mettaton's own pushes upward, nuzzling and loving him with each pant, each tense, each shiver.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
More thoughts he never expected to be so natural or so common, just... casually wanting to have his lover's cock in his mouth or his ass. He felt no shame in his wantings, of course, only a distant surprise at being so... fiercely inclined towards anything.
His lips part further in a soundless, wordless cry at the brush of a thumb across the slit of his cock, the attention spread around the ridge of him, hips both thrusting up against Mettaton's hand, and then down again into his erection. Fucking himself on his length, while spared the touch of a hand on his engorged cock, even as light a touch as it is has him writhing, hardly able to stand it. Not that he wants to get away from it- of course not, no matter how sensitive he was, he was desperate for it. Desperate for any touch on Mettaton's part to his body, with his erection being naturally... receptive to any mercy given it.
Mettaton's hips shift harder, and he returns it with a shove downward that's nearly savage, choking again on a sound unmade, arching his back as he finds a particular angle to rub himself on, to feel the glans of his lover's cock stroke so perfectly against that he feels near tears just from the bliss of it. There was only this, and it was blinding, and he loved it.
And he loved Mettaton's voice, whether it was given on moans or words, and on words again once he understood them. He was... full. Mettaton was so right about that, and Emet-Selch can only shudder his concurrence. His Bondmate's cock and his come were both thick, both hot and both a sign of his claim on him. And the sheer awareness that with every slide of his length, that some of that slickness would be sourced from the idol's previous releases- it was unbearably erotic.
And yet he wanted still more from him, more of that heat, to be filled past overflowing, his lover's cock to be the only thing keeping him from dripping over them both. Bruised and scratched and bitten, his own come left drying against wherever it might land, while Mettaton's was taken carefully inside, to stain and mark him there, and only allowed to leak free just to demonstrate his body's use, what he was perfectly suited to doing.
He was there to take his cock, to lave it with attention, to stroke and worship it with his body and bring Mettaton to release after release. How comforting it was to know this, and how deeply he loved him for providing this purpose. It's a feeling he's ever more assured by as their lips touch once more, with such warmth and such wanting- something that could only be expressed with each meeting of their bodies, in endless affirmation.
It's with that thought and that kiss that the last threads of his control snap, abdomen tensing and body clenching hard as his orgasm hits.
Yet even as it crests, he continues moving, continues jerking his hips against Mettaton's lap, continues squeezing and taking himself- and taking his lover in the process. From swollen tip, to the slick thickness of his length, he couldn't stop, not having him, not wanting him- using the pounding of his cock inside him to milk as much of his own come from himself as he could, gasping and crying out in pathetic little rasps at the warmth he could feel spattering over himself, his abdomen and ejaculating length, over Mettaton's fingers.
His pulse was so loud and so quick that it hurt, but he still desperately moves, riding his length as though possessed by the need to, even as he buries his face against Mettaton's neck, eyes closed as he clings to him, legs shaking from the force of each thrust.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
Stubbornly, he rocks his hips throughout it, to drag and pull everything he could from him, or from himself, feeling as though he could come all over again just from the sensation of the thickness of Mettaton's ejaculate painting him once again, adding to all his body was already containing. From the sensation of his lover's spasming jerks, from the adoration present in his moans, in the security of his arms, in the ecstasy his erection was providing them both.
It felt infinite, those moments. There was only their combined effort, and combined reward; it might as well have been endless.
And yet it's an eternity that slowly fades, though when their feelings remained a constant, remained joined, remained devoted- it never really disappears entirely. Only shifts forms, into something less frenetic, more soft.
Gradually, the motion of his body slows, the movement of his hips becoming erratic. Rubbing twitches of muscle and energy, intermittent tensing around Mettaton's length as the Ascian shivers. But eventually even that comes to an eventual halt, less a deliberate stopping and more of a collapse, as if all of Emet-Selch's energy had been given over to this, draining himself once more for him. For them both.
Huddling against Mettaton's body, he feels more limp than precisely relaxed, arms loosely about him, head remaining against his neck as he pants. Yet he would moan again if he could, just from the aftercurrents of the moment, from the remnants of their shared orgasm, from the stronger scent of their sex, and the feeling of come dripping down his abdomen. The stronger feeling of incredible heat within him, that burned and soothed simultaneously. He had felt full before, but this was another level still.
Slowly, slowly he manages a more deliberate nuzzle against the side of Mettaton's neck, his own eyes still closed, and his breathing shaky. Ever tinier shudders still wrack a form otherwise languid, as he gently mouths his throat, his jaw, his cheek. It's without really intending to that he'd lifted his face at all, but on noticing it, he just as slowly rubs his cheek back against his with a sound that doesn't quite exist. An absence of sound is in its place, a pause in breath.
There were no thoughts yet; as ever, there was a blessed relief in that alone, the barest instants of nothing but sensations to fill him, nothing but warmth and heat, their feelings towards one another that required no word or comprehension to experience.
Without trying, his lips still eventually find their way to Mettaton's once more, meeting them by accident, a realization that causes his breath and movement to pause, before kissing him with that same measure of gentleness. Softness that was still firm, that didn't need to question its feelings, its affection. Gentleness that felt like the most natural thing in the world to express, despite his swollen lip, and all of the blood spread between them- those signs of anything but.
But Emet-Selch loved him fiercely, and he loved him gently, and those things were often one and the same.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
From fierceness and lust, into tenderness, blood-tinged and all the sweeter for it.
But Emet-Selch doesn't require thought for a background of melancholy to join the quiet of the moment; it's not an unusual feature, inevitable, almost. As though something like this were so unbelievable that he had to inject a bit of unhappiness to make it seem realistic at all, to accept that it was happening. But it remains mild, though it softens another kiss to Mettaton's lips a degree more, brushing his own sore one against his with quiet deliberation.
And he was comfortable, despite claw marks and bites, despite remaining perched on Mettaton's cock, having been thoroughly penetrated for some time. And emotionally... he was grateful for his lover's patience and persistence with him- for giving so much of himself to him, even the parts that were personal and secret and unwanted. With the raw pieces of themselves exposed to one another, it would be easy to inflict damage, either deliberately or through carelessness. It was always a risk, what they were doing.
(The Ascian knew of his own spite, his capacity for hurting those he cared for- a flaw deeper and separate from his contrary nature. But for Mettaton he kept wanting to temper it, to not give himself over to it.)
Fingers brush his hair, and it's a soothing touch, something to both try and melt into, as well as hold still for. A small caress that draws his attention to the precise way it stirred his bangs, and from there, the delicacy of claws stroking along the center of his back. A faint shiver is all that stirs the Ascian before he relaxes again as Mettaton's arm resumes its hold around him, and he lets out a slow, warm breath.
This close to him, all Emet-Selch can see out of his good eye is dark hair, but at the sound of his name, his eyes open as well. But he didn't need sight, and Mettaton didn't need a fully organic body in order for there to be signs of exertion, of disarray. Huddled together, given over to nuzzling and softness, a kind of weakness in manner that was recognizable.
Even if he'd had more of a voice to speak, the Ascian would've found it difficult to form words, for much the same reason. Fondness like this... language was reduced to names, reutterances of the word love, and little else. Not for a lack of wanting, or a lack of willingness to try, but if a sentiment could be reduced so easily to spoken word, then was it that complicated to begin with? This ached too completely, too deeply, for any method of expression to suffice. But he presses closer that bit more, kisses him again.
He doesn't need to move his head in order to feel his lover's smile- not an uncommon expression at all, but in a context like now, it catches him. Catches him in the same way that the sound of his name does; opened as they were to one another, everything was made more sensitive. But he smiles in return- fleeting, as it ever is when it's sincere.]
Mettaton....
[It was worth trying to say his name, at least, as low as his tone inevitably is.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)