[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.]
[Similarly caught by the notes of his name on Emet-Selch's voice, soft and low as it's made to be, he's caught by... a lot in this moment. Caught by body and smell, by the weight of their emotions and a smile so fleeting that he could have dreamed it up, if he wasn't so sure of his perception. It was perhaps that rarity of his sincerity that made it all the more enticing: it wasn't his nature to find himself smiling as it is Mettaton's, but for a smile to manifest on Emet-Selch's face meant volumes.
If Emet-Selch could feel so welcome to be whoever he was with Mettaton, that was right. He leans forward all over again, nudging a kiss to the Ascian's lips as though he could taste that smile even after it's disappeared.
As soon as he draws back from that, Mettaton does it so that Emet-Selch could see his face with more clarity. He scans his body, makes sure to make a pointed effort in doing so; his gold gaze appraises his jaw, his neck, his chest, shoulders, waist, abdomen, his cock, then his thighs, all in varying states of bruised, bloodied, hot, sweaty, bitten, or come-marked. And the unseen note to it all is what's behind, a sight he'd surely drink in... if he had a mirror pointed their way. If Mettaton spread his legs, he's sure he might even get a glimpse of the root of his cock between his lover's similarly spread legs, his back bitten and blood trailing down parallel to his spine.
He's a mess. It's not a bad look on him, Mettaton thought.
Here, though, the robot stoops in and twists his neck so that he could better fit between Emet-Selch's head and shoulder, mouthing hotly Emet-Selch's neck. But it's all to the greater end of slipping his lips around his throat proper, kissing and licking as though appreciating him for all of the work he put into speaking for him, for crying out and moaning on a voice made hoarse and raw. In the process, he laps up blood left to dry, even if it doesn't perfectly clean off of his skin. It's when he reaches his jaw that Mettaton places a less heated kiss to his Bonded, humming in a low, softened tone.]
Now you truly are a mess...
[And Mettaton is, once more, not soft. He's not engorged or rigid, nothing like he was moments before climax, but there's a stiffness to his length all the same. He unhands Emet-Selch's thigh and withdraws from his neck, making a show of delicately cleaning off his come-spattered fingers with the hint of tongue.]
Shower?
[With both hands free (and not so covered in come), he wraps that arm around Emet-Selch's waist, pulling him tight and secure as he waits for his lover to kiss him with a smile, licking his lips and finding it difficult not to goad Emet-Selch... So he doesn't bother trying to avoid being so flirtatious and sensual. After all, he could become hard at the drop of a hat. It's not fair.
Somehow, even though Mettaton's so easy to work up, he's not so focused on trying to bed his lover again. He could, though. And likely, he will: the remembrance of what's to come when he withdraws from Emet-Selch tempts him near immediately, and he bites a little at his own lip in sudden want for it. To see his lover attempt to stand after his legs have been so spread, so taut around his hips, surely rendered sore from his use... then to see him leaking with come, to watch it decorate his thighs? It would ruin the Puca. He welcomes this demise.
He also just loves him, and wants to see him comfortable and clean and knows the Ascian would be satisfied relaxing, soft and warm and wet in a way the robot couldn't quite hope to be in a body like this. (His fur would be wet for a time, though.) The options remain the same: more sex, shower (and more sex). Is there a third option called sleeping? Mettaton's never heard of it.]
[While there was always at least a moment's worth of regret on any kind of drawing back, it did provide instead the bonus of being able to look at one another. To take in the mess they'd made, and remember all that had led to this result. It was worth a thorough gander, and for all that Mettaton was undamaged, he was the perfect counterpart to the artwork he'd inflicted on the Ascian's body. Stains of blood across metal and silicone and dark fur, brilliantly attractive and dangerous, and with the hint of come as well, explicitly sexual.
In comparison to his own more obvious physical disarray, Mettaton looked still fairly put-together, enough so that Emet-Selch had no doubt that he could continue taking him apart if he chose to.
The slipping in to mouth his neck and throat seemed the start of another instance of it. Wet and heated and welcome, Emet-Selch immediately offers him his wounded neck- jabbed by claws, pierced by teeth, fucked repeatedly by cock- Mettaton's claim on every part of it was clear. Both his breath and his voice had been stolen, and he shivers in immediate pleasure at the reminder of it all, of the new patches of damp saliva left across his skin, to dilute whatever blood his lover hadn't cleared entirely by tongue and mouth. A kiss and statement concludes, something that would get a hum of agreement if the Ascian could spare that kind of sound.
He looks a bit amused though, tilting his head in a way that seems to indicate agreement. His voice was limited, and it was probably best to save it for more important tasks (like praising Mettaton; also moaning). It was surprisingly congenial to feel himself so- uncontrolled, open in both desires and emotions, even if it meant being fully exposed to him in every way.
But Emet-Selch almost misses Mettaton's next word, his question/suggestion, as his gaze and attention becomes thoroughly and obviously caught on the sight of the idol licking his come from his fingers. The Ascian swallows reflexively, despite the discomfort of it, and while he's briefly tempted to lean in and snag a taste for himself, he's too taken by watching his lover's lips against his digits, the hint of tongue.... Mettaton had a grace in this too, somehow, an elegance that remained intensely erotic.
It's certainly an image he'll remember, will return to, will become easily aroused over in future. Even if his body now was made to lag behind in response, the Ascian's manner is certainly heated to match, requiring no further encouragement to lean in to cover his lips with his own. A kiss of prodding tongue and firm pressure, and a demand to taste himself at Mettaton's lips, his mouth. And his body shifts in Mettaton's lap, feeling that his Bondmate's cock had regained more than a hint of stiffness, though he could also tell that it wasn't quite back up at peak erectness. But it was something he knew would be sure to happen soon enough, and his breath hitches at the thought, licking back at Mettaton's tongue, before letting his teeth drag over his lower lip.
Even if he couldn't quite join him in physical arousal- not yet, in any case- there's no delay or hesitation in the way he took to him, wanting his taste and his cock and his touch. And it would be easy to remain here, to be fucked again, to keep holding onto Mettaton's length, to keep sliding it inside of himself, stroke and squeeze him into being fully engorged, while feeling the drag of that sensitive tip pulled along him so intimately... until it finally gave in to his dedication with another round's worth of come.
...But he was already reasonably full of it. It wasn't any reason to stop (of course it wasn't), but between that and the memory of the word shower Emet-Selch pauses, slowly leaning back from Mettaton, even if every part of his manner seemed to indicate his desire for the opposite. Though he's distracted momentarily again by the blood on Mettaton's face, spattered against his chest and his jewelry. There was a bit matting his fur as well, another inevitability. The gold of his eye and the dark of his hair, the lean of long ears... it was next to impossible to resist kissing him again, coming onto him again, to desire him, pressing their bodies together--
Emet-Selch takes a slow breath instead, steadying himself. While Mettaton was certainly capable of carrying him to the shower, if he pulled off of him now, and stood up, then.... It was a risk, of sorts; their first attempt to get him to the shower had only led to having sex twice more. They had barely even left the bed before returning to it. Still- with two more rounds behind them, perhaps it would be slightly easier to go the slight distance without getting distracted. Still again- as soon as Mettaton's cock was slid free of his body, the evidence of their excess would be able to spread down his thighs, and that would be very distracting.
But he wanted to feel that now. He also wanted the feeling of a shower, along with the idea of settling down with Mettaton afterward, warm and clean and contented. And there was no reason why he couldn't have both.
So Emet-Selch nods to him, shifting thighs that were, indeed, sore from being left in their natural position for so long (spread around Mettaton). Holding his breath as he pushes himself upward, he reluctantly allows the solidity and the warmth of his lover's cock to slowly leave his body. Though as the ridge of the glans catches against his entrance, there's a slight hesitation, before he pulls himself off entirely, shivering at the departing brush of the tip as he loses contact with it. And he's given instead the feeling of his body finally attempting to relax without having a large erection stretching it, along with a disturbing sensation of being left so empty.
Not entirely empty, of course. Something that becomes clear with near immediacy as he moves, and while the Ascian had intended to stand immediately, he finds his legs too stiff and uncooperative to listen- and himself too distracted at the warmth he could feel beginning to leak down between his thighs. Even though Emet-Selch had expected it, he goes still, hand resting against Mettaton's shoulder for balance, sitting up on the bed with his legs yet spread around Mettaton's thighs, while his own body drips his lover's come over his skin. His legs quiver; the softest moan escapes his lips. Eyes half-lidded as he looks down at him, Emet-Selch bites his own lower lip; this still felt like one of the most exposed ways he could be, literally dripping with the evidence of being fucked repeatedly, how his body had been used, putting it all on display for him.]
[Good, he'd praise him, if Emet-Selch hadn't just taken to his lips. Emet-Selch probes for taste, for the hint of his come, and Mettaton parts his lips in offering — a sign of how readily he'd take to the Ascian as well, how he'd lick and touch and bite and consume every square inch of him. Emet-Selch understands yet the other aspect to this kiss, an aspect he'd hoped for: he repositions himself upon his lap as though in survey, and he budges atop his cock for a stiffness that could have only gone away for moments, only to return, and only to intensify, at this rate.
Emet-Selch knew it. He knew it and he hears his breath taper off, only for him to lick more passionately at his tongue, to nip at his lip. Mettaton imagines him licking so broadly at his cock, at the sensation of teeth taking to any part of a body so difficult to pierce.
There's a chance, he considers in that moment, that Emet-Selch will remain. That he'll stay seated on his cock and rock himself into him, tightening in rhythmic pulses over his length as though coaxing from him another release. The feeling of come already saturating his lover's body is slick and hot around his length, and... he could, couldn't he? He could stay seated in his lap. Emet-Selch could keep rocking his hips, keep jostling his cock, endlessly pull and knead at the head of his erection, fuck himself and stroke Mettaton off, taking load after load. Mettaton would fill him until he could never feel empty.
Yet his lover pulls back. He watches him, soaks in his appearance, and takes a breath. Mettaton, then, is also taken by the sight of Emet-Selch: drips of come still dry upon his abdomen, the muscle of his chest supple and inviting enough to want to kiss and suck, to tongue and bite, somewhere he hadn't tended to as much during their time together right now.
Could they make it to the shower? Mettaton is no Faun: it wasn't as though he was weak to sex. He's merely possessing of a libidinous appetite that couldn't be so easily quelled, one that could ignite and inspire the robot rather than dominate or distract him in turn. No, his desire was his to direct and harness, and sometimes it engulfed him, but always with a heated focus. His lover manages, at least, to stabilize himself against his body, both of them aware of how difficult a task it would be to get them there. If Mettaton had to carry him, would he be capable of it before deciding that it was a greater reward to take him then and there?
The robot braces himself. He closes his eye and exhales once his lover parts from his lips, parts from him, feeling him lift even from his lap... A regrettable maneuver, but it's one he would have to endure. He feels his lover's body stroke him from root to tip, a tight, clamping muscle to rub over the whole of him, and even Mettaton's made to bite his lip and roll his ankles just to cope. There's an aching pause at the glans as though Emet-Selch has to deliberate, has to consider slamming back down upon his hips, before he tugs himself the rest of the way off. Mettaton's shaft is left to the air, and he makes a short grunt of protest through his bitten lip as he shifts his hips uncomfortably, eyeing Emet-Selch's hips.
Dreaming about how he could grip them, guide him back down onto his cock, push him down into the bed once more, and...
The Puca likes his lover pressing his hands to his shoulders. It's a grounding touch, something he can pay attention to while his lover hovers over him with his legs still spread. Parting like this in its initial stages is the most dangerous part of all, and what should be a speedy departure becomes one where his lover's frozen. Immediately, Mettaton's ears spring up. He gives Emet-Selch a curious look, one that quickly becomes imploring as he realizes what's happening, what he's to expect even before he glances it for himself.
He swallows; he watches Emet-Selch bite at his lip, watches his eyes, glazed and curtained heavily by his lid, feels his legs tremble, and it's a sight in itself to have his cock aching, standing further to attention.
What a rush it feels, to be so swiftly made alert. He has no brain to deprive of blood, but it still feels like a gathering of pressure in his developed cyborg body that need relief, needs to be pet and stroked and sucked, squeezed and released. When he exhales again, it's through a shudder. His attention darts south, and he sees for himself his lover's thighs made to bear the spill from his body: thick come marks him, as though his body's showing off how marked and claimed and fucked it is. Had they somehow remained in that basement, it would be a sight for all to take heed of, to know how used and claimed his Bonded was by him.
His ears are tall, leaning, then suddenly akimbo, both of them flopped to the right and obeying the pull of gravity in his loss of sense. It's among the most of obscene shows, intimate and suggestive beyond being merely suggestive; it omits the fucking part and skips right to the graphic sight of Emet-Selch's body dripping with Mettaton's come, still hovering over his attentive cock, nude and bruised and bitten and biting at his lip, moaning on a raw voice.
Mettaton's gaze goes equally bleary. His lips are parted, his body trembling, his hands reaching for Emet-Selch's hips in his desperation as he meets his gaze. No, he couldn't think to resist this. He couldn't let Emet-Selch take a step away from him like this — he couldn't bear to leave him empty, to let him be empty, and Emet-Selch could be made so full that he'd compliment and praise him even on whispers.
Claws hook onto Emet-Selch's hips and he feels guided by primal instinct alone when he drags him back down, seating him upon the swollen head of his erection. His body hips roll, gaze positively alight in his need even while hazy and wanting; and Mettaton presses the glans to Emet-Selch's all over again, feeling it slick and hot with come, each push and prod at him wet and sticky. The idol moans, desperation in his timbre.
How quickly he's gone from semi-hard to fully rigid, aching and hot and needy. Emet-Selch's thighs are still for him to gaze upon, drips of come having escaped and drifting so visibly down his thigh, further and further beyond... Mettaton's hands are occupied, dipping the head of his thick cock into this newfound wetness, an ineffective sort of stopper for his body.]
Mmn— Hades, ah...
[That hazy gaze of his sharpens, darkens, yet it brightens keenly. He's enraptured by the sight of his lover's cock, his thighs framing Mettaton's erection and painted in come, and a low noise sounds from his throat. His words are droning and near hypnotized in his absolute, intoxicating want, his thrusts incapable of stopping.]
[The direction of Mettaton's ears would be enough to tell the condition of the man's focus. From intent, curious, interested- to overcome, aroused and lost. Attention so caught in what he could see, that there was nothing left to keep them upright, left splaying downward where gravity could take them instead.
Other parts of Mettaton's body were very much not obeying gravity, though. And Emet-Selch doesn't need to look down for his Bonded's cock to know that he'd been rendered completely erect from this sight of bruised thighs made sticky and wet, this awareness of how overfull he'd been made. Hard with a quickness that would've surely dizzied had he a heart and blood to divert, or breath to stop- but Emet-Selch can tell nonetheless of the haze which enters his lover's expression, which clouds his thoughts with unspeakable lust. He felt the same way after all, any intention of departing with some sort of efficiency... thoroughly, thoroughly disrupted.
Claws return to his hips as though it was their place to be there, and Emet-Selch offers no resistance on being pulled back down, on feeling the slick, swollen head of Mettaton's cock made slicker yet from what was slowly running from his body. He cries out, the sound an echo of what it should've been, an aching rasp turned into a moan that doesn't want to end, only forced into silence by his need for air and the damage to his throat.
Pulse raising so fast, breath with it- the Ascian himself is made dizzy, his hold on Mettaton's shoulder becoming ever more one for balance, even with his lover taking over the control of his hips. His legs only want to splay more for him, in offering, muscles twitching as he feels his lover's erection stroking along the mess he was making- rubbing himself in his own sticky come, and doing nothing to prevent its escape from him. Warm, thick trails travel slowly down his thighs, and he groans roughly at the thought of having this proof of how much he'd been filled with. Blessed with. Claimed by. Enough to delight in, to smear across them both, a mess he couldn't imagine ever being fully cleaned of. Some indelible residue would always remain, clinging to his thighs, the mark of Mettaton's ownership of him made explicit.
There's no hesitation involved when he hears Mettaton's order to him. Only a shudder of unfathomable wanting, to make what was already graphically, starkly sexual in nature that more obscene still. One arm remaining about the robot's shoulders, he moves the other between them with a deliberation that was only incidentally slow. There was the desire to linger, to dwell on each moment, each breath, each thrust of Mettaton's cock, the way his length felt rubbing his own come against his lover's body. The way he longed to take him inside again, to feel the soft give of the glans held tight by his body, to feel it pushed deeper and deeper, inch by inexorable inch until he was full, until Mettaton could replace what they had allowed to escape down his legs.
But he also wanted just as terribly to keep feeling him stroke himself like this against his entrance, between his thighs, teasing as it was, to let come spread and drip as far as it could, to smear it across flesh and fur, to be brought to successive climaxes from base pleasure in this love of their own obscenity. To let their come drip and fall where it may, to spread it through brushes of thigh and cock and hand, to find rapture in vulgarity. He couldn't yet bear to move away from his cock in either case.
Emet-Selch's fingers glide between his thighs, sparing his own cock a lingering touch down its length, aware too of his own come that lay along it, a stickily drying substance. But he moves on soon enough to reach lower still between his legs, to feel for where one of those trails of come had reached. While not as hot as it had been while kept within his body, it hadn't cooled entirely either, and his hand explores shakily back upward where the flow was thicker still, every sense captivated by the thick wetness his fingers were collecting.
Tracing all the way to the source, he encounters the rub of his lover's erection and his breath hitches sharply all over again, body shaking from a sort of desire for him that felt nigh unendurable. The hold of his other arm tightens around him, as he brings thoroughly-coated fingers back up to his own lips. And the focus of Emet-Selch's gaze shifts then, eyes barely open, to this much closer sight, to the way it clung to his fingers, the way it tried to stick them together a little. And even if Mettaton hadn't told him to, he would've been drawn to taste it- how could he resist it?
His lips first brush along his forefinger, starting at the tip and drifting all the way to the base, spreading Mettaton's come against his mouth as much as taking it inside. But even this hint of him has him sucking in a quick breath, senses inundated by every part of it, the texture, scent, and flavor of it upon his tongue. A tongue which laps with a clear hunger for it as he swipes it along his fingers, one after another, licking, prodding, sucking. Swallowing it down with obvious rapture, attending to every crevice, the space between fingers, anything that might've been caught underneath blunt nails, his desperation for it went beyond blatant. What had started with deliberation and care devolved quickly into a kind of starvation for it, even nipping at fingers that now had more saliva than come on them, as though this would cause more of it to appear. But there was far more, of course, still at his thighs, and especially along Mettaton's erection- a spreading that he knew must be copious by now.
Breath becoming shakier as he continues, Emet-Selch is hardly aware of how his own cock shows signs of stiffness, as though his body were taking mercy on him (or otherwise forced into submission under the waves of successive stimulus, forced to answer these calls to arousal, no matter how much he ached).]
[Truly, as Mettaton nudges the head of his erection against Emet-Selch's body, beads of come find a new course to trail down: they drip over the rounded glans, trailing leisurely, thickly, down his shaft, and Mettaton can feel every second of it. Liquid is still a difficult texture for him to fully understand, but on his cock proper... Temperature sensitivity exists, just as it does his mouth. And he knows full well that it's his own come dripping from his lover's body.
The influence of the pendants, then, takes greater precedence over the self-absorption of his jewelry, especially when the ritual of swiping at some of the residue on his thighs becomes truly religious as soon as come decorates his lips. This is enough to nearly make him lose his mind. Mettaton would choke if he had the body for it, but his attention is locked on Emet-Selch's fingers, on his lips, on his features and his hunger in this moment. Even as Mettaton's hips rock in place, pushing and kneading at the sensitive, slick entrance of his Bonded, he remains spellbound by Emet-Selch's thoroughness. His tongue drinks up every trace of cleaned come, even as his attention darts back down to find that a new dripping of it has taken its place, more of it for his delectation.
He has to swallow before he drools, in his attention. Drools over the sight of Emet-Selch lapping and sucking on come-decorated fingers, over the sight of his lover's erection gradually stiffening, over the sight of his own cock ever thicker, ever more engorged, between spread thighs dripping with come. And even the sight of thick, white rivulets glazing his cock makes it look like a confection worth being taken into Emet-Selch's body, and Mettaton tensely bites at his lower lip as a short noise slips from his throat.
Giving himself the chance for a sigh, the robot unhands his lover's hip just to cup his cheek. Sharp, dark claws drift over his features, appreciating his dedication to Mettaton.]
Ah... Good. You're so good, Hades. I think. If you keep dripping like this... You should lick it all back up. It would- [He has to break for a moment here to sigh, but it ends up rumbling in his throat in something more of a growl.] -would be a pity. To lose any of it.
[Not waste, mind. Seeing it on his skin, seeing it decorate his body in this fashion so crude, watching Emet-Selch's lip slicked sticky with thick, milky come is a sight that Mettaton will find himself using, willingly and excitedly visiting such sights to feel this same deep rush that feels as though it arrests every nerve in his body, wrapped tightly in the attention of sex and pleasure. Electrifying and alluring, Emet-Selch's body is something he has to take over and over at this rate. To fill him, to let him drip some more, then to fill him again; to have him come-marked and possessed, to see his lover so bleary and satisfied and wanting; to watch his cock harden right before Mettaton's eye, and to eventually witness him in climax all over again, over and over.
He can feel the glans of his cock pressing with urgent insistence against Emet-Selch's ass, demanding entrance into this hot, slick body he has on spread display for him. But Mettaton chooses to enjoy and relish this build of frustrated want, the way his whole body feels like static and desperation, a pressure that centers around his groin and radiates even into his legs. He shifts and thrusts, the sloped tip of his cock dipping into Emet-Selch as though flirting with the idea of plunging in — something he could do if he grabbed his hips.
It would be that easy. He could slam his lover back down, slip him right over his girth and feel him arch into his length, slick and hot and still full. He could push him back and fuck him until he was dripping around his length, until Mettaton could feel come around his cock and his balls from Emet-Selch's dedication to taking him. Could he feel any more flattered at this want for his body? He could. He could and he might just demand it.
Mettaton's eye narrows somewhat. Whether it's dangerous or drunken, it's most likely a blend of both.]
You don't even have to use your voice, my dearest... You want my body.
[And he's desperate for Emet-Selch's.
For the moment, that hand departs from Emet-Selch's face with a departing caress of nails. Claws gently scrape over the plane of Emet-Selch's front, stroking his cock with an incidental brush of digits as he finds his hand between his legs, prodding tender skin — and naturally, collecting some of that sticky come that dares to embellish his bruise-bitten skin.
Mettaton follows it up his leg, drinking in for himself how coated in come Emet-Selch's ass feel snow that it's dripped between his thighs like this, and he moans softly at the sensation. He feels so awfully hard in this moment, and he hopes desperately to stroke his cock off, to feel something squeezing back against the pressure of his length... Mettaton swallows, his digit skirting higher, until it unites with the cushioned head of his own cock.
When he withdraws his fingers, come drips plentifully along his first and second fingers. He smiles with a dark satisfaction, brow raising at the sight as he bites at his lower lip again in consideration, before he offers his fingers to Emet-Selch's lips. Nearly touching him, fighting back the urge to force come-slicked fingers against his face, he merely holds them before his beloved for his appraisal, for his use and his enjoyment.]
[Anything that didn't end up on his thighs would drip to Mettaton's erection, and it's a thought to leave him both weak and rigid, well able to imagine the way it must look. How his own body must look, spread apart, heavy white fluid spread between them both, past orgasms revisited, taking their place in encouraging this one. Every instance had been delectable in its own right, profound in depth and feeling, enough to leave him shaken to the core and more secure for it. And they also provided the groundwork for this, giving him enough of his lover's ejaculate to let it drip steadily along them both, along with an arousal that felt like it combined all the ones of the past.
Nearly leaning in to kiss him, Emet-Selch pauses when Mettaton lets go of his hip with one hand, pressing it to his cheek instead, framing his face with dark claws, and darker attention. Giving him praise and words that heat him, his shivered exhalation seems to indicate his assent. He would lick all of it back up if asked, take it back inside and keep him, coat his lips and throat with come already once given. No matter where it was on his body it was being used- whether left to decorate his skin, or lapped up with rapturous intent, he would have to agree that it wouldn't be wasted.
But Mettaton's hand was against his face, and Emet-Selch tilts his own into it, nuzzling against his palm with lips still marked with come, eyes closing in this moment, expression and manner showing nothing but utmost adoration for him. A willing devotion, both gentle and black enough to drown in, to love him more for every stain he left, to mark him and take him and leave him feeling grateful for the chance to lap up any excess, because it would please him. And seeing Mettaton pleased only aroused him, was the greatest cause of his own satisfaction.
And how full he could be made, and more than once Emet-Selch has to hold back the impulse to reach between his legs again not only for another smear of come, but for his lover's thick erection instead, to hold him in place and finish shoving his hips back downward (truly making this attempt at going anywhere even less successful than the last, but he's completely distracted from that now). To squeeze around a cock made ever slicker from his own past releases, to grind downward until his ass is flush to his hips once more, until he's taken it all back, until Mettaton had added more to the mess he had made of him.
Mettaton's voice forces his attention to refocus. And his eyes open again when Mettaton's hand leaves his face, looking back to his- and then to his lover's own hand as it lowers, his breath made to hiss at the brief tease to his cock, before continuing on to his thighs. Continuing on to touch at those slow rivulets, stroking up to his ass, feeling for himself how slick he was, how blatantly he had been used. Evidence of how he did want his body, and how he continued wanting him more for every release, that even temporary satiation only led to this increasing desperation for him, to have him and stroke him and taste him and love him--
His gaze alights then on the fingers held out before him, claw-adorned and with Mettaton's own milky come slowly trailing down two of the digits. Come that he'd already given to the Ascian once, and was now offering back. A thought to make it that much more explicit, in comparison to fluid that had only been ejaculated directly against his hand.
Moving in slowly, he kisses the top of one claw, eyes scanning upward towards Mettaton's face as he does so, before closing again as he settles in to his task. As with his own fingers, he tries to start slowly, licking along his claw, letting his tongue stroke gradually down a single digit bit by bit, feeling the way come collected against his tongue on each pass. Sometimes he swallowed it immediately, other times he allowed it to linger there as he flicked out for another taste. Tilting his head, his lips press and his tongue licks over every part of him. From one finger to the next he moves, with thorough lapping that becomes steadily wetter, and steadily involving more sucking, more nipping. Demanding more, no matter how much he swallowed. Unconsciously, his hand moves to Mettaton's wrist, lightly settling there as though to steady it, or to ensure that he didn't pull away from him before he'd gotten it all.
He ends up with both of his fingers in his mouth eventually, never minding the claws that brushed the back of his throat, or the mix of saliva and come that gathered in his mouth, irregularly swallowed back whenever it's on the verge of spilling past his lips instead. Sucking around them he moans, reluctant to give them up, even when he'd surely swallowed every trace of it.
And this pain of anticipation- an aching heaviness that heats his blood, and gathers in his abdomen, and continues causing his cock to harden- it was worth exacting as much as possible from every instant. Just as he wanted to wring every drop of come from Mettaton's body to either swallow or take, he'd lave every part of him with the most dedicated attention.]
[Mettaton has no other words for his lover than endearing, adorable, lovely with his mussed hair and flushed face, split lip and bruises and blood, completely used from lips to cock to body. Used only by Mettaton to this extent: Emet-Selch was his to take and enjoy like this.
How dedicated to his ecstasy the Ascian proves himself to be, he notes with an eye that widens with each moment in his hunger for him. As soon as he poses his fingers before the other man for his enjoyment and his taking, Emet-Selch does it with such deliberation that it has his body seizing, still as he's overcome by this. Even his own erection stops being among the center of his focus as his Bonded gently laps over his fingers, his technique both one thorough and one of bliss, an expression undeniable of his desire and his love. His yellow eyes meet Mettaton's for a moment before they flutter closed, his lips and tongue soft and so dedicated even around sharp, terrible claws, all for the sake of tonguing and enjoying Mettaton's once-deposited come. Come that found a new home upon Emet-Selch's skin, that would find a new home in his mouth, sliding down his raw, fucked throat.
Every pass of his tongue poses the risk of showing Mettaton how much come Emet-Selch's taken into his mouth, and it's a sight so erotic that his cock reminds him it's there again, pressure intensifying and hips gyrating, continuing to unconsciously knead the glans against his lover's entrance. So soft, wet, giving... It's the perfect environment for a rigid, heavy cock, one slick and damp and hot, a receptacle for all of the heaviness he always feels building in him every time Emet-Selch arouses him.
Mettaton bites his lip again in sympathy for the taste and the pleasure Emet-Selch takes in sucking and drinking down his digits, nearly biting him with his want and steadying his wrist for a more perfect hold upon them. Rapturously, he sucks. Delicately and deliberately, he ensures that he's licked up every last drop of come he could, as though thrilled to give it a new home after their first attempt at filling Emet-Selch resulted in him being so overfull, stuffed with entirely too much come for his body to handle.
But it's precisely because it's so full that both of them find it desirable, to fill him once more, to render Emet-Selch always dripping and the both of them endlessly appetitive.
Watching Emet-Selch sucking his fingers leads Mettaton's gaze down to the hand he has on his hip, claws denting his skin as though trying to capture his prey with a touch too gentle to be predatory. Emet-Selch's cock hardens deliciously, and Mettaton stares at it unabashed, thinking back to that first time he'd ever sucked the other man off — back to the first time he'd ever climbed atop his lover, wrapped that length in his thighs as they tried desperately to bind themselves ever closer. Here, though... Now, their closeness had no limits, and he could leave himself inside Emet-Selch. He could take Mettaton's come and cock in return.
Mettaton heaves a sigh, dreamlike as delight manifests on his features.]
So good, Hades... I can see your love for me. Your appreciation for my body, and all it does for you. [Embellished by another sigh, Mettaton withdraws his fingers, sticky and covered only in saliva at this point. Those claws briefly tuck hair behind Emet-Selch's ears, no matter how spit covered they are. (Would anything make them any less of a mess?)
That hand is on a mission, however, and it rests against the back of Emet-Selch's neck to bring his lover closer to Mettaton's lips. The robot closes in, wrapping his lips over Emet-Selch's with a low rumble in his throat, shoving his tongue deeply into his mouth. Prodding and sliding along his lover's tongue, there's a clear intent to taste himself in his Bonded's mouth — and an obvious reward gained when he moans into him, finding that Emet-Selch tastes plentifully of him.
He sucks his lip, his tongue, invades his mouth, kissing and giving only moments of air to his Bonded, filling their mouths with the taste of each other while his hand runs its course back down his lover's body, slipping over the shape of Emet-Selch's chest, waist, then settling upon his hips. The Puca kneads him, presses claws into skin before squeezing his hips, a grip firm and inescapable, as he pulls back from their kiss with a dark, wicked smile.
And there, Mettaton forces Emet-Selch to sit upon his length. He penetrates him; he sinks into his body, letting that tight ring of muscle first settle upon the corona of his length with a gasping moan before pushing deeper, inexorably, waiting to feel and hear his lover in a state of overwhelmed, waiting to feel him arch his back with his surprise and inundation.
He cries out, relief decorating his voice. His tone is strangled yet airy and high, pressure alleviated around his cock by being so squeezed, and he feels the need to tell Emet-Selch what a relief his body is.]
Oh, dearest... You- I'm so hard, you squeeze me just... right...! Ah...
[It's not the most elegant and precise way he could put it, but in his desperation and ecstasy, it'll do. He practically sheathes himself in Emet-Selch's body, a body already stretched and slicked for him before that he fits him tight and perfect, and Mettaton moans again, even when he tries to regain coherency. He can't. He's senseless, he's fevered, he's ready to fill Emet-Selch with another heavy load and could find himself doing so endlessly.
He hiccups, opening his eye once again and nuzzling into his lover's lips. His voice is still desperate, but lower this time.]
You'll... certainly put another load to good use, w... won't you.
[Emet-Selch will take his cock and squeeze around him, milk him for his release while he ejaculates upon them both, as though replacing the fluid he'll inevitably use with Mettaton's. The robot can't still his hips, can't stop shifting his body in an attempt to expel heat — a heat he'll only find relief from upon climaxing into his lover's body.]
[Even as he licked at his fingers there had been that background pressure against his entrance, teasing, suggesting how easy it would be for Mettaton's erection to slide back into his body. They were both so slick, so ready for it- his length the perfect size to keep any more of his release from easily slipping from his body, and his own form thoroughly prepared to receive him. The tremble in his thighs causes Emet-Selch to wonder that if he allowed himself to give in, to sink back into Mettaton's lap- whether he could impale himself in one long, satisfying motion. It was an arousing, provocative thought, and a perfect complement to having the puca's fingers in his mouth, claws and all.
But Mettaton finally pulls them free, cleaned (by... some definitions), and he follows it with affection, the tucking of his hair. And as sweaty and mussed as the Ascian already was, what difference was a bit of saliva anywhere going to make? But it was a sweet gesture made into a more practical one as Mettaton's hand slips to the back of his head, both holding him steady and encouraging him forward into a kiss. A kiss Emet-Selch has no hesitation in giving him, a suitable replacement for the loss of his fingers from his mouth. Lips part obediently, automatically for him, wanting Mettaton to get a taste of his own come at his mouth, as though to demonstrate further proof of what he'd let slip down a throat fucked and sore. Wetly lapping back at his lover's tongue, he presses his lips hard to his, barely holding back sounds he wanted to make- so much so that even the effort of holding them back hurts his throat.
Mettaton pulling back from damp lips gets him a look more of longing than of protest, his breathing fast and his manner dizzied. And the look at his face, and the trailing fingers reclaiming his hip are all the warning Emet-Selch receives as he feels that grip used, his body dragged down, made to stretch around the glans of his lover's cock.
The relief he feels at finally having him in his body again is similar to that of orgasm, and he cries out in a voice so raw, body clenching tight around the corona. A choked noise quickly follows, a softer echo to Mettaton's own cry, sharing in his pleasure at having him again, right where he belonged. Where his body could squeeze and massage him, where they could warm one another in movements of increasing desperation, until it all spilled over in ways they had just been sampling.]
Mettaton, I...
[It didn't matter that his throat hurt, that his voice was still pitiful, faint, roughed to next to nothing. He kisses back at him between breaths, between attempts at words, as his heart raced and his cock ached for him.]
So much I- want-- I love....
[Though that's all he can manage to rasp out at this time, mostly due to the condition of his throat. But partially as well to his legs giving in, and the Ascian finding himself seated back in his lover's lap- a placement that feels wetter than it once had been. Between Mettaton pulling him down, and his own body giving way, it's so quickly that he's stuffed all over again with cock, with a speed he can't begin to comprehend, only able to feel the utter rightness of it. Of him. Of his cock, but of Mettaton as well; no one else would leave him feeling this way. But having him down to the root again has Emet-Selch nearly collapse against his body as he trembles from the intensity of it all, arms wrapping around his neck, his shoulders, as he clings onto him.
There was no chance for coherency on his part either, as his hips rock automatically against his, though with little rhythm- only sharp, rubbing sort of jerks, as his back arches, and his legs tighten around him, not caring that they were sore from being spread around him for so long. This was the natural state for them, and the way they looked best: parted, bruised, with evidence of come. An extension of the rest of his body, scratched and bitten and held, wrapped around Mettaton's cock, swollen and fucked and raw.]
[Perfectly inundated, just as he desired. It's not only a process of taking, but of Emet-Selch collapsing into him, submitting to him, falling into his lap with nothing to resist Mettaton's tug against his hips. His lover, straddling his hips and seated upon his cock, falls against his hips, clenching tighter and tighter around the base of him enough that Mettaton takes up the duty of crying out when the Ascian's lost his voice once more.
He arches; he nearly falls into him, and Mettaton couldn't be more pleased with this outcome. He smiles and nuzzles into his lover's face, planting sloppy, mouthing kisses against anything he can get to as they mutually rock their hips into each other, tensing and relaxing in patterns: Emet-Selch's body kneads his cock, while the head of Mettaton's arousal rubs deeply into his lover's body. A giving and taking, a desire to pleasure and be pleasured, and the both of them are each other's perfect fits.
If he had more hands, Mettaton feels so soft for Emet-Selch that he's sure he would wrap him in a hug. As it stands, his hands have work to do on his lover's hips, slipping him up and down over his erection as he rubs himself off on his lover's body, feeling how he clenches down around the base of him, how Mettaton can slip him up and down and feel that tightness slide along his length, and loving every moment of it. Mettaton can barely stand it all, and if he quits doing anything to his Bonded, he can feel that Emet-Selch takes right to rocking his hips, arching his back, clamping down on his body with the tensity of legs, and... Mettaton's content to let him.
How flattering. The idol unhands Emet-Selch's hips for the moment, watching him rub into Mettaton's girth. A pleasure so deep and so aching that the other man's made to curve his back into a cock so hard, so fast; made to tighten his grip around Mettaton's hips with thighs, wanting only to keep stroking himself on the head, the curve of Mettaton's cock. Mettaton's moan is carried on a sigh of fondness for his lover, feeling properly adored for his body as he should be. And feeling adoring in return, even though the pitch of a diet lunar sway nearly maddens him for this feverish desire to please himself, to please his Bonded, to fuck them both senseless and pound Emet-Selch into the bed.
But he follows his heart instead, and holds Emet-Selch just like he wanted to. His arms push his lover down into his lap, impaling him some more on his rigid erection, but he mostly holds him close and dear. Mettaton's hips roll gently into his lover as though to meet every push downward with a push up, to stuff him full and deep with cock, to promise that he'd fill him enough to make up for all he's lost and more. Between them lies come dripped so shamelessly, caught in fur and slicking the insides of thighs.
Holding him like this, Emet-Selch's arms slung around his neck and Mettaton's wrapped around his back, the Puca leans in to continue kissing his lover. The kisses are hot and fevered, but less ferocious, more adoring and infatuated and all over his face, uncoordinated and needy and only sometimes hitting the mark of his lips. His hand strokes along Emet-Selch's back, thrusting to supplement each push of Emet-Selch's into his arousal.
His lover fits him so well, he thought. Heavenly and dark, worthy of his attention and properly paying him mind in accord. He loves him desperately, and he can't imagine being without.
And all Mettaton wants is to fill him completely. He wants to feel himself orgasm into Emet-Selch's body, hot and full and pressing upon Mettaton's entire length, something he anticipates will feel only tighter as his body's made to hold so much of his release, all atop the burden of his cock.
Holding him like this, wrapping his arms thoroughly about his back, Mettaton's able to firmly thrust into his lover's body. A body that massages over his length all over again, and how sensitive he's become; and if Mettaton's rendered so sensitive, what of his Bonded? How sensitive and raw must his organic form be, when Mettaton feels his cock's been rubbed and squeezed to a point of rapture? But this relief is only earned and gained by having stuffed his lover full, the both of them left to feel the pressure and squeeze, the fullness and drag, of his cock held by his body.
Mettaton sighs, shaky and close to his lover's lips.]
I love... you, too, my- my dearest...
[Whether he was trying to say he loves this or he loves Mettaton, he doesn't particularly mind. Mettaton knows that they're one in the same. This pleasure wouldn't be attainable without their level of trust and love for each other, after all.]
[It was a perfect fit- of bodies, of souls, of nature and habit. A complement of spirits, giving over what the other wanted of them. Emet-Selch could collapse on Mettaton because he was safe there, could form himself to his body and accept him entirely. There could be no space, no division; even as they differed, when they were open to each other like this, it ceased to matter. Even the disagreeable parts. The troubling, or troublesome... every trace was something worth understanding.
There probably should've been something strange in how romantic and loving their coupling had become. Not that love hadn't been present before, no matter how aggressive or rough, contrary or demanding- but it was expressed in ever more unsubtle terms as they continued. As they held onto one another with tight grips and rocking bodies, sharing moans and breaths and kisses that didn't need to be accurate to display their feelings.
Even if they were a combined sight, an obscene mix of blood and come, sweat and saliva, dripped and smeared and spread between them, a substance to stick together fur and skin, something picked up by fingers and licked and tasted- it felt only right for that mutual fondness to take center stage. To let that be the focal point, an affection best expressed by the joining of their bodies, and their cooperation in pleasing one another with them. His body would tighten and stroke over the whole of Mettaton's length, and the puca's cock would rub him at the same time, with an intimacy that made him ache to even consider.
Emet-Selch would ache regardless, considering how frequently, and how determinedly his body had been used. From the repeated tensings of muscles and multiple orgasms, to how thoroughly a stiff cock had been pushed inside of him- it was persistence that was keeping him going for now. Persistence and love and a not insubstantial amount of attraction. But the extreme nature of Mettaton's allure, he knew, was founded in sentiment and trust. He wouldn't have licked up the used come of just anyone, especially not while finding the very act of it unspeakably arousing.
But it didn't matter that he was oversensitive and sore, drained on more levels than he thought he possessed- Emet-Selch loved him. And he loved being with him, even when it hurt.
Mettaton was thrusting upward and dragging him down to meet his erection; the Ascian was arching into as many of his presses as he could, but though determined, his body is noticeably weaker than it had been at the start of their encounter. Even his body was developing a persistent trembling that wasn't solely due to wanting and need. The frailties of mortal flesh, faltering after having enthusiastic sex over a half-dozen times with nary a break. But his cock remains so stiff, thick and engorged, the tip nudging against Mettaton's body with how closely Emet-Selch was leaning on him. Relying on him for more than he ever intended to.]
Mettaton....
[Reduced to his name again, along with indistinct murmurs of something that sounds strikingly similar to it. And he answers Mettaton's kisses with more of the same, heated and heavy, if not with the same degree of bite as before. Adoration applied to every part of him his lips crossed, be it jaw or cheek or the side of his nose, and even, occasionally, the man's lips themselves. His breathing was quick and soft, and much like the rocking of his hips, irregular, but determined.
His arms hold him closer, but not roughly, only firm, and as warm as the rest of him. His heart felt like it could burst from it all, from exertion, from emotion, and all advanced thought was further lost with every drag of Mettaton's cock. He was stuffed so full, from the soft tip, to the thick shaft, both smeared with come that he was now rubbing back inside of him with each thrust. And he knew he'd only leave him fuller still, warmer yet, and with a deeper satisfaction than he would've ever thought achievable.
His throat forms a soft noise, partially a plea, partially something like disbelief, as though unable to understand the degree of pleasure it was being exposed to. Pressing the side of his face against his, Emet-Selch rubs against it with a desperate kind of affection, a tenderness that hurt to express.]
[The familiar weight of Emet-Selch's love for Mettaton cocoons him, heavy and deep and raw. It's enough for Mettaton's eye to shutter closed, even as he presses kiss after kiss against any part of his lover's face — sometimes dipping down to kiss his neck, bruised and bitten on the outside and raw within, filled with Mettaton to Emet-Selch's pleasure.
And even though Mettaton's the cause for so much damage on his physical form, Emet-Selch leans into him for safety, close enough to kiss so thoroughly. Close enough to feel the incidental brush of his cock against his body, likewise thick and hard. The idol can't help but spare a glance to his body in his infatuated stupor, as if the nudging of its head were trying to nab his attention. An attention he feels willing to provide, withdrawing slightly one of his arms, slipping it along skin with the drag of sharp nails that eventually turn into a fingering of his length. Mettaton hums low into their kiss, a jolt of pleasure from merely feeling and knowing of his lover's arousal so intimately as he leans deeper into their kiss, covetous of everything and wanting to leave nothing untouched, unclaimed.
Speech is fortunately not so necessary, not when they're wrapped in each other's arms and kissing so ardently that words are usually part-kiss, pressed against skin and only for each other. But Mettaton's enamored with hearing his name on Emet-Selch's voice, whether it's fully realized or too indistinct to make out. Mettaton breathes him in; drinks in the smell of Emet-Selch and how familiar, how a part of Mettaton he's become. He can smell himself so strongly on his lover, but... when he thinks about it, he can smell Emet-Selch on himself, can't he? A fusion of themselves unmistakable, one that has Mettaton grinning into his Bonded's neck.
That love of Emet-Selch's is always so well-complimented by his own, after all. A high thing, something that could lift his mood just to consider. A love formidable, and Mettaton relishes how differently they experience the emotion with such contrast of heights and depths. It's thrilling.
Emet-Selch loses himself to the roll of his hips, body hugging his cock and the angle of Mettaton's thrusts changing with every jostle of it within. Each arch and curve, each rock of the Ascian's hips, all of it leads to some different angle to knead and prod with the soft tip of his cock — and each is worth a hearty moan from the robot, who can barely handle all of the changing squeezing pressure around such a sensitive area. It's euphoric; Mettaton thought he could feel this forever, and could hold Emet-Selch forever just as eagerly. He shudders, only to take notice that when he stops, his lover's trembling terribly.
Mettaton's fingers grip down on Emet-Selch's cock, pulling at his length in time with each push into his hips: letting his fingers run brush over the head of him, skirting along the glans and pressing against his tip, then pinching him between fingers and thumb before wrapping him totally, firmly, in his hand and tugging his length. A praising, a coercing, the desire to reward Emet-Selch for being so proactive in fucking himself on his arousal, to convince him to always tense his thighs and squeeze his cock, to always crave him and fit him just right. He hums again, this time against Emet-Selch's lips when he's found himself luckily landing them a kiss.
Smiling against him like this, Mettaton doesn't want to break this kiss now that he's obtained it in his love-drunk state.]
You feel... so good. You're perfect, rocking into me like you are...
[Truly, when he sits back and closes his eyes, lets the feeling of Emet-Selch's body shifting and stroking his cock as he does, it's... immensely flattering, that he'd love his erection so much that he'd fuck himself on him with such zeal. Into their kiss, Mettaton's hit with a spike of fever as he bites Emet-Selch's lip, thrusting on his own once more — feeling their thrusts combined and deepening, especially as Mettaton's thrusts grow more forceful, more animalistic as he pants.
Mettaton leans forward, his fingers hiking their pace around Emet-Selch's arousal as he focuses on stroking along the head of him. He has the bearing of someone who might just take the next opportunity to pounce, to lunge forward and topple Emet-Selch to the mattress between his legs; to follow him and fuck him hard, and all of these fantasies make themselves at home in his mind, even as he delights in his lover's agency to move against him like this. He just can't thrust hard enough from this angle, can't drag the head of him and fuck Emet-Selch the way his body demands; his own body demands to move completely on its own accord.
But he also adores having Emet-Selch leaning into him. He loves holding him, letting him lean into him, being there to steady him while he trembles. (But couldn't he do that against the mattress?)]
Hades... God, I want to take you, ever-everything... Hah...
[He's madly in love, madly in lust, the sound of Emet-Selch's broken cries on the mind and the feeling of his lover's body holding his cock occupying all else. The feeling of sticky come between them and knowing where it all came from... How erotic of a sight he'll be, trembling and dripping from overuse. Mettaton can't even remember what count this is: six, or seven? He wants more and more. He could find him so used and raw and come-filled, but if his lover's on his back, he wouldn't leak as readily. He could fill him and use him, Emet-Selch given the chance to simply lay back and take it all. Mortal form, a limitation? Not if Mettaton has anything to say about it.]
[It's soft- any sound that the Ascian made was soft, so that's no particular surprise- the sound he makes when Mettaton takes his cock in his hand. The stroke of fingers cause his body to tighten, to shudder, to roll hips both down against Mettaton's body, squeezing his erection deeply within him, and into the touch to his hand. But the noise he makes is grateful, appreciative, and ever loving, brushing his lips against his face in breathy nuzzles.
Breathy murmurs similarly continue, barely distinguishable from breathing itself, Emet-Selch enraptured entirely by every part of his lover's form and self. Every grinding of their hips together felt slightly different, shades of pleasure to fall into and drown in, the rubbing nudge of Mettaton's swollen glans a focus of particular intensity. Each thrust left him feeling that trace more claimed, explored, taken- loved and cared for. Their sex and his blood filled his senses, and even though the Ascian lacked the instinct of a puca towards scenting and staking a claim that way, he felt further security in this particular mingling. There was a distinction to it that he couldn't deny, that he knew was due to their own personal composition, that became its own blended variation when they were combined. And even afterward, even when they were apart- some piece of themselves would linger on one another, a subtle reminder of possession, and it was a pleasing thought.
Mettaton's hand continues fondling his cock, causing his breathing to pitch that bit faster from it, his body to attempt shifting harder. He toyed and squeezed the sensitive head of him between fingers, before applying a proper grip along the shaft, stroking and dragging all along his length, and the Ascian was barely able to stand how exquisitely rigid he felt under his care. As though he needed any more convincing in his desire to please him, to love him, Emet-Selch's thighs tighten in their effort to stabilize him, to be as close as he could, to rock himself incessantly into Mettaton's erection, to fuck himself on his length for as long as he wanted.
And there was praise, and he loved that too, and that mattered for some reason, and his lips likewise do their best to remain against Mettaton's, kissing him with warmth if not with coordination. His tongue takes brief forays into his mouth between sharper breaths, tighter shudders- moments of still-higher pleasure that would eventually engulf him entirely.
Emet-Selch could tell, he could feel Mettaton's rise in energy, his desire to move faster, to take him harder- something difficult for the man's hips to accomplish, with his lover sitting on him like this. And the Ascian tries, continuously, to match him, wanting Mettaton just as he was wanted in turn- trying to give him the rhythm he needed. The one he longed to feel as well, desires bleeding together as they often did.
But his stamina was low, his body uncooperative with his demands, as spurred on as it wanted to be, with that tighter, quicker grip around his own cock. It was encouraging, while also leaving him a touch overwhelmed at how sensitive he felt to it, and despite all efforts, the hard way he jerks himself in Mettaton's lap remains erratic. A kneading push to clench and shudder around, but his own unsteadiness was beginning to frustrate. A low whine tries to work in his throat, barely escaping parted lips between pants. He desperately wanted to be held, and he just as desperately wanted to be fucked- but there was no reason why they couldn't have both.
Mettaton leaned forward, with a manner that threatened to pounce, to press him down, and Emet-Selch tugs at him with his arms, encouraging him in that direction, to give himself over to that energy. The idol bites him, and he returns it gently, though with heated, shaky breath.]
Take me, then, I....
[Despite the words, rasped out as they are, the tone is clearly a request, a plea. His body would take him forever if he could, even if he couldn't move very well. He would cling, he would be tight and warm, he would hold his cock and his come, and he wouldn't stop, no matter how reduced he became, how beset by trembling, how breathless and used. There would always be more to give, and to take.]
[It was no matter. Emet-Selch being drained was the natural result in the face of the Puca's fever, and like this, covetous and dark and demanding, Mettaton knew he would take his unrelenting body over and over.
Having Emet-Selch so obediently trying to fuck himself at the rate they both desire softens Mettaton, but only toward the end of wanting to make good on their desires, to step up and do him in. The robot would naturally possess that strength to continue and it would remain maintained, a little soreness and a little sensitivity notwithstanding. But his Bonded tries, and he feels wonderful: Emet-Selch jerks himself on his lap and clenches around his cock, even when his rhythm is interrupted and unsteady and he's made to otherwise grip onto the Monster for stability. But it was true: Mettaton wanted more, and Emet-Selch felt the same. His attempt at frustration, at expressing that, was proof.
And yet. It's distracting, this rocking of his lover's. Mettaton almost feels inclined to aid in it, to keep him moving, and he pushes him along with the one hand he still has against his hip. Still thrusts to the best of his ability, hampered by the Ascian's weight or not. How wonderful it felt to be so manipulated by his lover's body, pulled and moved and pressed into, massaged so deeply and by his entrance both. Mettaton has to moan softly into their kiss: this tempo feels more loving and gentle. There's a place for this mood, and Mettaton holds part of it still: the beginnings of sex that would be sure to ramp up as their desperation grew beyond them, monstrous and needy as it ever was. And they were on the cusp of that transition, weren't they?
Even smiling against his skin, Mettaton presses a kiss to his cheek, his fingers slowing for this aching moment of deliberation. An intentional slowing, one to see rise both of their heat as the future closes in on them. One invited and demanded by them both, as it turns out...
His lover pulls on him, bodily. There's his weight put into that pull, Mettaton thought: something that suggests wanting to submit his gravity to Mettaton's use, to further push him back, and it's a thought so provocative that it warms Mettaton and causes a body-wide tremor, forcing him to hum another moan. Of course his Bonded would want to give him this control, especially as his strength began to fade. How perfect an arrangement it would be... He laughs softly.]
Then don't mind if I do.
[For being so terribly hungry for this body that sits upon his lap, for wanting to crush him against blankets and stuff him with cock - a future impending - Mettaton is also... possessive and protective, soft and territorial. This is his. He'd mark him and claim him and take him, brand him if he must, to show everyone he was his. He'd spend every avenue making sure of this, in body and spirit. But for now, it makes the Puca wish to give Emet-Selch something of a place to rest — a place comfortable for him to submit to him over and over, just as Mettaton desires for him to.
So he doesn't immediately push Emet-Selch back, but he does have to unhand his cock. He stabilizes him with one of his hands against the small of his lover's back, turning his head somewhat as his ears properly right themselves for once in a blue moon: an indication of focus, a task given that he'll see through. Mettaton yanks some of the more distant pillows closer, positioning them at the side of his thighs, and if Emet-Selch were paying any attention, it would remind him of the time he'd taken pity on his hips from before. The desire to elevate his lover's hips without the manual use of his own arms would mean freeing them up, and that would mean he could hold him, protect him, take him, and Emet-Selch would be so perfectly positioned to be fucked. Hips raised to Mettaton's crotch, he could keep his cock so perfectly nestled in his body, each thrust of is made to curve up, to drag along his body... the thought is almost so arousing that Mettaton could see himself getting sloppy, if he weren't so determined to do this right.
With the pillow properly in place, his lover would be pinioned between it and all of the other pillows behind him, meaning that he couldn't be slid from him in his rough pounding. He would be perfectly embraced by Mettaton, besides. Mettaton licks his lips, practically slavering from his delight, for the want of his lover's body beneath him, succumbing to each and every subsequent release he could grant him. His exhalation is hot.]
Thank you for waiting, dear.
[And just as soon as that happens, Mettaton pivots Emet-Selch to the side instead of lunging forward. He pushes his lover's back against the mattress, his hips made to ride atop pillows for Mettaton's perfect access; legs still spread around him, Mettaton nestles his length deeply into Emet-Selch's body with another lick of his lips, another sigh of a moan, and a pitch of desperation that flares to life near immediately.
He can't help it when he begins to thrust. Steady, pronounced drags of cock are Emet-Selch's prize for fleeting patience, for giving up his spot atop Mettaton's lap, and Mettaton just about loses it in his next cry from both the pleasure of sensation, and the physical feeling of having Emet-Selch beneath him. Ready and primed to be fucked as endlessly as he dreams.]
Oh... This. This is... What do you think, darling?
[Mettaton still possesses the sense to note that Emet-Selch's voice has been gradually fading, but he still demands some kind of reaction. Something to indicate Emet-Selch's desire for him, his dedication to serving and pleasing him. It's as right and required as the spread of his legs, the way he parts so readily to feel Mettaton penetrate him with a heavy cock, one that he kneads and rubs his way long strokes, with sharp thrusts, with nearly panting stutters.]
[Insufficient as it would eventually be, Emet-Selch still appreciates the help, the push down at his hip, and the shoving upward of Mettaton's cock. He shivers against his lips at the sound of his moan; there was still an intense pleasure in this moment, the softness of it, cooperative and affectionate. Even the slowing of the hand around his cock felt appropriate, each individual stroke something worth particular attention, when paired with the slower rock of his hips.
And while it would've been possible to slowly grind and stroke each other all the way to release, they were attuned as well towards wanting more force than this, harder movements and greater speed. More than the Ascian could give him like this. Mettaton's shudder and moan at the anticipation of the change in their position causes his own need to quicken, and he would hum a pleased sound if he could at the sound of his laugh, his voice. His understandable willingness to take over, and Emet-Selch embraces him that bit tighter, rubs the side of his face against his; for every part of him that Mettaton wanted to claim, he wanted to give. To submit and adapt and adore, because that's what he was best at doing.
That stimulation to his erection is lost entirely, and the Ascian still shifts in patient disapproval, though it's not as though his cock was not unused to going without specific attention. Leaning his head back slightly to watch him, Emet-Selch sees what that hand was up to instead- creating a space for his body to rest, and his hips to be appropriately raised. That was certainly worth the loss of cock-touching, and he presses his lips to Mettaton's throat as he orders pillows for them, nuzzling him appreciatively (while also taking note of the intent of the puca's ears; an endearing trait). The movement of his own hips slows further, mostly remaining seated now in Mettaton's lap, grinding his ass down against his legs and tightening but unable to do much more than that.
And soon enough Mettaton announces his readiness to continue, and the Ascian feels himself rolled to the side, into the space made convenient for them both. Inevitably, the length inside him is jostled, but not lost- something he's able to note with pleasure, and then ever more so, as Mettaton's cock is stuffed back appropriately deeply, solidly. Something that in itself causes his breath to hitch and his body to tense.
This position did put some pressure upon his back and shoulders, the soreness of clotting bites and scratches there. But it was a softer pressure than it had been against the floor, pushed instead to the give of pillows and covers- it was fine. And any slight discomfort that was added in that way, was countered by both relief and satisfaction, by having his body supported like this, and Mettaton atop him.
And especially by the greater ease with which Mettaton could now move, a harder thrusting to stir his body, with a steadiness inescapable. His own voice is lost to another attempt at crying out as his breathing shifts into a heavier panting, spread legs trembling around his body, but having a much better time of it with this support. And there was something about this position that he loved in itself (though the same could be said about any position, really... they all afforded some specific way of enjoying one another), the way his back was pressed to the covers, yet his hips were resting upward, ass exposed and completely available to Mettaton, without either of them having to hold him in place. It was like having the safety of a nest around him, while in a convenient position to be fucked.
If he weren't so aroused- and the stiffness of his own cock between them attested to that- it would almost be restful. It was still comfortable in a deep way that overrode the soreness of his body, every plunge of Mettaton's cock shaking him with the pleasure he could take from it.]
It's... you're incredible.
[It would be softly spoken even were it not for the state of his throat, as his attention fixes up on the sight of his face, his body over him, the movement of him in his thrusts. Movement that he was receiving so deeply, as he could squeeze around as he shifted inside him, pounded into him. His gaze is bleary, yet focused, rapt and wanting and even vulnerable in his blatant needing of him.]
[Praise that gets Mettaton to hum some, for any particularly irksome madness to bleed away in favor of keeping only heightened instinctual madness. One madness parts for the other — or, more accurately, they work too well together. Right now, those dark ears listen to gravity like this, forcing them to lean forward utterly: in interest, and in loss of sense.
The knowledge alone of Emet-Selch's submission to him, in combination with the nature of his position, fills the Puca with a deep-seated warmth, erotic and contented both. It's a position that manages to make Mettaton feel that his Bonded's safe, secure with him and well within his territory (which he is, even when this bed, this room, this house, all of it is also Emet-Selch's). But it would be hard to forget how displayed his lover is like this: hips elevated and legs spread, he's so easily accessed by Mettaton in this particular orientation — especially if he leans over him. And that lean was another reason to desire this position. Like this, the robot could wrap him up if he so desired. It's the perfect position to fulfill that primal need of his to mount Emet-Selch, allowing the robot to follow the curve of his lover's body with his own, cock in place and the rest of his body following Emet-Selch's, until he finds himself able to kiss him.
Which he does. A locking of lips, even as his thrusts continue uninterrupted, steady and not yet particularly fevered: still long, still dragging the tip of his cock along his Bonded, feeling the swell of the head pushing forth to make way for the thick shaft of him. If anything, this moment ends up a continuation of the last, an evolution of it: warm, affectionate, full of infatuation, Mettaton kisses his lover hotly, gently, caring in his every press of lip and flick of tongue. But it's accompanied by the hard drag of his length, withdrawing a good portion of himself only to tense his legs, to stuff the full of his length back in.
But he breaks from this kiss to smile against his lover's lips, intoxicated on the love he harbors for Emet-Selch.]
You are... too. Finding you so aroused, as you are.
[Shifting his weight into one of his arms, Mettaton lets the other take an adventure between them, where fingers prod his length — an arousal that is surely pressed against Mettaton's waist, a surface the two of them often find it rubbing against, given Mettaton's usual position between typically spread legs. The proper orientation for the both of them: Emet-Selch's legs spread, Mettaton pressed between, cock pounding into him heavily. As is right.
Mettaton commends his arousal by giving it a few pets against his body, fond and loving in his application. Warm squeezes of fingers, stroking and tightening along its shaft, and kneading the swollen tip of Emet-Selch's erection with fingers as Mettaton places another kiss to his lips, ears flicking just for a moment out of his pleasure to be so accessible for kissing. Unfortunately, Mettaton unhands Emet-Selch's cock again, kissing his lover with more firmness as though in apology.]
But you've proven to me... that you're plenty able to get off on the rhythm of our bodies alone. You like the sensation of being so full of me, don't you...? Being pounded into. Feeling rubbed and taken...
[Another way to say that it's easier for him to thrust with the fervency he desires if he has both of his arms flanking Emet-Selch's body, as he hooks his fingers around his lover's shoulders — further bracing him in warning for a deeper, more thorough thrusting, his eyelid dropping somewhat in lascivious, heartfelt desire. Claws prick skin. Bruises are dented, previous clots are disrupted, but it's mostly a gripping of hands rather than bracing him with teeth or the full force of his sharp claws, something that could change in a threatening instant if he so found himself there. They should both know that Mettaton could pitch violent and scalding at any moment, rather than heated and sultry as he is right now.
But his thrusts are unrelenting, measured and even still as he exhales against his lover's lips, feeling that satisfying, full-bodied thrust into his Bonded. The whole of him strokes and massages along his cock, practically tugging at the ridge of him as though greedy to pull his length as deep as it'll go. Mettaton gives Emet-Selch's body that; he fills him, thrusts his hips against his lover's ass, but even still Emet-Selch's body tugs and pulls on his cock. A short moan slips from his lips, decorated by a weak, sloppy kiss as Mettaton stutters.]
H... Ha. Even this full, you want more...
[Well, it's Emet-Selch's body demanding more, stroking and pressing the glans as though welcoming this thick intrusion, even amidst all of his previous releases, amidst the fucking he's already exacted upon his Bonded. Possessiveness begins to amp back up into fever when Mettaton considers how many times he's taken Emet-Selch. How raw he's fucked and bitten him, how wanting he always is, enough to match the robotic Puca at every turn. It's worth a shudder, worth an intensifying of thrusts, a harsher, more frenetic pounding: a perfect drag of the glans, a low noise in Mettaton's throat.
Another kiss, soft but wet, open-mouthed and hot enough to match his rising internal temperature.]
You are good... So good. For feeling so good, for loving the sensation of being filled as you do... Ah...
[Mettaton encroaches further on his body by leaning over him, and that only completes the welcome nature of this position: being kept close. Having him near, as well as his cock inside him. Kissing him, having the taste and feeling of his lips to contend with, a heat to take his breath, and a warmth to settle in his body and remain there. Kissing that could stir his heart just as every long drag of cock could stir his body. In its way it was another reminder of claim, but of his love, his affection, something that Mettaton could call up from him with a kiss, a word, a glance. A thought. Memory.
Emet-Selch didn't find it strange to consider love a submissive affair, a giving up of natural defenses, giving someone else the power to hurt with most bitter precision. When Mettaton had first told him of his burgeoning love for him, even that much he'd wanted to refuse. Had tried to refuse; how dare Mettaton care about him, and how dare he expect him to deal with it.... But he'd been so sure of it, of himself. Emet-Selch could appreciate him for it then, and he loved him for it now. And in the end he hadn't been able to deny what had been developing between them.
...And so he'd given himself over and willingly drowned. Day by day, breath by lost breath. But the reward was experiencing the whole of Mettaton's love for him, the feeling inflicted in every kiss and bruise and drag of cock.
Long drags like this were particularly heady, offering both the sensation of intolerable emptiness, and the repeated reassurance of being stuffed full once again. A reminder of how thick his length truly was, and yet how his body would always adapt to it, stretch just enough to hold him tightly, yet to not restrict his movement. And it was a smooth drag by now, in the snug heat he could offer him, from both repeated friction and continuous use, and from the slickness offered from Mettaton's previous releases. They had both seen the evidence of how... copious they had been, and where their bodies met remained that proof. Between his thighs was the demonstration of their insatiability, and inside him there was more of it, and eventually there would be more still. And on his own abdomen again there would be further proof of his own, that he could get off from this fullness, the very feeling of being taken by his lover....
But he could still appreciate the brief pets Mettaton deigns to give his cock, where it was pressing upward against its usual place at the idol's waist. Where it would be rubbed a bit by the robot's movements, but otherwise ignored. But that was fine, even if he draws in a sharp breath at this deliberate attention offered by his fingers, strokes along its heavy length, residue of his come still drying along it. The squeeze at the glans was almost too sensitive, enough to have his body jerk slightly, his legs twitch, and his hips shudder, as though unable to decide whether he was trying to press into it or not. So Emet-Selch couldn't regret it terribly when Mettaton withdraws his hand for the sake of balance and easier thrusts, and he murmurs an assent into the kiss, and more of his acceptance into that meeting of lips. Firm and adoring and with a flicker of tongue and teeth, of warmth and breath; they both knew that Mettaton fucking him was all that he needed.
With Mettaton over him, clawed hands at his shoulders now with the capacity for piercing, the ability to switch darker in an instant, whether on whim, or a deliberate sinking into more threatening carnality- the Ascian's own arms slip around him, low at his waist, his back. Holding on and encouraging close, stroking at fur or glass, and just beginning to dig in with spams of fingers when Mettaton's hips impact his body, when he can feel himself tight around the root of his cock, and can squeeze all the way up to the soft tip. And then Mettaton pulls back and the ridge of the head is scraped along his body and he cries out all over again, rough and ever aching.
A wet kiss; Emet-Selch bites back at him with little success, in an attempt to hold him there, though his teeth just drag along his lip, his tongue. Mettaton's mouth was hot, as hot as he felt inside of him, and he knew his come would be hotter still. He'd never wanted to be burned so terribly.]
I'll always take- take more of you.
[He was still so raspy, rough, words barely making it past the texture of his throat, a throat that was warning him of the consequences of it being repeatedly fucked. A warning that he ignores again.]
Every part of you, no matter how thick... and deep, and hot you press, I want it. You've filled me so thoroughly, yet--
[Yet he felt starved for more of him, never sated, always wanting. It should've been frustrating, to need someone so terribly, to be at their mercy, but there was a pleasure in this kind of pain as well, in how much he desired him, even while he was currently having him. Even while he was currently being fucked, could feel the swifter drag of his cock inside him, even when his own hips jerked up to try and meet his and his body was left trembling, stricken from want. Even when his body was already sore from previous use, was marred all over from past indulgence.]
Yet I still, I....
[It didn't matter the condition of his body, Mettaton still wanted him, and he still had so much to give him.]
[More praise. It leads only to more desire on the star's part. A wanting growl rakes his throat, an unnaturally guttural sound for a voice so smooth when he hears how much Emet-Selch wants him, and facets of jewels that refract prisms that glisten even in the dimming light promise that this fury of his is tided over only by such sentiment: being so wanted and welcomed to fuck and occupy his lover's body is flattering in itself.
But to hear this condition... He feels so filled, and yet.
Yet there's more, yet the show could go on, yet insatiability rules their lives some more, always wanting and always satisfying, finding new wants cropping up with each bout of fulfillment. It was the nature of their relationship, and even should every new activity go exhausted, they've proved that revisiting the chances past is always enticing. Throat-fucking the other man is something he would most certainly crave more and more, as an example: Mettaton thought it would be one of those things he'd crave endlessly, just as endlessly as he merely craves his lover's body, with his lover's soul in it.
He understands Emet-Selch's sentiment too well. So well that he sighs, hot and close to his Bonded's lips even amidst kisses, sucks and nips of lip and tongue. His thrusting remains at a steady rate for now, but only by some manner of restriction: Mettaton is temporarily holding back for the sake of speech, it would seem.]
Yes... I know, Hades, darling. [Another damp kiss is sucked into his lip, tongue feeling the softness of him in the process.] You still. Want more. I do...
[Perhaps Mettaton had more to say. It could have been that the Puca would have finished off with telling Emet-Selch that he similarly covets him on a level primal and deep, wants him with his body always prone, always available for his use. He wants always to be this satisfied and wanting, and wants for Emet-Selch to crave him and be satisfied in return. How could Mettaton have anticipated such a hike in sex drive? How could he have ever known that he wanted this so badly without the body for it, without knowing what the instinct was to match it to? A desire for something where there was nothing, an absence so stark that it left him feeling wrong and trapped, and here he was with the body for it. The feeling for it, and the feelings to match. He'd had wanted and wanted, but what he realized he really wanted was vulnerability. In the Ascian, he found that. Even if he should somehow be robbed of his developed sensation, his ability to shapeshift... if he had Emet-Selch, he felt some level of pleasure could be achieved in his presence. It was in their moods, their tearing into each other and the care to see that they remain pieced back together all the same.
So he could have returned the sentiment of insatiability, a throwback to a conversation they'd had before about how each of them were so endlessly wanting of something that fulfilled this emotional void — or, in Mettaton's case, this endless capacity for intensity, the want for such depths to meet his own. But the Puca is so aroused by the sound of his lover's cry, even when his throat is raspy and raw.
It's perfect. There could be others who would suit Mettaton out there, but he didn't care. Emet-Selch is his, and he loved him with his whole heart. If his soul followed the same rules as it did Underground, Emet-Selch could destroy him easily if he found himself somehow gripped by cruelty rather than love, Mettaton's so stricken by him.
And in body, if it were as true as Emet-Selch implies... He's like a dream. Could Emet-Selch really take him endlessly? Right now, Mettaton's mind begins to dip into a state of madness again: the feverish need to take him so endlessly, to never quit filling and fucking his lover. Once more that primal, gutteral dip in his voice visits him, his fingers tightening their grip around Emet-Selch's shoulders as Mettaton begins to pound into him, long thrusts to remind him how empty he is without, and firm, full thrusts to remind him how pleasurable it is to be stuffed, to have the head of his cock filling and prodding him with the texture of its shape. Each thrust is accompanied by a short, euphoric gasp, that darkness overcoming his senses as he gives into pleasure and lust.]
Oh- Ha-Hades-
[A curl of his toes and his fingers causes those nails to dig into skin, even if they only barely puncture. His grip tightens, his lips forming stammering words against Emet-Selch's lips that come out in short moans as his tempo only rises. Emet-Selch's body rubs and pulls his cock with each drag of it, the sort of tightness that feels like his body demands him to stay as deep as he can. Come slicks his cock, and his erection feels so engorged that he can barely stand drawing it from his lover's body at all. How could he, with that pressure is offset by his squeeze? His arousal is so thick, the head so swollen and sensitive, and Emet-Selch arches and presses into him in a manner that could only madden, could only push him.
He moans again, arching his own back even as he pummels him deeper with shorter, deeper, more indulgent thrusts of his hips, cock barely leaving his body at all. His delight is palpable: his glans is being kneaded and squeezed by his lover's body, and he provides in return this fullness, this defined ridge to stroke, a cock so sensitive and demanding to be pleasured. A task for his lover, endless but always fulfilling, always just what Mettaton wants.]
[A growl deeper and rougher than what Emet-Selch was used to hearing rumbled from his lover's throat, the sort of sound that sets him shivering, and were his pulse not already high, it would've raised it. But he could recognize it not as the growling of dissatisfaction or frustration, an animalistic display of disapproval like what he might be shown were the Ascian deliberately withholding praise or attention or his body from him. A growl instead of utter intensity and desire, of primal urges all coming together in a way that transcended verbal speech. Of insatiability understood and accepted, that they would ever willingly feed and incite and sate, only for the process to be repeated.
There was... so much to be filled. More than ever could be. The desire for company, for sensation- how could there ever be an end to it? They knew this.
But Mettaton responds in words as well, an added affirmation of what they both understood, but yet felt the need to express to one another. Through sound, through touch, through commingling of mood, the want to always be available. To satisfy every desire, be it a whim of inclination, a bit of imagery that felt particularly enticing in that moment- or something deep-seated and fundamental, a yearning for something that could only be soothed by their lover's presence, their body. They would be there for one another in either case. Whatever condition they found themselves in, they would still be together- and through that, could provide satisfaction.
Mettaton moved harder, and the sounds Emet-Selch made in response weren't sounds at all, only strangled, pleading noises, desperation for him to always continue fucking him like this. Nails pierce the Ascian's skin, but only shallowly; it provides only a small stinging note to Mettaton's grip, a reminder of being held, rather than any particular sensation of pain. He was safe with him, no matter how ferality struck.]
Mettaton....
[A word, a name more intelligible than most other sounds his throat is attempting to produce, escapes past hoarse cries and pants from parted lips, with his head tilted back. Eyes closed, his body writhes into him, into thrusts that force him back against the bed, which shake him, even as he's held in place, secured between pillows and his lover's grip. Emet-Selch's legs wrap more around him, clinging harder for each time he's stuffed full of cock, so full that he can scarcely bear it. But even harder to stand were those instances when Mettaton pulled back, left a space where his length was meant to occupy, a hollow intended for his cock. His arms tighten for desperate purchase, fingers tangling in dark fur, muscles taut, rigid.
His own cock was similarly rigid, pressed up against Mettaton's waist, feeling the tip rubbed against a body that had no give to it. A sensation he was used to by now, and which registered as normal, an expected part of the experience of being fucked by him, and all he could've ever asked for.
But more of his focus was on the thickness of the erection penetrating him, the pounding of his body that Mettaton was treating him to, hardly leaving him at all in his quickened stroking of his cock. The head pushed so deep, and he could tighten around it so closely that the very thought could leave him gasping. Not that he's having very many thoughts at all, not when he was being fucked like this, being taken- not when he could feel the ridge of Mettaton's swollen tip dragged and shoved into him with fearsome insistence. His erection was there for his body to continuously pleasure, to squeeze tight, to massage and to keep, every stroke of him hotter and so slick with past come, past evidence of the ecstasy he'd found in him before. Being used like this, given the opportunity to feel his lover's rapture- there was no greater pleasure than this, and he wanted it more with every breath.]
Harder-- I want you- deeper--
[The pleading part of it goes unspoken, is there only in tone. A tone and voice that's growing weaker again with all this strain he's putting on it once more- and it hadn't been very loud to start. But Mettaton was moaning again, with that depth to his voice that felt somehow base, intrinsically dark, sounds to enrapture and bind, to meet with ever starker adoration. To arch, to push, to cling, to cry- to love him absolutely, in some place where thought wasn't required.]
[Provided with an urging to drive him wild, Mettaton spares a moment of real thought to the notice that he's gripping even harder into Emet-Selch's shoulders. He spares the sparsest of glances, noting that yes: his claws have sunken into flesh. Blood begins to well up around dark-tinged keratin, deep scarlet and beautiful against his lover's complexion of bruises, but all Mettaton can think about is how, shirtless, he'd be able to see his own grip on the Ascian. A reminder of how he'd held him, mounted him, pounded into him with a thick, rigid erection, Emet-Selch desperately trying to encourage him with broken pleas and cries... It would be a sight to arouse, the obvious signs of a puncturing grip around his shoulders so that he could be better accessed and fucked beneath him. Mettaton's made to shudder fiercely, a long, unrestrained moan forcing his neck to slacken for a moment's time.
Nothing else about him succumbs, moving on pure animalistic drive. Emet-Selch wants him as deep and as hard as he covets him, and Mettaton grinds his teeth as though to bite, his body seizing and every joint tightening as though to withdraw on himself. He practically curls up to better treat his Bonded to full, deep thrusts, harder and just as quick, just as demanded. Deeper, though... Deeper should be accomplished by curling in on him, where Mettaton feels himself not only flush against his lover's ass, but pushing into him desperately. He wants to feel his lover's body give way around his cock, wants to feel him tighten and squeeze all of him if he could, the only relief from this ache he could find. And soon to be even greater relief.
The Puca buries his face into Emet-Selch's neck, mouthing and teething his skin before he slips his teeth through skin. Sharpened and sharper the more he gives himself over to the influence of the pendants, to the fever of sex, it's no difficult feat to effortlessly slice through soft, giving flesh. And all Mettaton can feel is deep, heady satisfaction for having pinned his lover further: held in place by the rudimentary structure he'd made around his body, by his claws and arms, by the grip of teeth, and by his hips, pinned atop his cock. His lover was sure to stay, open and surrendered to Mettaton's pleasure. He's being mounted, blood sucked on, rubbed down by a heavy erection and filled time and again with thick loads of come, and in this position, Mettaton could continuously fill him without gravity causing him to spill over.
He trembles again, moaning deeply into his bloodied bite. The ecstasy he feels is immense.
Emet-Selch has so gradually given himself over to Mettaton, though he could tell right from the start that he'd be inclined to if the opportunity arose. Even from the start, his Bondmate sought not sex, but companionship: a body to hold, to be held by. A temporary solace from loneliness. Mettaton could see that immediately. He would get nothing he could move on from out of this robot, however. A permanent fixture in his life (here), and he feels fiery determination at keeping Emet-Selch's company with his, his attention on him: a feeling partially his own, and ramped up by the jewelry around his shoulders.
But with this improved grip on his lover with claws and incisors, he can push his hips harsher into Emet-Selch, shove and thrust his cock as deeply as it fits into his body. A sensation pleasurable, worthy of a cry even past blood and skin. Harder and deeper: he could do that. Deeper he pushes, and following suit, harder he thrusts, pounding into his lover and feeling the way he stuffs him with glans and shaft. Each push has him beyond flush to his body, Emet-Selch's body slick and gripping down along the base of his erection, rubbing down the full of his length as his lover succumbs to his own tense ecstasy. Braced by Mettaton's efforts, then the arms and legs of Emet-Selch's, they were inseparable, capable only of melding this closely.
There's the awareness of Emet-Selch's cock dragging along the pane of glass on his front, his cock hard and bound to release sticky spurts of come along that faintly glowing chamber — a notion that only delights Mettaton as he imagines even harder releasing into Emet-Selch's body all over again. Emet-Selch's body is perfect for taking his cock, Mettaton the perfect size to fill him utterly and to feel the fullest extent of Emet-Selch's stroking; to drag the glans along his lover and massage him in return, to pleasure his Bonded with the intensity of sex. He was safe in his arms, and he would always have Mettaton as long as he could feel these bruises and punctures, his lips and his cock, the unyielding press of his body and the weight of him mounting him.
Mettaton's blinded by it all. He still hears Emet-Selch pleading for harder, deeper thrusts in his mind, and every time he revisits it it feels as though he gets that much harder, aches that much more acutely, feels that much more pressure in need of release. He's engorged, heavy all over again and desperate for relief, desperate to fill his lover so that he's made to experience this same pressure Mettaton feels — only the pressure of holding so many releases, the heaviness he feels in his body transferred to Emet-Selch's. This close to his lover's neck, it's no loss when he squeezes his eye shut to better focus solely on sensation and sound and smell. Sensation feels rawer, prickling over his scalp and reaching him in a way unlike anything else. He couldn't begin to describe how good he feels, this deep and this hard, fucking Emet-Selch this solidly with a cock so heavy and hard, feeling the swollen glans rubbing along his Bonded's body so intimately that it hurts.
The robot doesn't notice the way he moans withe very thrust, the way precome leaks from him in preparation for release. His rhythm goes unbroken, hard and fast and deep and loving it all; dark fur and sharp teeth, a presence made so dark, and otherwise feeling so wanted, so needed and adored.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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If Emet-Selch could feel so welcome to be whoever he was with Mettaton, that was right. He leans forward all over again, nudging a kiss to the Ascian's lips as though he could taste that smile even after it's disappeared.
As soon as he draws back from that, Mettaton does it so that Emet-Selch could see his face with more clarity. He scans his body, makes sure to make a pointed effort in doing so; his gold gaze appraises his jaw, his neck, his chest, shoulders, waist, abdomen, his cock, then his thighs, all in varying states of bruised, bloodied, hot, sweaty, bitten, or come-marked. And the unseen note to it all is what's behind, a sight he'd surely drink in... if he had a mirror pointed their way. If Mettaton spread his legs, he's sure he might even get a glimpse of the root of his cock between his lover's similarly spread legs, his back bitten and blood trailing down parallel to his spine.
He's a mess. It's not a bad look on him, Mettaton thought.
Here, though, the robot stoops in and twists his neck so that he could better fit between Emet-Selch's head and shoulder, mouthing hotly Emet-Selch's neck. But it's all to the greater end of slipping his lips around his throat proper, kissing and licking as though appreciating him for all of the work he put into speaking for him, for crying out and moaning on a voice made hoarse and raw. In the process, he laps up blood left to dry, even if it doesn't perfectly clean off of his skin. It's when he reaches his jaw that Mettaton places a less heated kiss to his Bonded, humming in a low, softened tone.]
Now you truly are a mess...
[And Mettaton is, once more, not soft. He's not engorged or rigid, nothing like he was moments before climax, but there's a stiffness to his length all the same. He unhands Emet-Selch's thigh and withdraws from his neck, making a show of delicately cleaning off his come-spattered fingers with the hint of tongue.]
Shower?
[With both hands free (and not so covered in come), he wraps that arm around Emet-Selch's waist, pulling him tight and secure as he waits for his lover to kiss him with a smile, licking his lips and finding it difficult not to goad Emet-Selch... So he doesn't bother trying to avoid being so flirtatious and sensual. After all, he could become hard at the drop of a hat. It's not fair.
Somehow, even though Mettaton's so easy to work up, he's not so focused on trying to bed his lover again. He could, though. And likely, he will: the remembrance of what's to come when he withdraws from Emet-Selch tempts him near immediately, and he bites a little at his own lip in sudden want for it. To see his lover attempt to stand after his legs have been so spread, so taut around his hips, surely rendered sore from his use... then to see him leaking with come, to watch it decorate his thighs? It would ruin the Puca. He welcomes this demise.
He also just loves him, and wants to see him comfortable and clean and knows the Ascian would be satisfied relaxing, soft and warm and wet in a way the robot couldn't quite hope to be in a body like this. (His fur would be wet for a time, though.) The options remain the same: more sex, shower (and more sex). Is there a third option called sleeping? Mettaton's never heard of it.]
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In comparison to his own more obvious physical disarray, Mettaton looked still fairly put-together, enough so that Emet-Selch had no doubt that he could continue taking him apart if he chose to.
The slipping in to mouth his neck and throat seemed the start of another instance of it. Wet and heated and welcome, Emet-Selch immediately offers him his wounded neck- jabbed by claws, pierced by teeth, fucked repeatedly by cock- Mettaton's claim on every part of it was clear. Both his breath and his voice had been stolen, and he shivers in immediate pleasure at the reminder of it all, of the new patches of damp saliva left across his skin, to dilute whatever blood his lover hadn't cleared entirely by tongue and mouth. A kiss and statement concludes, something that would get a hum of agreement if the Ascian could spare that kind of sound.
He looks a bit amused though, tilting his head in a way that seems to indicate agreement. His voice was limited, and it was probably best to save it for more important tasks (like praising Mettaton; also moaning). It was surprisingly congenial to feel himself so- uncontrolled, open in both desires and emotions, even if it meant being fully exposed to him in every way.
But Emet-Selch almost misses Mettaton's next word, his question/suggestion, as his gaze and attention becomes thoroughly and obviously caught on the sight of the idol licking his come from his fingers. The Ascian swallows reflexively, despite the discomfort of it, and while he's briefly tempted to lean in and snag a taste for himself, he's too taken by watching his lover's lips against his digits, the hint of tongue.... Mettaton had a grace in this too, somehow, an elegance that remained intensely erotic.
It's certainly an image he'll remember, will return to, will become easily aroused over in future. Even if his body now was made to lag behind in response, the Ascian's manner is certainly heated to match, requiring no further encouragement to lean in to cover his lips with his own. A kiss of prodding tongue and firm pressure, and a demand to taste himself at Mettaton's lips, his mouth. And his body shifts in Mettaton's lap, feeling that his Bondmate's cock had regained more than a hint of stiffness, though he could also tell that it wasn't quite back up at peak erectness. But it was something he knew would be sure to happen soon enough, and his breath hitches at the thought, licking back at Mettaton's tongue, before letting his teeth drag over his lower lip.
Even if he couldn't quite join him in physical arousal- not yet, in any case- there's no delay or hesitation in the way he took to him, wanting his taste and his cock and his touch. And it would be easy to remain here, to be fucked again, to keep holding onto Mettaton's length, to keep sliding it inside of himself, stroke and squeeze him into being fully engorged, while feeling the drag of that sensitive tip pulled along him so intimately... until it finally gave in to his dedication with another round's worth of come.
...But he was already reasonably full of it. It wasn't any reason to stop (of course it wasn't), but between that and the memory of the word shower Emet-Selch pauses, slowly leaning back from Mettaton, even if every part of his manner seemed to indicate his desire for the opposite. Though he's distracted momentarily again by the blood on Mettaton's face, spattered against his chest and his jewelry. There was a bit matting his fur as well, another inevitability. The gold of his eye and the dark of his hair, the lean of long ears... it was next to impossible to resist kissing him again, coming onto him again, to desire him, pressing their bodies together--
Emet-Selch takes a slow breath instead, steadying himself. While Mettaton was certainly capable of carrying him to the shower, if he pulled off of him now, and stood up, then.... It was a risk, of sorts; their first attempt to get him to the shower had only led to having sex twice more. They had barely even left the bed before returning to it. Still- with two more rounds behind them, perhaps it would be slightly easier to go the slight distance without getting distracted. Still again- as soon as Mettaton's cock was slid free of his body, the evidence of their excess would be able to spread down his thighs, and that would be very distracting.
But he wanted to feel that now. He also wanted the feeling of a shower, along with the idea of settling down with Mettaton afterward, warm and clean and contented. And there was no reason why he couldn't have both.
So Emet-Selch nods to him, shifting thighs that were, indeed, sore from being left in their natural position for so long (spread around Mettaton). Holding his breath as he pushes himself upward, he reluctantly allows the solidity and the warmth of his lover's cock to slowly leave his body. Though as the ridge of the glans catches against his entrance, there's a slight hesitation, before he pulls himself off entirely, shivering at the departing brush of the tip as he loses contact with it. And he's given instead the feeling of his body finally attempting to relax without having a large erection stretching it, along with a disturbing sensation of being left so empty.
Not entirely empty, of course. Something that becomes clear with near immediacy as he moves, and while the Ascian had intended to stand immediately, he finds his legs too stiff and uncooperative to listen- and himself too distracted at the warmth he could feel beginning to leak down between his thighs. Even though Emet-Selch had expected it, he goes still, hand resting against Mettaton's shoulder for balance, sitting up on the bed with his legs yet spread around Mettaton's thighs, while his own body drips his lover's come over his skin. His legs quiver; the softest moan escapes his lips. Eyes half-lidded as he looks down at him, Emet-Selch bites his own lower lip; this still felt like one of the most exposed ways he could be, literally dripping with the evidence of being fucked repeatedly, how his body had been used, putting it all on display for him.]
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Emet-Selch knew it. He knew it and he hears his breath taper off, only for him to lick more passionately at his tongue, to nip at his lip. Mettaton imagines him licking so broadly at his cock, at the sensation of teeth taking to any part of a body so difficult to pierce.
There's a chance, he considers in that moment, that Emet-Selch will remain. That he'll stay seated on his cock and rock himself into him, tightening in rhythmic pulses over his length as though coaxing from him another release. The feeling of come already saturating his lover's body is slick and hot around his length, and... he could, couldn't he? He could stay seated in his lap. Emet-Selch could keep rocking his hips, keep jostling his cock, endlessly pull and knead at the head of his erection, fuck himself and stroke Mettaton off, taking load after load. Mettaton would fill him until he could never feel empty.
Yet his lover pulls back. He watches him, soaks in his appearance, and takes a breath. Mettaton, then, is also taken by the sight of Emet-Selch: drips of come still dry upon his abdomen, the muscle of his chest supple and inviting enough to want to kiss and suck, to tongue and bite, somewhere he hadn't tended to as much during their time together right now.
Could they make it to the shower? Mettaton is no Faun: it wasn't as though he was weak to sex. He's merely possessing of a libidinous appetite that couldn't be so easily quelled, one that could ignite and inspire the robot rather than dominate or distract him in turn. No, his desire was his to direct and harness, and sometimes it engulfed him, but always with a heated focus. His lover manages, at least, to stabilize himself against his body, both of them aware of how difficult a task it would be to get them there. If Mettaton had to carry him, would he be capable of it before deciding that it was a greater reward to take him then and there?
The robot braces himself. He closes his eye and exhales once his lover parts from his lips, parts from him, feeling him lift even from his lap... A regrettable maneuver, but it's one he would have to endure. He feels his lover's body stroke him from root to tip, a tight, clamping muscle to rub over the whole of him, and even Mettaton's made to bite his lip and roll his ankles just to cope. There's an aching pause at the glans as though Emet-Selch has to deliberate, has to consider slamming back down upon his hips, before he tugs himself the rest of the way off. Mettaton's shaft is left to the air, and he makes a short grunt of protest through his bitten lip as he shifts his hips uncomfortably, eyeing Emet-Selch's hips.
Dreaming about how he could grip them, guide him back down onto his cock, push him down into the bed once more, and...
The Puca likes his lover pressing his hands to his shoulders. It's a grounding touch, something he can pay attention to while his lover hovers over him with his legs still spread. Parting like this in its initial stages is the most dangerous part of all, and what should be a speedy departure becomes one where his lover's frozen. Immediately, Mettaton's ears spring up. He gives Emet-Selch a curious look, one that quickly becomes imploring as he realizes what's happening, what he's to expect even before he glances it for himself.
He swallows; he watches Emet-Selch bite at his lip, watches his eyes, glazed and curtained heavily by his lid, feels his legs tremble, and it's a sight in itself to have his cock aching, standing further to attention.
What a rush it feels, to be so swiftly made alert. He has no brain to deprive of blood, but it still feels like a gathering of pressure in his developed cyborg body that need relief, needs to be pet and stroked and sucked, squeezed and released. When he exhales again, it's through a shudder. His attention darts south, and he sees for himself his lover's thighs made to bear the spill from his body: thick come marks him, as though his body's showing off how marked and claimed and fucked it is. Had they somehow remained in that basement, it would be a sight for all to take heed of, to know how used and claimed his Bonded was by him.
His ears are tall, leaning, then suddenly akimbo, both of them flopped to the right and obeying the pull of gravity in his loss of sense. It's among the most of obscene shows, intimate and suggestive beyond being merely suggestive; it omits the fucking part and skips right to the graphic sight of Emet-Selch's body dripping with Mettaton's come, still hovering over his attentive cock, nude and bruised and bitten and biting at his lip, moaning on a raw voice.
Mettaton's gaze goes equally bleary. His lips are parted, his body trembling, his hands reaching for Emet-Selch's hips in his desperation as he meets his gaze. No, he couldn't think to resist this. He couldn't let Emet-Selch take a step away from him like this — he couldn't bear to leave him empty, to let him be empty, and Emet-Selch could be made so full that he'd compliment and praise him even on whispers.
Claws hook onto Emet-Selch's hips and he feels guided by primal instinct alone when he drags him back down, seating him upon the swollen head of his erection. His body hips roll, gaze positively alight in his need even while hazy and wanting; and Mettaton presses the glans to Emet-Selch's all over again, feeling it slick and hot with come, each push and prod at him wet and sticky. The idol moans, desperation in his timbre.
How quickly he's gone from semi-hard to fully rigid, aching and hot and needy. Emet-Selch's thighs are still for him to gaze upon, drips of come having escaped and drifting so visibly down his thigh, further and further beyond... Mettaton's hands are occupied, dipping the head of his thick cock into this newfound wetness, an ineffective sort of stopper for his body.]
Mmn— Hades, ah...
[That hazy gaze of his sharpens, darkens, yet it brightens keenly. He's enraptured by the sight of his lover's cock, his thighs framing Mettaton's erection and painted in come, and a low noise sounds from his throat. His words are droning and near hypnotized in his absolute, intoxicating want, his thrusts incapable of stopping.]
Lick... Clean it, and lick it up...
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Other parts of Mettaton's body were very much not obeying gravity, though. And Emet-Selch doesn't need to look down for his Bonded's cock to know that he'd been rendered completely erect from this sight of bruised thighs made sticky and wet, this awareness of how overfull he'd been made. Hard with a quickness that would've surely dizzied had he a heart and blood to divert, or breath to stop- but Emet-Selch can tell nonetheless of the haze which enters his lover's expression, which clouds his thoughts with unspeakable lust. He felt the same way after all, any intention of departing with some sort of efficiency... thoroughly, thoroughly disrupted.
Claws return to his hips as though it was their place to be there, and Emet-Selch offers no resistance on being pulled back down, on feeling the slick, swollen head of Mettaton's cock made slicker yet from what was slowly running from his body. He cries out, the sound an echo of what it should've been, an aching rasp turned into a moan that doesn't want to end, only forced into silence by his need for air and the damage to his throat.
Pulse raising so fast, breath with it- the Ascian himself is made dizzy, his hold on Mettaton's shoulder becoming ever more one for balance, even with his lover taking over the control of his hips. His legs only want to splay more for him, in offering, muscles twitching as he feels his lover's erection stroking along the mess he was making- rubbing himself in his own sticky come, and doing nothing to prevent its escape from him. Warm, thick trails travel slowly down his thighs, and he groans roughly at the thought of having this proof of how much he'd been filled with. Blessed with. Claimed by. Enough to delight in, to smear across them both, a mess he couldn't imagine ever being fully cleaned of. Some indelible residue would always remain, clinging to his thighs, the mark of Mettaton's ownership of him made explicit.
There's no hesitation involved when he hears Mettaton's order to him. Only a shudder of unfathomable wanting, to make what was already graphically, starkly sexual in nature that more obscene still. One arm remaining about the robot's shoulders, he moves the other between them with a deliberation that was only incidentally slow. There was the desire to linger, to dwell on each moment, each breath, each thrust of Mettaton's cock, the way his length felt rubbing his own come against his lover's body. The way he longed to take him inside again, to feel the soft give of the glans held tight by his body, to feel it pushed deeper and deeper, inch by inexorable inch until he was full, until Mettaton could replace what they had allowed to escape down his legs.
But he also wanted just as terribly to keep feeling him stroke himself like this against his entrance, between his thighs, teasing as it was, to let come spread and drip as far as it could, to smear it across flesh and fur, to be brought to successive climaxes from base pleasure in this love of their own obscenity. To let their come drip and fall where it may, to spread it through brushes of thigh and cock and hand, to find rapture in vulgarity. He couldn't yet bear to move away from his cock in either case.
Emet-Selch's fingers glide between his thighs, sparing his own cock a lingering touch down its length, aware too of his own come that lay along it, a stickily drying substance. But he moves on soon enough to reach lower still between his legs, to feel for where one of those trails of come had reached. While not as hot as it had been while kept within his body, it hadn't cooled entirely either, and his hand explores shakily back upward where the flow was thicker still, every sense captivated by the thick wetness his fingers were collecting.
Tracing all the way to the source, he encounters the rub of his lover's erection and his breath hitches sharply all over again, body shaking from a sort of desire for him that felt nigh unendurable. The hold of his other arm tightens around him, as he brings thoroughly-coated fingers back up to his own lips. And the focus of Emet-Selch's gaze shifts then, eyes barely open, to this much closer sight, to the way it clung to his fingers, the way it tried to stick them together a little. And even if Mettaton hadn't told him to, he would've been drawn to taste it- how could he resist it?
His lips first brush along his forefinger, starting at the tip and drifting all the way to the base, spreading Mettaton's come against his mouth as much as taking it inside. But even this hint of him has him sucking in a quick breath, senses inundated by every part of it, the texture, scent, and flavor of it upon his tongue. A tongue which laps with a clear hunger for it as he swipes it along his fingers, one after another, licking, prodding, sucking. Swallowing it down with obvious rapture, attending to every crevice, the space between fingers, anything that might've been caught underneath blunt nails, his desperation for it went beyond blatant. What had started with deliberation and care devolved quickly into a kind of starvation for it, even nipping at fingers that now had more saliva than come on them, as though this would cause more of it to appear. But there was far more, of course, still at his thighs, and especially along Mettaton's erection- a spreading that he knew must be copious by now.
Breath becoming shakier as he continues, Emet-Selch is hardly aware of how his own cock shows signs of stiffness, as though his body were taking mercy on him (or otherwise forced into submission under the waves of successive stimulus, forced to answer these calls to arousal, no matter how much he ached).]
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The influence of the pendants, then, takes greater precedence over the self-absorption of his jewelry, especially when the ritual of swiping at some of the residue on his thighs becomes truly religious as soon as come decorates his lips. This is enough to nearly make him lose his mind. Mettaton would choke if he had the body for it, but his attention is locked on Emet-Selch's fingers, on his lips, on his features and his hunger in this moment. Even as Mettaton's hips rock in place, pushing and kneading at the sensitive, slick entrance of his Bonded, he remains spellbound by Emet-Selch's thoroughness. His tongue drinks up every trace of cleaned come, even as his attention darts back down to find that a new dripping of it has taken its place, more of it for his delectation.
He has to swallow before he drools, in his attention. Drools over the sight of Emet-Selch lapping and sucking on come-decorated fingers, over the sight of his lover's erection gradually stiffening, over the sight of his own cock ever thicker, ever more engorged, between spread thighs dripping with come. And even the sight of thick, white rivulets glazing his cock makes it look like a confection worth being taken into Emet-Selch's body, and Mettaton tensely bites at his lower lip as a short noise slips from his throat.
Giving himself the chance for a sigh, the robot unhands his lover's hip just to cup his cheek. Sharp, dark claws drift over his features, appreciating his dedication to Mettaton.]
Ah... Good. You're so good, Hades. I think. If you keep dripping like this... You should lick it all back up. It would- [He has to break for a moment here to sigh, but it ends up rumbling in his throat in something more of a growl.] -would be a pity. To lose any of it.
[Not waste, mind. Seeing it on his skin, seeing it decorate his body in this fashion so crude, watching Emet-Selch's lip slicked sticky with thick, milky come is a sight that Mettaton will find himself using, willingly and excitedly visiting such sights to feel this same deep rush that feels as though it arrests every nerve in his body, wrapped tightly in the attention of sex and pleasure. Electrifying and alluring, Emet-Selch's body is something he has to take over and over at this rate. To fill him, to let him drip some more, then to fill him again; to have him come-marked and possessed, to see his lover so bleary and satisfied and wanting; to watch his cock harden right before Mettaton's eye, and to eventually witness him in climax all over again, over and over.
He can feel the glans of his cock pressing with urgent insistence against Emet-Selch's ass, demanding entrance into this hot, slick body he has on spread display for him. But Mettaton chooses to enjoy and relish this build of frustrated want, the way his whole body feels like static and desperation, a pressure that centers around his groin and radiates even into his legs. He shifts and thrusts, the sloped tip of his cock dipping into Emet-Selch as though flirting with the idea of plunging in — something he could do if he grabbed his hips.
It would be that easy. He could slam his lover back down, slip him right over his girth and feel him arch into his length, slick and hot and still full. He could push him back and fuck him until he was dripping around his length, until Mettaton could feel come around his cock and his balls from Emet-Selch's dedication to taking him. Could he feel any more flattered at this want for his body? He could. He could and he might just demand it.
Mettaton's eye narrows somewhat. Whether it's dangerous or drunken, it's most likely a blend of both.]
You don't even have to use your voice, my dearest... You want my body.
[And he's desperate for Emet-Selch's.
For the moment, that hand departs from Emet-Selch's face with a departing caress of nails. Claws gently scrape over the plane of Emet-Selch's front, stroking his cock with an incidental brush of digits as he finds his hand between his legs, prodding tender skin — and naturally, collecting some of that sticky come that dares to embellish his bruise-bitten skin.
Mettaton follows it up his leg, drinking in for himself how coated in come Emet-Selch's ass feel snow that it's dripped between his thighs like this, and he moans softly at the sensation. He feels so awfully hard in this moment, and he hopes desperately to stroke his cock off, to feel something squeezing back against the pressure of his length... Mettaton swallows, his digit skirting higher, until it unites with the cushioned head of his own cock.
When he withdraws his fingers, come drips plentifully along his first and second fingers. He smiles with a dark satisfaction, brow raising at the sight as he bites at his lower lip again in consideration, before he offers his fingers to Emet-Selch's lips. Nearly touching him, fighting back the urge to force come-slicked fingers against his face, he merely holds them before his beloved for his appraisal, for his use and his enjoyment.]
Show me.
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Nearly leaning in to kiss him, Emet-Selch pauses when Mettaton lets go of his hip with one hand, pressing it to his cheek instead, framing his face with dark claws, and darker attention. Giving him praise and words that heat him, his shivered exhalation seems to indicate his assent. He would lick all of it back up if asked, take it back inside and keep him, coat his lips and throat with come already once given. No matter where it was on his body it was being used- whether left to decorate his skin, or lapped up with rapturous intent, he would have to agree that it wouldn't be wasted.
But Mettaton's hand was against his face, and Emet-Selch tilts his own into it, nuzzling against his palm with lips still marked with come, eyes closing in this moment, expression and manner showing nothing but utmost adoration for him. A willing devotion, both gentle and black enough to drown in, to love him more for every stain he left, to mark him and take him and leave him feeling grateful for the chance to lap up any excess, because it would please him. And seeing Mettaton pleased only aroused him, was the greatest cause of his own satisfaction.
And how full he could be made, and more than once Emet-Selch has to hold back the impulse to reach between his legs again not only for another smear of come, but for his lover's thick erection instead, to hold him in place and finish shoving his hips back downward (truly making this attempt at going anywhere even less successful than the last, but he's completely distracted from that now). To squeeze around a cock made ever slicker from his own past releases, to grind downward until his ass is flush to his hips once more, until he's taken it all back, until Mettaton had added more to the mess he had made of him.
Mettaton's voice forces his attention to refocus. And his eyes open again when Mettaton's hand leaves his face, looking back to his- and then to his lover's own hand as it lowers, his breath made to hiss at the brief tease to his cock, before continuing on to his thighs. Continuing on to touch at those slow rivulets, stroking up to his ass, feeling for himself how slick he was, how blatantly he had been used. Evidence of how he did want his body, and how he continued wanting him more for every release, that even temporary satiation only led to this increasing desperation for him, to have him and stroke him and taste him and love him--
His gaze alights then on the fingers held out before him, claw-adorned and with Mettaton's own milky come slowly trailing down two of the digits. Come that he'd already given to the Ascian once, and was now offering back. A thought to make it that much more explicit, in comparison to fluid that had only been ejaculated directly against his hand.
Moving in slowly, he kisses the top of one claw, eyes scanning upward towards Mettaton's face as he does so, before closing again as he settles in to his task. As with his own fingers, he tries to start slowly, licking along his claw, letting his tongue stroke gradually down a single digit bit by bit, feeling the way come collected against his tongue on each pass. Sometimes he swallowed it immediately, other times he allowed it to linger there as he flicked out for another taste. Tilting his head, his lips press and his tongue licks over every part of him. From one finger to the next he moves, with thorough lapping that becomes steadily wetter, and steadily involving more sucking, more nipping. Demanding more, no matter how much he swallowed. Unconsciously, his hand moves to Mettaton's wrist, lightly settling there as though to steady it, or to ensure that he didn't pull away from him before he'd gotten it all.
He ends up with both of his fingers in his mouth eventually, never minding the claws that brushed the back of his throat, or the mix of saliva and come that gathered in his mouth, irregularly swallowed back whenever it's on the verge of spilling past his lips instead. Sucking around them he moans, reluctant to give them up, even when he'd surely swallowed every trace of it.
And this pain of anticipation- an aching heaviness that heats his blood, and gathers in his abdomen, and continues causing his cock to harden- it was worth exacting as much as possible from every instant. Just as he wanted to wring every drop of come from Mettaton's body to either swallow or take, he'd lave every part of him with the most dedicated attention.]
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How dedicated to his ecstasy the Ascian proves himself to be, he notes with an eye that widens with each moment in his hunger for him. As soon as he poses his fingers before the other man for his enjoyment and his taking, Emet-Selch does it with such deliberation that it has his body seizing, still as he's overcome by this. Even his own erection stops being among the center of his focus as his Bonded gently laps over his fingers, his technique both one thorough and one of bliss, an expression undeniable of his desire and his love. His yellow eyes meet Mettaton's for a moment before they flutter closed, his lips and tongue soft and so dedicated even around sharp, terrible claws, all for the sake of tonguing and enjoying Mettaton's once-deposited come. Come that found a new home upon Emet-Selch's skin, that would find a new home in his mouth, sliding down his raw, fucked throat.
Every pass of his tongue poses the risk of showing Mettaton how much come Emet-Selch's taken into his mouth, and it's a sight so erotic that his cock reminds him it's there again, pressure intensifying and hips gyrating, continuing to unconsciously knead the glans against his lover's entrance. So soft, wet, giving... It's the perfect environment for a rigid, heavy cock, one slick and damp and hot, a receptacle for all of the heaviness he always feels building in him every time Emet-Selch arouses him.
Mettaton bites his lip again in sympathy for the taste and the pleasure Emet-Selch takes in sucking and drinking down his digits, nearly biting him with his want and steadying his wrist for a more perfect hold upon them. Rapturously, he sucks. Delicately and deliberately, he ensures that he's licked up every last drop of come he could, as though thrilled to give it a new home after their first attempt at filling Emet-Selch resulted in him being so overfull, stuffed with entirely too much come for his body to handle.
But it's precisely because it's so full that both of them find it desirable, to fill him once more, to render Emet-Selch always dripping and the both of them endlessly appetitive.
Watching Emet-Selch sucking his fingers leads Mettaton's gaze down to the hand he has on his hip, claws denting his skin as though trying to capture his prey with a touch too gentle to be predatory. Emet-Selch's cock hardens deliciously, and Mettaton stares at it unabashed, thinking back to that first time he'd ever sucked the other man off — back to the first time he'd ever climbed atop his lover, wrapped that length in his thighs as they tried desperately to bind themselves ever closer. Here, though... Now, their closeness had no limits, and he could leave himself inside Emet-Selch. He could take Mettaton's come and cock in return.
Mettaton heaves a sigh, dreamlike as delight manifests on his features.]
So good, Hades... I can see your love for me. Your appreciation for my body, and all it does for you. [Embellished by another sigh, Mettaton withdraws his fingers, sticky and covered only in saliva at this point. Those claws briefly tuck hair behind Emet-Selch's ears, no matter how spit covered they are. (Would anything make them any less of a mess?)
That hand is on a mission, however, and it rests against the back of Emet-Selch's neck to bring his lover closer to Mettaton's lips. The robot closes in, wrapping his lips over Emet-Selch's with a low rumble in his throat, shoving his tongue deeply into his mouth. Prodding and sliding along his lover's tongue, there's a clear intent to taste himself in his Bonded's mouth — and an obvious reward gained when he moans into him, finding that Emet-Selch tastes plentifully of him.
He sucks his lip, his tongue, invades his mouth, kissing and giving only moments of air to his Bonded, filling their mouths with the taste of each other while his hand runs its course back down his lover's body, slipping over the shape of Emet-Selch's chest, waist, then settling upon his hips. The Puca kneads him, presses claws into skin before squeezing his hips, a grip firm and inescapable, as he pulls back from their kiss with a dark, wicked smile.
And there, Mettaton forces Emet-Selch to sit upon his length. He penetrates him; he sinks into his body, letting that tight ring of muscle first settle upon the corona of his length with a gasping moan before pushing deeper, inexorably, waiting to feel and hear his lover in a state of overwhelmed, waiting to feel him arch his back with his surprise and inundation.
He cries out, relief decorating his voice. His tone is strangled yet airy and high, pressure alleviated around his cock by being so squeezed, and he feels the need to tell Emet-Selch what a relief his body is.]
Oh, dearest... You- I'm so hard, you squeeze me just... right...! Ah...
[It's not the most elegant and precise way he could put it, but in his desperation and ecstasy, it'll do. He practically sheathes himself in Emet-Selch's body, a body already stretched and slicked for him before that he fits him tight and perfect, and Mettaton moans again, even when he tries to regain coherency. He can't. He's senseless, he's fevered, he's ready to fill Emet-Selch with another heavy load and could find himself doing so endlessly.
He hiccups, opening his eye once again and nuzzling into his lover's lips. His voice is still desperate, but lower this time.]
You'll... certainly put another load to good use, w... won't you.
[Emet-Selch will take his cock and squeeze around him, milk him for his release while he ejaculates upon them both, as though replacing the fluid he'll inevitably use with Mettaton's. The robot can't still his hips, can't stop shifting his body in an attempt to expel heat — a heat he'll only find relief from upon climaxing into his lover's body.]
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But Mettaton finally pulls them free, cleaned (by... some definitions), and he follows it with affection, the tucking of his hair. And as sweaty and mussed as the Ascian already was, what difference was a bit of saliva anywhere going to make? But it was a sweet gesture made into a more practical one as Mettaton's hand slips to the back of his head, both holding him steady and encouraging him forward into a kiss. A kiss Emet-Selch has no hesitation in giving him, a suitable replacement for the loss of his fingers from his mouth. Lips part obediently, automatically for him, wanting Mettaton to get a taste of his own come at his mouth, as though to demonstrate further proof of what he'd let slip down a throat fucked and sore. Wetly lapping back at his lover's tongue, he presses his lips hard to his, barely holding back sounds he wanted to make- so much so that even the effort of holding them back hurts his throat.
Mettaton pulling back from damp lips gets him a look more of longing than of protest, his breathing fast and his manner dizzied. And the look at his face, and the trailing fingers reclaiming his hip are all the warning Emet-Selch receives as he feels that grip used, his body dragged down, made to stretch around the glans of his lover's cock.
The relief he feels at finally having him in his body again is similar to that of orgasm, and he cries out in a voice so raw, body clenching tight around the corona. A choked noise quickly follows, a softer echo to Mettaton's own cry, sharing in his pleasure at having him again, right where he belonged. Where his body could squeeze and massage him, where they could warm one another in movements of increasing desperation, until it all spilled over in ways they had just been sampling.]
Mettaton, I...
[It didn't matter that his throat hurt, that his voice was still pitiful, faint, roughed to next to nothing. He kisses back at him between breaths, between attempts at words, as his heart raced and his cock ached for him.]
So much I- want-- I love....
[Though that's all he can manage to rasp out at this time, mostly due to the condition of his throat. But partially as well to his legs giving in, and the Ascian finding himself seated back in his lover's lap- a placement that feels wetter than it once had been. Between Mettaton pulling him down, and his own body giving way, it's so quickly that he's stuffed all over again with cock, with a speed he can't begin to comprehend, only able to feel the utter rightness of it. Of him. Of his cock, but of Mettaton as well; no one else would leave him feeling this way. But having him down to the root again has Emet-Selch nearly collapse against his body as he trembles from the intensity of it all, arms wrapping around his neck, his shoulders, as he clings onto him.
There was no chance for coherency on his part either, as his hips rock automatically against his, though with little rhythm- only sharp, rubbing sort of jerks, as his back arches, and his legs tighten around him, not caring that they were sore from being spread around him for so long. This was the natural state for them, and the way they looked best: parted, bruised, with evidence of come. An extension of the rest of his body, scratched and bitten and held, wrapped around Mettaton's cock, swollen and fucked and raw.]
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He arches; he nearly falls into him, and Mettaton couldn't be more pleased with this outcome. He smiles and nuzzles into his lover's face, planting sloppy, mouthing kisses against anything he can get to as they mutually rock their hips into each other, tensing and relaxing in patterns: Emet-Selch's body kneads his cock, while the head of Mettaton's arousal rubs deeply into his lover's body. A giving and taking, a desire to pleasure and be pleasured, and the both of them are each other's perfect fits.
If he had more hands, Mettaton feels so soft for Emet-Selch that he's sure he would wrap him in a hug. As it stands, his hands have work to do on his lover's hips, slipping him up and down over his erection as he rubs himself off on his lover's body, feeling how he clenches down around the base of him, how Mettaton can slip him up and down and feel that tightness slide along his length, and loving every moment of it. Mettaton can barely stand it all, and if he quits doing anything to his Bonded, he can feel that Emet-Selch takes right to rocking his hips, arching his back, clamping down on his body with the tensity of legs, and... Mettaton's content to let him.
How flattering. The idol unhands Emet-Selch's hips for the moment, watching him rub into Mettaton's girth. A pleasure so deep and so aching that the other man's made to curve his back into a cock so hard, so fast; made to tighten his grip around Mettaton's hips with thighs, wanting only to keep stroking himself on the head, the curve of Mettaton's cock. Mettaton's moan is carried on a sigh of fondness for his lover, feeling properly adored for his body as he should be. And feeling adoring in return, even though the pitch of a diet lunar sway nearly maddens him for this feverish desire to please himself, to please his Bonded, to fuck them both senseless and pound Emet-Selch into the bed.
But he follows his heart instead, and holds Emet-Selch just like he wanted to. His arms push his lover down into his lap, impaling him some more on his rigid erection, but he mostly holds him close and dear. Mettaton's hips roll gently into his lover as though to meet every push downward with a push up, to stuff him full and deep with cock, to promise that he'd fill him enough to make up for all he's lost and more. Between them lies come dripped so shamelessly, caught in fur and slicking the insides of thighs.
Holding him like this, Emet-Selch's arms slung around his neck and Mettaton's wrapped around his back, the Puca leans in to continue kissing his lover. The kisses are hot and fevered, but less ferocious, more adoring and infatuated and all over his face, uncoordinated and needy and only sometimes hitting the mark of his lips. His hand strokes along Emet-Selch's back, thrusting to supplement each push of Emet-Selch's into his arousal.
His lover fits him so well, he thought. Heavenly and dark, worthy of his attention and properly paying him mind in accord. He loves him desperately, and he can't imagine being without.
And all Mettaton wants is to fill him completely. He wants to feel himself orgasm into Emet-Selch's body, hot and full and pressing upon Mettaton's entire length, something he anticipates will feel only tighter as his body's made to hold so much of his release, all atop the burden of his cock.
Holding him like this, wrapping his arms thoroughly about his back, Mettaton's able to firmly thrust into his lover's body. A body that massages over his length all over again, and how sensitive he's become; and if Mettaton's rendered so sensitive, what of his Bonded? How sensitive and raw must his organic form be, when Mettaton feels his cock's been rubbed and squeezed to a point of rapture? But this relief is only earned and gained by having stuffed his lover full, the both of them left to feel the pressure and squeeze, the fullness and drag, of his cock held by his body.
Mettaton sighs, shaky and close to his lover's lips.]
I love... you, too, my- my dearest...
[Whether he was trying to say he loves this or he loves Mettaton, he doesn't particularly mind. Mettaton knows that they're one in the same. This pleasure wouldn't be attainable without their level of trust and love for each other, after all.]
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There probably should've been something strange in how romantic and loving their coupling had become. Not that love hadn't been present before, no matter how aggressive or rough, contrary or demanding- but it was expressed in ever more unsubtle terms as they continued. As they held onto one another with tight grips and rocking bodies, sharing moans and breaths and kisses that didn't need to be accurate to display their feelings.
Even if they were a combined sight, an obscene mix of blood and come, sweat and saliva, dripped and smeared and spread between them, a substance to stick together fur and skin, something picked up by fingers and licked and tasted- it felt only right for that mutual fondness to take center stage. To let that be the focal point, an affection best expressed by the joining of their bodies, and their cooperation in pleasing one another with them. His body would tighten and stroke over the whole of Mettaton's length, and the puca's cock would rub him at the same time, with an intimacy that made him ache to even consider.
Emet-Selch would ache regardless, considering how frequently, and how determinedly his body had been used. From the repeated tensings of muscles and multiple orgasms, to how thoroughly a stiff cock had been pushed inside of him- it was persistence that was keeping him going for now. Persistence and love and a not insubstantial amount of attraction. But the extreme nature of Mettaton's allure, he knew, was founded in sentiment and trust. He wouldn't have licked up the used come of just anyone, especially not while finding the very act of it unspeakably arousing.
But it didn't matter that he was oversensitive and sore, drained on more levels than he thought he possessed- Emet-Selch loved him. And he loved being with him, even when it hurt.
Mettaton was thrusting upward and dragging him down to meet his erection; the Ascian was arching into as many of his presses as he could, but though determined, his body is noticeably weaker than it had been at the start of their encounter. Even his body was developing a persistent trembling that wasn't solely due to wanting and need. The frailties of mortal flesh, faltering after having enthusiastic sex over a half-dozen times with nary a break. But his cock remains so stiff, thick and engorged, the tip nudging against Mettaton's body with how closely Emet-Selch was leaning on him. Relying on him for more than he ever intended to.]
Mettaton....
[Reduced to his name again, along with indistinct murmurs of something that sounds strikingly similar to it. And he answers Mettaton's kisses with more of the same, heated and heavy, if not with the same degree of bite as before. Adoration applied to every part of him his lips crossed, be it jaw or cheek or the side of his nose, and even, occasionally, the man's lips themselves. His breathing was quick and soft, and much like the rocking of his hips, irregular, but determined.
His arms hold him closer, but not roughly, only firm, and as warm as the rest of him. His heart felt like it could burst from it all, from exertion, from emotion, and all advanced thought was further lost with every drag of Mettaton's cock. He was stuffed so full, from the soft tip, to the thick shaft, both smeared with come that he was now rubbing back inside of him with each thrust. And he knew he'd only leave him fuller still, warmer yet, and with a deeper satisfaction than he would've ever thought achievable.
His throat forms a soft noise, partially a plea, partially something like disbelief, as though unable to understand the degree of pleasure it was being exposed to. Pressing the side of his face against his, Emet-Selch rubs against it with a desperate kind of affection, a tenderness that hurt to express.]
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And even though Mettaton's the cause for so much damage on his physical form, Emet-Selch leans into him for safety, close enough to kiss so thoroughly. Close enough to feel the incidental brush of his cock against his body, likewise thick and hard. The idol can't help but spare a glance to his body in his infatuated stupor, as if the nudging of its head were trying to nab his attention. An attention he feels willing to provide, withdrawing slightly one of his arms, slipping it along skin with the drag of sharp nails that eventually turn into a fingering of his length. Mettaton hums low into their kiss, a jolt of pleasure from merely feeling and knowing of his lover's arousal so intimately as he leans deeper into their kiss, covetous of everything and wanting to leave nothing untouched, unclaimed.
Speech is fortunately not so necessary, not when they're wrapped in each other's arms and kissing so ardently that words are usually part-kiss, pressed against skin and only for each other. But Mettaton's enamored with hearing his name on Emet-Selch's voice, whether it's fully realized or too indistinct to make out. Mettaton breathes him in; drinks in the smell of Emet-Selch and how familiar, how a part of Mettaton he's become. He can smell himself so strongly on his lover, but... when he thinks about it, he can smell Emet-Selch on himself, can't he? A fusion of themselves unmistakable, one that has Mettaton grinning into his Bonded's neck.
That love of Emet-Selch's is always so well-complimented by his own, after all. A high thing, something that could lift his mood just to consider. A love formidable, and Mettaton relishes how differently they experience the emotion with such contrast of heights and depths. It's thrilling.
Emet-Selch loses himself to the roll of his hips, body hugging his cock and the angle of Mettaton's thrusts changing with every jostle of it within. Each arch and curve, each rock of the Ascian's hips, all of it leads to some different angle to knead and prod with the soft tip of his cock — and each is worth a hearty moan from the robot, who can barely handle all of the changing squeezing pressure around such a sensitive area. It's euphoric; Mettaton thought he could feel this forever, and could hold Emet-Selch forever just as eagerly. He shudders, only to take notice that when he stops, his lover's trembling terribly.
Mettaton's fingers grip down on Emet-Selch's cock, pulling at his length in time with each push into his hips: letting his fingers run brush over the head of him, skirting along the glans and pressing against his tip, then pinching him between fingers and thumb before wrapping him totally, firmly, in his hand and tugging his length. A praising, a coercing, the desire to reward Emet-Selch for being so proactive in fucking himself on his arousal, to convince him to always tense his thighs and squeeze his cock, to always crave him and fit him just right. He hums again, this time against Emet-Selch's lips when he's found himself luckily landing them a kiss.
Smiling against him like this, Mettaton doesn't want to break this kiss now that he's obtained it in his love-drunk state.]
You feel... so good. You're perfect, rocking into me like you are...
[Truly, when he sits back and closes his eyes, lets the feeling of Emet-Selch's body shifting and stroking his cock as he does, it's... immensely flattering, that he'd love his erection so much that he'd fuck himself on him with such zeal. Into their kiss, Mettaton's hit with a spike of fever as he bites Emet-Selch's lip, thrusting on his own once more — feeling their thrusts combined and deepening, especially as Mettaton's thrusts grow more forceful, more animalistic as he pants.
Mettaton leans forward, his fingers hiking their pace around Emet-Selch's arousal as he focuses on stroking along the head of him. He has the bearing of someone who might just take the next opportunity to pounce, to lunge forward and topple Emet-Selch to the mattress between his legs; to follow him and fuck him hard, and all of these fantasies make themselves at home in his mind, even as he delights in his lover's agency to move against him like this. He just can't thrust hard enough from this angle, can't drag the head of him and fuck Emet-Selch the way his body demands; his own body demands to move completely on its own accord.
But he also adores having Emet-Selch leaning into him. He loves holding him, letting him lean into him, being there to steady him while he trembles. (But couldn't he do that against the mattress?)]
Hades... God, I want to take you, ever-everything... Hah...
[He's madly in love, madly in lust, the sound of Emet-Selch's broken cries on the mind and the feeling of his lover's body holding his cock occupying all else. The feeling of sticky come between them and knowing where it all came from... How erotic of a sight he'll be, trembling and dripping from overuse. Mettaton can't even remember what count this is: six, or seven? He wants more and more. He could find him so used and raw and come-filled, but if his lover's on his back, he wouldn't leak as readily. He could fill him and use him, Emet-Selch given the chance to simply lay back and take it all. Mortal form, a limitation? Not if Mettaton has anything to say about it.]
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Breathy murmurs similarly continue, barely distinguishable from breathing itself, Emet-Selch enraptured entirely by every part of his lover's form and self. Every grinding of their hips together felt slightly different, shades of pleasure to fall into and drown in, the rubbing nudge of Mettaton's swollen glans a focus of particular intensity. Each thrust left him feeling that trace more claimed, explored, taken- loved and cared for. Their sex and his blood filled his senses, and even though the Ascian lacked the instinct of a puca towards scenting and staking a claim that way, he felt further security in this particular mingling. There was a distinction to it that he couldn't deny, that he knew was due to their own personal composition, that became its own blended variation when they were combined. And even afterward, even when they were apart- some piece of themselves would linger on one another, a subtle reminder of possession, and it was a pleasing thought.
Mettaton's hand continues fondling his cock, causing his breathing to pitch that bit faster from it, his body to attempt shifting harder. He toyed and squeezed the sensitive head of him between fingers, before applying a proper grip along the shaft, stroking and dragging all along his length, and the Ascian was barely able to stand how exquisitely rigid he felt under his care. As though he needed any more convincing in his desire to please him, to love him, Emet-Selch's thighs tighten in their effort to stabilize him, to be as close as he could, to rock himself incessantly into Mettaton's erection, to fuck himself on his length for as long as he wanted.
And there was praise, and he loved that too, and that mattered for some reason, and his lips likewise do their best to remain against Mettaton's, kissing him with warmth if not with coordination. His tongue takes brief forays into his mouth between sharper breaths, tighter shudders- moments of still-higher pleasure that would eventually engulf him entirely.
Emet-Selch could tell, he could feel Mettaton's rise in energy, his desire to move faster, to take him harder- something difficult for the man's hips to accomplish, with his lover sitting on him like this. And the Ascian tries, continuously, to match him, wanting Mettaton just as he was wanted in turn- trying to give him the rhythm he needed. The one he longed to feel as well, desires bleeding together as they often did.
But his stamina was low, his body uncooperative with his demands, as spurred on as it wanted to be, with that tighter, quicker grip around his own cock. It was encouraging, while also leaving him a touch overwhelmed at how sensitive he felt to it, and despite all efforts, the hard way he jerks himself in Mettaton's lap remains erratic. A kneading push to clench and shudder around, but his own unsteadiness was beginning to frustrate. A low whine tries to work in his throat, barely escaping parted lips between pants. He desperately wanted to be held, and he just as desperately wanted to be fucked- but there was no reason why they couldn't have both.
Mettaton leaned forward, with a manner that threatened to pounce, to press him down, and Emet-Selch tugs at him with his arms, encouraging him in that direction, to give himself over to that energy. The idol bites him, and he returns it gently, though with heated, shaky breath.]
Take me, then, I....
[Despite the words, rasped out as they are, the tone is clearly a request, a plea. His body would take him forever if he could, even if he couldn't move very well. He would cling, he would be tight and warm, he would hold his cock and his come, and he wouldn't stop, no matter how reduced he became, how beset by trembling, how breathless and used. There would always be more to give, and to take.]
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Having Emet-Selch so obediently trying to fuck himself at the rate they both desire softens Mettaton, but only toward the end of wanting to make good on their desires, to step up and do him in. The robot would naturally possess that strength to continue and it would remain maintained, a little soreness and a little sensitivity notwithstanding. But his Bonded tries, and he feels wonderful: Emet-Selch jerks himself on his lap and clenches around his cock, even when his rhythm is interrupted and unsteady and he's made to otherwise grip onto the Monster for stability. But it was true: Mettaton wanted more, and Emet-Selch felt the same. His attempt at frustration, at expressing that, was proof.
And yet. It's distracting, this rocking of his lover's. Mettaton almost feels inclined to aid in it, to keep him moving, and he pushes him along with the one hand he still has against his hip. Still thrusts to the best of his ability, hampered by the Ascian's weight or not. How wonderful it felt to be so manipulated by his lover's body, pulled and moved and pressed into, massaged so deeply and by his entrance both. Mettaton has to moan softly into their kiss: this tempo feels more loving and gentle. There's a place for this mood, and Mettaton holds part of it still: the beginnings of sex that would be sure to ramp up as their desperation grew beyond them, monstrous and needy as it ever was. And they were on the cusp of that transition, weren't they?
Even smiling against his skin, Mettaton presses a kiss to his cheek, his fingers slowing for this aching moment of deliberation. An intentional slowing, one to see rise both of their heat as the future closes in on them. One invited and demanded by them both, as it turns out...
His lover pulls on him, bodily. There's his weight put into that pull, Mettaton thought: something that suggests wanting to submit his gravity to Mettaton's use, to further push him back, and it's a thought so provocative that it warms Mettaton and causes a body-wide tremor, forcing him to hum another moan. Of course his Bonded would want to give him this control, especially as his strength began to fade. How perfect an arrangement it would be... He laughs softly.]
Then don't mind if I do.
[For being so terribly hungry for this body that sits upon his lap, for wanting to crush him against blankets and stuff him with cock - a future impending - Mettaton is also... possessive and protective, soft and territorial. This is his. He'd mark him and claim him and take him, brand him if he must, to show everyone he was his. He'd spend every avenue making sure of this, in body and spirit. But for now, it makes the Puca wish to give Emet-Selch something of a place to rest — a place comfortable for him to submit to him over and over, just as Mettaton desires for him to.
So he doesn't immediately push Emet-Selch back, but he does have to unhand his cock. He stabilizes him with one of his hands against the small of his lover's back, turning his head somewhat as his ears properly right themselves for once in a blue moon: an indication of focus, a task given that he'll see through. Mettaton yanks some of the more distant pillows closer, positioning them at the side of his thighs, and if Emet-Selch were paying any attention, it would remind him of the time he'd taken pity on his hips from before. The desire to elevate his lover's hips without the manual use of his own arms would mean freeing them up, and that would mean he could hold him, protect him, take him, and Emet-Selch would be so perfectly positioned to be fucked. Hips raised to Mettaton's crotch, he could keep his cock so perfectly nestled in his body, each thrust of is made to curve up, to drag along his body... the thought is almost so arousing that Mettaton could see himself getting sloppy, if he weren't so determined to do this right.
With the pillow properly in place, his lover would be pinioned between it and all of the other pillows behind him, meaning that he couldn't be slid from him in his rough pounding. He would be perfectly embraced by Mettaton, besides. Mettaton licks his lips, practically slavering from his delight, for the want of his lover's body beneath him, succumbing to each and every subsequent release he could grant him. His exhalation is hot.]
Thank you for waiting, dear.
[And just as soon as that happens, Mettaton pivots Emet-Selch to the side instead of lunging forward. He pushes his lover's back against the mattress, his hips made to ride atop pillows for Mettaton's perfect access; legs still spread around him, Mettaton nestles his length deeply into Emet-Selch's body with another lick of his lips, another sigh of a moan, and a pitch of desperation that flares to life near immediately.
He can't help it when he begins to thrust. Steady, pronounced drags of cock are Emet-Selch's prize for fleeting patience, for giving up his spot atop Mettaton's lap, and Mettaton just about loses it in his next cry from both the pleasure of sensation, and the physical feeling of having Emet-Selch beneath him. Ready and primed to be fucked as endlessly as he dreams.]
Oh... This. This is... What do you think, darling?
[Mettaton still possesses the sense to note that Emet-Selch's voice has been gradually fading, but he still demands some kind of reaction. Something to indicate Emet-Selch's desire for him, his dedication to serving and pleasing him. It's as right and required as the spread of his legs, the way he parts so readily to feel Mettaton penetrate him with a heavy cock, one that he kneads and rubs his way long strokes, with sharp thrusts, with nearly panting stutters.]
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And while it would've been possible to slowly grind and stroke each other all the way to release, they were attuned as well towards wanting more force than this, harder movements and greater speed. More than the Ascian could give him like this. Mettaton's shudder and moan at the anticipation of the change in their position causes his own need to quicken, and he would hum a pleased sound if he could at the sound of his laugh, his voice. His understandable willingness to take over, and Emet-Selch embraces him that bit tighter, rubs the side of his face against his; for every part of him that Mettaton wanted to claim, he wanted to give. To submit and adapt and adore, because that's what he was best at doing.
That stimulation to his erection is lost entirely, and the Ascian still shifts in patient disapproval, though it's not as though his cock was not unused to going without specific attention. Leaning his head back slightly to watch him, Emet-Selch sees what that hand was up to instead- creating a space for his body to rest, and his hips to be appropriately raised. That was certainly worth the loss of cock-touching, and he presses his lips to Mettaton's throat as he orders pillows for them, nuzzling him appreciatively (while also taking note of the intent of the puca's ears; an endearing trait). The movement of his own hips slows further, mostly remaining seated now in Mettaton's lap, grinding his ass down against his legs and tightening but unable to do much more than that.
And soon enough Mettaton announces his readiness to continue, and the Ascian feels himself rolled to the side, into the space made convenient for them both. Inevitably, the length inside him is jostled, but not lost- something he's able to note with pleasure, and then ever more so, as Mettaton's cock is stuffed back appropriately deeply, solidly. Something that in itself causes his breath to hitch and his body to tense.
This position did put some pressure upon his back and shoulders, the soreness of clotting bites and scratches there. But it was a softer pressure than it had been against the floor, pushed instead to the give of pillows and covers- it was fine. And any slight discomfort that was added in that way, was countered by both relief and satisfaction, by having his body supported like this, and Mettaton atop him.
And especially by the greater ease with which Mettaton could now move, a harder thrusting to stir his body, with a steadiness inescapable. His own voice is lost to another attempt at crying out as his breathing shifts into a heavier panting, spread legs trembling around his body, but having a much better time of it with this support. And there was something about this position that he loved in itself (though the same could be said about any position, really... they all afforded some specific way of enjoying one another), the way his back was pressed to the covers, yet his hips were resting upward, ass exposed and completely available to Mettaton, without either of them having to hold him in place. It was like having the safety of a nest around him, while in a convenient position to be fucked.
If he weren't so aroused- and the stiffness of his own cock between them attested to that- it would almost be restful. It was still comfortable in a deep way that overrode the soreness of his body, every plunge of Mettaton's cock shaking him with the pleasure he could take from it.]
It's... you're incredible.
[It would be softly spoken even were it not for the state of his throat, as his attention fixes up on the sight of his face, his body over him, the movement of him in his thrusts. Movement that he was receiving so deeply, as he could squeeze around as he shifted inside him, pounded into him. His gaze is bleary, yet focused, rapt and wanting and even vulnerable in his blatant needing of him.]
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The knowledge alone of Emet-Selch's submission to him, in combination with the nature of his position, fills the Puca with a deep-seated warmth, erotic and contented both. It's a position that manages to make Mettaton feel that his Bonded's safe, secure with him and well within his territory (which he is, even when this bed, this room, this house, all of it is also Emet-Selch's). But it would be hard to forget how displayed his lover is like this: hips elevated and legs spread, he's so easily accessed by Mettaton in this particular orientation — especially if he leans over him. And that lean was another reason to desire this position. Like this, the robot could wrap him up if he so desired. It's the perfect position to fulfill that primal need of his to mount Emet-Selch, allowing the robot to follow the curve of his lover's body with his own, cock in place and the rest of his body following Emet-Selch's, until he finds himself able to kiss him.
Which he does. A locking of lips, even as his thrusts continue uninterrupted, steady and not yet particularly fevered: still long, still dragging the tip of his cock along his Bonded, feeling the swell of the head pushing forth to make way for the thick shaft of him. If anything, this moment ends up a continuation of the last, an evolution of it: warm, affectionate, full of infatuation, Mettaton kisses his lover hotly, gently, caring in his every press of lip and flick of tongue. But it's accompanied by the hard drag of his length, withdrawing a good portion of himself only to tense his legs, to stuff the full of his length back in.
But he breaks from this kiss to smile against his lover's lips, intoxicated on the love he harbors for Emet-Selch.]
You are... too. Finding you so aroused, as you are.
[Shifting his weight into one of his arms, Mettaton lets the other take an adventure between them, where fingers prod his length — an arousal that is surely pressed against Mettaton's waist, a surface the two of them often find it rubbing against, given Mettaton's usual position between typically spread legs. The proper orientation for the both of them: Emet-Selch's legs spread, Mettaton pressed between, cock pounding into him heavily. As is right.
Mettaton commends his arousal by giving it a few pets against his body, fond and loving in his application. Warm squeezes of fingers, stroking and tightening along its shaft, and kneading the swollen tip of Emet-Selch's erection with fingers as Mettaton places another kiss to his lips, ears flicking just for a moment out of his pleasure to be so accessible for kissing. Unfortunately, Mettaton unhands Emet-Selch's cock again, kissing his lover with more firmness as though in apology.]
But you've proven to me... that you're plenty able to get off on the rhythm of our bodies alone. You like the sensation of being so full of me, don't you...? Being pounded into. Feeling rubbed and taken...
[Another way to say that it's easier for him to thrust with the fervency he desires if he has both of his arms flanking Emet-Selch's body, as he hooks his fingers around his lover's shoulders — further bracing him in warning for a deeper, more thorough thrusting, his eyelid dropping somewhat in lascivious, heartfelt desire. Claws prick skin. Bruises are dented, previous clots are disrupted, but it's mostly a gripping of hands rather than bracing him with teeth or the full force of his sharp claws, something that could change in a threatening instant if he so found himself there. They should both know that Mettaton could pitch violent and scalding at any moment, rather than heated and sultry as he is right now.
But his thrusts are unrelenting, measured and even still as he exhales against his lover's lips, feeling that satisfying, full-bodied thrust into his Bonded. The whole of him strokes and massages along his cock, practically tugging at the ridge of him as though greedy to pull his length as deep as it'll go. Mettaton gives Emet-Selch's body that; he fills him, thrusts his hips against his lover's ass, but even still Emet-Selch's body tugs and pulls on his cock. A short moan slips from his lips, decorated by a weak, sloppy kiss as Mettaton stutters.]
H... Ha. Even this full, you want more...
[Well, it's Emet-Selch's body demanding more, stroking and pressing the glans as though welcoming this thick intrusion, even amidst all of his previous releases, amidst the fucking he's already exacted upon his Bonded. Possessiveness begins to amp back up into fever when Mettaton considers how many times he's taken Emet-Selch. How raw he's fucked and bitten him, how wanting he always is, enough to match the robotic Puca at every turn. It's worth a shudder, worth an intensifying of thrusts, a harsher, more frenetic pounding: a perfect drag of the glans, a low noise in Mettaton's throat.
Another kiss, soft but wet, open-mouthed and hot enough to match his rising internal temperature.]
You are good... So good. For feeling so good, for loving the sensation of being filled as you do... Ah...
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Emet-Selch didn't find it strange to consider love a submissive affair, a giving up of natural defenses, giving someone else the power to hurt with most bitter precision. When Mettaton had first told him of his burgeoning love for him, even that much he'd wanted to refuse. Had tried to refuse; how dare Mettaton care about him, and how dare he expect him to deal with it.... But he'd been so sure of it, of himself. Emet-Selch could appreciate him for it then, and he loved him for it now. And in the end he hadn't been able to deny what had been developing between them.
...And so he'd given himself over and willingly drowned. Day by day, breath by lost breath. But the reward was experiencing the whole of Mettaton's love for him, the feeling inflicted in every kiss and bruise and drag of cock.
Long drags like this were particularly heady, offering both the sensation of intolerable emptiness, and the repeated reassurance of being stuffed full once again. A reminder of how thick his length truly was, and yet how his body would always adapt to it, stretch just enough to hold him tightly, yet to not restrict his movement. And it was a smooth drag by now, in the snug heat he could offer him, from both repeated friction and continuous use, and from the slickness offered from Mettaton's previous releases. They had both seen the evidence of how... copious they had been, and where their bodies met remained that proof. Between his thighs was the demonstration of their insatiability, and inside him there was more of it, and eventually there would be more still. And on his own abdomen again there would be further proof of his own, that he could get off from this fullness, the very feeling of being taken by his lover....
But he could still appreciate the brief pets Mettaton deigns to give his cock, where it was pressing upward against its usual place at the idol's waist. Where it would be rubbed a bit by the robot's movements, but otherwise ignored. But that was fine, even if he draws in a sharp breath at this deliberate attention offered by his fingers, strokes along its heavy length, residue of his come still drying along it. The squeeze at the glans was almost too sensitive, enough to have his body jerk slightly, his legs twitch, and his hips shudder, as though unable to decide whether he was trying to press into it or not. So Emet-Selch couldn't regret it terribly when Mettaton withdraws his hand for the sake of balance and easier thrusts, and he murmurs an assent into the kiss, and more of his acceptance into that meeting of lips. Firm and adoring and with a flicker of tongue and teeth, of warmth and breath; they both knew that Mettaton fucking him was all that he needed.
With Mettaton over him, clawed hands at his shoulders now with the capacity for piercing, the ability to switch darker in an instant, whether on whim, or a deliberate sinking into more threatening carnality- the Ascian's own arms slip around him, low at his waist, his back. Holding on and encouraging close, stroking at fur or glass, and just beginning to dig in with spams of fingers when Mettaton's hips impact his body, when he can feel himself tight around the root of his cock, and can squeeze all the way up to the soft tip. And then Mettaton pulls back and the ridge of the head is scraped along his body and he cries out all over again, rough and ever aching.
A wet kiss; Emet-Selch bites back at him with little success, in an attempt to hold him there, though his teeth just drag along his lip, his tongue. Mettaton's mouth was hot, as hot as he felt inside of him, and he knew his come would be hotter still. He'd never wanted to be burned so terribly.]
I'll always take- take more of you.
[He was still so raspy, rough, words barely making it past the texture of his throat, a throat that was warning him of the consequences of it being repeatedly fucked. A warning that he ignores again.]
Every part of you, no matter how thick... and deep, and hot you press, I want it. You've filled me so thoroughly, yet--
[Yet he felt starved for more of him, never sated, always wanting. It should've been frustrating, to need someone so terribly, to be at their mercy, but there was a pleasure in this kind of pain as well, in how much he desired him, even while he was currently having him. Even while he was currently being fucked, could feel the swifter drag of his cock inside him, even when his own hips jerked up to try and meet his and his body was left trembling, stricken from want. Even when his body was already sore from previous use, was marred all over from past indulgence.]
Yet I still, I....
[It didn't matter the condition of his body, Mettaton still wanted him, and he still had so much to give him.]
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But to hear this condition... He feels so filled, and yet.
Yet there's more, yet the show could go on, yet insatiability rules their lives some more, always wanting and always satisfying, finding new wants cropping up with each bout of fulfillment. It was the nature of their relationship, and even should every new activity go exhausted, they've proved that revisiting the chances past is always enticing. Throat-fucking the other man is something he would most certainly crave more and more, as an example: Mettaton thought it would be one of those things he'd crave endlessly, just as endlessly as he merely craves his lover's body, with his lover's soul in it.
He understands Emet-Selch's sentiment too well. So well that he sighs, hot and close to his Bonded's lips even amidst kisses, sucks and nips of lip and tongue. His thrusting remains at a steady rate for now, but only by some manner of restriction: Mettaton is temporarily holding back for the sake of speech, it would seem.]
Yes... I know, Hades, darling. [Another damp kiss is sucked into his lip, tongue feeling the softness of him in the process.] You still. Want more. I do...
[Perhaps Mettaton had more to say. It could have been that the Puca would have finished off with telling Emet-Selch that he similarly covets him on a level primal and deep, wants him with his body always prone, always available for his use. He wants always to be this satisfied and wanting, and wants for Emet-Selch to crave him and be satisfied in return. How could Mettaton have anticipated such a hike in sex drive? How could he have ever known that he wanted this so badly without the body for it, without knowing what the instinct was to match it to? A desire for something where there was nothing, an absence so stark that it left him feeling wrong and trapped, and here he was with the body for it. The feeling for it, and the feelings to match. He'd had wanted and wanted, but what he realized he really wanted was vulnerability. In the Ascian, he found that. Even if he should somehow be robbed of his developed sensation, his ability to shapeshift... if he had Emet-Selch, he felt some level of pleasure could be achieved in his presence. It was in their moods, their tearing into each other and the care to see that they remain pieced back together all the same.
So he could have returned the sentiment of insatiability, a throwback to a conversation they'd had before about how each of them were so endlessly wanting of something that fulfilled this emotional void — or, in Mettaton's case, this endless capacity for intensity, the want for such depths to meet his own. But the Puca is so aroused by the sound of his lover's cry, even when his throat is raspy and raw.
It's perfect. There could be others who would suit Mettaton out there, but he didn't care. Emet-Selch is his, and he loved him with his whole heart. If his soul followed the same rules as it did Underground, Emet-Selch could destroy him easily if he found himself somehow gripped by cruelty rather than love, Mettaton's so stricken by him.
And in body, if it were as true as Emet-Selch implies... He's like a dream. Could Emet-Selch really take him endlessly? Right now, Mettaton's mind begins to dip into a state of madness again: the feverish need to take him so endlessly, to never quit filling and fucking his lover. Once more that primal, gutteral dip in his voice visits him, his fingers tightening their grip around Emet-Selch's shoulders as Mettaton begins to pound into him, long thrusts to remind him how empty he is without, and firm, full thrusts to remind him how pleasurable it is to be stuffed, to have the head of his cock filling and prodding him with the texture of its shape. Each thrust is accompanied by a short, euphoric gasp, that darkness overcoming his senses as he gives into pleasure and lust.]
Oh- Ha-Hades-
[A curl of his toes and his fingers causes those nails to dig into skin, even if they only barely puncture. His grip tightens, his lips forming stammering words against Emet-Selch's lips that come out in short moans as his tempo only rises. Emet-Selch's body rubs and pulls his cock with each drag of it, the sort of tightness that feels like his body demands him to stay as deep as he can. Come slicks his cock, and his erection feels so engorged that he can barely stand drawing it from his lover's body at all. How could he, with that pressure is offset by his squeeze? His arousal is so thick, the head so swollen and sensitive, and Emet-Selch arches and presses into him in a manner that could only madden, could only push him.
He moans again, arching his own back even as he pummels him deeper with shorter, deeper, more indulgent thrusts of his hips, cock barely leaving his body at all. His delight is palpable: his glans is being kneaded and squeezed by his lover's body, and he provides in return this fullness, this defined ridge to stroke, a cock so sensitive and demanding to be pleasured. A task for his lover, endless but always fulfilling, always just what Mettaton wants.]
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There was... so much to be filled. More than ever could be. The desire for company, for sensation- how could there ever be an end to it? They knew this.
But Mettaton responds in words as well, an added affirmation of what they both understood, but yet felt the need to express to one another. Through sound, through touch, through commingling of mood, the want to always be available. To satisfy every desire, be it a whim of inclination, a bit of imagery that felt particularly enticing in that moment- or something deep-seated and fundamental, a yearning for something that could only be soothed by their lover's presence, their body. They would be there for one another in either case. Whatever condition they found themselves in, they would still be together- and through that, could provide satisfaction.
Mettaton moved harder, and the sounds Emet-Selch made in response weren't sounds at all, only strangled, pleading noises, desperation for him to always continue fucking him like this. Nails pierce the Ascian's skin, but only shallowly; it provides only a small stinging note to Mettaton's grip, a reminder of being held, rather than any particular sensation of pain. He was safe with him, no matter how ferality struck.]
Mettaton....
[A word, a name more intelligible than most other sounds his throat is attempting to produce, escapes past hoarse cries and pants from parted lips, with his head tilted back. Eyes closed, his body writhes into him, into thrusts that force him back against the bed, which shake him, even as he's held in place, secured between pillows and his lover's grip. Emet-Selch's legs wrap more around him, clinging harder for each time he's stuffed full of cock, so full that he can scarcely bear it. But even harder to stand were those instances when Mettaton pulled back, left a space where his length was meant to occupy, a hollow intended for his cock. His arms tighten for desperate purchase, fingers tangling in dark fur, muscles taut, rigid.
His own cock was similarly rigid, pressed up against Mettaton's waist, feeling the tip rubbed against a body that had no give to it. A sensation he was used to by now, and which registered as normal, an expected part of the experience of being fucked by him, and all he could've ever asked for.
But more of his focus was on the thickness of the erection penetrating him, the pounding of his body that Mettaton was treating him to, hardly leaving him at all in his quickened stroking of his cock. The head pushed so deep, and he could tighten around it so closely that the very thought could leave him gasping. Not that he's having very many thoughts at all, not when he was being fucked like this, being taken- not when he could feel the ridge of Mettaton's swollen tip dragged and shoved into him with fearsome insistence. His erection was there for his body to continuously pleasure, to squeeze tight, to massage and to keep, every stroke of him hotter and so slick with past come, past evidence of the ecstasy he'd found in him before. Being used like this, given the opportunity to feel his lover's rapture- there was no greater pleasure than this, and he wanted it more with every breath.]
Harder-- I want you- deeper--
[The pleading part of it goes unspoken, is there only in tone. A tone and voice that's growing weaker again with all this strain he's putting on it once more- and it hadn't been very loud to start. But Mettaton was moaning again, with that depth to his voice that felt somehow base, intrinsically dark, sounds to enrapture and bind, to meet with ever starker adoration. To arch, to push, to cling, to cry- to love him absolutely, in some place where thought wasn't required.]
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Nothing else about him succumbs, moving on pure animalistic drive. Emet-Selch wants him as deep and as hard as he covets him, and Mettaton grinds his teeth as though to bite, his body seizing and every joint tightening as though to withdraw on himself. He practically curls up to better treat his Bonded to full, deep thrusts, harder and just as quick, just as demanded. Deeper, though... Deeper should be accomplished by curling in on him, where Mettaton feels himself not only flush against his lover's ass, but pushing into him desperately. He wants to feel his lover's body give way around his cock, wants to feel him tighten and squeeze all of him if he could, the only relief from this ache he could find. And soon to be even greater relief.
The Puca buries his face into Emet-Selch's neck, mouthing and teething his skin before he slips his teeth through skin. Sharpened and sharper the more he gives himself over to the influence of the pendants, to the fever of sex, it's no difficult feat to effortlessly slice through soft, giving flesh. And all Mettaton can feel is deep, heady satisfaction for having pinned his lover further: held in place by the rudimentary structure he'd made around his body, by his claws and arms, by the grip of teeth, and by his hips, pinned atop his cock. His lover was sure to stay, open and surrendered to Mettaton's pleasure. He's being mounted, blood sucked on, rubbed down by a heavy erection and filled time and again with thick loads of come, and in this position, Mettaton could continuously fill him without gravity causing him to spill over.
He trembles again, moaning deeply into his bloodied bite. The ecstasy he feels is immense.
Emet-Selch has so gradually given himself over to Mettaton, though he could tell right from the start that he'd be inclined to if the opportunity arose. Even from the start, his Bondmate sought not sex, but companionship: a body to hold, to be held by. A temporary solace from loneliness. Mettaton could see that immediately. He would get nothing he could move on from out of this robot, however. A permanent fixture in his life (here), and he feels fiery determination at keeping Emet-Selch's company with his, his attention on him: a feeling partially his own, and ramped up by the jewelry around his shoulders.
But with this improved grip on his lover with claws and incisors, he can push his hips harsher into Emet-Selch, shove and thrust his cock as deeply as it fits into his body. A sensation pleasurable, worthy of a cry even past blood and skin. Harder and deeper: he could do that. Deeper he pushes, and following suit, harder he thrusts, pounding into his lover and feeling the way he stuffs him with glans and shaft. Each push has him beyond flush to his body, Emet-Selch's body slick and gripping down along the base of his erection, rubbing down the full of his length as his lover succumbs to his own tense ecstasy. Braced by Mettaton's efforts, then the arms and legs of Emet-Selch's, they were inseparable, capable only of melding this closely.
There's the awareness of Emet-Selch's cock dragging along the pane of glass on his front, his cock hard and bound to release sticky spurts of come along that faintly glowing chamber — a notion that only delights Mettaton as he imagines even harder releasing into Emet-Selch's body all over again. Emet-Selch's body is perfect for taking his cock, Mettaton the perfect size to fill him utterly and to feel the fullest extent of Emet-Selch's stroking; to drag the glans along his lover and massage him in return, to pleasure his Bonded with the intensity of sex. He was safe in his arms, and he would always have Mettaton as long as he could feel these bruises and punctures, his lips and his cock, the unyielding press of his body and the weight of him mounting him.
Mettaton's blinded by it all. He still hears Emet-Selch pleading for harder, deeper thrusts in his mind, and every time he revisits it it feels as though he gets that much harder, aches that much more acutely, feels that much more pressure in need of release. He's engorged, heavy all over again and desperate for relief, desperate to fill his lover so that he's made to experience this same pressure Mettaton feels — only the pressure of holding so many releases, the heaviness he feels in his body transferred to Emet-Selch's. This close to his lover's neck, it's no loss when he squeezes his eye shut to better focus solely on sensation and sound and smell. Sensation feels rawer, prickling over his scalp and reaching him in a way unlike anything else. He couldn't begin to describe how good he feels, this deep and this hard, fucking Emet-Selch this solidly with a cock so heavy and hard, feeling the swollen glans rubbing along his Bonded's body so intimately that it hurts.
The robot doesn't notice the way he moans withe very thrust, the way precome leaks from him in preparation for release. His rhythm goes unbroken, hard and fast and deep and loving it all; dark fur and sharp teeth, a presence made so dark, and otherwise feeling so wanted, so needed and adored.]
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