[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.]
[Emet-Selch will be a sight to see in the days to come. Weeks, even, as all of his various marks made their valiant attempts to heal (only to have fresher ones regularly applied, the canvas of his body never allowed to be wiped clean entirely). Imprints that would tell a story, would reveal a position, the way their bodies must've been entwined during one encounter or the next. And the Ascian would wonder, in his observance of these records later, tracing between those of teeth, those of claw, those of sucking lips- how easy it would be for anyone to tell not only what had occurred, but how. The memories would be so vivid to him that it would be difficult to understand how anyone could miss it.
But he at least would be able to recall it with dangerous, distracting precision. Mettaton's claws sink deeper into his shoulders and provide more memories, perfectly spaced. The impression of his fingers, his nails, staining them both a rich red, and how easily the scent of blood would be called to mind as well. Mingled as it was these days with that of sex and of Mettaton, the smell of any of those things would lead to thoughts of the others. Drops of deep fluid ran underneath his lover's hands, and Emet-Selch could appreciate with some strange version of clarity Mettaton's ability to leave him dripping with both come and blood, to be made sticky all over from one or the other, a mix of their essences. It was primal and perfect, in the same way being mounted and fucked was, and he drew him closer in his desire to be devoured.
His lover moans, practically curls up on him, in him, as close as he could be, his body hard and furred, a mix of softness and metal, but ultimately unyielding. The closer he was, the more the Ascian's body was made to give in, and the more he loved it. To know he couldn't escape, that he was there to take him, every ridge and dial, claw and tooth and cock. Especially cock, which did feel as though it were scraping deeper somehow, the glans pressing further with each shove of Mettaton's hips against his ass, the kind of depth that has him arching, clenching, voice lost again to noiseless cries that he can't prevent himself from making. His own erection felt so heavy, a thick weight that the rest of his blood had pooled to, engorged and hard and rubbing into a surface even harder, that he would soon enough leave running with come.
Mettaton mouths and licks his throat- a place already sore inside and out, clawed and bit and fucked- and it's the sort of attention that he shivers under, waiting for the bite. And when it happens, his neck arches into it, moaning with hollowed-out rasping non-sounds, feeling the drag of hard tooth through skin again, and feeling more the restriction on his head Mettaton was applying. Another avenue of holding him in place, and when he looked at the bite marks later, when paired with the piercing of his shoulders- how vivid this particular moment would be, of his lover mounted over him, impaling him with his cock between raised, spread legs, hands pinioning him to the bed, and incisors taking his neck.
And he would surrender to it even in memory, and his pulse would rise and he'd want him all over again. A plea to be taken and held, deeper than any other. Because it was true that ultimately, underneath it all, it wasn't about sex, but a longing for company. To not feel so entirely alone in a world that he could never belong to. And he loved him for that, but also for himself- for Mettaton being precisely who he was, and for giving himself over so readily to him. For being the man he was, and someone he could devote himself to cherishing- and who he knew would do the same to him.
There would be no chance of Emet-Selch moving on from him. Even if he didn't have claws of his own, he was dug in regardless, and he would drag Mettaton down with him. He would drown him in intensity and worship, to every part of his body and soul, and in so doing, the Ascian wouldn't have to be alone.
Sounds continue, echoes of them. Attempts, faint and ever more pleading. He couldn't think, not with the swell of the head of Mettaton's erection rubbing him like this, not with the incessant shoving of his hips, not with his moans and the sound of their bodies meeting everything he can hear. It wasn't pain in his throat, but another form of ecstasy, a pang that's answered ever louder in his abdomen with each passing moment. Every dig, every arch, every failed gasp for breath; there was nothing but the scent of them together, and the combination of their bodies.
And finally he succumbs. Mettaton's hips rock into him, and the Ascian's own erection responds by releasing its load with thick spurts against the idol's core. An ejaculation that the swollen tip of his cock is made to drag through even amidst its climax, rubbed into even as come continues to burst from the slit.
Though his eyes are closed, Emet-Selch feels nearly blinded by it regardless, every grip he has on Mettaton shaking, twitching, senses not only inundated but consumed entirely.]
[What pushes Mettaton well over the edge is the sensation of his lover arching into him, despite having his hips so elevated to meet his hips. He curves into each of Mettaton's thrusts as though pushing himself into his cock, swallowing deeper his length and expressing with blatancy his desire for him. A new angle presents itself: a more firm drag of his cock, from the swell of the shaft to the protruding head. Emet-Selch's fits him tightly, perfectly, pulling and squeezing around him to rival the pressure of feeling so engorged, and to have him curve his back into each of his thrusts only forces Mettaton to drag along his body more harshly. He cries out, rapturous and beyond thought and sense entirely.
He's elated, pleased to have Emet-Selch gladly beneath him and desperate for pleasure, for his senses to be occupied by the robot. He thrives with people who want only that from him, and why shouldn't he give Emet-Selch the preoccupation he craves? Mettaton has more than enough of himself to try and try again to fill Emet-Selch, every crack that needs filling something worth his attention. He would try and try to fill him until he felt anywhere near satisfied, placated, pacified; and he would love him with all of his being until he could see that he's not alone to his despair. Even if he never relinquished it, Mettaton would always hope alongside him, enough for the both of them.
But there's the accompanying, sudden sensation of the Ascian tightening. Squeezing and jerking and it's so much that Mettaton could sink into him and melt, except for that he has all of this energy to expend. He realizes, then, that the firm drag of his lover's erection is accompanied by the introduction of come, and his mind paints vivid pictures of the sight: come upon glass, but dripping lusciously over the head of his lover's cock, onto his abdomen and down the shaft of him... How could he resist such a thought, such a sight? But he can't resist the taste and smell of his blood, his neck, either; he doesn't pull away, fucking him harder as his own climax builds hot and heavy in him with each hard pound.
The feeling of Emet-Selch's legs, tight around his hips, is the beckoning Mettaton finds himself succumbing to in his release, sharp and hot. It's almost like another method of release for the build of his increasing temperature, and his moan is pure relief when he spills over into his lover. His hips are pushed flush to Emet-Selch's ass, and he can feel come filling his Bonded, wrapping the glans in sticky, thick heat, right where he deposits it. Deeper still, as none if it's allowed to pass around the seal of the ridge of him; and the idol moans higher, louder at the notion that each subsequent orgasm is sure to fill his beloved that much fuller, that much deeper and hotter. His fingers grip and his body curls around Emet-Selch, holding him close and pinned and perfectly mounted. Mettaton's in pure ecstatic delight.
As his body then succumbs to gravity, the robot transitions easily from relying upon taut, rigid framework to a gentle collapse upon his lover's body. The Ascian's made to bear his full weight, slowly but surely as the contours of his chest is first pressed into him, his hips next to press listlessly into his body. Even his legs find themselves relaxing, any muscle built in them uncoiling comfortably. The tensity of his jaw, too, relaxes, even as Mettaton gives Emet-Selch a final shudder, a final thrust and a final sigh of a moan. Sticky come from Emet-Selch's release is pressed into his skin as Mettaton makes them both obey each other's bodies, falling and forming into each other despite their mismatch in material, flesh against metal.
The robot dislodges his teeth to sigh against Emet-Selch's neck, where he presses his lips: a mercy to his violence, as he's brought down and mollified from feverish ferality and vainglory. Soothed by sex, by the knowledge that he's released within his lover and marked him as his own... Nothing could be better than the depths he's achieved with Emet-Selch.
He's very special to the robot, as it turns out. Not that this is any revelation at this stage in their relationship... But a thought distant in his addled head.]
Hades...
[It's voiced on a smooth, light tone, dainty and endeared. And if it didn't already sound like it was on a smile, his lips are pulled into one, flush against blood and skin as he applies a wet, open-mouthed kiss to his latest wound. Yes, he'd be well-marked for some time, he thought.]
[It's an orgasm that he's barely starting to reach the end of when Emet-Selch feels Mettaton's begin. And from fevered breaths, his own nearly stills (apart from the occasional forced sharp intake, as his body startles itself into remembering what oxygen was, and why he needed it), as his body clenches reflexively tighter. It always felt the natural thing to do when he had his erection like this, in the midst of his climax- to hold him tighter and to wring all of his come from him.
And he gasps without noise at the feeling, his body giving small, faint little trembles as Mettaton empties himself once more, and feels that burst of wetness and heat deposited so, so deep within him. Once more Emet-Selch had him, all of his milky thickness, and he shudders as he imagines what it must look like, spurting out from the end of his cock but made to settle there, trapped by the glans itself. A thick stopper keeping it from running out of the Ascian's body- though gravity itself would help this time, he knew, with his hips remaining elevated. But if he was ever upright without a cock inside him (and what an unnatural state to be in)... he knew exactly what would happen again.
There was another sort of rapture in feeling so full, so stuffed of cock and come that he was sure he'd always have some echo of Mettaton there, a reminder of this sensation, a claim he'd never be able to erase entirely.
Emet-Selch is still panting, chest heaving against one of metal, as Mettaton gradually lowers himself onto him completely. The puca's jaws may have released his neck, but he remained no less trapped by his robotic lover. For every bit of slack his own body attained, it felt as though Mettaton could sink that much further onto him. A pleasing sensation; fortunately so, as the Ascian had little chance of keeping himself from slacking entirely.
His energy had been depleting for some time, but it was hard for him to imagine feeling more drained. Or to imagine much of anything, yet, barely able to take stock of his body at all, not the weakness of his own legs as they collapsed around Mettaton with faint tremors, not the warm wetness trapped between them due to his release, not the blood that stuck to him all over elsewhere, not the sweat, not the many places that ached.
Even his arms ached, as they held onto him, his grip itself slackening enough that it took some effort to maintain even that. Exhaustion and relaxation- Emet-Selch didn't know which it was he was feeling, it felt like nothing and everything at once. Not only exposed, but laid bare, carved open and displayed to smallest detail- but wrapped up so securely at the same time. With Mettaton pressing down on him like this, inside of him in both body and soul- how could he be anything other than safe?
He feels shaky; sentiment then, is what he'll drown in, heavy to the point of crushing- though closer to the realm of simple intensity, rather than despair. It still hurt, but it wasn't as unhappy of a thing.
...But Mettaton's voice was so light; a contrast that served as a balm to his own condition, and much like the rest of him, something that he just wanted to bask in.]
Mettaton....
[It's not even a whisper; he can't put sound to it at all, only mouthing his name. But he can feel Mettaton's lips at his throat, at his newest adornment; he can feel his smile. Emet-Selch tries to press into his face a little, though it barely counts as a nudge. His fingers slowly manage to pet at his back.]
[Squeezing and tensing around his length only brings the idol to dazzling heights, adoring that sensation even as it means that coming down from it all is even more of a crash land. His cries are indeed rapturous, his release extreme and filling, but his eventual slackening into Emet-Selch's body is pronounced compared to his other releases. Could even a robot have a limit?
Unlikely. Mettaton's recovery would make itself manifest shortly, even if he's rattled by climax as blinding to him as it was to Emet-Selch.
Mettaton still has his arms hooked about him, fingers wrapped around his shoulders — though his grip is no longer so desperate and fierce, relaxing enough to allow for those punctures to lazily leak ooze with blood. He's numbed delightfully, head and body full of a welcome, warm static that follows his release, invigorating yet dizzying both. He feels so good; Mettaton didn't know how he could ever go without such intense sensation and emotion in his life, now that he's met Emet-Selch and bonded with him. Bonded, in both the ritual sense, and the getting-to-know-you sense.
He loves him for everything. He couldn't find a moment of peace prior to seeking him out today, with nobody capable of providing Mettaton with the feedback he sought. Only Emet-Selch could understand his authenticity in moments like these.
And so he nuzzles into him at first sign of his lover trying to lean into him, sighing at the sort of... vague knowledge that he'd tried to say his name. Those tall ears are sensitive, and he'd pick up even the hints of his name on Emet-Selch's lips, he thought. How ragged he's been run, how fucked and taken and used; pleasured and pleasurable, and Mettaton finds himself rewinding to a memory of stripping him — always a moment of great vulnerability for the Ascian in comparison, given that Mettaton has nothing to strip from him, save for the jewels he wears — ones that no doubt dig into Emet-Selch's skin, but he's not thinking about that very hard. Between them, Emet-Selch was terribly, terribly prone: emotions laid out, body bare, legs spread and body fucked, lips split and skin punctured, blood drying and clotting everywhere, he was the picture of prey to this Puca, a sight of a Witch subdued by a Monster.
But Mettaton acknowledges that he's gripped in return, well in Emet-Selch's clutches. He may be the one with claws, but Emet-Selch would protect him in turn. Fiercely. He relies on him for even his continued sanity despite the sway of pendants or moons, he needs him to achieve shapeshift, and he's even his greatest protection against the Cwyld of this world. Beyond that, Emet-Selch had his own figurative claws in him. If Mettaton ever thought to escape, he wouldn't let him. They felt that way about each other.
Every touch feels like sparks some more. It's all so new, and he feels so sensitive to it... Even the contact of his chest against Emet-Selch's is an inundation of sensation, the feeling of his bloody neck at his lips another smattering of sensory input, from touch to taste to smell. Mettaton shudders to match his lover's trembling, focusing on the feeling of fingers stroking so gently along dark fur. He sighs again, calmed, given a point of focus.
It would be easy to think about the heat that engulfs the head of his cock. He can practically feel Emet-Selch's pulse along his length, his body still tight and his cock still in a state of rigid, even as it takes the time to gradually relax. A moment of repose, and one that he takes to think go fingers, to think of his lover's throat, to think of their feelings for each other communicated by Bond.
A heaviness, crushing as ever, but Emet-Selch is so vulnerable... Mettaton kisses him again, squeezing his shoulders in his arms. It disturbs his wounds there, wounds that haven't even had a moment to clot whatsoever.]
I love you... You know I love you. [Even though Emet-Selch knows, Mettaton would always tell him. He kisses and licks at blood, a hybrid act of affection and care to demonstrate that love. Cleaning and reassuring both.] You did... so well.
[... Why he'd say that at all is because Mettaton knows Emet-Selch's pushed to a limit of his, made weakened and used. And the effort he put forth to honor Mettaton's glory, to express his devotion, is worthy of him. His hum is on a note of pleasure, happiness.
Mustering up the coordination to lift his head, he only does it enough to see Emet-Selch's face. To watch his lips, to meet his eyes and to kiss his cheek.] H... How are you, my dearest?
[Feeling Mettaton even temporarily weakened felt like something of an achievement to the Ascian. He knew it wouldn't last, that the reservoir of battery and pendant-influence together would be more than enough to keep him going indefinitely. But Emet-Selch felt no despair at that, or regret at the limitations of his own body- he would love him and would have him until he fell apart entirely, if necessary. If sought over, if asked. It didn't matter to him if Mettaton's inclinations and nature were enhanced by pendant-pull or necklace-curse- it was still him in the end, dark and brilliant both, all of himself brought to the fore.
Emet-Selch tries to hum a contented sound at the nuzzle, but there's no more than a suggestion of static. More noticeable, perhaps, is his continued effort when it came to leaning into the nuzzling, nudging and attempted kisses to whatever part of Mettaton he could touch. At least it took no effort on his part to remain in contact with his body, and even if that meant pressure on bruise and cut, metal and jewelry digging into places raw and tender, he didn't mind. More awareness of all of that soreness would soon resume, but even then he'd find it preferable to not being in contact with him, not having his weight and his presence laid upon him.
He was still bleeding, of course. From the wounds most freshly inflicted, to the older ones disturbed. His body was a mix of it all, a visual representation of his emotional state. But there was a peace to it, more of one than he felt when he was ever intact. But when opened like this, both literally and figuratively, it was more clear the way Mettaton had worked his way inside, and the way the Ascian had wrapped around him in the process. With their bodies like this, there was no sense in ever denying their union.
It wasn't a surprise to be told he's loved. Not ever, and especially not now, but it's the sort of words that unsteady his heart, that settles on him more deeply for all that he's laid so bare. Love that's accompanied by tenderness and concern, as Emet-Selch feels Mettaton's lips over the wounds he'd just left, licking at skin left open. It barely even stung, it felt so soothing. And he's comforted all over again, quietly and genuinely pleased that his lover had taken so much enjoyment in him.
And Emet-Selch appreciated him just as fully, from the ecstasy his body provided, to the reassurance of his spirit, an attachment he felt he could rely on, could trust.
Mettaton's head moves away from its place at his neck, and the Ascian forces his eyes to open, to blink hazily up at him as his lover observes him. His face still had blood on it, as was to be expected. A warm look, and one that struck him less as that of a predator mid-assault, but one that had recently fed. The rabbit ears never did detract, somehow, from his sense of viewing Mettaton as a predator to start with, a monster who truly had brought down and ensnared his witch.]
Good.
[Another word that's more mouthed than spoken, and his expression, tired as it is, shows a hint of apology. His throat felt... pretty terrible honestly, if he payed it much attention. But it's a limitation to how much he can express this way, which he could only regret a little. Emet-Selch wouldn't have changed taking his erection down his throat as he had, and he knows he'd want his throat fucked just as thoroughly in future, his voice reduced, and its remaining dregs lost to moaning. Even now, sore and exhausted as he was, it was an attractive thought, and an appealing memory. One that he knew he'll be drawn to repeatedly.
With effort, his arms try to hold him that bit tighter, though it ends up being more of a gentle squeeze around his body instead.]
I love you.
[It's no louder than anything else, but something that felt just as important to say, even if it is, of course, something that Mettaton knew just as well. He'd still always tell him, he had realized, even if neither of them needed the reminder. But it felt right to express.]
[The warmth spreads to his cheeks, but only by way of his smile's broadening. Mettaton isn't the only one with blood on face, though he's plentifully marked: his chin and his lips, his cheeks and even the tip of his nose, with all of the indulging he'd been given. Emet-Selch tastes irresistible to him, in flavor and magic. No, Emet-Selch has smatterings of blood here and there from Mettaton's attention to him: smeared around his lips, with kiss marks on his jaw and cheeks, all of it in various states of dry and fresh.
But the Puca lets his head drop again, nuzzling his face back into its rightful spot in his neck, next to his ear. He's sucked plenty a bruise into this spot: even now, it bears marks of his passion. The need to move still lingers, heat still trapped in his body, but the longer he stills the more it goes down. (Go figure.) Even so, Mettaton indulges his body's needs and moves, repositioning his upper body and its hold on his lover — shifting his hips, jostling his length in the process, reminding himself that it's quite present all over again.
An exhalation of heat right next to Emet-Selch's neck is the signal he gets of his notice, his ears relaxing and obeying gravity. They're not in full contact with Emet-Selch, but if they were, he'd be able to feel how searing hot they were as well: another opportunity for heat to escape his body, and perhaps more reliable than occasional exhalations of heated air from his mouth. But everywhere there's fur, temperature also rises to the surface: under Emet-Selch's fingertips is soft, dark fur and equal parts warmth, as though he's achieved a real fusion of machine and organic.
Not the most expected developments in his life, becoming organic in the direction of a rabbit who can shapeshift. But there were a lot of surprises, all of them varying shades of pleasant, he'd say.
He continues to wear a smile against Emet-Selch's skin, thinking about that sorry look on his Bonded's features. Surely, an apology for his diminished speech. Mettaton forgives him, for now. (He might change his mind once the fever pitch of his curse returns full-force.) He hums a reply on a smooth, low tone next to his ear in reply to his love, acknowledging and kissing him all over again for it.]
You more than demonstrate as much, darling. In your every... movement.
[In his every expression, yes: from the ones he makes on his face to the way he moves his body, but also in his every movement. The ones unseen, the way his body holds his cock and pulls it, squeezes it and welcomes it; the ways his muscles twitch in his legs as he huddles closer, pulls them into each other. Every movement is riddled with heart. Even if it would be considered excessive, no matter what anyone else thought of their engagement with one another... Mettaton saw it as a proper manifestation of their passion, care, and dedication. Emet-Selch would defer to him and adore Mettaton, would submit to him despite protecting him; and Mettaton would demand from him, treasure him; he'd love him and care for him, and keep him safe.
A squeeze of his body felt like something with an intent greater than that, and Mettaton presses his weight into Emet-Selch with more intent. His thumb begins to stroke over Emet-Selch's bare shoulder, his sharp claw an incidental drag along skin. Sharp enough to rend and tear and puncture, as Emet-Selch would be too aware by now. His back and his shoulders bear their most prominent damage, all to harmonize with the rest of his damage — most wrought by teeth and lips.]
I've done you in. First you lose your sight, and now you lose your voice...
[Mettaton tsks, as though Emet-Selch's the one inviting such disability, tempting fate and getting what he deserves. In this case, he was begging for an aroused, feral-leaning Puca with a vanity complex to fill him with cock and fuck him until he was spent. Begged for him to fill his throat and take his speech, a humbling offering to his beauty and magnificence, in knowledge and pleasure of such a deed. A tight fit, a blinding, ethereal experience of pleasure he would frequently revisit as well, and crave over and over.
And in the back of the Puca's mind, Emet-Selch is not yet used enough. Still, a period of repose remains, even as the seed of want is ever renewed. He would use this body again; he would deposit more come inside of him. This position would be perfect for that in its obedience of gravity, and righting himself would eventually lead to it streaming down his legs in full force... A visual demonstration of his marking, and Emet-Selch would be made to feel it entirely.
Mettaton shudders, and shifts his hips. He holds Emet-Selch close, focusing still on their affection.]
But you don't mind. Do you, Hades? [An innocent kiss. Of course he doesn't mind.]
[It would probably be harder than not to find some area on the Ascian's body which didn't have something damp or drying on it, be it sweat, saliva, blood, or come. Or mixtures of several of the foregoing. Any encounter with Mettaton seemed to leave him coated in all four of those to varying degrees, sticky and used, drained yet attentive.
As the adjustment of Mettaton's hips certainly reminds (as though he could've forgotten) of the length that remained inside him. A thickness of cock he remained stretched around, remained filled by. Of how his legs remained spread around him, his body no less available than it had been moments prior, than it had been at the start of this encounter. No matter how spent, he'd keep his thighs parted to him, he'd keep taking his come, every load Mettaton had for him, until it was running down his thighs once more, a delicacy just asking to be licked up again.
Thoughts excessive in his current state, perhaps; Emet-Selch didn't care. Even if his own cock couldn't respond, he loved the thought of it, of Mettaton continuously pounding away at him, both filling him and allowing him to drip. When they cared for each other so much, sometimes- these extremes of expressing it were necessary. Were the most natural and wanted thing in the world.
And Mettaton did feel warmer than usual, he thought, underneath his fingers. And he didn't think it was just his own temperature reflected onto him, but something that was seeping through the fur from the robot underneath it. Even though Emet-Selch could dig hard enough with his fingers to feel the unbending of metal through black fur, it did give the puca more of an organic impression than usual. It wasn't skin but it was- something, and the man had never needed a pulse or breath in order to feel alive to him.
But he certainly felt hotter than usual, in a purely temperature sense (and equally as hot in a sexual sense, of course, and while that was always the case, this more feral, animalistic bent had its specific appeal, no matter how raw or spent it left him). Through fur, through exhalation, through mouth. He wasn't sure if his cock was hotter as well, or whether it just felt that way due to past movement, or to the come left behind, sealed within him. A thought that has him shiver a little, despite the heat. He strokes slowly at Mettaton's heated fur.
But the robot's reminder of the senses he'd recently taken from him draws a sigh- that much, at least, Emet-Selch could still express without trouble, costing no more than a bit of soreness to his throat (which was sore regardless). He'd truly... gotten what he wanted, with desires that ran deeper than he could've guessed. Mettaton's claw drags slowly across vulnerable skin, in another reminder of how prone he was to him. That it wouldn't take more than a whim to pierce him (and it hadn't), to split his skin open, reveal his blood to the air. That his voice had been just as much up for grabs, and Mettaton had grabbed it. There was no part of him to be held back, nothing that he would refuse his Bonded... and there was peace in that.
Sight and voice... with movement to follow too, the more he was fucked like this. The more Mettaton left his cock inside him, the more he moved it, the harder he thrusted; Emet-Selch expected to be sore. But feeling him afterward was a result to anticipate. It was wanted, even if he'd grumble eventually (in a likely too-hoarse voice) over the mess he'd made of him. Of the discomfort it would be to move or speak, that no matter how he rested, he'd be pressing against one bruise or bite or another.
But did he mind? He takes in a quick breath at the shifting of his lover's hips- and therefore his cock as well. Leaning his head back against his, Emet-Selch closes his eyes and breathes the both of them in.]
Of course not.
[It's not even a whisper, and it's not even necessary, but he answers anyway. What was there to mind, when this was a state he wanted to be in, trembling limbs and rended body and all. He nuzzles his head against Mettaton's a bit more.]
My poor love. Rendered speechless by the combination of our desires.
[He could laugh. And he does, but it's a pity snort next to his neck. He's feeling energized again, fueled by his incredulity and love for Emet-Selch as well for that ever simmering hunger for him, one that needs a few moments more incubating before he could find it fully realized.
And so his mind charts two paths: the first of it is a reflection upon their sex, starting from this previous session. How it all started at the sight of thick, milky come trickling down his lover's thighs, dripping upon even his own cock, and the sight of Emet-Selch zealously lapping up every drop of come offered to his tongue. Back a step: taking his lover on his lap, letting him fuck himself on his length, watching as he stroked himself off on Mettaton's erection, the way come gushed over his own fingers... And before that, of Emet-Selch fucking himself with lubed fingers in place of his cock, the maddening rush of biting and bruising and pounding him into the floor, of mounting him savagely as though mating, possessing, taking him for himself and nobody else.
Everything from that round feels maddening and lust-addled. He can make sense of it all, but it pulls a tremble from him.
But that second path it takes is upon the day prior to... this? (Was there anything even important about the day prior to this, prior to them? They went to a basement together... he saw some people he knew. Found some things. That's right. But this necklace flattered him most of all.) They were surely finding things. Emet-Selch had found these pendants, after all. An interesting find. He's made to wonder what else Emet-Selch found during his time, but it seems a question that he'd struggle to answer with his throat the way it is.
His throat should be reserved for important things only. Such as reactive sounds and words to compliment Mettaton.
Instead, he soaks in the sensation of his whole body again. That it has sensation is still a brilliant thing after years and years with no tactile awareness of a body at all, and many of them physically without. But here he was, laying with his lover, feeling the give of his skin beneath his body and giving way to each curve or jut of metal, feeling the bones of hips pressing into silicone-covered metal, drinking in the sensation of Emet-Selch's body wrapping tightly around even his cock... all of these ways he gives, soft despite his fierce and potent manner. Everything's so alive, and he still feels like electricity, even if he feels warmer for it now.
A warm heat that feels like it pools once more in his abdomen... How could he ignore his own trip into his mind and the recent past? Besides that, there was the future impending. There was the present: his cock still buried in his come-filled lover, his hips raised for easy access. Gravity would keep in him load after load, and that's a thought to keep that pressure well and alive, naturally. Like this, with the energy and draw of "moons" to hike such primal urges, for it to be the middle of Aguril... He has instinctual needs to fulfill, and Emet-Selch is the focus of them.
When he shifts his hips again as though uncomfortable, moving to find a position of greater relaxation, it's clear that pressure is building once more, a gradual stiffening of a semi-softened cock already stuffing his lover down to the root. But he's still only warming back up, and he wants to engage his Bonded — he loves him, and he wants to talk to him. Talking between sex is just a thing one does if you're Mettaton, between all of the ravishing and taking.]
I'd ask you what... else, you found. Pendants aside. But I fear you're not very talkative.
[He lifts his head somewhat, his ears just a bit looser, floppier than before. With his face above Emet-Selch's now, they lean over him and droop just atop his own head, joining Emet-Selch's hair. His attention is hot for being so casual, eye bright and fixed on Emet-Selch: still dark, still wanting, biding his time as though waiting for a slow-acting poison to soften him up for his enjoyment. (More realistically, he's waiting for his own body to be fully roused, as is inevitable with this joining, with this state, with Mettaton's inclination toward moving around.)]
I myself found some stones that curse anyone who touches and drops them... And an ornate armoire that produces any outfit I like! And, of course, these jewels to match my elegance.
[He doesn't know that the armoire only creates an illusion of an outfit he'd like, only for him to see. A terrible disappointment when he figures that out, but hopefully not a scandal, considering his body.]
The stones are kind of pretty. I was drawn to them... And found myself speaking a language I don't know for a few minutes. Nobody could understand me.
[Keep the sketchy things. They're harmless, right?]
[Mettaton's amusement at his reduced state gets more of a huff of breath, and a firmer nudge to his head, though it's still clearly an affectionate gesture. Already, the idol seemed livening up again- which wasn't unusual, really; even when he'd been running out of battery, he'd seemed energetic, just with an uncooperative body. It was rare to see him in a non-lively state for any length of time- and for all that it was tiring, for all that he might complain about it... it really was the sort of thing he did well with. Responded to. That Emet-Selch found himself drawn to, time and again (he really did have a type).
Talking between sex was perfectly fine with Emet-Selch. He liked talking to Mettaton besides (which was a fate he would've protested from their first meetings... even if, even then, he'd found him interesting to talk to), and there was no reason not to while otherwise basking in each other's presence, along with previous orgasms. That Mettaton still had his cock inside him just made it that bit more intimate (especially when he could feel him gradually firming back up again, though it's a sensation that just has him take a slow, heated breath, relishing both it and him). And as the robot speaks, the Ascian strokes slowly along his back with a hand, as though petting him. Actually it's just straight-up petting him.
The only pity was how limited his own voice or capacity for spoken reply was... particularly when he felt he probably should preserve what recovery he could grant it for whatever inevitable vocalizations he found himself making in future, or if Mettaton continued being more insistent on being praised. Emet-Selch could keep ruining his throat for those things; he'd just have to tell him about the weird chair he found later, with its scorpion motif and its desire to render anyone who ventured nearby it asleep. A piece of furniture that he could feel a kinship with.
Mettaton lifts his head again, and Emet-Selch automatically watches him, his lover's look both heated and casual at the same time- and it felt not contradictory at all with him, just a sign both of his intensity, and of his ease with him. Their ease with each other really, to just be able to exist in each other's presence, doing whatever they liked at one moment or another. The way the puca's ears drooped around him a bit was a little endearing, as the Ascian takes in both them and his lover's face as he spoke.
The mention of the armoire gets a dubious look, and the hint of a matching sound from him. Considering the nature of everything else in the basement, that sounded alarmingly useful. Either Mettaton had found the one object with a straightforward and outright positive slant, or there was a catch he didn't know of. Like the outfits were temporary, or would transform into bats, or would turn the wearer's arms green or something absurd like that. But as he can't really argue any of these things, he has to settle for a glance.
The jewelry was also clearly cursed, but Mettaton skipped over anything but his appearance in it (which also amused a little). Though did it really count as a curse, only enhancing existing predilections? Emet-Selch found it a congenial enough thing to deal with... and certainly worth keeping. Along with the pendants the Ascian had found. And with them in combination- dangerous. Enticing. Breathtaking, and in a frequently literal sense. Something that he remains aware of as he watches him, watches Mettaton's own attention remaining both bright and dark all at once.
Still, even though he can't exactly say much, it's clear that Emet-Selch is paying attention- and that all of his attention remains on Mettaton. Even through his obvious fatigue, he's still alert, still heated for him in his way, a slower roll of intensity that never truly ebbed.
The stones also get a slightly questioning look. Why keep something like that around? Because they were pretty, no doubt... and Mettaton liked shiny things like that. Even if they were useless- but probably not terribly harmful, especially if he avoided touching them. A mixed bag of finds altogether.]
How frustrating.
[He does comment to the last, though he doesn't try to put much of any voice to it, particularly when Mettaton could watch him speak. Mettaton talking while no one could understand him didn't sound like an effect the robot would enjoy... particularly if he had been wearing that glittering necklace. Then no one would realize he was asking for praise, how terrible.
[So he takes it Emet-Selch finds his armoire suspect (and he could show him later! how good of a find it is!) and doubts the rune dice he'd picked up, things he describes while lulled by the sensation of petting. Even if it's just petting in the end, Mettaton didn't mind: it felt good. It was affectionate. He liked it. Emet-Selch could spare him all of the suspicious looks and still be petting him, bringing the robot a touch of amusement even as the looks aren't spared for him as much as his finds.
Mettaton didn't find the curse to be too bad, but it was frustrating, and he was definitely wearing the necklace. He just tried posing instead. But nobody was inclined toward dishing out compliments anyway...
And even unspoken, Mettaton gets the feeling based on the nonverbal response he intuitively received from Emet-Selch that even he found some... thing(s). Whether they were things he liked or just things of some nature that he unearthed and decided wasn't a hassle to keep. A chair that tries to sting someone would end up completely useless on the robot, at any rate.
In the end, Mettaton treats Emet-Selch to a soft, slow kiss as though to seal his words and make known that he understood from lip-reading and whatever utterance of air managed to slip his throat. Paying attention to his face made understanding him not much issue, especially the shorter it is. He snickers mildly.]
Not useless... and, in the case of at least one thing, perfectly suited to me.
[There's an aggressively dropped lead right there as Mettaton tilts his head somewhat and fixes his gaze on Emet-Selch again from this new angle, eyeing him from the side as though to invite him to give his feedback on his splendid jewelry, his own radiance and loveliness that it only exists alongside. He smirks; he waits, his ears even rising again to support themselves despite the pull of gravity.]
I think I'm the one who found the best thing down there. It's fitting that I would... And it fits me.
[Watching Emet-Selch like this, beneath him and gazing up, worn down and the evidence of use upon his body... It stirs him some more, it makes him restless. It makes him want to bite his lover some more, it makes him want to hear the soothing sound of his voice showering him with words of love and praise. Emet-Selch is so beautiful and familiar to him now, and he wants to watch his lips move in adoration for his splendor so badly that he'd kiss him on the spot: he finds himself licking his lips in anticipation, in hunger for it, wanting to kiss him and wanting there to be cause for it.
He can't remain still anymore, heat building in his core the more he craves the recognition he deserves and the more he views Emet-Selch beneath him, wounded prey that he keeps around instead of consuming because Emet-Selch has expressed his devotion to him, a worthy cause to keep him and love him so long as he's given proper reverence. He holds him, wrapping his fingers about Emet-Selch's shoulders again but refraining from puncturing his shoulders anew, merely resting the sharps of his nails against his skin. A warning for him to be thorough.
The robot shifts his hips again, his filling cock feeling less and less pliant and giving under the firm squeeze of his lover's body. Firming up, pressure builds and pushes back, and he imagines the sensation of being in Emet-Selch's position. A softening cock that hardens, stretches him instead of merely being squeezed — and the very thought of giving his lover a hard cock to wrap around only serves to rile Mettaton up some more. Even if Emet-Selch was beyond arousal at this point, he's expressed that he'd want this kind of use, that Mettaton could have him to his satisfaction, and Mettaton would take him so thoroughly for it. Proudly he shifts his hips as though to remind Emet-Selch of his body, as if he needed such a reminder.
Impatience hasn't encroached on him yet. Merely expectation that Emet-Selch would do well by him and feed him compliments to his beauty, as he has, as he should. He's comfortable with him and knows Emet-Selch can see how lovely he is in such elaborate finery, dripping from his neck like someone had dared to sever his head and found only jewels within. Some diamonds now have more the appearance of rubies, which is also agreeable to the robot: it's Emet-Selch's blood he wears like jewelry now, and it only adds to the look, he thought.]
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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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But he at least would be able to recall it with dangerous, distracting precision. Mettaton's claws sink deeper into his shoulders and provide more memories, perfectly spaced. The impression of his fingers, his nails, staining them both a rich red, and how easily the scent of blood would be called to mind as well. Mingled as it was these days with that of sex and of Mettaton, the smell of any of those things would lead to thoughts of the others. Drops of deep fluid ran underneath his lover's hands, and Emet-Selch could appreciate with some strange version of clarity Mettaton's ability to leave him dripping with both come and blood, to be made sticky all over from one or the other, a mix of their essences. It was primal and perfect, in the same way being mounted and fucked was, and he drew him closer in his desire to be devoured.
His lover moans, practically curls up on him, in him, as close as he could be, his body hard and furred, a mix of softness and metal, but ultimately unyielding. The closer he was, the more the Ascian's body was made to give in, and the more he loved it. To know he couldn't escape, that he was there to take him, every ridge and dial, claw and tooth and cock. Especially cock, which did feel as though it were scraping deeper somehow, the glans pressing further with each shove of Mettaton's hips against his ass, the kind of depth that has him arching, clenching, voice lost again to noiseless cries that he can't prevent himself from making. His own erection felt so heavy, a thick weight that the rest of his blood had pooled to, engorged and hard and rubbing into a surface even harder, that he would soon enough leave running with come.
Mettaton mouths and licks his throat- a place already sore inside and out, clawed and bit and fucked- and it's the sort of attention that he shivers under, waiting for the bite. And when it happens, his neck arches into it, moaning with hollowed-out rasping non-sounds, feeling the drag of hard tooth through skin again, and feeling more the restriction on his head Mettaton was applying. Another avenue of holding him in place, and when he looked at the bite marks later, when paired with the piercing of his shoulders- how vivid this particular moment would be, of his lover mounted over him, impaling him with his cock between raised, spread legs, hands pinioning him to the bed, and incisors taking his neck.
And he would surrender to it even in memory, and his pulse would rise and he'd want him all over again. A plea to be taken and held, deeper than any other. Because it was true that ultimately, underneath it all, it wasn't about sex, but a longing for company. To not feel so entirely alone in a world that he could never belong to. And he loved him for that, but also for himself- for Mettaton being precisely who he was, and for giving himself over so readily to him. For being the man he was, and someone he could devote himself to cherishing- and who he knew would do the same to him.
There would be no chance of Emet-Selch moving on from him. Even if he didn't have claws of his own, he was dug in regardless, and he would drag Mettaton down with him. He would drown him in intensity and worship, to every part of his body and soul, and in so doing, the Ascian wouldn't have to be alone.
Sounds continue, echoes of them. Attempts, faint and ever more pleading. He couldn't think, not with the swell of the head of Mettaton's erection rubbing him like this, not with the incessant shoving of his hips, not with his moans and the sound of their bodies meeting everything he can hear. It wasn't pain in his throat, but another form of ecstasy, a pang that's answered ever louder in his abdomen with each passing moment. Every dig, every arch, every failed gasp for breath; there was nothing but the scent of them together, and the combination of their bodies.
And finally he succumbs. Mettaton's hips rock into him, and the Ascian's own erection responds by releasing its load with thick spurts against the idol's core. An ejaculation that the swollen tip of his cock is made to drag through even amidst its climax, rubbed into even as come continues to burst from the slit.
Though his eyes are closed, Emet-Selch feels nearly blinded by it regardless, every grip he has on Mettaton shaking, twitching, senses not only inundated but consumed entirely.]
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He's elated, pleased to have Emet-Selch gladly beneath him and desperate for pleasure, for his senses to be occupied by the robot. He thrives with people who want only that from him, and why shouldn't he give Emet-Selch the preoccupation he craves? Mettaton has more than enough of himself to try and try again to fill Emet-Selch, every crack that needs filling something worth his attention. He would try and try to fill him until he felt anywhere near satisfied, placated, pacified; and he would love him with all of his being until he could see that he's not alone to his despair. Even if he never relinquished it, Mettaton would always hope alongside him, enough for the both of them.
But there's the accompanying, sudden sensation of the Ascian tightening. Squeezing and jerking and it's so much that Mettaton could sink into him and melt, except for that he has all of this energy to expend. He realizes, then, that the firm drag of his lover's erection is accompanied by the introduction of come, and his mind paints vivid pictures of the sight: come upon glass, but dripping lusciously over the head of his lover's cock, onto his abdomen and down the shaft of him... How could he resist such a thought, such a sight? But he can't resist the taste and smell of his blood, his neck, either; he doesn't pull away, fucking him harder as his own climax builds hot and heavy in him with each hard pound.
The feeling of Emet-Selch's legs, tight around his hips, is the beckoning Mettaton finds himself succumbing to in his release, sharp and hot. It's almost like another method of release for the build of his increasing temperature, and his moan is pure relief when he spills over into his lover. His hips are pushed flush to Emet-Selch's ass, and he can feel come filling his Bonded, wrapping the glans in sticky, thick heat, right where he deposits it. Deeper still, as none if it's allowed to pass around the seal of the ridge of him; and the idol moans higher, louder at the notion that each subsequent orgasm is sure to fill his beloved that much fuller, that much deeper and hotter. His fingers grip and his body curls around Emet-Selch, holding him close and pinned and perfectly mounted. Mettaton's in pure ecstatic delight.
As his body then succumbs to gravity, the robot transitions easily from relying upon taut, rigid framework to a gentle collapse upon his lover's body. The Ascian's made to bear his full weight, slowly but surely as the contours of his chest is first pressed into him, his hips next to press listlessly into his body. Even his legs find themselves relaxing, any muscle built in them uncoiling comfortably. The tensity of his jaw, too, relaxes, even as Mettaton gives Emet-Selch a final shudder, a final thrust and a final sigh of a moan. Sticky come from Emet-Selch's release is pressed into his skin as Mettaton makes them both obey each other's bodies, falling and forming into each other despite their mismatch in material, flesh against metal.
The robot dislodges his teeth to sigh against Emet-Selch's neck, where he presses his lips: a mercy to his violence, as he's brought down and mollified from feverish ferality and vainglory. Soothed by sex, by the knowledge that he's released within his lover and marked him as his own... Nothing could be better than the depths he's achieved with Emet-Selch.
He's very special to the robot, as it turns out. Not that this is any revelation at this stage in their relationship... But a thought distant in his addled head.]
Hades...
[It's voiced on a smooth, light tone, dainty and endeared. And if it didn't already sound like it was on a smile, his lips are pulled into one, flush against blood and skin as he applies a wet, open-mouthed kiss to his latest wound. Yes, he'd be well-marked for some time, he thought.]
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And he gasps without noise at the feeling, his body giving small, faint little trembles as Mettaton empties himself once more, and feels that burst of wetness and heat deposited so, so deep within him. Once more Emet-Selch had him, all of his milky thickness, and he shudders as he imagines what it must look like, spurting out from the end of his cock but made to settle there, trapped by the glans itself. A thick stopper keeping it from running out of the Ascian's body- though gravity itself would help this time, he knew, with his hips remaining elevated. But if he was ever upright without a cock inside him (and what an unnatural state to be in)... he knew exactly what would happen again.
There was another sort of rapture in feeling so full, so stuffed of cock and come that he was sure he'd always have some echo of Mettaton there, a reminder of this sensation, a claim he'd never be able to erase entirely.
Emet-Selch is still panting, chest heaving against one of metal, as Mettaton gradually lowers himself onto him completely. The puca's jaws may have released his neck, but he remained no less trapped by his robotic lover. For every bit of slack his own body attained, it felt as though Mettaton could sink that much further onto him. A pleasing sensation; fortunately so, as the Ascian had little chance of keeping himself from slacking entirely.
His energy had been depleting for some time, but it was hard for him to imagine feeling more drained. Or to imagine much of anything, yet, barely able to take stock of his body at all, not the weakness of his own legs as they collapsed around Mettaton with faint tremors, not the warm wetness trapped between them due to his release, not the blood that stuck to him all over elsewhere, not the sweat, not the many places that ached.
Even his arms ached, as they held onto him, his grip itself slackening enough that it took some effort to maintain even that. Exhaustion and relaxation- Emet-Selch didn't know which it was he was feeling, it felt like nothing and everything at once. Not only exposed, but laid bare, carved open and displayed to smallest detail- but wrapped up so securely at the same time. With Mettaton pressing down on him like this, inside of him in both body and soul- how could he be anything other than safe?
He feels shaky; sentiment then, is what he'll drown in, heavy to the point of crushing- though closer to the realm of simple intensity, rather than despair. It still hurt, but it wasn't as unhappy of a thing.
...But Mettaton's voice was so light; a contrast that served as a balm to his own condition, and much like the rest of him, something that he just wanted to bask in.]
Mettaton....
[It's not even a whisper; he can't put sound to it at all, only mouthing his name. But he can feel Mettaton's lips at his throat, at his newest adornment; he can feel his smile. Emet-Selch tries to press into his face a little, though it barely counts as a nudge. His fingers slowly manage to pet at his back.]
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Unlikely. Mettaton's recovery would make itself manifest shortly, even if he's rattled by climax as blinding to him as it was to Emet-Selch.
Mettaton still has his arms hooked about him, fingers wrapped around his shoulders — though his grip is no longer so desperate and fierce, relaxing enough to allow for those punctures to lazily leak ooze with blood. He's numbed delightfully, head and body full of a welcome, warm static that follows his release, invigorating yet dizzying both. He feels so good; Mettaton didn't know how he could ever go without such intense sensation and emotion in his life, now that he's met Emet-Selch and bonded with him. Bonded, in both the ritual sense, and the getting-to-know-you sense.
He loves him for everything. He couldn't find a moment of peace prior to seeking him out today, with nobody capable of providing Mettaton with the feedback he sought. Only Emet-Selch could understand his authenticity in moments like these.
And so he nuzzles into him at first sign of his lover trying to lean into him, sighing at the sort of... vague knowledge that he'd tried to say his name. Those tall ears are sensitive, and he'd pick up even the hints of his name on Emet-Selch's lips, he thought. How ragged he's been run, how fucked and taken and used; pleasured and pleasurable, and Mettaton finds himself rewinding to a memory of stripping him — always a moment of great vulnerability for the Ascian in comparison, given that Mettaton has nothing to strip from him, save for the jewels he wears — ones that no doubt dig into Emet-Selch's skin, but he's not thinking about that very hard. Between them, Emet-Selch was terribly, terribly prone: emotions laid out, body bare, legs spread and body fucked, lips split and skin punctured, blood drying and clotting everywhere, he was the picture of prey to this Puca, a sight of a Witch subdued by a Monster.
But Mettaton acknowledges that he's gripped in return, well in Emet-Selch's clutches. He may be the one with claws, but Emet-Selch would protect him in turn. Fiercely. He relies on him for even his continued sanity despite the sway of pendants or moons, he needs him to achieve shapeshift, and he's even his greatest protection against the Cwyld of this world. Beyond that, Emet-Selch had his own figurative claws in him. If Mettaton ever thought to escape, he wouldn't let him. They felt that way about each other.
Every touch feels like sparks some more. It's all so new, and he feels so sensitive to it... Even the contact of his chest against Emet-Selch's is an inundation of sensation, the feeling of his bloody neck at his lips another smattering of sensory input, from touch to taste to smell. Mettaton shudders to match his lover's trembling, focusing on the feeling of fingers stroking so gently along dark fur. He sighs again, calmed, given a point of focus.
It would be easy to think about the heat that engulfs the head of his cock. He can practically feel Emet-Selch's pulse along his length, his body still tight and his cock still in a state of rigid, even as it takes the time to gradually relax. A moment of repose, and one that he takes to think go fingers, to think of his lover's throat, to think of their feelings for each other communicated by Bond.
A heaviness, crushing as ever, but Emet-Selch is so vulnerable... Mettaton kisses him again, squeezing his shoulders in his arms. It disturbs his wounds there, wounds that haven't even had a moment to clot whatsoever.]
I love you... You know I love you. [Even though Emet-Selch knows, Mettaton would always tell him. He kisses and licks at blood, a hybrid act of affection and care to demonstrate that love. Cleaning and reassuring both.] You did... so well.
[... Why he'd say that at all is because Mettaton knows Emet-Selch's pushed to a limit of his, made weakened and used. And the effort he put forth to honor Mettaton's glory, to express his devotion, is worthy of him. His hum is on a note of pleasure, happiness.
Mustering up the coordination to lift his head, he only does it enough to see Emet-Selch's face. To watch his lips, to meet his eyes and to kiss his cheek.] H... How are you, my dearest?
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Emet-Selch tries to hum a contented sound at the nuzzle, but there's no more than a suggestion of static. More noticeable, perhaps, is his continued effort when it came to leaning into the nuzzling, nudging and attempted kisses to whatever part of Mettaton he could touch. At least it took no effort on his part to remain in contact with his body, and even if that meant pressure on bruise and cut, metal and jewelry digging into places raw and tender, he didn't mind. More awareness of all of that soreness would soon resume, but even then he'd find it preferable to not being in contact with him, not having his weight and his presence laid upon him.
He was still bleeding, of course. From the wounds most freshly inflicted, to the older ones disturbed. His body was a mix of it all, a visual representation of his emotional state. But there was a peace to it, more of one than he felt when he was ever intact. But when opened like this, both literally and figuratively, it was more clear the way Mettaton had worked his way inside, and the way the Ascian had wrapped around him in the process. With their bodies like this, there was no sense in ever denying their union.
It wasn't a surprise to be told he's loved. Not ever, and especially not now, but it's the sort of words that unsteady his heart, that settles on him more deeply for all that he's laid so bare. Love that's accompanied by tenderness and concern, as Emet-Selch feels Mettaton's lips over the wounds he'd just left, licking at skin left open. It barely even stung, it felt so soothing. And he's comforted all over again, quietly and genuinely pleased that his lover had taken so much enjoyment in him.
And Emet-Selch appreciated him just as fully, from the ecstasy his body provided, to the reassurance of his spirit, an attachment he felt he could rely on, could trust.
Mettaton's head moves away from its place at his neck, and the Ascian forces his eyes to open, to blink hazily up at him as his lover observes him. His face still had blood on it, as was to be expected. A warm look, and one that struck him less as that of a predator mid-assault, but one that had recently fed. The rabbit ears never did detract, somehow, from his sense of viewing Mettaton as a predator to start with, a monster who truly had brought down and ensnared his witch.]
Good.
[Another word that's more mouthed than spoken, and his expression, tired as it is, shows a hint of apology. His throat felt... pretty terrible honestly, if he payed it much attention. But it's a limitation to how much he can express this way, which he could only regret a little. Emet-Selch wouldn't have changed taking his erection down his throat as he had, and he knows he'd want his throat fucked just as thoroughly in future, his voice reduced, and its remaining dregs lost to moaning. Even now, sore and exhausted as he was, it was an attractive thought, and an appealing memory. One that he knew he'll be drawn to repeatedly.
With effort, his arms try to hold him that bit tighter, though it ends up being more of a gentle squeeze around his body instead.]
I love you.
[It's no louder than anything else, but something that felt just as important to say, even if it is, of course, something that Mettaton knew just as well. He'd still always tell him, he had realized, even if neither of them needed the reminder. But it felt right to express.]
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But the Puca lets his head drop again, nuzzling his face back into its rightful spot in his neck, next to his ear. He's sucked plenty a bruise into this spot: even now, it bears marks of his passion. The need to move still lingers, heat still trapped in his body, but the longer he stills the more it goes down. (Go figure.) Even so, Mettaton indulges his body's needs and moves, repositioning his upper body and its hold on his lover — shifting his hips, jostling his length in the process, reminding himself that it's quite present all over again.
An exhalation of heat right next to Emet-Selch's neck is the signal he gets of his notice, his ears relaxing and obeying gravity. They're not in full contact with Emet-Selch, but if they were, he'd be able to feel how searing hot they were as well: another opportunity for heat to escape his body, and perhaps more reliable than occasional exhalations of heated air from his mouth. But everywhere there's fur, temperature also rises to the surface: under Emet-Selch's fingertips is soft, dark fur and equal parts warmth, as though he's achieved a real fusion of machine and organic.
Not the most expected developments in his life, becoming organic in the direction of a rabbit who can shapeshift. But there were a lot of surprises, all of them varying shades of pleasant, he'd say.
He continues to wear a smile against Emet-Selch's skin, thinking about that sorry look on his Bonded's features. Surely, an apology for his diminished speech. Mettaton forgives him, for now. (He might change his mind once the fever pitch of his curse returns full-force.) He hums a reply on a smooth, low tone next to his ear in reply to his love, acknowledging and kissing him all over again for it.]
You more than demonstrate as much, darling. In your every... movement.
[In his every expression, yes: from the ones he makes on his face to the way he moves his body, but also in his every movement. The ones unseen, the way his body holds his cock and pulls it, squeezes it and welcomes it; the ways his muscles twitch in his legs as he huddles closer, pulls them into each other. Every movement is riddled with heart. Even if it would be considered excessive, no matter what anyone else thought of their engagement with one another... Mettaton saw it as a proper manifestation of their passion, care, and dedication. Emet-Selch would defer to him and adore Mettaton, would submit to him despite protecting him; and Mettaton would demand from him, treasure him; he'd love him and care for him, and keep him safe.
A squeeze of his body felt like something with an intent greater than that, and Mettaton presses his weight into Emet-Selch with more intent. His thumb begins to stroke over Emet-Selch's bare shoulder, his sharp claw an incidental drag along skin. Sharp enough to rend and tear and puncture, as Emet-Selch would be too aware by now. His back and his shoulders bear their most prominent damage, all to harmonize with the rest of his damage — most wrought by teeth and lips.]
I've done you in. First you lose your sight, and now you lose your voice...
[Mettaton tsks, as though Emet-Selch's the one inviting such disability, tempting fate and getting what he deserves. In this case, he was begging for an aroused, feral-leaning Puca with a vanity complex to fill him with cock and fuck him until he was spent. Begged for him to fill his throat and take his speech, a humbling offering to his beauty and magnificence, in knowledge and pleasure of such a deed. A tight fit, a blinding, ethereal experience of pleasure he would frequently revisit as well, and crave over and over.
And in the back of the Puca's mind, Emet-Selch is not yet used enough. Still, a period of repose remains, even as the seed of want is ever renewed. He would use this body again; he would deposit more come inside of him. This position would be perfect for that in its obedience of gravity, and righting himself would eventually lead to it streaming down his legs in full force... A visual demonstration of his marking, and Emet-Selch would be made to feel it entirely.
Mettaton shudders, and shifts his hips. He holds Emet-Selch close, focusing still on their affection.]
But you don't mind. Do you, Hades? [An innocent kiss. Of course he doesn't mind.]
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As the adjustment of Mettaton's hips certainly reminds (as though he could've forgotten) of the length that remained inside him. A thickness of cock he remained stretched around, remained filled by. Of how his legs remained spread around him, his body no less available than it had been moments prior, than it had been at the start of this encounter. No matter how spent, he'd keep his thighs parted to him, he'd keep taking his come, every load Mettaton had for him, until it was running down his thighs once more, a delicacy just asking to be licked up again.
Thoughts excessive in his current state, perhaps; Emet-Selch didn't care. Even if his own cock couldn't respond, he loved the thought of it, of Mettaton continuously pounding away at him, both filling him and allowing him to drip. When they cared for each other so much, sometimes- these extremes of expressing it were necessary. Were the most natural and wanted thing in the world.
And Mettaton did feel warmer than usual, he thought, underneath his fingers. And he didn't think it was just his own temperature reflected onto him, but something that was seeping through the fur from the robot underneath it. Even though Emet-Selch could dig hard enough with his fingers to feel the unbending of metal through black fur, it did give the puca more of an organic impression than usual. It wasn't skin but it was- something, and the man had never needed a pulse or breath in order to feel alive to him.
But he certainly felt hotter than usual, in a purely temperature sense (and equally as hot in a sexual sense, of course, and while that was always the case, this more feral, animalistic bent had its specific appeal, no matter how raw or spent it left him). Through fur, through exhalation, through mouth. He wasn't sure if his cock was hotter as well, or whether it just felt that way due to past movement, or to the come left behind, sealed within him. A thought that has him shiver a little, despite the heat. He strokes slowly at Mettaton's heated fur.
But the robot's reminder of the senses he'd recently taken from him draws a sigh- that much, at least, Emet-Selch could still express without trouble, costing no more than a bit of soreness to his throat (which was sore regardless). He'd truly... gotten what he wanted, with desires that ran deeper than he could've guessed. Mettaton's claw drags slowly across vulnerable skin, in another reminder of how prone he was to him. That it wouldn't take more than a whim to pierce him (and it hadn't), to split his skin open, reveal his blood to the air. That his voice had been just as much up for grabs, and Mettaton had grabbed it. There was no part of him to be held back, nothing that he would refuse his Bonded... and there was peace in that.
Sight and voice... with movement to follow too, the more he was fucked like this. The more Mettaton left his cock inside him, the more he moved it, the harder he thrusted; Emet-Selch expected to be sore. But feeling him afterward was a result to anticipate. It was wanted, even if he'd grumble eventually (in a likely too-hoarse voice) over the mess he'd made of him. Of the discomfort it would be to move or speak, that no matter how he rested, he'd be pressing against one bruise or bite or another.
But did he mind? He takes in a quick breath at the shifting of his lover's hips- and therefore his cock as well. Leaning his head back against his, Emet-Selch closes his eyes and breathes the both of them in.]
Of course not.
[It's not even a whisper, and it's not even necessary, but he answers anyway. What was there to mind, when this was a state he wanted to be in, trembling limbs and rended body and all. He nuzzles his head against Mettaton's a bit more.]
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[He could laugh. And he does, but it's a pity snort next to his neck. He's feeling energized again, fueled by his incredulity and love for Emet-Selch as well for that ever simmering hunger for him, one that needs a few moments more incubating before he could find it fully realized.
And so his mind charts two paths: the first of it is a reflection upon their sex, starting from this previous session. How it all started at the sight of thick, milky come trickling down his lover's thighs, dripping upon even his own cock, and the sight of Emet-Selch zealously lapping up every drop of come offered to his tongue. Back a step: taking his lover on his lap, letting him fuck himself on his length, watching as he stroked himself off on Mettaton's erection, the way come gushed over his own fingers... And before that, of Emet-Selch fucking himself with lubed fingers in place of his cock, the maddening rush of biting and bruising and pounding him into the floor, of mounting him savagely as though mating, possessing, taking him for himself and nobody else.
Everything from that round feels maddening and lust-addled. He can make sense of it all, but it pulls a tremble from him.
But that second path it takes is upon the day prior to... this? (Was there anything even important about the day prior to this, prior to them? They went to a basement together... he saw some people he knew. Found some things. That's right. But this necklace flattered him most of all.) They were surely finding things. Emet-Selch had found these pendants, after all. An interesting find. He's made to wonder what else Emet-Selch found during his time, but it seems a question that he'd struggle to answer with his throat the way it is.
His throat should be reserved for important things only. Such as reactive sounds and words to compliment Mettaton.
Instead, he soaks in the sensation of his whole body again. That it has sensation is still a brilliant thing after years and years with no tactile awareness of a body at all, and many of them physically without. But here he was, laying with his lover, feeling the give of his skin beneath his body and giving way to each curve or jut of metal, feeling the bones of hips pressing into silicone-covered metal, drinking in the sensation of Emet-Selch's body wrapping tightly around even his cock... all of these ways he gives, soft despite his fierce and potent manner. Everything's so alive, and he still feels like electricity, even if he feels warmer for it now.
A warm heat that feels like it pools once more in his abdomen... How could he ignore his own trip into his mind and the recent past? Besides that, there was the future impending. There was the present: his cock still buried in his come-filled lover, his hips raised for easy access. Gravity would keep in him load after load, and that's a thought to keep that pressure well and alive, naturally. Like this, with the energy and draw of "moons" to hike such primal urges, for it to be the middle of Aguril... He has instinctual needs to fulfill, and Emet-Selch is the focus of them.
When he shifts his hips again as though uncomfortable, moving to find a position of greater relaxation, it's clear that pressure is building once more, a gradual stiffening of a semi-softened cock already stuffing his lover down to the root. But he's still only warming back up, and he wants to engage his Bonded — he loves him, and he wants to talk to him. Talking between sex is just a thing one does if you're Mettaton, between all of the ravishing and taking.]
I'd ask you what... else, you found. Pendants aside. But I fear you're not very talkative.
[He lifts his head somewhat, his ears just a bit looser, floppier than before. With his face above Emet-Selch's now, they lean over him and droop just atop his own head, joining Emet-Selch's hair. His attention is hot for being so casual, eye bright and fixed on Emet-Selch: still dark, still wanting, biding his time as though waiting for a slow-acting poison to soften him up for his enjoyment. (More realistically, he's waiting for his own body to be fully roused, as is inevitable with this joining, with this state, with Mettaton's inclination toward moving around.)]
I myself found some stones that curse anyone who touches and drops them... And an ornate armoire that produces any outfit I like! And, of course, these jewels to match my elegance.
[He doesn't know that the armoire only creates an illusion of an outfit he'd like, only for him to see. A terrible disappointment when he figures that out, but hopefully not a scandal, considering his body.]
The stones are kind of pretty. I was drawn to them... And found myself speaking a language I don't know for a few minutes. Nobody could understand me.
[Keep the sketchy things. They're harmless, right?]
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Talking between sex was perfectly fine with Emet-Selch. He liked talking to Mettaton besides (which was a fate he would've protested from their first meetings... even if, even then, he'd found him interesting to talk to), and there was no reason not to while otherwise basking in each other's presence, along with previous orgasms. That Mettaton still had his cock inside him just made it that bit more intimate (especially when he could feel him gradually firming back up again, though it's a sensation that just has him take a slow, heated breath, relishing both it and him). And as the robot speaks, the Ascian strokes slowly along his back with a hand, as though petting him. Actually it's just straight-up petting him.
The only pity was how limited his own voice or capacity for spoken reply was... particularly when he felt he probably should preserve what recovery he could grant it for whatever inevitable vocalizations he found himself making in future, or if Mettaton continued being more insistent on being praised. Emet-Selch could keep ruining his throat for those things; he'd just have to tell him about the weird chair he found later, with its scorpion motif and its desire to render anyone who ventured nearby it asleep. A piece of furniture that he could feel a kinship with.
Mettaton lifts his head again, and Emet-Selch automatically watches him, his lover's look both heated and casual at the same time- and it felt not contradictory at all with him, just a sign both of his intensity, and of his ease with him. Their ease with each other really, to just be able to exist in each other's presence, doing whatever they liked at one moment or another. The way the puca's ears drooped around him a bit was a little endearing, as the Ascian takes in both them and his lover's face as he spoke.
The mention of the armoire gets a dubious look, and the hint of a matching sound from him. Considering the nature of everything else in the basement, that sounded alarmingly useful. Either Mettaton had found the one object with a straightforward and outright positive slant, or there was a catch he didn't know of. Like the outfits were temporary, or would transform into bats, or would turn the wearer's arms green or something absurd like that. But as he can't really argue any of these things, he has to settle for a glance.
The jewelry was also clearly cursed, but Mettaton skipped over anything but his appearance in it (which also amused a little). Though did it really count as a curse, only enhancing existing predilections? Emet-Selch found it a congenial enough thing to deal with... and certainly worth keeping. Along with the pendants the Ascian had found. And with them in combination- dangerous. Enticing. Breathtaking, and in a frequently literal sense. Something that he remains aware of as he watches him, watches Mettaton's own attention remaining both bright and dark all at once.
Still, even though he can't exactly say much, it's clear that Emet-Selch is paying attention- and that all of his attention remains on Mettaton. Even through his obvious fatigue, he's still alert, still heated for him in his way, a slower roll of intensity that never truly ebbed.
The stones also get a slightly questioning look. Why keep something like that around? Because they were pretty, no doubt... and Mettaton liked shiny things like that. Even if they were useless- but probably not terribly harmful, especially if he avoided touching them. A mixed bag of finds altogether.]
How frustrating.
[He does comment to the last, though he doesn't try to put much of any voice to it, particularly when Mettaton could watch him speak. Mettaton talking while no one could understand him didn't sound like an effect the robot would enjoy... particularly if he had been wearing that glittering necklace. Then no one would realize he was asking for praise, how terrible.
He tries mouthing a few more words.]
At least. Not everything was entirely useless.
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Mettaton didn't find the curse to be too bad, but it was frustrating, and he was definitely wearing the necklace. He just tried posing instead. But nobody was inclined toward dishing out compliments anyway...
And even unspoken, Mettaton gets the feeling based on the nonverbal response he intuitively received from Emet-Selch that even he found some... thing(s). Whether they were things he liked or just things of some nature that he unearthed and decided wasn't a hassle to keep. A chair that tries to sting someone would end up completely useless on the robot, at any rate.
In the end, Mettaton treats Emet-Selch to a soft, slow kiss as though to seal his words and make known that he understood from lip-reading and whatever utterance of air managed to slip his throat. Paying attention to his face made understanding him not much issue, especially the shorter it is. He snickers mildly.]
Not useless... and, in the case of at least one thing, perfectly suited to me.
[There's an aggressively dropped lead right there as Mettaton tilts his head somewhat and fixes his gaze on Emet-Selch again from this new angle, eyeing him from the side as though to invite him to give his feedback on his splendid jewelry, his own radiance and loveliness that it only exists alongside. He smirks; he waits, his ears even rising again to support themselves despite the pull of gravity.]
I think I'm the one who found the best thing down there. It's fitting that I would... And it fits me.
[Watching Emet-Selch like this, beneath him and gazing up, worn down and the evidence of use upon his body... It stirs him some more, it makes him restless. It makes him want to bite his lover some more, it makes him want to hear the soothing sound of his voice showering him with words of love and praise. Emet-Selch is so beautiful and familiar to him now, and he wants to watch his lips move in adoration for his splendor so badly that he'd kiss him on the spot: he finds himself licking his lips in anticipation, in hunger for it, wanting to kiss him and wanting there to be cause for it.
He can't remain still anymore, heat building in his core the more he craves the recognition he deserves and the more he views Emet-Selch beneath him, wounded prey that he keeps around instead of consuming because Emet-Selch has expressed his devotion to him, a worthy cause to keep him and love him so long as he's given proper reverence. He holds him, wrapping his fingers about Emet-Selch's shoulders again but refraining from puncturing his shoulders anew, merely resting the sharps of his nails against his skin. A warning for him to be thorough.
The robot shifts his hips again, his filling cock feeling less and less pliant and giving under the firm squeeze of his lover's body. Firming up, pressure builds and pushes back, and he imagines the sensation of being in Emet-Selch's position. A softening cock that hardens, stretches him instead of merely being squeezed — and the very thought of giving his lover a hard cock to wrap around only serves to rile Mettaton up some more. Even if Emet-Selch was beyond arousal at this point, he's expressed that he'd want this kind of use, that Mettaton could have him to his satisfaction, and Mettaton would take him so thoroughly for it. Proudly he shifts his hips as though to remind Emet-Selch of his body, as if he needed such a reminder.
Impatience hasn't encroached on him yet. Merely expectation that Emet-Selch would do well by him and feed him compliments to his beauty, as he has, as he should. He's comfortable with him and knows Emet-Selch can see how lovely he is in such elaborate finery, dripping from his neck like someone had dared to sever his head and found only jewels within. Some diamonds now have more the appearance of rubies, which is also agreeable to the robot: it's Emet-Selch's blood he wears like jewelry now, and it only adds to the look, he thought.]
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