glitzandglamour: (💣208)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-09 08:11 pm (UTC)(link)
[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.]


Show me.
Edited (forgot stuff) 2020-09-09 20:20 (UTC)
glitzandglamour: it's a microphone, i promise... (💣141)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-10 12:51 am (UTC)(link)
[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.]
glitzandglamour: (💣187)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-10 08:59 am (UTC)(link)
[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.]
glitzandglamour: (💣205)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-10 09:03 pm (UTC)(link)
[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.]
glitzandglamour: (💣153)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-11 08:13 am (UTC)(link)
[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.]
glitzandglamour: (💣209)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-11 06:39 pm (UTC)(link)
[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...
glitzandglamour: i just thought you should know. (💣109)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-12 07:22 am (UTC)(link)
[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.]
glitzandglamour: (💣203)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-12 07:20 pm (UTC)(link)
[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.]
glitzandglamour: it's a microphone, i promise... (💣141)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-12 10:57 pm (UTC)(link)
[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.]
glitzandglamour: (💣122)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-13 05:54 am (UTC)(link)
[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?
glitzandglamour: (💣187)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-13 08:07 pm (UTC)(link)
[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.]
glitzandglamour: (💣149)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-13 11:34 pm (UTC)(link)
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?]
glitzandglamour: (💣099)

[personal profile] glitzandglamour 2020-09-14 05:55 pm (UTC)(link)
[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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