[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.]
[It's a kiss that has his petting slow, kneading gently at fur instead as he tries to lean into the press of lips. Soft and... rather sweet, really, a bit of something akin to gentleness between firmer, hotter passions. Only the vibration of a pleased sound remains in his throat, letting the kiss end with a brief nuzzle of lips as Mettaton pulls back to comment again on his jewelry.
The Ascian's gaze alights again on the glittering of the necklace (even if its ability to sparkle was hindered by the blood that stained parts of it). And his poor lover, not getting the compliments he deserved.... Emet-Selch may have been bloodied and mute, but Mettaton knew real suffering, real frustration: not having the masses dish out appropriate praise even when so kindly reminded to.
And now it was up to Emet-Selch to fulfill that requirement again; Mettaton was not being subtle about his expectations. And even if it were partially curse-driven, he could appreciate that; he liked his lover's directness in general. And it wasn't as though he weren't radiant, or that he didn't find him absurdly attractive... even bloodstained and about as mussed as a robot could be, it only added a different primal beauty to him. Emet-Selch saw nothing wrong with his confidence in his appearance (he is also biased and loves him).
The question then became what to say, what to force through his wounded throat, knowing that he wouldn't have that many chances if Mettaton wanted actual voice behind it, and not just lip-reading. Or possibly... whether to answer at all, to tempt both fate and Mettaton by delaying because he could.
Emet-Selch still takes a moment to admire him regardless, as though needing to consider both him and his words. The blood that stuck to those diamonds matched him just as well as the clean(ish) ones. And Mettaton liked red anyway, and liked his blood... it was a combination that was meant to be. It would almost be a pity to clean it.
Mettaton shifting his hips though... it was a distraction from speech and something that causes the muscles in his legs to twitch, and his breath to pause, and then slowly exhale. It was a very distinct sensation, his lover's hardening. Even if he were still being penetrated in either case, a relaxed cock gave a different impression from a full one. A stronger sense of being taken, rather than only allowed to hold his length inside his body. The way he was made to stretch again to accommodate, bit by bit- and in a different way than from the insertion itself. A sensation worth tightening deliberately around, as though to stroke Mettaton even fuller to attention. A sensation to quicken his pulse and his blood, even if he doubts his own capacity for arousal at this point.
But it's still with expectation that he regards him, an anticipation for being fucked, for being given load after load of his come, and the Ascian feels warmer just thinking about it. And with it, the desire to please him... which meant giving him the answers he wanted.
A soft voice, quiet in its sincerity, along with the restriction of his throat. And his eyes are on Mettaton's, the puca's lustrous in a face illustrated by blood, the monster waiting for his deference. The verbal reverence he deserved.]
...It's natural, that it would be drawn to you. No one else would bring out its potential. And yet....
[He swallows, wincing; tries to clear his throat, which just makes it worse. Taking a careful breath afterward, he soldiers on, a rasping whisper.]
--You would be no less without it. It's- nothing, without you to carry it.
[That warmth doesn't go unknown to the robot, who regards it pleasantly and with a widening of his smile. His eyelid drops a margin and though he can't read Emet-Selch's thoughts, it's a warmth that he ascribes to them and their combining; either a comfort found in each other's arms, or one found in the heat of their actions. It was natural: he felt similarly, but "warmth" would be an inadequate way to describe Mettaton's heat of arousal.
Arousal that's only fed with the appropriate recognition of his beauty. His smile widens for that purpose too: that Emet-Selch would suggest that the diamonds are nothing if not upon his shoulders is accurate. They're beautiful, he was enchanted by them... but on his shoulders, they shine brilliant and wonderful. His bright eyes are made softer, but no less luminous, affected only by the heat of mood and the growth of his smile. A sharpness not blunted, but given somewhere to cut into.
Mettaton rolls his hips, nestling his cock inside of Emet-Selch's body as a reward for his admiration of him, showing off how interested he is in finding Emet-Selch so accommodating, so compliant. He's the one toppled on his back, hips elevated to better receive Mettaton even while he remains on his knees. The robot's legs are spread somewhat to better access Emet-Selch, but he remains in a perfect position to freely thrust, to perfectly arch and curve into his lover's body as much as he wished. He envisions the sight of them together: the way his own erection must look pushing into Emet-Selch, the head of him penetrating with enough clearance for even the girth of his shaft to follow. Emet-Selch's body is a tight fit, and he imagines what that looks like, too, relying on vivid imagery from a time where he even had a double, from times with use of a mirror to visualize how malleable his lover's body is in comparison to his own. He knows he fills his lover well, and he knows Emet-Selch would worship him until he found himself well-fucked.
A tight fit that tightens around him, pulling a moan from him: soft and so unrestrained. He knows his Bonded would use his body to please him, and he can hardly wait for all of those sensations to push him to greater and greater heights of abandon. Indeed, squeezing at him to stroke his cock would only serve to nab his attention.
So Mettaton smiles not just about himself, but upon Emet-Selch, pleased with him. Mollified by him. In love with him. Appropriately venerated by him. A complex web of emotions, even if all of them are along the key of love and adoration.]
Thank you, darling. You're right... It could only find itself upon my shoulders for that reason. You said so earlier. It could drown out others, but I only elevate it.
[Emet-Selch is once more rewarded with a kiss, one still soft and passionate, lingering and warm as he sucks his lower lip. A delectation of a kiss, one intended to please them both. He treats even his lover's lips as his own, something for him to take and kiss and press against just as much as the rest of his body is for him to have and enjoy.
Vividly he imagines the sight of his lover's thighs as they surely appear, even as he presses his hips into them. Come-marked and kissed, bruised and well-loved, they would be a sight to arouse Mettaton under any circumstance. Should Emet-Selch spread them for his sights, an attempt to lure and tease, he'd find himself aroused so fast that he might find himself rendered into a stupor, weak-kneed and covetous. Even here, his lips betray that same heat of incomprehensible lust at the thought.
With thoughts like these, Mettaton needs no physical stimulation to find himself rapidly erect. When he so much as jostles his length with the readjusting of his hips, he makes a slight grunt/gasp at the sensation of dragging, his length rigid and filling his lover rather than being pressed in his body. Mettaton's the one forcing Emet-Selch to accommodate his length once more, and that thought has him sighing a sound of contentment.
He grins at Emet-Selch. He's not sorry at all.]
Sorry, sweetheart. It's so easy to let my mind wander... And combined with the work of your body... Well.
[Still not sorry. Not with the way he slowly rolls his hips in search of that angle to push and knead the glans, egging Emet-Selch on to squeeze him again. For the moment, his pushes are gentle: Mettaton doesn't try to overwhelm his lover nor himself, save for the occasional firmer push. A motion as though to remind them both of how full Emet-Selch is, even though he started off his erection with the root of his cock held by the squeeze of Emet-Selch's entrance. Hips flush to Emet-Selch's ass, Mettaton looms over him, rolling his hips and demanding that Emet-Selch feel the whole of his crotch, that he experience the fullness of his engorged cock — and how much more rigid it would become as he closes in on orgasm.]
But I don't think you mind this, either. I'll only fill you some more. That's not an outcome you'd protest...
[It's a fine reward, the movement of Mettaton's cock. Not a reminder of how it felt inside him, but a demonstration of it, of his lover's response to him, of how perfectly they fit. Of how well they both were situated like this, with the Ascian's legs apart and his hips lifted, with Mettaton kneeled nicely between them, for such convenient movement, for easy access and control over his partner's body. A beautiful sort of union, Emet-Selch would have to agree, Mettaton dripping with diamonds and his lover's blood, and the Ascian dripping with his own blood and the come of them both. A work of art, something that did deserve to be admired from every angle... for all that they would have to settle with what they could see of each other, and what they could feel.
And Mettaton could lean close too, could kiss him; another pleasure, another way their bodies could mingle, could attend to one another. Emet-Selch feels his lip sucked upon, the sort of thing that would've normally drawn a moan, but only some pale remnants of one manage to emerge. Licking back at his lips, there was the heady, and always reassuring, reminder of how often they came to taste of one another, be it from saliva or come, or his own blood. They were never shy about sharing it with each other; another sense to inundate, to claim, along with everything else.
When Mettaton pulls back to speak again, Emet-Selch nearly tries to follow him with his lips, his breathing quicker. A state that shows no sign of easing with the robot grinding his crotch against his ass, showing off how they were connected, how deeply he was pressed, and how thoroughly he had him. It's certainly a feeling to have the Ascian squeeze at his length again with a sharper breath, conscious of every part of him. Of how his entrance was stretched so tightly around the very base of him, as close to the root as Mettaton could go, giving him truly all of his cock. And how thickly he filled him out as he stretched along inside him, all the way to the engorged tip, which both forced him just that bit wider around him, while also being a place that could be squeezed that much tighter. And he knew, whenever Mettaton did thrust, that he'd feel that head making space for itself with every shove of his hips, and that his body would be made to mold itself around him.
Altogether, they brought sensations to lose himself in, and it didn't matter how spent Emet-Selch was in body, he'd always enjoy this. The heaviness of cock and form, a truly delectable hardness to clench around, to feel him massage him so intimately- the intimacy alone is something he'd never pass up, the feeling of this heat and connection. And of everything surrounding it: his lover's obvious pleasure and arousal, every sound he made, every shudder and jerk, the way he moved in both desperation and release.
A small shudder disrupts his breathing further as he considers it, as he tries to push his ass somehow harder against against hips he was already flush to, that Mettaton was already rubbing firmly against, stirring the stiff length inside him with each moment.]
It's. [Something worth trying to speak on, anyway, looking up at him with rapt intention. Attention. Affection. Love for him and for these sensations.] What I want, as well.
[And how much he still wanted him; that part hadn't dimmed at all, that need for every bit of him- and something worth telling him, despite the pain in his throat. The desire he still felt for him, despite the inability to carry an erection of his own to show it with.]
This use. Your body. Your-- [Though the way he clenches around him is deliberate, the sound he makes as he does so is not, choked and pleased and wanting all the same. And though his eyes are half-lidded, they still observe him, gaze heated.] Your come. Until- until I'm running over with it. Even then--
[The rest is lost, as he swallows again, flinching at the increased rawness of a throat further agitated.]
[The allowance this position gives toward kissing Emet-Selch might be a favored aspect of it, his ability to give him kiss after kiss so long as he stretched his own form along the torso of his lover, clutching him close and kissing him silly. Even the imagining of it is enough to make Mettaton sigh...
But his lover has words to give him, struggled though they are. Anything he'd wish to make so known must be important, and Mettaton's ears lean forward in his interest — even though "forward" from this angle just means "down," and following gravity. He keeps his eye locked with Emet-Selch's, adoration to meet adoration, even if it's given in different shades of it: there's still want, there's still desire, and there's always heat, but there's a hunger in Mettaton's gaze, a look that has only evolved in intensity ever since he first set eyes upon the Ascian's body. Something that went from involved curiosity and developed into a fierce, unabashed gratification, a comprehensive access to his lover's body. The look belonging to someone who would kiss and suck and bite the whole of the body beneath him. And what Emet-Selch says pleases him greatly.
Greatly is an understatement. Mettaton doesn't need help having a vivid imagination, but to hear his lover speak it aloud for them both to envision together... It does something to him, and he's clinging in his mind to use, to filling his lover full of his ejaculate until he's spilling over with it, come seeping from him in what could be a humiliating display, but is anything but, to Mettaton. It's erotic and springs him directly into wanting. The mere thought stirs his hips, spurs him to thrusting harder.
But it also causes the Puca to fulfill his other desire: to capture Emet-Selch back in a kiss. When his throat gives in, why leave his lips unoccupied?
The idol stoops in to press his lips to Emet-Selch's, another tender kiss that manages to be hotter than the last, but just as wet, just as open-mouthed and wanting. Sucking into his lower lip and flirting with it with tongue, Mettaton pulls back only for a short utterance.]
Your desires... match mine. You did so well. [A short press of a kiss, just to punctuate that fondness.] Say... no more. I'll have you fulfilled...
[It's a desire he wants to see to actualization. He wants to fuck Emet-Selch so much that he feels it for days, wants to fill him so thoroughly that it's indecent. He wants the reminder of him to be worn in and on his body, and if his Bonded craved his come, if he craved this use and his body, Mettaton would be the best equipped to handle those desires.
Even as his kisses resume, so too do his hips continue a rhythmic, deep rocking, feeling with more definition and prominence the way his lover's body tightens around his cock and pulls upon the head of him. He doesn't hold back a moan to demonstrate his pleasure at it all, turning tender kisses into purely indulgent ones, open-mouthed and without restriction. Tongue, teeth, the backdrop of a heavy cock slipping and dragging along Emet-Selch so deep inside, feeling the squeeze of him firm and tight along his shaft with each pass. Rolling thrusts turn into deepening curls of his abdomen, something that requires no muscle at all to perform as he shoves the tip of his erection against his Bonded with enough deliberation and direction to pull a gasp from him, a shudder, a desperate kiss.
Boiled down, these sensations with this intensity registers as intimacy to Mettaton, too. This is something he could only achieve with Emet-Selch, and he adores this company, this willing offering of each other and how readily they take to each other's bodies kissing and spreading their legs, fondling their erections and biting necks, groping and touching and enjoying each other's use and pleasure. Like this, he's sure Emet-Selch will only get a rush off of the Puca's use and pleasure in taking Emet-Selch's body. But they also loved each other, saw to it that each of them took delight in their use and pleasure... And when they wanted something, the other would see to that desire in full, an excessive catering to each other that it ends up becoming a mutual want.
Who could match him better? Who would want to be filled so thoroughly by Mettaton but his lover? Emet-Selch just told him all of the ways he wanted him, and Mettaton wanted to please. He wants... him, terribly.
Already, he massages his cock on Emet-Selch's body, rubbing and kneading the glans and the shaft both against the tensing of the man beneath him. He sighs and trembles at the sensation, forced to interrupt their kiss with how overwhelmingly wonderful it feels; he soaks in every minute fire of sensation, the way it registers, and just what he needs to do to achieve it. That he was already stretched to fit Mettaton is another point of pleasure, that he found his length buried inside of him even as he stiffened another. He can't get enough of him.
For a moment, Mettaton stops kissing Emet-Selch on his own: his tongue is withdrawn and his lips remain pressed so gently to Emet-Selch's, a shuddering, heated exhalation escaping his body, betraying immense heat within. His gaze, though not visible to Emet-Selch this close, is heavy: while he thrusts, while Emet-Selch's fingers remain against the blackened fur along his back, he invites Emet-Selch to dedicate himself to kissing, some outlet for this sort of intimate pleasure. But in case he finds himself wanting direction, Mettaton smiles, speaking amidst thrusts that rock their bodies.]
[Words that had been well acceptable, judging by the reaction on Mettaton's part, the firmer thrusts that have his legs wrap around him that bit harder, and the kiss he's first given as reply. Another taste of the hunger the puca had for him, and a feeling Emet-Selch wanted to do nothing other than both satisfy and encourage. To both give him everything that he wanted of him, everything he asked or desired, while still leaving him aching for more of him. That he'd be left aching just as sorely in return was exactly what the Ascian wanted.
Mettaton breaks it for speech, and Emet-Selch is left dizzied again as he resumes breathing. Again, there was the satisfaction of praise, of pleasing. It was an unfamiliar thing still, and felt... indulgent, somehow. To have some promise of being fulfilled, and the ability to fulfill in turn. And he knew as well of their desire to please one another, of his lover's interest in providing what he wanted- and how so convenient it was that their desires matched so thoroughly. That their want for each other's bodies manifested like this, that their taste for it was so similar. To be taken by the same imagery didn't surprise him, but it gratified all the same, and he shivered still at the thought of it, of the memory of feeling thick, white rivulets trailing down his thighs where his lover could admire them. Where his body was reduced to two statuses: in the process of being fucked, or in allowing the aftermath to spill down his legs for the sake of inspiring more fucking.
They could indulge each other, and indulge in one another. A thought in itself to heat.
And satisfaction again, at the rocking of their bodies, of the kisses they were locked in once more. Two places their bodies could slickly join, warm and loving and demanding all the same. It was good that Mettaton wasn't expecting more speech from him for now, and better that he could use his lips and mouth for something else, a different way of pleasing them both than through words. Another show of devotion, making up for the weakness of his throat.
It was a closeness remarkable, accomplished by bodies, but made possible through emotion. Every push of hips felt like an affirmation of it; every bit of give his body provided confirmed it. Every shudder and sound held them that little bit tighter, both so very vulnerable to each other and simultaneously secure.
Mettaton keeps his lips to his, but pauses in his kissing. Emet-Selch similarly pauses, opening his eyes for a moment- even if all he can see is a bit of dark hair, too close for any detail. Too close for anything outside of Mettaton to even exist, which was exactly as it should be. His eyes close again as his body is continuously rolled back into the bed, worked over by his lover's erection. Hard drags that he couldn't begin to get enough of, with a thickness and shape that felt just right for him. The robot's 'breath' against his face was a certain sign of the yet greater heat that must lay within him- an exhalation that would've enticed him into kissing him further, even had be gone without Mettaton's direction.
But it's an order given that he has no problem complying with; once again their desires matched. Leaning up against his lips, it's a soft, damp touch, from both a moment of his own exhalation against him, and more so by the stroke of tongue. Not that there wasn't already a sharing of saliva on the both of them, but it's a quick renewing of the substance. Taking Mettaton's lower lip between his own, he runs his tongue along it, sucks on it, allows teeth to press and occasionally to nip.
It's only let go of to allow his own tongue to slip into his mouth, licking and tasting him, stroking against the idol's. Devoting himself to capturing his mouth, the Ascian stubbornly attempts to steal his breath from him, as though that were something physically possible to achieve. And in the process his own is lost, abandoned, ignored in favor of delving past his lover's lips, burying himself in kisses. Even were his own lip not already sore, swollen from being bitten, all of this attention would've been enough to do so, but his lips being tender just meant that he could feel each kiss that much more strongly. His arms wrap further around him.
Though he can never find time to breathe normally (and can never remember to), an occasional soft gasp occurs regardless, still with wet lips pressed to Mettaton's, in reaction to a particular drag of his cock or another, a stroke of his length that felt particularly intense. But each accidental breath is only followed by a more determined kiss, not caring about the way their mouths slide together, or the steadily increasing mess and heat of it; he was in a position to kiss him, and Emet-Selch was going to make the most of it.]
[It would be with "breathless anticipation" that Mettaton waits for Emet-Selch to take his lips, his manner even hastening as though eager. He finds himself licking his lips in that short period of time before the Ascian complies (part on his demand and part on his own inclination), and there's another exhalation of that same heat at the mere touch of Emet-Selch's lips, the hint of tongue to flirt with the robot's mouth. All of it's so vivid a feeling... And for a moment, his own tongue darts out to taste his lip for a trace of Emet-Selch.
They do taste startlingly similar at this point, don't they? A thought to have his whole body seizing, interrupting his thrusting into a quick stutter of hips as he succumbs to a full-bodied tremor. This is a kiss he couldn't be more eager for, applied from beneath him, the control of it handed over to his Bonded.
And Mettaton allows him to continue, focusing on the tempo of his hips. They rock into Emet-Selch deeply, barely pulling out for the moment as he strokes his cock against the other man's body in such a way that he can feel him digging and rubbing along the underside of the glans — and if Mettaton focuses harder upon that stroke, upon this thrust, he finds he's pushing harder, forcing his lover back against the mattress with each thrust. And he finds it more erotic for it, to feel as though he's overpowering Emet-Selch during the act of pleasing himself... So why not continue?
Deep, firm thrusts hard enough to rock Emet-Selch into the bed only follow, and Mettaton succumbs to each intensifying kiss: his lips are licked, sucked, nipped; held between swollen and blood-tasting ones, and Emet-Selch treats his lips like they're his oxygen. They're still his oxygen, even when his lover is so overcome that he has to take a swallow of the authentic article. Who could blame him, when Mettaton's jostling his cock so much? Each thrust is something worth a soft sight from Mettaton as it is, his gaze hazy and eye half-lidded, dreamlike and desirous. He could be panting right now, he thought, from how much he wants Emet-Selch alone.
His lover's arms tighten around him: better for both the kiss, and Mettaton's thrusts.
Their kisses turn sloppier, saliva dragged across lips and cheeks and chin as they both attempt to capture each other's lips in an open-mouthed locking, one that is forced to be broken by gasps or moans from either of them. But Emet-Selch's grip upon Mettaton's back enables his stroke to change up: instead of the short dragging, the sensation of stroking the head of his cock repeatedly in one place, Mettaton switches to long, deep, firm thrusts. Full rolls of his hips, all of the passion to match Emet-Selch's kisses for him: a reward, but also because Mettaton can't help it, not when Emet-Selch captivates him so. Passion for passion, pleasure for pleasure.
This time, it's Mettaton who interrupts their kiss for a moment: a moan, airy and lost and loud, slips between their lips for Emet-Selch to capture in his. These full-bodied thrusts pull and treat the whole of his length both to his entrance and the sudden squeeze of his body, as though his lover became shocked with each intrusion of thick cock all over again.
Even as he speaks, he lets Emet-Selch continue to kiss him to his absolute pleasure and reverence.]
You're, mmm, so... so dedicated, Hades... It's a kiss to die for, you are— ahh...
[He enjoys the feeling of speech against kisses and between pants, between sucks and licks and nips of teeth and lips and tongue. And with these drags so pronounced, he feels so suddenly... thick, hard, engorged and needy, Emet-Selch's body once more providing a squeeze he could sigh in relief just to have. But Mettaton pants between kisses, moans into them, delights in being so inundated with the focus of lips to his own and the blinding pleasure of fucking his Bondeed, mounting him and filling him with a rigid, heavy cock that he stuffs him with in hearty passes, pronounced thrusts of his hip so as to remind him to always remember how swollen he'd made Mettaton's cock. How heavy he grows, laden with come to spill just for him.]
What... Ahh, do you think, beautiful? About my length... About this rhythm, so- so, firm, and hard, and deeper... Ah...
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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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The Ascian's gaze alights again on the glittering of the necklace (even if its ability to sparkle was hindered by the blood that stained parts of it). And his poor lover, not getting the compliments he deserved.... Emet-Selch may have been bloodied and mute, but Mettaton knew real suffering, real frustration: not having the masses dish out appropriate praise even when so kindly reminded to.
And now it was up to Emet-Selch to fulfill that requirement again; Mettaton was not being subtle about his expectations. And even if it were partially curse-driven, he could appreciate that; he liked his lover's directness in general. And it wasn't as though he weren't radiant, or that he didn't find him absurdly attractive... even bloodstained and about as mussed as a robot could be, it only added a different primal beauty to him. Emet-Selch saw nothing wrong with his confidence in his appearance (he is also biased and loves him).
The question then became what to say, what to force through his wounded throat, knowing that he wouldn't have that many chances if Mettaton wanted actual voice behind it, and not just lip-reading. Or possibly... whether to answer at all, to tempt both fate and Mettaton by delaying because he could.
Emet-Selch still takes a moment to admire him regardless, as though needing to consider both him and his words. The blood that stuck to those diamonds matched him just as well as the clean(ish) ones. And Mettaton liked red anyway, and liked his blood... it was a combination that was meant to be. It would almost be a pity to clean it.
Mettaton shifting his hips though... it was a distraction from speech and something that causes the muscles in his legs to twitch, and his breath to pause, and then slowly exhale. It was a very distinct sensation, his lover's hardening. Even if he were still being penetrated in either case, a relaxed cock gave a different impression from a full one. A stronger sense of being taken, rather than only allowed to hold his length inside his body. The way he was made to stretch again to accommodate, bit by bit- and in a different way than from the insertion itself. A sensation worth tightening deliberately around, as though to stroke Mettaton even fuller to attention. A sensation to quicken his pulse and his blood, even if he doubts his own capacity for arousal at this point.
But it's still with expectation that he regards him, an anticipation for being fucked, for being given load after load of his come, and the Ascian feels warmer just thinking about it. And with it, the desire to please him... which meant giving him the answers he wanted.
A soft voice, quiet in its sincerity, along with the restriction of his throat. And his eyes are on Mettaton's, the puca's lustrous in a face illustrated by blood, the monster waiting for his deference. The verbal reverence he deserved.]
...It's natural, that it would be drawn to you. No one else would bring out its potential. And yet....
[He swallows, wincing; tries to clear his throat, which just makes it worse. Taking a careful breath afterward, he soldiers on, a rasping whisper.]
--You would be no less without it. It's- nothing, without you to carry it.
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Arousal that's only fed with the appropriate recognition of his beauty. His smile widens for that purpose too: that Emet-Selch would suggest that the diamonds are nothing if not upon his shoulders is accurate. They're beautiful, he was enchanted by them... but on his shoulders, they shine brilliant and wonderful. His bright eyes are made softer, but no less luminous, affected only by the heat of mood and the growth of his smile. A sharpness not blunted, but given somewhere to cut into.
Mettaton rolls his hips, nestling his cock inside of Emet-Selch's body as a reward for his admiration of him, showing off how interested he is in finding Emet-Selch so accommodating, so compliant. He's the one toppled on his back, hips elevated to better receive Mettaton even while he remains on his knees. The robot's legs are spread somewhat to better access Emet-Selch, but he remains in a perfect position to freely thrust, to perfectly arch and curve into his lover's body as much as he wished. He envisions the sight of them together: the way his own erection must look pushing into Emet-Selch, the head of him penetrating with enough clearance for even the girth of his shaft to follow. Emet-Selch's body is a tight fit, and he imagines what that looks like, too, relying on vivid imagery from a time where he even had a double, from times with use of a mirror to visualize how malleable his lover's body is in comparison to his own. He knows he fills his lover well, and he knows Emet-Selch would worship him until he found himself well-fucked.
A tight fit that tightens around him, pulling a moan from him: soft and so unrestrained. He knows his Bonded would use his body to please him, and he can hardly wait for all of those sensations to push him to greater and greater heights of abandon. Indeed, squeezing at him to stroke his cock would only serve to nab his attention.
So Mettaton smiles not just about himself, but upon Emet-Selch, pleased with him. Mollified by him. In love with him. Appropriately venerated by him. A complex web of emotions, even if all of them are along the key of love and adoration.]
Thank you, darling. You're right... It could only find itself upon my shoulders for that reason. You said so earlier. It could drown out others, but I only elevate it.
[Emet-Selch is once more rewarded with a kiss, one still soft and passionate, lingering and warm as he sucks his lower lip. A delectation of a kiss, one intended to please them both. He treats even his lover's lips as his own, something for him to take and kiss and press against just as much as the rest of his body is for him to have and enjoy.
Vividly he imagines the sight of his lover's thighs as they surely appear, even as he presses his hips into them. Come-marked and kissed, bruised and well-loved, they would be a sight to arouse Mettaton under any circumstance. Should Emet-Selch spread them for his sights, an attempt to lure and tease, he'd find himself aroused so fast that he might find himself rendered into a stupor, weak-kneed and covetous. Even here, his lips betray that same heat of incomprehensible lust at the thought.
With thoughts like these, Mettaton needs no physical stimulation to find himself rapidly erect. When he so much as jostles his length with the readjusting of his hips, he makes a slight grunt/gasp at the sensation of dragging, his length rigid and filling his lover rather than being pressed in his body. Mettaton's the one forcing Emet-Selch to accommodate his length once more, and that thought has him sighing a sound of contentment.
He grins at Emet-Selch. He's not sorry at all.]
Sorry, sweetheart. It's so easy to let my mind wander... And combined with the work of your body... Well.
[Still not sorry. Not with the way he slowly rolls his hips in search of that angle to push and knead the glans, egging Emet-Selch on to squeeze him again. For the moment, his pushes are gentle: Mettaton doesn't try to overwhelm his lover nor himself, save for the occasional firmer push. A motion as though to remind them both of how full Emet-Selch is, even though he started off his erection with the root of his cock held by the squeeze of Emet-Selch's entrance. Hips flush to Emet-Selch's ass, Mettaton looms over him, rolling his hips and demanding that Emet-Selch feel the whole of his crotch, that he experience the fullness of his engorged cock — and how much more rigid it would become as he closes in on orgasm.]
But I don't think you mind this, either. I'll only fill you some more. That's not an outcome you'd protest...
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And Mettaton could lean close too, could kiss him; another pleasure, another way their bodies could mingle, could attend to one another. Emet-Selch feels his lip sucked upon, the sort of thing that would've normally drawn a moan, but only some pale remnants of one manage to emerge. Licking back at his lips, there was the heady, and always reassuring, reminder of how often they came to taste of one another, be it from saliva or come, or his own blood. They were never shy about sharing it with each other; another sense to inundate, to claim, along with everything else.
When Mettaton pulls back to speak again, Emet-Selch nearly tries to follow him with his lips, his breathing quicker. A state that shows no sign of easing with the robot grinding his crotch against his ass, showing off how they were connected, how deeply he was pressed, and how thoroughly he had him. It's certainly a feeling to have the Ascian squeeze at his length again with a sharper breath, conscious of every part of him. Of how his entrance was stretched so tightly around the very base of him, as close to the root as Mettaton could go, giving him truly all of his cock. And how thickly he filled him out as he stretched along inside him, all the way to the engorged tip, which both forced him just that bit wider around him, while also being a place that could be squeezed that much tighter. And he knew, whenever Mettaton did thrust, that he'd feel that head making space for itself with every shove of his hips, and that his body would be made to mold itself around him.
Altogether, they brought sensations to lose himself in, and it didn't matter how spent Emet-Selch was in body, he'd always enjoy this. The heaviness of cock and form, a truly delectable hardness to clench around, to feel him massage him so intimately- the intimacy alone is something he'd never pass up, the feeling of this heat and connection. And of everything surrounding it: his lover's obvious pleasure and arousal, every sound he made, every shudder and jerk, the way he moved in both desperation and release.
A small shudder disrupts his breathing further as he considers it, as he tries to push his ass somehow harder against against hips he was already flush to, that Mettaton was already rubbing firmly against, stirring the stiff length inside him with each moment.]
It's. [Something worth trying to speak on, anyway, looking up at him with rapt intention. Attention. Affection. Love for him and for these sensations.] What I want, as well.
[And how much he still wanted him; that part hadn't dimmed at all, that need for every bit of him- and something worth telling him, despite the pain in his throat. The desire he still felt for him, despite the inability to carry an erection of his own to show it with.]
This use. Your body. Your-- [Though the way he clenches around him is deliberate, the sound he makes as he does so is not, choked and pleased and wanting all the same. And though his eyes are half-lidded, they still observe him, gaze heated.] Your come. Until- until I'm running over with it. Even then--
[The rest is lost, as he swallows again, flinching at the increased rawness of a throat further agitated.]
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But his lover has words to give him, struggled though they are. Anything he'd wish to make so known must be important, and Mettaton's ears lean forward in his interest — even though "forward" from this angle just means "down," and following gravity. He keeps his eye locked with Emet-Selch's, adoration to meet adoration, even if it's given in different shades of it: there's still want, there's still desire, and there's always heat, but there's a hunger in Mettaton's gaze, a look that has only evolved in intensity ever since he first set eyes upon the Ascian's body. Something that went from involved curiosity and developed into a fierce, unabashed gratification, a comprehensive access to his lover's body. The look belonging to someone who would kiss and suck and bite the whole of the body beneath him. And what Emet-Selch says pleases him greatly.
Greatly is an understatement. Mettaton doesn't need help having a vivid imagination, but to hear his lover speak it aloud for them both to envision together... It does something to him, and he's clinging in his mind to use, to filling his lover full of his ejaculate until he's spilling over with it, come seeping from him in what could be a humiliating display, but is anything but, to Mettaton. It's erotic and springs him directly into wanting. The mere thought stirs his hips, spurs him to thrusting harder.
But it also causes the Puca to fulfill his other desire: to capture Emet-Selch back in a kiss. When his throat gives in, why leave his lips unoccupied?
The idol stoops in to press his lips to Emet-Selch's, another tender kiss that manages to be hotter than the last, but just as wet, just as open-mouthed and wanting. Sucking into his lower lip and flirting with it with tongue, Mettaton pulls back only for a short utterance.]
Your desires... match mine. You did so well. [A short press of a kiss, just to punctuate that fondness.] Say... no more. I'll have you fulfilled...
[It's a desire he wants to see to actualization. He wants to fuck Emet-Selch so much that he feels it for days, wants to fill him so thoroughly that it's indecent. He wants the reminder of him to be worn in and on his body, and if his Bonded craved his come, if he craved this use and his body, Mettaton would be the best equipped to handle those desires.
Even as his kisses resume, so too do his hips continue a rhythmic, deep rocking, feeling with more definition and prominence the way his lover's body tightens around his cock and pulls upon the head of him. He doesn't hold back a moan to demonstrate his pleasure at it all, turning tender kisses into purely indulgent ones, open-mouthed and without restriction. Tongue, teeth, the backdrop of a heavy cock slipping and dragging along Emet-Selch so deep inside, feeling the squeeze of him firm and tight along his shaft with each pass. Rolling thrusts turn into deepening curls of his abdomen, something that requires no muscle at all to perform as he shoves the tip of his erection against his Bonded with enough deliberation and direction to pull a gasp from him, a shudder, a desperate kiss.
Boiled down, these sensations with this intensity registers as intimacy to Mettaton, too. This is something he could only achieve with Emet-Selch, and he adores this company, this willing offering of each other and how readily they take to each other's bodies kissing and spreading their legs, fondling their erections and biting necks, groping and touching and enjoying each other's use and pleasure. Like this, he's sure Emet-Selch will only get a rush off of the Puca's use and pleasure in taking Emet-Selch's body. But they also loved each other, saw to it that each of them took delight in their use and pleasure... And when they wanted something, the other would see to that desire in full, an excessive catering to each other that it ends up becoming a mutual want.
Who could match him better? Who would want to be filled so thoroughly by Mettaton but his lover? Emet-Selch just told him all of the ways he wanted him, and Mettaton wanted to please. He wants... him, terribly.
Already, he massages his cock on Emet-Selch's body, rubbing and kneading the glans and the shaft both against the tensing of the man beneath him. He sighs and trembles at the sensation, forced to interrupt their kiss with how overwhelmingly wonderful it feels; he soaks in every minute fire of sensation, the way it registers, and just what he needs to do to achieve it. That he was already stretched to fit Mettaton is another point of pleasure, that he found his length buried inside of him even as he stiffened another. He can't get enough of him.
For a moment, Mettaton stops kissing Emet-Selch on his own: his tongue is withdrawn and his lips remain pressed so gently to Emet-Selch's, a shuddering, heated exhalation escaping his body, betraying immense heat within. His gaze, though not visible to Emet-Selch this close, is heavy: while he thrusts, while Emet-Selch's fingers remain against the blackened fur along his back, he invites Emet-Selch to dedicate himself to kissing, some outlet for this sort of intimate pleasure. But in case he finds himself wanting direction, Mettaton smiles, speaking amidst thrusts that rock their bodies.]
Kiss me.
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Mettaton breaks it for speech, and Emet-Selch is left dizzied again as he resumes breathing. Again, there was the satisfaction of praise, of pleasing. It was an unfamiliar thing still, and felt... indulgent, somehow. To have some promise of being fulfilled, and the ability to fulfill in turn. And he knew as well of their desire to please one another, of his lover's interest in providing what he wanted- and how so convenient it was that their desires matched so thoroughly. That their want for each other's bodies manifested like this, that their taste for it was so similar. To be taken by the same imagery didn't surprise him, but it gratified all the same, and he shivered still at the thought of it, of the memory of feeling thick, white rivulets trailing down his thighs where his lover could admire them. Where his body was reduced to two statuses: in the process of being fucked, or in allowing the aftermath to spill down his legs for the sake of inspiring more fucking.
They could indulge each other, and indulge in one another. A thought in itself to heat.
And satisfaction again, at the rocking of their bodies, of the kisses they were locked in once more. Two places their bodies could slickly join, warm and loving and demanding all the same. It was good that Mettaton wasn't expecting more speech from him for now, and better that he could use his lips and mouth for something else, a different way of pleasing them both than through words. Another show of devotion, making up for the weakness of his throat.
It was a closeness remarkable, accomplished by bodies, but made possible through emotion. Every push of hips felt like an affirmation of it; every bit of give his body provided confirmed it. Every shudder and sound held them that little bit tighter, both so very vulnerable to each other and simultaneously secure.
Mettaton keeps his lips to his, but pauses in his kissing. Emet-Selch similarly pauses, opening his eyes for a moment- even if all he can see is a bit of dark hair, too close for any detail. Too close for anything outside of Mettaton to even exist, which was exactly as it should be. His eyes close again as his body is continuously rolled back into the bed, worked over by his lover's erection. Hard drags that he couldn't begin to get enough of, with a thickness and shape that felt just right for him. The robot's 'breath' against his face was a certain sign of the yet greater heat that must lay within him- an exhalation that would've enticed him into kissing him further, even had be gone without Mettaton's direction.
But it's an order given that he has no problem complying with; once again their desires matched. Leaning up against his lips, it's a soft, damp touch, from both a moment of his own exhalation against him, and more so by the stroke of tongue. Not that there wasn't already a sharing of saliva on the both of them, but it's a quick renewing of the substance. Taking Mettaton's lower lip between his own, he runs his tongue along it, sucks on it, allows teeth to press and occasionally to nip.
It's only let go of to allow his own tongue to slip into his mouth, licking and tasting him, stroking against the idol's. Devoting himself to capturing his mouth, the Ascian stubbornly attempts to steal his breath from him, as though that were something physically possible to achieve. And in the process his own is lost, abandoned, ignored in favor of delving past his lover's lips, burying himself in kisses. Even were his own lip not already sore, swollen from being bitten, all of this attention would've been enough to do so, but his lips being tender just meant that he could feel each kiss that much more strongly. His arms wrap further around him.
Though he can never find time to breathe normally (and can never remember to), an occasional soft gasp occurs regardless, still with wet lips pressed to Mettaton's, in reaction to a particular drag of his cock or another, a stroke of his length that felt particularly intense. But each accidental breath is only followed by a more determined kiss, not caring about the way their mouths slide together, or the steadily increasing mess and heat of it; he was in a position to kiss him, and Emet-Selch was going to make the most of it.]
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They do taste startlingly similar at this point, don't they? A thought to have his whole body seizing, interrupting his thrusting into a quick stutter of hips as he succumbs to a full-bodied tremor. This is a kiss he couldn't be more eager for, applied from beneath him, the control of it handed over to his Bonded.
And Mettaton allows him to continue, focusing on the tempo of his hips. They rock into Emet-Selch deeply, barely pulling out for the moment as he strokes his cock against the other man's body in such a way that he can feel him digging and rubbing along the underside of the glans — and if Mettaton focuses harder upon that stroke, upon this thrust, he finds he's pushing harder, forcing his lover back against the mattress with each thrust. And he finds it more erotic for it, to feel as though he's overpowering Emet-Selch during the act of pleasing himself... So why not continue?
Deep, firm thrusts hard enough to rock Emet-Selch into the bed only follow, and Mettaton succumbs to each intensifying kiss: his lips are licked, sucked, nipped; held between swollen and blood-tasting ones, and Emet-Selch treats his lips like they're his oxygen. They're still his oxygen, even when his lover is so overcome that he has to take a swallow of the authentic article. Who could blame him, when Mettaton's jostling his cock so much? Each thrust is something worth a soft sight from Mettaton as it is, his gaze hazy and eye half-lidded, dreamlike and desirous. He could be panting right now, he thought, from how much he wants Emet-Selch alone.
His lover's arms tighten around him: better for both the kiss, and Mettaton's thrusts.
Their kisses turn sloppier, saliva dragged across lips and cheeks and chin as they both attempt to capture each other's lips in an open-mouthed locking, one that is forced to be broken by gasps or moans from either of them. But Emet-Selch's grip upon Mettaton's back enables his stroke to change up: instead of the short dragging, the sensation of stroking the head of his cock repeatedly in one place, Mettaton switches to long, deep, firm thrusts. Full rolls of his hips, all of the passion to match Emet-Selch's kisses for him: a reward, but also because Mettaton can't help it, not when Emet-Selch captivates him so. Passion for passion, pleasure for pleasure.
This time, it's Mettaton who interrupts their kiss for a moment: a moan, airy and lost and loud, slips between their lips for Emet-Selch to capture in his. These full-bodied thrusts pull and treat the whole of his length both to his entrance and the sudden squeeze of his body, as though his lover became shocked with each intrusion of thick cock all over again.
Even as he speaks, he lets Emet-Selch continue to kiss him to his absolute pleasure and reverence.]
You're, mmm, so... so dedicated, Hades... It's a kiss to die for, you are— ahh...
[He enjoys the feeling of speech against kisses and between pants, between sucks and licks and nips of teeth and lips and tongue. And with these drags so pronounced, he feels so suddenly... thick, hard, engorged and needy, Emet-Selch's body once more providing a squeeze he could sigh in relief just to have. But Mettaton pants between kisses, moans into them, delights in being so inundated with the focus of lips to his own and the blinding pleasure of fucking his Bondeed, mounting him and filling him with a rigid, heavy cock that he stuffs him with in hearty passes, pronounced thrusts of his hip so as to remind him to always remember how swollen he'd made Mettaton's cock. How heavy he grows, laden with come to spill just for him.]
What... Ahh, do you think, beautiful? About my length... About this rhythm, so- so, firm, and hard, and deeper... Ah...
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