[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...
[It was always a pleasing moment, to realize he only tasted them rather than one or the other. A blending in the way other parts of their bodies were blended, as how their souls wanted to be blended, but were at least tied together. It was one more closing of distance, and whenever the Ascian claims Mettaton's mouth a bit more with his tongue, he knows he's claimed just as much by it in return.
Mettaton moans against his lips, and Emet-Selch swallows it down alongside air, and feels like he gains more from it than any gasp of oxygen could provide. And moments later he echoes the sound, returning it to him- though much reduced, as his body tenses, shudders, over the long, full drags of his lover's cock. An erection that's withdrawn almost entirely from his body- though not quite, fortunately. Whenever the glans gets close to his entrance he tightens especially hard around it, as though he could force him to stay, convince him back into the greater heat of his body. Where he could wrap around the whole of his girth in come-spread slickness, where he could provide an excellent place for his ejaculate to rest.
Face smeared with saliva and more than a few hints of blood, his lips remain parted as he pants, kissing, sucking, licking at whatever part of Mettaton's face he could reach. Sometimes there was the successful impact against lips, a sliding into his mouth and the wet heat the robot offered there, and sometimes he scraped off to the side, to bite his chin or mouth his jaw. All of it's made further disorganized by the interruption of attempted moans, attempted sounds of several kinds, from the treatment of his body, from the heaviness of the cock tightly fucking him. It was hard to imagine him being any harder, any more rigid, any hotter than this- a thickness his body yearned to receive; why else would it feel so strange to not have him there? Why else did he want to arch up in relief each time the sloped tip was pushed all the way inside, when Mettaton's hips were completely flush to his ass, when he could be stretched no further?
Not that he could arch much with Mettaton bearing down on him so hard, a restraint he only sought to encourage with the pull his arms and the hold of his legs. Not quite crushed into the bed, perhaps, but Emet-Selch could feel no chance of escape, no way of pulling free or back or to do anything other than take the cock Mettaton was fucking him with, in precisely the way that his lover intended. Any struggling only emphasized his own helplessness, and the robot's strength, his control of him- a thrilling thing, and something he fought only to feel with more intensity, his pulse almost uncomfortably loud.
So he could try and he could tense, and he could shudder more with each full penetration, each time he was stuffed back to capacity, the feeling such a sharp contrast to how he felt when he was nearly empty, when the swollen head was squeezed more by the muscle around his entrance rather than by the depths of his body. Both were sensations to leave him weak, were worth stealing his breath and speeding his heart, but there was a sense of being complete that only the fullness of his engorged length could provide him.
Every pass just lead Emet-Selch to wanting more of it, more of him, an endless thrusting and taking that he'd never have to lose, that he would always be able to feel. And failing that, then at least be left so aching and full of his release that he would have no choice but to be reminded of him. As with every swallow, the pain made him think of a thick erection blocking his throat, he wanted this soreness as well, the ache of muscles well-used.]
It's- you're perfect. [Once again, Mettaton was expecting speech, words that he deserved to have, and his roughened throat would just have to provide, rasped out despite how much it stung.] How- thick you are, I... I can feel you. Stretch me. With every- every push, you....
[Something that tries to be a whine struggles to emerge from his throat, but it fares no better than the rest of his voice, strangled off into something that sounds like a pleading murmur of his name, a rapturous incantation of it, as he pants against his face, rubbing his cheek against saliva-slick places, between ladening him with more wet kisses, more damp devotionals.]
[Each squeeze of his lover's body, whether it's to pull him back inside or to welcome his length thoroughly into the depths of his form, is the kind of sensation that purely suggests to Mettaton just how much Emet-Selch enjoys being so filled by him. It's an observation that precedes the Ascian's answer, one that has Mettaton swallowing even as he dives back in to feel his lover's kisses miss their mark and occasionally latch onto his lips, because what else did he want but this scalding passion between them?
Longer strokes of his cock that both fill him to the brim and deprive Emet-Selch of that fullness feel like the right choice, the perfect way to evoke such strong responses out of them both: each time he fills Emet-Selch completely, it pulls a cry from Mettaton, and a withdrawal earns a gasp as he feels Emet-Selch clenching around him, greedily drawing him in. Dutifully his lover kisses him as he asked, but there's so much else to interrupt them that it poses a challenge at all to maintain.
Nonetheless, that he would remain steadfast in his attempts to remain with lips locked (or at least, lips pressed to some point on Mettaton's face) is appreciated, and he can only smile into his attention.
But when Emet-Selch responds to Mettaton's inquiry, it has the same sort of thrilling effect of stroking his cock with fingers, offering such attention to his body merely by the force of words on a fragile breath. Mettaton can't even stifle a moan when he's made to focus on how he does stretch Emet-Selch... Pulling back, he feels so caught by the tightness of his lover's body, prohibiting him from detaching. But each slick, come-aided plunge within is pure bliss: Emet-Selch's body is made to part for a thick intrusion, but he doesn't do so without a consistent application of pressure all along his length, his entrance providing a final, far firmer squeeze around the base.
He is thick. He feels so appropriate for Emet-Selch's body, to fill him and fuck him, to stroke him and cause his lover to whine and call his name on a voice he barely has claim to anymore, a persistent reminder of how that's Mettaton's, too. And he chose to fill his throat and fuck him there, reducing his ability to even speak... A constant reminder of his thickness there, too, Mettaton's sure. Even while he applies himself to Emet-Selch like this, pounding him into the mattress to give him the attention he deserves for his worship with a heavy erection and deep, full strokes, Mettaton knows that Emet-Selch's thinking about the treatment of his throat. How could he not?
As natural as anything, even those murmurs that resemble his name are heard above all else, inciting the robot to push deep, to pay mind to the way he strokes against his lover's body.]
Hades...! Ah... You're g- You're so, right, and good...
[His mind is scattered, a sort of unnatural state for the robot — but one that's become natural every time he falls into Emet-Selch like this.
Hungrily, Mettaton dives away from Emet-Selch's lips to kiss feverishly and wetly along the Ascian's neck. Pressing kiss after kiss along his throat, he nearly groans from the delight of it all, focused on how much work this body put into accommodating and pleasing him — a sort of gratitude for his hard work, a pleasure found in the devotion Emet-Selch's paid to his body. He deserves it, he thought, kissing and sucking his throat with a ravenous appetite for his skin, listening to each plea and whine ends up strangled or rapturous both, all to the tune of his name. It's perfect, so perfect: Mettaton moans and teeths his throat as though prepared to tear it out, but he does nothing but lave him with love, skim him with teeth, suck into him kisses of similar starvation like he'd been waiting all this time just to take to Emet-Selch's body and to fill even himself with his form.
But the both of them are acutely aware that it's the best they can do, just short of tangling souls: their bodies could grow mussed and bloodied and they could sink whatever parts they had into the other, from teeth to tongue to cock, but they were always tied by soul and aching for more contact. They want more and more, and it shows in their feverish entwining. Mettaton kisses back up Emet-Selch's jaw, pressing with urgency against his lips even as he moans.
He's in utter bliss, the sounds of Emet-Selch's voice still echoing in his head while he imagines how full he'd become, how easily his Bonded lover will drip thick, rich come, and how it would unerringly force Mettaton to succumb to these base instincts. He would accost him each time, he would push him to the nearest surface, and he would end up filling him with his cock once more, another load of come to make up for anything he's lost. He knows Emet-Selch would only fall into him each time, rendered both wanting and weakened besides to his touch. Pressure builds in him, and his thrusts grow firmer, harder, the desire to feel Emet-Selch's body stroke him to release stronger and stronger.]
[Mettaton was so good to him; it was a clear kind of thought in the haze of lust and infatuation. Who else could cause him to feel this way, in both body and heart? Could be someone he could love like this, and could love him in return, despite... everything. Despite the world, despite himself- even as Emet-Selch pants, caught by the intense sensation offered by Mettaton's cock stroking so much of his body, by the smell of their sex and the heat of their union- he's aware most of all of how loved he felt, and how far he loved him.
...Being brought to this place, this world- in moments like these, when all else melted away, he could be almost grateful for it.
But suddenly, he couldn't hit Mettaton with his lips at all, when the man dives down to his throat instead. Neither a sound of protest nor approval get past the vague-vibration stage in his neck, but that was fine. Breathing more freely, if still not without pain (and certainly not without thinking about why it was uncomfortable), Emet-Selch tilts his head back, eyes closed. His face felt damp from saliva and blood, and his neck similarly so, and with the added warmth of a particularly-hot robot kissing and sucking at it. It wasn't unusual for the Ascian to offer him his neck when Mettaton found himself there, expose the vulnerable area to him without a second thought (even with the memory of him having bitten just a bit too hard that one time).
But in these sorts of moments, with Mettaton bearing the influence of the moons (however false), it felt a touch more primal than usual. That his lover refrained from tearing his throat open was his prerogative, and a sign of his mercy; that he decided to claim it instead with bruise and kiss was his right.
Emet-Selch wondered what his neck would look like when all was said and done (though done was a status he had a difficult time imagining). Claws had been sunk into it, it had been bruised, squeezed, mouthed, bitten, fucked. Even with the blood cleaned off, it would no doubt be a sight, a mix of colors decorated by scratches. Much like the rest of his body, but it was a natural point to receive particular focus, a natural place for a predator to hone in on- even if in this case, Mettaton only uses the opportunity to love on him, to spear him with affection alone, even while he was still busy spearing him with his cock.
It's inevitable too, when Mettaton moves back upward again, leaving hot kisses against his jaw, and even finding his lips once again for more of them. There was a desperation he could breathe in, a sense exuded by the robotic idol, and one that kept his own body taut, anticipation growing. Emet-Selch kisses him, sucks on his lip, bites and licks and pants and mutters soft things that might as well be his name. It might also just be encouraging, pleading noises, or an assent- a concurrence of need. Mettaton was so stiff, and how weighted his balls must be, just aching for the chance to empty himself once more, to flood him.
And he moans, low and indistinct against him, pushing into whatever thrusts he can, squeezing at Mettaton's cock with his body, as though he could pull from him his climax, drag it all from him again, dizzied all over again from the memory of the way it felt gushing out from him. Hot and thick and so much, but he would take it all.
Until Mettaton allowed it to spill over. And with that much in his body... if he did feel warm come dripping from him once more, Emet-Selch wondered if he'd find his own cock filling in response, that his body would be stirred past reason and made to ache from it all. It wouldn't surprise him, and something that he would sigh over if he had the space of mind to be exasperated with himself. Nevermind the injuries of his body, marks of tooth and claw, the loss of blood, his throat and ass fucked to the point of considerable and lingering tenderness, and the equally as considerable amount of come he's ended up containing (which was only an arousing thought rather than injurious one, actually)- his orgasms alone would exhaust him utterly. He'd collapse and still find himself wanting.
Not that he's thinking much on that, or on much of anything- not when Mettaton was rocking his body like this, pushing him ever harder into the bed with each long, full thrust of his hips. Not when he could barely even try kissing him in response, his press of lips fevered, parted, panting. His arms hold and hands drag and dig, and his body clenches around his swollen length with more need than deliberation, desperate to feel his lover in climax, to take his come, to know he was in ecstasy and be able to experience every moment of it. His incoherency endeared him terribly, and even in the heat of passions he felt so fond of him that he thought he could collapse from the weight of that feeling alone, meld into Mettaton's body never to emerge.
Kissing him harder, he licks and nuzzles and breathes him in, determined to absorb every sound, to be as close as it was possible for them to be, to take his own satisfaction in witnessing his lover brought to rapture.]
[Mettaton could nearly throw his head back with the cry he makes, loud and clear as soon as Emet-Selch clenches around his length and he draws his body close with arms. That was enough; this is the push he needed to lose his mind.
Because he can only feel his lover's want for him. He can only feel his arms wrapped around his body, the clutching of fingers and the tension of muscle as Emet-Selch tries to draw him in not only for stability's sake, but to experience Mettaton's ecstasy with him. He has more than enough to share, finding himself gripping back down on Emet-Selch's shoulders even to brace himself from it all. A sensation he couldn't get enough of is this level of stimulation, something that he'd seek over and over in Emet-Selch's presence... And there had always been a level of this intensity between them. Fleshed out and shaped by love, it was something now that Mettaton's hooked on. He didn't plan to let go this time. Not for any reason.
Desperation is something they share between each other in this moment as Mettaton shifts his cock, rubbing its underside deeply along Emet-Selch's body in his pleasure. And this minute shift in access does bring his neck to arch, his body fighting between urges to remain lip-locked with his lover and to express his delight. He ends up slipping away from his lips, his own parting in yet another rapturous cry as he pounds into Emet-Selch, hard and fast and with every shred of effort his body could put into moving. Jerking his own cock, pulling the head of him sharply along his lover's body for the preferred, perfect stroke of the moment, which was precisely whichever he was achieving best with his Bonded's current position: beneath him, hips elevated and surrounded, nested in place by pillows so that he could belong to the Monster.
He can tell Emet-Selch's clenching is vying for him to spread his release. To fit his cock as deeply as he can and spill over, something Mettaton immediately prepares himself for when he feels that urgency for climax burning him alive. A few sharp pounds of his hips become his cock sunken deep, curling into his Bonded once more and continuing to pound, the sound of their bodies colliding only a backdrop to breath and gasps, moans and attempts at answering Emet-Selch's messy rendition of Mettaton's name with his.
There aren't any thoughts for Mettaton to spare toward much of anything save for all of the ways he's seen Emet-Selch, from guarded and cold to aching and exhausted, pleasured and... the rare smile. It's not at all hard for these firm final thrusts to yield his release with the size of Emet-Selch's want for him, and he feels come spurt and fill his lover with the root of his cock damming his body, hips firm and flush to his form in his greed. How good it feels to spill over into him, his hot load engulfing the head of his cock even as he's depositing it deeply into his lover. And the sheer relief is in his voice, the pleasure found in succumbing: all of that heat and pressure, the weight of his cock, foisted off upon Emet-Selch for him to hold and, inevitably, leak out upon his body as another sort of mark.
And for him to inevitably be made to lap it back up. Mettaton anticipates it all even as he finds himself in the throes of his climax, hips rocking short and hard, ensuring his release finds itself planted as deeply as he can manage.
...The idol's realized he's closed his eye, but as soon as he makes this notice, as soon as he finds himself being milked for come post-coitus, he opens it again. He fixes his love-drunk gaze upon Emet-Selch from above him, moans more slipping from his lips as he's stroked for his release until he couldn't possibly come any more of that milky, viscous fluid in this instant. But each pull along his length could still force him to moan, his voice nowhere near lost to him and pleasure easy to obtain at his Bonded's ministrations.
However, Mettaton gives way to collapsing into Emet-Selch, pressing together their cheeks, leaning into him for rest after so much effort. He'd be catching breath if he had any, but he still somehow feels breathless, body trembling after being so spent and used and aching hard, pressure finally released in the form of a heavy orgasm.
The robot can barely speak, but sound, soft moans and the sound of kisses still attached, falling into him with his cock still buried in his body, those are things he can manage. He nuzzles his cheek into his Bonded lover's, shuddering pronounced as weakened moans slip his throat, ears askew and incapable of emoting properly.]
[Even when Mettaton does end up pulling away from his lips in order to cry out, his head arching back- Emet-Selch can't find it in himself for particular regret. Not when his eyes could open and it afforded him a vision of his Bonded instead in the throes of his release, in the moments directly preceding it, so he could observe him closely for as long as possible. A sight that was well-worth watching, and imagery he knew he'd find himself returning to, all to stoke further yearning for him, a desire to seek him out all to watch him in his rapture over and over again. It wouldn't be the worst way to spend his days, milking climax after climax from his Bonded monster, demanding his come from him any time he wanted a taste of it, or to watch the heavy fluid drip from his body, or to feel it deposited with satisfying depth.
And it's an observation to correspond with all that Emet-Selch could feel, with every shove of hips and stroke of cock enough to leave him gasping on their own, particularly when Mettaton digs his hands into his shoulders again, further securing him to the bed, holding him steady as he relentlessly pounds into him. Pleasures himself on his body with quick, hard drags of his length, rubbing himself off to his inevitable conclusion. Mettaton was curled over him, desperate and moaning, nearly incoherent in his cries, and Emet-Selch could only hold on, coax and encourage, provide him the whole of himself to claim, to rest in. He would take every part of him and protect him.
It wasn't unusual for him to think of Mettaton as beautiful, and this was another one of those moments when it struck him. Not only in appearance (though of course he couldn't neglect that point either, especially not with the blood and saliva at his face and chest, that surely stuck to his claws and fingers; even the mix of come that he knew must be stuck and tangled into the fur around his thighs only added to the dark eroticism of him). But in his movement as well, the way his body closed in, the way a form that lacked muscles (mostly) could be made to look tense, taut. Prone and determined and lost in him. And in voice not least- given not even to words but to sounds, unreserved in all manners of expression. Mettaton was giving him all of himself, and Emet-Selch couldn't get enough of watching him, and in taking everything that he offered.
When passion crests, it's unmistakable. Both in Mettaton's own reaction to it- that in itself stilling his breath, and nearly causing his own eyes to close- as well as the burst of heat inundating as deeply as his lover's erection could reach. Their bodies were as closely connected as they could be, and yet struggled to push even closer, to join even harder- but at least there was this marker of his ejaculate to further bind them. A recognition of their efforts, rich and thick. Something that belonged with him, either in or on his body- and he'd wear every drop that Mettaton could produce.
Eventually it fades, and Mettaton collapses bodily onto him, pressing their faces together, and only then does Emet-Selch remember to breathe. It's a shiver of a breath as his eyes also close, and the Ascian rubs his cheek back against his momentarily-spent lover. From holding on, gripping tightly into fur, he forces his fingers to relax, to change instead to slow strokes against his back, as though to sooth. His arms still squeeze him a bit tighter for a few moments (that he was hugging a fur-covered metal form with no give doesn't even register; this was his lover's body and how he felt, this was normal), as do his legs, before relaxing back.
His throat wants to form similarly soothing, or at least appreciative noises, but nothing emerges, and every time he swallows is a reminder of why. So he nuzzles and pets instead, and listens to Mettaton's own voice reduced, though as the result of excessive pleasure rather than damage. It was difficult to not keep moaning quietly with him, both from the sympathetic aftershocks of his Bonded's orgasm, as well as from how hot he felt internally, how utterly full, Mettaton's come soaking them both.
From deliberately squeezing him, his body settles for simply holding his length from base to tip, tight and slick and as intimate as their bodies could be. The both of them warm, loving, protective.]
--Love you.
[Rawness or otherwise, it's something worth rumbling through his throat, words followed with additional firm nudges of his cheek against Mettaton's.]
[His attention feels trained upon the way Emet-Selch's body wraps around his length. But could he be blamed? That's where the action was happening, his desire to fill his Bonded with his much-needed release immense, and it clouded his mind with obsession. Mettaton is reduced to sensation once more, eye closed and everything about the form beneath him soft. Even the arms and legs that wrap about him are soft, even as they squeeze him just like Emet-Selch's body squeezes his cock, all of it soft but tensing around him in an embrace. Even around his length, he felt, it had been a long, affectionate gesture on Emet-Selch's part, to squeeze and massage his length to his orgasm. ...Mettaton is overcome with a temporary torpor, letting the entirety of his form slacken as though feeling his spirit itself give his body up to Emet-Selch's, protected and safe and spent. He sinks into that squeezing of arms and legs, even as Emet-Selch relaxes, holding him in every way possible.
He nestles himself against Emet-Selch's neck, the side of his head against his lover's. In this state of repose, he's able to take stock of his own body: the way fingers curl around shoulders, the smell of Emet-Selch's bloodied neck and the accompaniment of sweat and come. The way his ears lay flat against the mounds of pillows behind Emet-Selch, the sensation of them chest-to-chest with a layer of diamonds between. Hips flush to his ass, cock buried within him and still hard, surrounded by the heat of come and body — a rare area of temperature sensitivity, and something overly sensitive besides. Still on his knees, still wearing his heels (of course he'd take survey of those long legs of his, important as they are), but prone to collapse if he weren't relying on the anchoring of his Bonded around his hips, the way they find themselves combined like this. How odd, to feel weakened like this, even momentarily... He's wrapped up and held, flush otherwise to the receptive figure of his lover.
This close to his throat, it would be impossible to miss that Emet-Selch's made any attempt at words, and his effort is so clear besides. All over again Mettaton's dazed by two simple words that mean so much. Heat exhaled against his neck, he can only smile, his heart heavy with adoration for Emet-Selch in such a way that feels entirely pleasant. ...Words. How was he meant to convey his reply to a sentiment so beautiful?
He didn't need to say anything, he thought. Everything about him in body said as much: he loves Emet-Selch. But even Emet-Selch's manner suggests as much, and he even fought against a throat so raw that speaking at all would be a chore... An overture. Something worth comparison on Mettaton's part. He sighs a dreamy sigh.]
I love you... to the moons and stars. Every moon, and every star. [Not just Aefenglom's two, plus the blanket of stars difficult to see past those moons. He will love him to all of them, and he will like it.
Mettaton attempts to right himself, and it's a labored task. Lifting his head after falling so lax, he's only able to press their forehead's together, as if that helped them see eye-to-eye at all instead of letting synthetic, dark hair fall over Emet-Selch's good eye as Mettaton stares into his scarred, unusable one.] And... beyond even that.
[Too close for vision though they may be, Mettaton wears a smile. It's a smile unmistakable both in sight and sound, and in touch, as he leans closer to press his lips to Emet-Selch's in a gentle kiss. If feral, if on a vanity high, Mettaton could evidently be placated momentarily by sex, finding a state of calm composure even he relishes during such swings into madness and fever. Clarity offered by an outlet for energy and reverent praise, atop the clarity offered by his Witch's sacrifice of blood for his cause. He's stable, relieved, pleasured and given all he desires.
Sated, momentarily, as he is, Mettaton speaks low and slow against Emet-Selch's lips — as though Emet-Selch could reply to him by mouth even devoid of sound, and he'd be able to pick it up through touch.]
And how do you fare, dear...?
[Mettaton doesn't need at all to ask if he'd merely endured that, nor if he enjoyed it. He knew the answer. Emet-Selch took pleasure in being used and filled by him, and that knowledge in itself is pleasure to the robot. But of course he'd enjoy being so filled by Mettaton. Even without a set of cursed jewelry, he would think that way just as strongly. It would be a pleasure for anyone, but for his Bonded... it was even more special, he thought.]
[Even if Mettaton had no breath to catch, no pulse to reach a more moderate tempo, the awareness of him being overcome, a robotic body made to pause, however briefly, was something that the Ascian still found himself enchanted by. Stroking his body, head tilted against his- Emet-Selch was content, the feeling quiet and deep. There was a kind of timelessness to the moment, a feeling as though nothing could ever possibly intrude on it, on them. How could anything bear to interrupt them like this, lost in each other's arms and bodies and souls? If a sudden onlooker were given the immense privilege of seeing them at this instant, their tenderness and love would be so apparent that every record of blood and torn skin could never be misconstrued as anything but an extension of their devotion to one another.
And Mettaton's reply has him still, breath pausing, feeling as though even his heart is made to falter, his own body to weaken further. Mettaton was often effusive with his words, with speaking in general, and it was something Emet-Selch had come around to appreciating in him. But this was sweeter and vivid both, and the kind of thing that leaves him with a flicker of a smile of his own, deeply touched.
It didn't matter if Mettaton's efforts to press their foreheads together only meant that their good eyes couldn't meet, could see as little as their blind or unfinished ones. He leans up into it, nudges their noses together.]
All of them...?
[It would've been a quiet murmur if it could've been a murmur to begin with; instead it's only mouthed against his lips. But it seems to have been a statement to both soften and warm him, and the Ascian continues his response with a kiss, just as gentle. Both in an answer to Mettaton's own kiss as well as adding his own, gentle brushes of lips and unmistakable tenderness. Inescapable affection, the sort of thing Emet-Selch thought he could wrap around him as a shield, as though Mettaton weren't already enveloping him so thoroughly (and as though he weren't enveloping him in turn). But it was a feeling he thought he could return to in future, that could provide a kind of comfort even when they were apart, a memory of this warmth.
Though at the moment he couldn't imagine ever being apart from him, not when he was so close, when he had his lips and his cock and the rest of his body resting on him or within him. Not when he had his feelings- so very, very clear, and the kind of sentiment he still shivers at accepting. At- reciprocating.
But when he could feel Mettaton's own smile at his lips, could feel his momentary calm and satisfaction through Bond, it felt the smallest bit less impossible. Above all, it felt worth it.
Mettaton asks how he is, and Emet-Selch pauses to consider his thoughts, if not to gather his voice. There's little sound at all in his reply, a bare whisper to accompany the movement of his lips against his Bonded's.]
--Better for this. For you.
[Both from the process of being fucked, of still carrying Mettaton's erection inside his body- and from just remaining in his company. Bitten and clawed up, his body repeatedly used, spent and weakened and sore, soreness that would only increase once he had a chance to cool down- yet feeling far improved from his original condition. In general, he had been feeling less alone in Mettaton's presence, but it was an awareness emphasized with his lover's markings writ so starkly upon his body. All of his senses carried Mettaton's essence in them; how could he be completely alone when this was so clear?]
[Mettaton giggles, light and airy as he reclaims use of his body. Shifting slightly, cuddling closer to his Bonded, he even nuzzles into his lips for a firmer, brighter kiss, pleased by his report of his status. And it is pleasing to know that his lover's been made to feel better for... all of this. Their closeness and sex, their relationship — and forget the cherry atop the sundae when Mettaton could overturn the entire dish with his existence alone. He would agree that he's a source of betterment and satisfaction, even when he tempts.
And even though he's possessed of his energy in manner, that contentment remains. There is nothing to suggest feeling crushed by the notion of their love, only the energy he feels for being with Emet-Selch, for holding him beneath his body and being held in return. A lightheartedness, adoring and rejuvenated by their union. All he can think about is how Emet-Selch had said something similar earlier, hadn't he?
That's why it tickles him to hear it again, and his smile's broad and reaches his cheeks when he presses his lips to his again.]
Better? You'll just keep feeling better and better at this rate, then. What a perfect pick-me-up!
[Just have sex to feel alleviate some of that gloom and to feel connected in ways they only dream of it! Mettaton finds this arrangement to be most agreeable. He's not come down from this last round, still in more of a dreamy, pleasant state as he sighs against Emet-Selch, amused by his most recent response. But he squirms still, his erection only having softened somewhat by this point: still filling, still terribly sensitive, and the heat of Emet-Selch's body not at all diminishing to Mettaton's notice. He's forced to sigh a stream of heat.
But he mellows for a moment and draws back to meet his eye, gold like his own, even as his hair curtains their vision on the side. He adds on, his laughter no longer taking center stage — even though he remains pleased by Emet-Selch's enjoyment of them together. He enjoys them, too; his voice is softer, and with the same intimacy he'd give if they were still speaking lip to lip.]
... All of them. Even the celestial bodies beyond our comprehension. It's the only way to explain how starstruck I feel...!
[And lovestruck, but he feels that's encapsulated in this: it's about his love, after all. He swoops back down to steal a kiss, fervent and open-mouthed as he gives Emet-Selch's lip a short suck before releasing him with a satisfying smack of lips. On his knees and the bends of his arms, his body flush along Emet-Selch's body with his hips in the air, he feels like he's in the sort of position to pounce, filling him with an even greater sort of puckish energy, and his dark-furred ears regain their will to stand — even if they lean to the left somewhat, both of them large enough to obey gravity if not fully regained control of.
... Like this, Emet-Selch couldn't feel alone, and they couldn't be parted. Wouldn't there be some way to defy any fate that wished to return them to their homes? Mettaton can't begin to fathom where home is anymore but here. He was in the transition of uprooting his life, besides... All of monsterkind was packing up and heading for lands brighter and air fresher when Mettaton found himself here, in the tech-devoid Aefenglom as a brand new species of robot-rabbit hybrid.
It was... unwanted, at first. He had so much to look forward to at home. And when he finds himself there again, he's sure he'll march on and take the human's surface by storm. But here...
Mettaton has senses. He has greater touch, taste, and smell. He knows real sleep and dreams. He lost the magic that makes up his soul, he has a bunch of strange instinctual inclinations, but he gained the ability to shapeshift. It's changed everything for the robot. No longer would he need to rely on the constraints of his body when he could achieve whatever sort of form he liked, be they mortal or simply embellished. Here, even, he's paying good attention to his own cock that he has stuffed in his lover, still sealing his body where he'd filled him with come with a thick glans, feeling the warmth of him squeezing along that length that wasn't there before. And he can even attain the body of a human, no matter how temporary...
So this comes with the drawback of potential ferality, so he requires a Bond to remain steady. So what? In the end, he'd also gained... this. These friends and this man, this one, who he'd never have met if he didn't come here.
Mettaton remembers they discussed whether they'd return to their worlds on multiple occasions, and he feels right now... that he, too, is grateful for this. All of it. So terribly grateful, even when he's lost other aspects of his life to the relocation.
He smiles down upon Emet-Selch and wordlessly curls back into him, but nuzzling noses this time as he closes his eye. Warmth suffuses him entirely, glad for all of this.]
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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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Mettaton moans against his lips, and Emet-Selch swallows it down alongside air, and feels like he gains more from it than any gasp of oxygen could provide. And moments later he echoes the sound, returning it to him- though much reduced, as his body tenses, shudders, over the long, full drags of his lover's cock. An erection that's withdrawn almost entirely from his body- though not quite, fortunately. Whenever the glans gets close to his entrance he tightens especially hard around it, as though he could force him to stay, convince him back into the greater heat of his body. Where he could wrap around the whole of his girth in come-spread slickness, where he could provide an excellent place for his ejaculate to rest.
Face smeared with saliva and more than a few hints of blood, his lips remain parted as he pants, kissing, sucking, licking at whatever part of Mettaton's face he could reach. Sometimes there was the successful impact against lips, a sliding into his mouth and the wet heat the robot offered there, and sometimes he scraped off to the side, to bite his chin or mouth his jaw. All of it's made further disorganized by the interruption of attempted moans, attempted sounds of several kinds, from the treatment of his body, from the heaviness of the cock tightly fucking him. It was hard to imagine him being any harder, any more rigid, any hotter than this- a thickness his body yearned to receive; why else would it feel so strange to not have him there? Why else did he want to arch up in relief each time the sloped tip was pushed all the way inside, when Mettaton's hips were completely flush to his ass, when he could be stretched no further?
Not that he could arch much with Mettaton bearing down on him so hard, a restraint he only sought to encourage with the pull his arms and the hold of his legs. Not quite crushed into the bed, perhaps, but Emet-Selch could feel no chance of escape, no way of pulling free or back or to do anything other than take the cock Mettaton was fucking him with, in precisely the way that his lover intended. Any struggling only emphasized his own helplessness, and the robot's strength, his control of him- a thrilling thing, and something he fought only to feel with more intensity, his pulse almost uncomfortably loud.
So he could try and he could tense, and he could shudder more with each full penetration, each time he was stuffed back to capacity, the feeling such a sharp contrast to how he felt when he was nearly empty, when the swollen head was squeezed more by the muscle around his entrance rather than by the depths of his body. Both were sensations to leave him weak, were worth stealing his breath and speeding his heart, but there was a sense of being complete that only the fullness of his engorged length could provide him.
Every pass just lead Emet-Selch to wanting more of it, more of him, an endless thrusting and taking that he'd never have to lose, that he would always be able to feel. And failing that, then at least be left so aching and full of his release that he would have no choice but to be reminded of him. As with every swallow, the pain made him think of a thick erection blocking his throat, he wanted this soreness as well, the ache of muscles well-used.]
It's- you're perfect. [Once again, Mettaton was expecting speech, words that he deserved to have, and his roughened throat would just have to provide, rasped out despite how much it stung.] How- thick you are, I... I can feel you. Stretch me. With every- every push, you....
[Something that tries to be a whine struggles to emerge from his throat, but it fares no better than the rest of his voice, strangled off into something that sounds like a pleading murmur of his name, a rapturous incantation of it, as he pants against his face, rubbing his cheek against saliva-slick places, between ladening him with more wet kisses, more damp devotionals.]
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Longer strokes of his cock that both fill him to the brim and deprive Emet-Selch of that fullness feel like the right choice, the perfect way to evoke such strong responses out of them both: each time he fills Emet-Selch completely, it pulls a cry from Mettaton, and a withdrawal earns a gasp as he feels Emet-Selch clenching around him, greedily drawing him in. Dutifully his lover kisses him as he asked, but there's so much else to interrupt them that it poses a challenge at all to maintain.
Nonetheless, that he would remain steadfast in his attempts to remain with lips locked (or at least, lips pressed to some point on Mettaton's face) is appreciated, and he can only smile into his attention.
But when Emet-Selch responds to Mettaton's inquiry, it has the same sort of thrilling effect of stroking his cock with fingers, offering such attention to his body merely by the force of words on a fragile breath. Mettaton can't even stifle a moan when he's made to focus on how he does stretch Emet-Selch... Pulling back, he feels so caught by the tightness of his lover's body, prohibiting him from detaching. But each slick, come-aided plunge within is pure bliss: Emet-Selch's body is made to part for a thick intrusion, but he doesn't do so without a consistent application of pressure all along his length, his entrance providing a final, far firmer squeeze around the base.
He is thick. He feels so appropriate for Emet-Selch's body, to fill him and fuck him, to stroke him and cause his lover to whine and call his name on a voice he barely has claim to anymore, a persistent reminder of how that's Mettaton's, too. And he chose to fill his throat and fuck him there, reducing his ability to even speak... A constant reminder of his thickness there, too, Mettaton's sure. Even while he applies himself to Emet-Selch like this, pounding him into the mattress to give him the attention he deserves for his worship with a heavy erection and deep, full strokes, Mettaton knows that Emet-Selch's thinking about the treatment of his throat. How could he not?
As natural as anything, even those murmurs that resemble his name are heard above all else, inciting the robot to push deep, to pay mind to the way he strokes against his lover's body.]
Hades...! Ah... You're g- You're so, right, and good...
[His mind is scattered, a sort of unnatural state for the robot — but one that's become natural every time he falls into Emet-Selch like this.
Hungrily, Mettaton dives away from Emet-Selch's lips to kiss feverishly and wetly along the Ascian's neck. Pressing kiss after kiss along his throat, he nearly groans from the delight of it all, focused on how much work this body put into accommodating and pleasing him — a sort of gratitude for his hard work, a pleasure found in the devotion Emet-Selch's paid to his body. He deserves it, he thought, kissing and sucking his throat with a ravenous appetite for his skin, listening to each plea and whine ends up strangled or rapturous both, all to the tune of his name. It's perfect, so perfect: Mettaton moans and teeths his throat as though prepared to tear it out, but he does nothing but lave him with love, skim him with teeth, suck into him kisses of similar starvation like he'd been waiting all this time just to take to Emet-Selch's body and to fill even himself with his form.
But the both of them are acutely aware that it's the best they can do, just short of tangling souls: their bodies could grow mussed and bloodied and they could sink whatever parts they had into the other, from teeth to tongue to cock, but they were always tied by soul and aching for more contact. They want more and more, and it shows in their feverish entwining. Mettaton kisses back up Emet-Selch's jaw, pressing with urgency against his lips even as he moans.
He's in utter bliss, the sounds of Emet-Selch's voice still echoing in his head while he imagines how full he'd become, how easily his Bonded lover will drip thick, rich come, and how it would unerringly force Mettaton to succumb to these base instincts. He would accost him each time, he would push him to the nearest surface, and he would end up filling him with his cock once more, another load of come to make up for anything he's lost. He knows Emet-Selch would only fall into him each time, rendered both wanting and weakened besides to his touch. Pressure builds in him, and his thrusts grow firmer, harder, the desire to feel Emet-Selch's body stroke him to release stronger and stronger.]
You... I... I need...!
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...Being brought to this place, this world- in moments like these, when all else melted away, he could be almost grateful for it.
But suddenly, he couldn't hit Mettaton with his lips at all, when the man dives down to his throat instead. Neither a sound of protest nor approval get past the vague-vibration stage in his neck, but that was fine. Breathing more freely, if still not without pain (and certainly not without thinking about why it was uncomfortable), Emet-Selch tilts his head back, eyes closed. His face felt damp from saliva and blood, and his neck similarly so, and with the added warmth of a particularly-hot robot kissing and sucking at it. It wasn't unusual for the Ascian to offer him his neck when Mettaton found himself there, expose the vulnerable area to him without a second thought (even with the memory of him having bitten just a bit too hard that one time).
But in these sorts of moments, with Mettaton bearing the influence of the moons (however false), it felt a touch more primal than usual. That his lover refrained from tearing his throat open was his prerogative, and a sign of his mercy; that he decided to claim it instead with bruise and kiss was his right.
Emet-Selch wondered what his neck would look like when all was said and done (though done was a status he had a difficult time imagining). Claws had been sunk into it, it had been bruised, squeezed, mouthed, bitten, fucked. Even with the blood cleaned off, it would no doubt be a sight, a mix of colors decorated by scratches. Much like the rest of his body, but it was a natural point to receive particular focus, a natural place for a predator to hone in on- even if in this case, Mettaton only uses the opportunity to love on him, to spear him with affection alone, even while he was still busy spearing him with his cock.
It's inevitable too, when Mettaton moves back upward again, leaving hot kisses against his jaw, and even finding his lips once again for more of them. There was a desperation he could breathe in, a sense exuded by the robotic idol, and one that kept his own body taut, anticipation growing. Emet-Selch kisses him, sucks on his lip, bites and licks and pants and mutters soft things that might as well be his name. It might also just be encouraging, pleading noises, or an assent- a concurrence of need. Mettaton was so stiff, and how weighted his balls must be, just aching for the chance to empty himself once more, to flood him.
And he moans, low and indistinct against him, pushing into whatever thrusts he can, squeezing at Mettaton's cock with his body, as though he could pull from him his climax, drag it all from him again, dizzied all over again from the memory of the way it felt gushing out from him. Hot and thick and so much, but he would take it all.
Until Mettaton allowed it to spill over. And with that much in his body... if he did feel warm come dripping from him once more, Emet-Selch wondered if he'd find his own cock filling in response, that his body would be stirred past reason and made to ache from it all. It wouldn't surprise him, and something that he would sigh over if he had the space of mind to be exasperated with himself. Nevermind the injuries of his body, marks of tooth and claw, the loss of blood, his throat and ass fucked to the point of considerable and lingering tenderness, and the equally as considerable amount of come he's ended up containing (which was only an arousing thought rather than injurious one, actually)- his orgasms alone would exhaust him utterly. He'd collapse and still find himself wanting.
Not that he's thinking much on that, or on much of anything- not when Mettaton was rocking his body like this, pushing him ever harder into the bed with each long, full thrust of his hips. Not when he could barely even try kissing him in response, his press of lips fevered, parted, panting. His arms hold and hands drag and dig, and his body clenches around his swollen length with more need than deliberation, desperate to feel his lover in climax, to take his come, to know he was in ecstasy and be able to experience every moment of it. His incoherency endeared him terribly, and even in the heat of passions he felt so fond of him that he thought he could collapse from the weight of that feeling alone, meld into Mettaton's body never to emerge.
Kissing him harder, he licks and nuzzles and breathes him in, determined to absorb every sound, to be as close as it was possible for them to be, to take his own satisfaction in witnessing his lover brought to rapture.]
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Because he can only feel his lover's want for him. He can only feel his arms wrapped around his body, the clutching of fingers and the tension of muscle as Emet-Selch tries to draw him in not only for stability's sake, but to experience Mettaton's ecstasy with him. He has more than enough to share, finding himself gripping back down on Emet-Selch's shoulders even to brace himself from it all. A sensation he couldn't get enough of is this level of stimulation, something that he'd seek over and over in Emet-Selch's presence... And there had always been a level of this intensity between them. Fleshed out and shaped by love, it was something now that Mettaton's hooked on. He didn't plan to let go this time. Not for any reason.
Desperation is something they share between each other in this moment as Mettaton shifts his cock, rubbing its underside deeply along Emet-Selch's body in his pleasure. And this minute shift in access does bring his neck to arch, his body fighting between urges to remain lip-locked with his lover and to express his delight. He ends up slipping away from his lips, his own parting in yet another rapturous cry as he pounds into Emet-Selch, hard and fast and with every shred of effort his body could put into moving. Jerking his own cock, pulling the head of him sharply along his lover's body for the preferred, perfect stroke of the moment, which was precisely whichever he was achieving best with his Bonded's current position: beneath him, hips elevated and surrounded, nested in place by pillows so that he could belong to the Monster.
He can tell Emet-Selch's clenching is vying for him to spread his release. To fit his cock as deeply as he can and spill over, something Mettaton immediately prepares himself for when he feels that urgency for climax burning him alive. A few sharp pounds of his hips become his cock sunken deep, curling into his Bonded once more and continuing to pound, the sound of their bodies colliding only a backdrop to breath and gasps, moans and attempts at answering Emet-Selch's messy rendition of Mettaton's name with his.
There aren't any thoughts for Mettaton to spare toward much of anything save for all of the ways he's seen Emet-Selch, from guarded and cold to aching and exhausted, pleasured and... the rare smile. It's not at all hard for these firm final thrusts to yield his release with the size of Emet-Selch's want for him, and he feels come spurt and fill his lover with the root of his cock damming his body, hips firm and flush to his form in his greed. How good it feels to spill over into him, his hot load engulfing the head of his cock even as he's depositing it deeply into his lover. And the sheer relief is in his voice, the pleasure found in succumbing: all of that heat and pressure, the weight of his cock, foisted off upon Emet-Selch for him to hold and, inevitably, leak out upon his body as another sort of mark.
And for him to inevitably be made to lap it back up. Mettaton anticipates it all even as he finds himself in the throes of his climax, hips rocking short and hard, ensuring his release finds itself planted as deeply as he can manage.
...The idol's realized he's closed his eye, but as soon as he makes this notice, as soon as he finds himself being milked for come post-coitus, he opens it again. He fixes his love-drunk gaze upon Emet-Selch from above him, moans more slipping from his lips as he's stroked for his release until he couldn't possibly come any more of that milky, viscous fluid in this instant. But each pull along his length could still force him to moan, his voice nowhere near lost to him and pleasure easy to obtain at his Bonded's ministrations.
However, Mettaton gives way to collapsing into Emet-Selch, pressing together their cheeks, leaning into him for rest after so much effort. He'd be catching breath if he had any, but he still somehow feels breathless, body trembling after being so spent and used and aching hard, pressure finally released in the form of a heavy orgasm.
The robot can barely speak, but sound, soft moans and the sound of kisses still attached, falling into him with his cock still buried in his body, those are things he can manage. He nuzzles his cheek into his Bonded lover's, shuddering pronounced as weakened moans slip his throat, ears askew and incapable of emoting properly.]
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And it's an observation to correspond with all that Emet-Selch could feel, with every shove of hips and stroke of cock enough to leave him gasping on their own, particularly when Mettaton digs his hands into his shoulders again, further securing him to the bed, holding him steady as he relentlessly pounds into him. Pleasures himself on his body with quick, hard drags of his length, rubbing himself off to his inevitable conclusion. Mettaton was curled over him, desperate and moaning, nearly incoherent in his cries, and Emet-Selch could only hold on, coax and encourage, provide him the whole of himself to claim, to rest in. He would take every part of him and protect him.
It wasn't unusual for him to think of Mettaton as beautiful, and this was another one of those moments when it struck him. Not only in appearance (though of course he couldn't neglect that point either, especially not with the blood and saliva at his face and chest, that surely stuck to his claws and fingers; even the mix of come that he knew must be stuck and tangled into the fur around his thighs only added to the dark eroticism of him). But in his movement as well, the way his body closed in, the way a form that lacked muscles (mostly) could be made to look tense, taut. Prone and determined and lost in him. And in voice not least- given not even to words but to sounds, unreserved in all manners of expression. Mettaton was giving him all of himself, and Emet-Selch couldn't get enough of watching him, and in taking everything that he offered.
When passion crests, it's unmistakable. Both in Mettaton's own reaction to it- that in itself stilling his breath, and nearly causing his own eyes to close- as well as the burst of heat inundating as deeply as his lover's erection could reach. Their bodies were as closely connected as they could be, and yet struggled to push even closer, to join even harder- but at least there was this marker of his ejaculate to further bind them. A recognition of their efforts, rich and thick. Something that belonged with him, either in or on his body- and he'd wear every drop that Mettaton could produce.
Eventually it fades, and Mettaton collapses bodily onto him, pressing their faces together, and only then does Emet-Selch remember to breathe. It's a shiver of a breath as his eyes also close, and the Ascian rubs his cheek back against his momentarily-spent lover. From holding on, gripping tightly into fur, he forces his fingers to relax, to change instead to slow strokes against his back, as though to sooth. His arms still squeeze him a bit tighter for a few moments (that he was hugging a fur-covered metal form with no give doesn't even register; this was his lover's body and how he felt, this was normal), as do his legs, before relaxing back.
His throat wants to form similarly soothing, or at least appreciative noises, but nothing emerges, and every time he swallows is a reminder of why. So he nuzzles and pets instead, and listens to Mettaton's own voice reduced, though as the result of excessive pleasure rather than damage. It was difficult to not keep moaning quietly with him, both from the sympathetic aftershocks of his Bonded's orgasm, as well as from how hot he felt internally, how utterly full, Mettaton's come soaking them both.
From deliberately squeezing him, his body settles for simply holding his length from base to tip, tight and slick and as intimate as their bodies could be. The both of them warm, loving, protective.]
--Love you.
[Rawness or otherwise, it's something worth rumbling through his throat, words followed with additional firm nudges of his cheek against Mettaton's.]
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He nestles himself against Emet-Selch's neck, the side of his head against his lover's. In this state of repose, he's able to take stock of his own body: the way fingers curl around shoulders, the smell of Emet-Selch's bloodied neck and the accompaniment of sweat and come. The way his ears lay flat against the mounds of pillows behind Emet-Selch, the sensation of them chest-to-chest with a layer of diamonds between. Hips flush to his ass, cock buried within him and still hard, surrounded by the heat of come and body — a rare area of temperature sensitivity, and something overly sensitive besides. Still on his knees, still wearing his heels (of course he'd take survey of those long legs of his, important as they are), but prone to collapse if he weren't relying on the anchoring of his Bonded around his hips, the way they find themselves combined like this. How odd, to feel weakened like this, even momentarily... He's wrapped up and held, flush otherwise to the receptive figure of his lover.
This close to his throat, it would be impossible to miss that Emet-Selch's made any attempt at words, and his effort is so clear besides. All over again Mettaton's dazed by two simple words that mean so much. Heat exhaled against his neck, he can only smile, his heart heavy with adoration for Emet-Selch in such a way that feels entirely pleasant. ...Words. How was he meant to convey his reply to a sentiment so beautiful?
He didn't need to say anything, he thought. Everything about him in body said as much: he loves Emet-Selch. But even Emet-Selch's manner suggests as much, and he even fought against a throat so raw that speaking at all would be a chore... An overture. Something worth comparison on Mettaton's part. He sighs a dreamy sigh.]
I love you... to the moons and stars. Every moon, and every star. [Not just Aefenglom's two, plus the blanket of stars difficult to see past those moons. He will love him to all of them, and he will like it.
Mettaton attempts to right himself, and it's a labored task. Lifting his head after falling so lax, he's only able to press their forehead's together, as if that helped them see eye-to-eye at all instead of letting synthetic, dark hair fall over Emet-Selch's good eye as Mettaton stares into his scarred, unusable one.] And... beyond even that.
[Too close for vision though they may be, Mettaton wears a smile. It's a smile unmistakable both in sight and sound, and in touch, as he leans closer to press his lips to Emet-Selch's in a gentle kiss. If feral, if on a vanity high, Mettaton could evidently be placated momentarily by sex, finding a state of calm composure even he relishes during such swings into madness and fever. Clarity offered by an outlet for energy and reverent praise, atop the clarity offered by his Witch's sacrifice of blood for his cause. He's stable, relieved, pleasured and given all he desires.
Sated, momentarily, as he is, Mettaton speaks low and slow against Emet-Selch's lips — as though Emet-Selch could reply to him by mouth even devoid of sound, and he'd be able to pick it up through touch.]
And how do you fare, dear...?
[Mettaton doesn't need at all to ask if he'd merely endured that, nor if he enjoyed it. He knew the answer. Emet-Selch took pleasure in being used and filled by him, and that knowledge in itself is pleasure to the robot. But of course he'd enjoy being so filled by Mettaton. Even without a set of cursed jewelry, he would think that way just as strongly. It would be a pleasure for anyone, but for his Bonded... it was even more special, he thought.]
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And Mettaton's reply has him still, breath pausing, feeling as though even his heart is made to falter, his own body to weaken further. Mettaton was often effusive with his words, with speaking in general, and it was something Emet-Selch had come around to appreciating in him. But this was sweeter and vivid both, and the kind of thing that leaves him with a flicker of a smile of his own, deeply touched.
It didn't matter if Mettaton's efforts to press their foreheads together only meant that their good eyes couldn't meet, could see as little as their blind or unfinished ones. He leans up into it, nudges their noses together.]
All of them...?
[It would've been a quiet murmur if it could've been a murmur to begin with; instead it's only mouthed against his lips. But it seems to have been a statement to both soften and warm him, and the Ascian continues his response with a kiss, just as gentle. Both in an answer to Mettaton's own kiss as well as adding his own, gentle brushes of lips and unmistakable tenderness. Inescapable affection, the sort of thing Emet-Selch thought he could wrap around him as a shield, as though Mettaton weren't already enveloping him so thoroughly (and as though he weren't enveloping him in turn). But it was a feeling he thought he could return to in future, that could provide a kind of comfort even when they were apart, a memory of this warmth.
Though at the moment he couldn't imagine ever being apart from him, not when he was so close, when he had his lips and his cock and the rest of his body resting on him or within him. Not when he had his feelings- so very, very clear, and the kind of sentiment he still shivers at accepting. At- reciprocating.
But when he could feel Mettaton's own smile at his lips, could feel his momentary calm and satisfaction through Bond, it felt the smallest bit less impossible. Above all, it felt worth it.
Mettaton asks how he is, and Emet-Selch pauses to consider his thoughts, if not to gather his voice. There's little sound at all in his reply, a bare whisper to accompany the movement of his lips against his Bonded's.]
--Better for this. For you.
[Both from the process of being fucked, of still carrying Mettaton's erection inside his body- and from just remaining in his company. Bitten and clawed up, his body repeatedly used, spent and weakened and sore, soreness that would only increase once he had a chance to cool down- yet feeling far improved from his original condition. In general, he had been feeling less alone in Mettaton's presence, but it was an awareness emphasized with his lover's markings writ so starkly upon his body. All of his senses carried Mettaton's essence in them; how could he be completely alone when this was so clear?]
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And even though he's possessed of his energy in manner, that contentment remains. There is nothing to suggest feeling crushed by the notion of their love, only the energy he feels for being with Emet-Selch, for holding him beneath his body and being held in return. A lightheartedness, adoring and rejuvenated by their union. All he can think about is how Emet-Selch had said something similar earlier, hadn't he?
That's why it tickles him to hear it again, and his smile's broad and reaches his cheeks when he presses his lips to his again.]
Better? You'll just keep feeling better and better at this rate, then. What a perfect pick-me-up!
[Just have sex to feel alleviate some of that gloom and to feel connected in ways they only dream of it! Mettaton finds this arrangement to be most agreeable. He's not come down from this last round, still in more of a dreamy, pleasant state as he sighs against Emet-Selch, amused by his most recent response. But he squirms still, his erection only having softened somewhat by this point: still filling, still terribly sensitive, and the heat of Emet-Selch's body not at all diminishing to Mettaton's notice. He's forced to sigh a stream of heat.
But he mellows for a moment and draws back to meet his eye, gold like his own, even as his hair curtains their vision on the side. He adds on, his laughter no longer taking center stage — even though he remains pleased by Emet-Selch's enjoyment of them together. He enjoys them, too; his voice is softer, and with the same intimacy he'd give if they were still speaking lip to lip.]
... All of them. Even the celestial bodies beyond our comprehension. It's the only way to explain how starstruck I feel...!
[And lovestruck, but he feels that's encapsulated in this: it's about his love, after all. He swoops back down to steal a kiss, fervent and open-mouthed as he gives Emet-Selch's lip a short suck before releasing him with a satisfying smack of lips. On his knees and the bends of his arms, his body flush along Emet-Selch's body with his hips in the air, he feels like he's in the sort of position to pounce, filling him with an even greater sort of puckish energy, and his dark-furred ears regain their will to stand — even if they lean to the left somewhat, both of them large enough to obey gravity if not fully regained control of.
... Like this, Emet-Selch couldn't feel alone, and they couldn't be parted. Wouldn't there be some way to defy any fate that wished to return them to their homes? Mettaton can't begin to fathom where home is anymore but here. He was in the transition of uprooting his life, besides... All of monsterkind was packing up and heading for lands brighter and air fresher when Mettaton found himself here, in the tech-devoid Aefenglom as a brand new species of robot-rabbit hybrid.
It was... unwanted, at first. He had so much to look forward to at home. And when he finds himself there again, he's sure he'll march on and take the human's surface by storm. But here...
Mettaton has senses. He has greater touch, taste, and smell. He knows real sleep and dreams. He lost the magic that makes up his soul, he has a bunch of strange instinctual inclinations, but he gained the ability to shapeshift. It's changed everything for the robot. No longer would he need to rely on the constraints of his body when he could achieve whatever sort of form he liked, be they mortal or simply embellished. Here, even, he's paying good attention to his own cock that he has stuffed in his lover, still sealing his body where he'd filled him with come with a thick glans, feeling the warmth of him squeezing along that length that wasn't there before. And he can even attain the body of a human, no matter how temporary...
So this comes with the drawback of potential ferality, so he requires a Bond to remain steady. So what? In the end, he'd also gained... this. These friends and this man, this one, who he'd never have met if he didn't come here.
Mettaton remembers they discussed whether they'd return to their worlds on multiple occasions, and he feels right now... that he, too, is grateful for this. All of it. So terribly grateful, even when he's lost other aspects of his life to the relocation.
He smiles down upon Emet-Selch and wordlessly curls back into him, but nuzzling noses this time as he closes his eye. Warmth suffuses him entirely, glad for all of this.]
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