[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.]
[So easily, so quickly did the idol's energy return, that Emet-Selch can almost sigh at it. The man was persistent in his lightness and cheer, even if the Ascian could feel that underlying contentment remaining steady. But his way of expressing it was... so contrary to his own nature, that it remained such a strange thing to look upon, and a strange thing to feel, even via Bond. How was it possible to gain energy through exertion, through the presence of another? He didn't understand it. Emet-Selch had been steadily losing his already low energy, replacing it with Mettaton-branded fatigue (Which was a lot nicer than the usual sort, the kind achieved through multiple rounds of sex, gaining him a quieter mood, even if it did still run towards the sad outside of those heights of passion. But each time, he came out of it...
Better for it. He'd been right the first time he'd said it and it was true now as well, he thought. While the last time had been due to the relief found in subjugation and service, he supposed this was... a continuation of that feeling. The straightforward pleasure of experiencing Mettaton's pleasure, watching and feeling as his ecstasy crested once more, having the proof of it contained still in his body. To have... this, all of this, all of this man be all that he needed to consider for a time.).
The squirming only emphasized and agitated the cock remaining within him, stirred it enough to make it take a moment's concentration to keep from tightening around it- though it does cause flickers of tension to run through the rest of his body. It was still so warm... more than that, and with the intrusion of a yet-stiffening erection remaining, it was also hard to imagine not being able to remain especially heated, at least internally. His breathing is deliberately controlled, as he holds back the instinctive urge to press into his cock.
It's not a distraction, but it's another point to focus on when Mettaton leans back enough for their working eyes to meet. And he continues with his words, dramatic and excessive- though it didn't strike the Ascian as hyperbole, exactly. No, he meant it entirely sincerely, he thought- which was endearing.
--And it wasn't as though Emet-Selch didn't feel the same, even if he wouldn't have phrased it like that.
He was still thinking about Mettaton's words when the man pounced forward again, taking him up in another heated kiss, damp and as enthusiastic as the rest of his manner- and in this, at least, the Ascian's ardor can be comparable, at least in intent. His response is immediate, pressing into his lips, shivering at the suck to his bitten one, his own tongue slipping out for a brief taste of him.
Even if it was temporary, there was more stability in these moments than he'd felt in years... longer than he wanted to count, all the way back to the beginning. Being in this world wasn't without cost. There was a lot missing, disrupted, lost. But there were benefits. Aspects that were more than just consolation.
More affection, evident through expression, through touch, in the brush of noses and the simple closeness of their faces. Tilting his head slightly, he kisses Mettaton again, as though drawn to, the touch still gentle. Heat lay beyond it, focus existed within it, and love was expressed through it. Mettaton was warm on top of him, inside him, and- warm regardless, in his nature and his mood, and as he spent more and more time in his company, Emet-Selch felt a certain contentment just to feel it, even if he could never generate anything similar. A mortal form's capacity for body heat wasn't the same thing at all.
--Words would never suffice for this gratitude. And at the moment he didn't have any, even were his throat, his voice in better condition. Where Mettaton was light and energetic in his sentiment, the Ascian remained heavy, not weighted down exactly- not in the negative sense, at least- but dark and secured. And so fond that he was a bit crushed by it himself- but that was just how love registered, to him.
So he kisses him instead, and holds him and breathes him, nuzzling at lips and wrapping up in arms and holding between his legs. Feeling little other than the desire to- stay with him, in both body and instant, to remain in this moment for as long as he could.]
[It's not at all surprising, how weighty the Ascian's mood registered to Mettaton across the (short; near non-existent) distance of their Bond despite being a play along the same general feeling Mettaton held close. Yet even his own love felt heavy, but it was a weight Mettaton could manage without breaking a sweat, something that felt weightless — not too unlike the way he treats objects that might be considered heavy, as though they're nothing at all. But secure is something he feels, and the Ascian's presence always registered with a touch of darkness, even when he's not the one eclipsing any light. Secure, warm, familiar: how long had Emet-Selch helped to create such a feeling in Metttaton's heart?
Wrapped up tightly like this, in arms and between legs and kissed some more, he feels both the inclination to sink into it... and to squirm some more. Mettaton does both: he presses against Emet-Selch's lips with a hum and shifts the entire rest of himself, the pleasure of love his cause for distraction in body. Elation and tenderness exist at once, and he fels his chest and his hips pressing more firmly into his Bonded's body like this. He may have no sense for warmth, but even the give of flesh and muscle strikes him as the suggestion of heat in body, and he's certain of Emet-Selch's warmth.
Certain of a lot of things. Their love for each other, their individual heat, and how he has his lover appropriately bedded and protected by himself in a more instinctual sort of way. Appropriately taken and marked by himself, made his own and warmly claimed by himself, with all of the love and affection that exists in even the most violent parts of himself. Mettaton's confident that the vastness of his feelings can be felt by the both of them, even when it's too much to take in in one go: that's why he can overwhelm them both in pleasure and vice to express that much more of it. But here, now, he's nuzzling his lips with his own, shifting futilely even as he demonstrates obvious reluctance to withdraw his cock. Not just reluctance, but an eagerness to remain.
Mettaton shifts one of his arms finally, unhooking it from its clutches about Emet-Selch's shoulder. He lifts it and brings his fingertips to caress gingerly his neck, before treating it with a bit less of that care and palpating it, bruises and bite marks causing his eye to brighten with a sort of sick satisfaction in the sight of such injury. He remains hovering above Emet-Selch like this, drinking in the sights of bruise and puncture, before letting his eye fix upon Emet-Selch's with an undeniable heat.
And a fervent energy, as ever.]
Haha. Just think. We were trying to get to the shower, all this time... Whoopsie. [He doesn't look ashamed at all... And Mettaton doesn't seem to be all that eager to draw away any time soon.] Of course, you'd prefer being showered in my kisses. Drenched in fluids other than water... My my, Hades. The indecency of it.
[He gives Emet-Selch a charming smile that ends up having a sort of wickedness to its edges, with the darkness of fur creeping up his shoulders and the brightness of his eyes; the ever-present animalistic manner to his every movement that feels it could ramp up in an instant. Mettaton's certainly reached a point already after his last ejaculation where his body's capable of being coaxed back into arousal, back to building up a brand new instance of release and a stiffened cock. With Mettaton's persistent shifting, it won't be hard for him to do on his own. (Or it'll be easily hard, however it should be said.)
But there's a sticky, sweet manner to him, pleased to have his lover caught and pinned and still impaled by his cock. Yes, with thoughts like these, he'll be hard in no time. But he assume Emet-Selch could only feel flattered to have Mettaton himself so hard. Being so used by him in body is an honor, after all.]
Your energy... Don't think I can't feel how much I've drained you, thought. Yet you tease me still...
[Emet-Selch teases Mettaton by existing and not trying to disengage from his body, apparently. As if he could, with a heavy robot body atop him and claws and cock pinning him in place, in a sort of position that makes him terribly prone and less capable of escape. Mettaton still continues to shift atop his body as though restless, and restless he is. With the influence of those pendants, he feels only inclined toward movement. And with his love interest in the room, he feels further inclined toward channeling all of that mischievousness and energy into fucking him, as opposed to his usual full moon activities.]
[Mettaton's reluctance to pull from his body was understandable, comprehensible, natural. His cock was hardening, and in a place where it could only be encouraged to do so, somewhere hot and slick and snug, nestled deep in his lover, and amidst his earlier releases. And Emet-Selch had no inclination towards suggesting him to leave- at least for his own sake. He was already sore and would be made undoubtedly more sore- but he loved the feeling of Mettaton's length more than that, and the sheer intimacy of having him so close. Inescapable. The more he was fucked, the more Mettaton continued to take of him (and to leave behind in him)- the more they were bound. It was worth every scrap of discomfort.
Mettaton was touching his throat and disturbing his bruises, his clotting scratches, reminding them both of how thoroughly possessed the area was, and Emet-Selch can feel his pulse increase from the contact. A rub of clawed fingers against wounded skin, an area of his body particularly vulnerable, and he has to push back the reflex to close his eyes, in some instinctive desire to acknowledge that claim, that Mettaton had true control over his neck, and how intact it was allowed to remain. Instead, for all of the drain and weakness in his body, the Ascian's gaze stays focused, expectant- exhausted yet... eager all the same. There's certainly no suggestion of not intending to encourage his lover's arousal, and his tired body shifts as best it can underneath him, in its own version of restlessness.
But that's right... Mettaton had offered to take him to the shower (presumably to take him in the shower) some rounds ago, but each attempt had been aborted with increasing swiftness. They'd only made it off the bed once (because Mettaton brought him to the floor), and the last time he'd barely had his cock withdrawn before it was stuffed back in again, Emet-Selch pulled back into his lap where he belonged, onto the erection they both wanted him to take. It's a memory that has his breathing shiver and his blood rousing; the suggestion of potential violence in Mettaton's manner did nothing to dissuade him. It was much the opposite: every look stoked his desire for him, a hunger to be torn apart by his monstrous Bonded. Love was written in every drop of blood he lost, and he always had more to lose. And more bruises to gain. And more come to lay somewhere on his body.
He did appreciate being clean. But he also appreciated this, coated and smeared and dripped upon... it was indecent, every part of his body on potential display, available for use, and showing every sign of having been indulged in. And yet even now, while exhausted in body... there's little sign of Emet-Selch being any less wanting, any less fixated on his lover. A rapt, heated inclination that continued in spite of any weakness in body.]
You're- just as much of a tease.
[The barest suggestion of a voice, but it's... sort of there. Mettaton was similarly teasing by just existing in the Ascian's presence and his body, agitating the filling cock within him, looking down at him as though he were only a few suggestions away from ravishing him yet again. Not so much giving into animalistic impulses but harnessing them, using their influence to seek ever greater enjoyment for them both. Instincts that were worth indulging, when they could lead to pleasure like this, an intense way of expressing their mutual love.
It's not much more than a nudge, but Emet-Selch tries to push his ass back against Mettaton's hips. As though either of them needed any reminder over where the puca remained, and what the Ascian contained because of it.]
Yet. Even if you allowed me to rise....
[If they made yet another valiant attempt towards a shower... or to just sit up at all, he would drip with come, they both would notice it, Mettaton would fall on him, Emet-Selch would give himself over, and the cycle would continue. And every time he'd get a few more scratches, or another bruise, and his constitution would be eroded that bit more, until he could hardly move at all, could only shiver and twitch and yet still attempt to reach for him. Yet would still desire being fucked. He was well on the way to that state already.]
[It's true: Emet-Selch's body is the perfect place to find himself popping another erection all over again, all of that frustrated pressure given a place to be squeezed back. There's nothing more divine than that, he thought: whether it's a body of metal or of blood, the result of arousal would lead Mettaton to some manner of pressure that would eventually evolve into something near unbearable not to stroke. It would frustrate and, if ever he were the one pinned in place and deprived of touch (something he feels a sudden surge of ferocity toward in sheer defiance of such a fate, his tail flicking at the mere consideration), it would overwhelm him. He'd be desperate and aching, his cock either pulsing with the beat of his heart or simply growing fuller and fuller as the minutes ticked by. He would arch his back, strive for even a skim of a touch just to feel some manner of satisfaction. He would struggle and squirm and seduce, he would bite and fight and work his legs until he received the relief he craved.
Mettaton didn't think he'd handle being deprived of his senses very well. He'd spiral, and in a headspace like the one he's presently in, he feels he'd be apt to lose his mind completely if he didn't get the touch he deserved.
This was favorable, then. Immediately, Mettaton's gratified with pressure, with the push of Emet-Selch's ass into his hips, and that's all he needs to find himself hardening at a rapid rate. All he needs to find his hips jerking in place, echoing that nudge with more intensity, jostling his length within Emet-Selch's body and giving him front row seats to experiencing Mettaton's inevitable arousal. So inevitable that it's coming to as each moment passes, a thickening and stiffening of his cock to fill his lover all over again with something rigid, something both to stroke and to be stroked.
They both teased each other into wanting each other's sex. Even if only one of them would end up hard and orgasming, it was still satisfying in the end. Mettaton's had his share of being on the end of finding bliss in Emet-Selch coming between his thighs, in his fingers, on his tongue; it stands that his lover would take deep pleasure in giving his body over for use, for massaging his cock to his own climax. Mettaton is enticed by decadence: given the hint of intense sensation, he can't help but indulge.
And should Emet-Selch be given freedom, Mettaton only imagines how he'd find himself dripping again. It's a thought he revisits so frequently, and with the same exact result each time: he gets hard. He gets hungry for the taste of his partner's body, in blood or saliva or sweat or skin. He wants to taste that rich come soaking his thighs, wants to taste it on Emet-Selch's mouth, but he can't even get to the point of withdrawing his cock when it lodges itself so comfortably, so erotically contained in Emet-Selch's body.
Mettaton's already down to the root of his arousal, and he soaks in the knowledge that Emet-Selch's wound around his base already, stretched to fit. He may as well belong here now. The very moment he withdrew, Emet-Selch's body would have to readjust... and how unpleasant. He grins.]
Both of us. Would... [The idol bends in to kiss at Emet-Selch's neck, following the grazing of dark, sharp nails as though applying soft lips as a balm to his touch.] —Would situate ourselves, back in our place.
[As his place is obviously with his cock, engorged and needy, stuffed inside of his lover's body. Emet-Selch's place, wrapped around a thick cock and with his legs spread about Mettaton's hips. Without his length... Sure, Emet-Selch would demonstrate all of the physical notes of being empty of such thickness. No glans to hold back the spilled come he held, no girth to fill a space made for Mettaton to fill...
Mettaton withdraws his cock half-way. What was it like, to be anywhere but in the heat of his Bonded's body...? Even this much has him repositioning again to kiss Emet-Selch, to nip at his lip with a sort of hiss through his teeth. But just as much as ever, his voice is perfect in poise: a smooth, low purr, especially given the shape and size of his desire.]
Tell me... How desperate you are. For me to fill you. For me to fuck you.
[...in truth, Mettaton's the one with the engorged erection. That doesn't at all stop him from demanding to be craved. He wants Emet-Selch's notice and wants Emet-Selch to desire him so strongly that being without was intolerable, just as much as it is for him. He nearly can't stand it: Mettaton nearly jerks his hips again, nearly needs to slam his hips to his ass to feel the whole of his cock being squeezed over as it fills, but he abstains. He lets his own darkening frustration grow willingly, two sides to a burgeoning violence impending that could only be soothed by the compliment of abject desire.
It would flatter his ego. It would tame this uncontrollable, primal need for sex, the recognition and subsequent soothing of his heat to hear Emet-Selch tell him he craves his cock, that he needs to be used and subdued, that he'd stroke and service Mettaton in moments dark and demanding and sensual just like this one.]
[It was both gratifying and flattering to feel Mettaton hardening back up, taking more of his body just by virtue of stiffening while still inside him, showing off his fevered insatiability. Emet-Selch lets out a warm breath that's almost a sigh, the sound carrying a note of relief, of all things, though there had been no question of Mettaton's ability or willingness to continue. But to feel him stretching him out properly again, in preparation to continue the process of filling him, to rub himself off in his body, to give him yet more of his ejaculate- it's all worth a shudder of anticipation. A shifting of spread legs and a tensing of muscles that had been tensing a lot over the past long while.
A faint shiver runs through him, breath faltering for a moment as lips softly touch his wounded, loved neck. As his lover's voice confirms what they already know. Even should Mettaton pull free from him, the result... would only have him stuffing his way back inside his come-smeared ass, while the Ascian cried out, spreading his legs ever further to accommodate him, to welcome him shoved hard back into the depths of his body, a body already so slickened internally by all of the thick, milky come Mettaton had gifted him.
But that would entail pulling out, when they were already both in their place, the pair of them. Mettaton removing himself even halfway has him suck in a breath, tighten around him as if to hold onto what his body yet contained of him. The puca's lips were against his own, as were his teeth; his voice was clear, words and tone that would've been capable of arousing on their own, had the Ascian's body not been so thoroughly drained. He kisses him back through teeth.]
How much....
[Emet-Selch doesn't waste his throat in voicing something like that, only mouthing the words as he thinks. As he considers him, Mettaton dark and demanding, clearly tense no matter his robotic shell, wanting to thrust fully back into his body where they knew he belonged. Where the Ascian could continue to warm the full length of the shaft, could squeeze it, his body's adoration of it manifesting in both how tightly he'd wrap around him, as well as how fully he'd accommodate him.
And already it felt strange, to have him partially withdrawn, while not in a state of thrusting, of stroking the thick, engorged tip all along the interior of his body. It was better than not having him at all, but it was simultaneously a frustration, wanting his girth pushed further than that, wanting the swell of the head to rub him as deeply as it could reach, wanting his lover's hips flush to his body once again.
When was he not desperate for him? Not wanting to be filled or fucked, to see his lover bearing down on him- he couldn't imagine it. It didn't matter that he wasn't the one stiff, that he was aching more from use than from arousal, Mettaton's expectation of flattery, of being wanted, didn't strike him as strange at all. It felt unthinkable to not yearn for him, and part of that yearning was for this kind of submission, to have this focus, to have someone to serve and adore and desire.
His breathing shudders; his hands stroke roughly over Mettaton's sides. Swallowing, he tries to speak.]
There's nothing I wouldn't do for it. Anything you asked, for you, I- how could I hesitate?
[It barely qualifies as a whisper and it hurts, but he manages. He had to.]
When you bury yourself in me, I-- [He didn't have to think. He didn't want to think about not having to think. And he didn't have to like this, not when he had Mettaton above him, blotting out all else. With that reward, how could he do anything but want him, as fervently as his beloved desired of him?] I need your cock. Every part of it, and every part of you.
[It's scarcely audible, lips brushing against Mettaton's as he speaks, manner caught between a desperate plea and a just as desperate demand, an insistence on being fucked, no matter how much his body trembled from its mix of fatigue and agitation.]
[When Mettaton parts his lips, pure, satisfied heat escapes from between them in his pleasure at the sounds of rasped syllables and sensation of Bond. And still an expression of relief, even while the rest of his body is attentive, loss of control mere seconds away. Emet-Selch's pure want for him, pushing his raw voice to speak his mind, is part of that expression. The Ascian doesn't struggle to demonstrate his want, the most of his adoration for him expressed in the stroke of hands over his sides and the shudder of his breath, a tension unspeakable despite the fact that he's not the one wound up to thrust. As would a proper devotee, however... Emet-Selch's expressed that need of his.
And it's a need to feel him buried, to feel the whole of his cock. But over this, it's so that Emet-Selch could give him everything. Could do anything he asked. He'd do anything to feel his cock, he says. He'd relinquished Emet-Selch's lip for speech, but he smiles against his lips. He has no lungs to necessitate panting, and has no state of breathlessness to achieve, but the way Mettaton begins to squirm in place is all the signal needed to demonstrate that apprehension, that want, that explosive desire apt to go off in instants.
It's what he wants to hear, this dedication to his service. He'd do anything he asked, he wouldn't hesitate, he'd give everything to feel every part of Mettaton's body bearing down upon his own. During the course of Mettaton's excitable shifting, he notes that his entire abdomen feels flush with pressure so great that the next jostle of his length causes a sharp moan to escape from between his teeth.
Before he can give him his cock in full, Mettaton feels he needs to tell Emet-Selch his status.]
H... Hades, god... Good. You're... exactly what I'd hoped for. You're doing so well. I'm-
[It's never some hitch of breath to interrupt, but rather, a mere interruption of thought itself. An excitability in manner or a seizing of body, an overload of input to process that drowns him, and he drowns with pleasure.]
I'm so- [Hard; losing of sense and restraint; aching for relief;] You need... You'll take my cock. All of me, and you'll fulfill me. And... You'll be sure to squeeze me. Until I'm screaming, Hades. Do this. Make me- stroke me, give yourself to me.
[Those are his terms whispered darkly against Emet-Selch's lips, littered with presses that could be construed as kisses and sometimes hissed from behind gritted teeth. His Bonded wasn't rendered so sore that he wouldn't move for him, and until then, he'd wring from him everything. He had the plan to render him so used that taking a shower, in their future, would be no easy feat; it was only fitting that it would continue to be a struggle, that Emet-Selch would have such difficulty standing from overuse that he might just need to be supported, might just need to be held against Mettaton's body and forced back atop his cock.
That Emet-Selch would have no options but to be used and fucked for days under Mettaton's watch — and it sounds especially pleasant to his Monster-adddled mind, to... Take Emet-Selch, run off with him, to make them both disappear for Mettaton's exclusive passions to enchant them for a spell of time. Hearing his Bonded covet him so wholly only makes the Puca's more primal side overcome any vanity-fueled fury, the swing of a pendulum going in all of the more affectionate, excessive aspects of his change. He could have all of Emet-Selch's exclusive attention.
This want to have the whole of his lover propels him to slam his hips against him once more, and he feels that much more aching for it. He feels so hard that it would surprise him that he's already fucked Emet-Selch multiple times over the evening: it felt as though he'd been nursing an aching cock for an impossibly long time, biding his time and waiting for this moment to stuff his lover full of him. He feels the full swell of his glans pushing Emet-Selch apart deep within, making up a space for itself and the rest of his similarly thick shaft, and Emet-Selch...
His body is impossibly warm and hospitable to his erection. Mettaton's voice is tight when he moans, fulfilled by having himself deep enough for his balls to rest comfortably against his lover's body. And though relief washes over him thick and sweet, he aches still. He aches so much that he wonders if Emet-Selch would be able to feel it across their tether.
Though he doesn't notice it, Mettaton's right hand grips for purchase on... something. He ends up grabbing Emet-Selch's bicep, his other hand still nearly digging into his shoulder with hardy claws. Mettaton's delirious with impending desire, shifting his hips only enough to rock the head of his erection as deeply inside of him as he can reach, stroking the glans with rapturous need.
Ears that once stood attentively assume their nonsensical posture: slack, askew. The idol stammers on words normally more reliable than most, difficult to make falter.]
[Every jostle, every shift on Mettaton's part feels as though it carries the risk of stealing his breath with it. It was an agitation that he wanted nothing other than to give into, that he felt primed and ready to do so- if only Mettaton would thrust. If only he would resume taking him, having him, sparing him the full measure of his length and body. Hips shifting in place, Emet-Selch feels not impatient, only wanting, only needy, aching to feel the pressure that was building between them be released through movement and activity, through the repeated pounding of his lover's thick cock inside of him, all the way until climax. One more to pull from him, another instance of his come to hold; with all of this, how could he ever feel empty?
But Mettaton was speaking, and despite the longing of his body for this satisfaction, it's not difficult for him to become caught up in listening. To hear not only his voice, the way it could be broken up by the puca's own wanting, his own intensity catching up to him, rather than some failure of mortal lung- but also what Mettaton wanted. What he expected from him, and Emet-Selch could think of nothing else outside of wanting to fulfill him. To hear his lovely voice taken by screaming, to hear and feel him come undone by the pleasure his body could give him.
It could hardly be called kissing, his own presses of lips against Mettaton's, but it's a touch of breath and tongue and teeth, shivering and determined. Shaky and firm, he wanted to touch and taste and devour him as far as he could, even if Mettaton was the one pressing down on him, keeping him against the bed, penetrating him with a heavy, engorged cock that his body was made to take. To not only endure but enjoy every inch he was given, to worship and stroke him to completion- why else would the interior of his body be so hot and tight, if not for this purpose?
And was there anything more fulfilling than having one's purpose be satisfied? Strangled though it is, Emet-Selch still cries out when Mettaton shoves his hips forward, impaling him wholly again. It's a roughened, raspy sound that trails off into what would've been a moan as his whole body shudders, as he clenches hard around his cock. A welcoming tightness, an embrace by his body, a fierce squeeze as though to entice him to remain this time, to just keep fucking him indefinitely. He would give him orgasm after orgasm, until he could no longer stand, much less walk. But why would Emet-Selch even need to walk? In this moment he couldn't think of any reason why that would ever be necessary- and with his legs spread, wrapped around Mettaton's hips, how could he have ever managed to walk in the first place? It wouldn't be conductive towards being fucked at all, which meant it was something to be discarded.
Desires notwithstanding (literally), there is still some relief on the Ascian's part for the mercy of having his hips thoroughly raised by pillows. His legs already had a persistent tremble to them, that was only partially due to having the tip of Mettaton's cock rubbing him as far as it could reach (though that in itself was both a thought and sensation to leave him weak, to have the thickness of the head in a constant massage, while he was made to stretch around the entirety of his shaft, all the way to the root, where his entrance had a tight hold on him). The less Emet-Selch had to hold up on his own, the better- and the easier it was to devote himself entirely to clenching around his length with shuddered, harsh breaths, with attempted rolls of his body further onto his cock. He could feel his lover's aching, and it leaves him wanting to whine in sympathy for it, to shift, to tense, to cling, to do anything to bring him to relief, however temporary.
Over and over, he'd bring him this, milk from him brief moments of satiation, while simultaneously tempting him into further excess. More cries to take, more come to hold. If Mettaton always needed his body for this pleasure, it meant he could never leave him.]
Mettaton--
[Even if words were lost to him again, there was still his name, there were still the sounds he shouldn't be making, and which troubled an already raw throat to produce. Mettaton's claws were digging into him, his grip holding him down, bracing himself against the Ascian's body in a way that kept him secure, kept him safe, that eliminated any chance of escape. But as deep as Mettaton was, as thoroughly as he could feel the glans of his length shoved inside of him, he wanted his movement, wanted to feel his body pounded into the bed with hard shoves of his lover's hips. He wanted to feel crushed by his body and his cock, so that he couldn't move, even if Mettaton was cruel enough to abandon him entirely. That he'd still be left there, broken and shivering, used and filthy and exhausted, yet despairing for more of his touch all the same.
Soft, rough; forced through a throat that desired nothing but silence.]
[Treated to a squeeze so intent and demanding in his own right, Mettaton chokes and stammers on a cry, spurred directly into thrusting. If filling the other man would elicit such a strong pull from him, what would thrusting into him do? His fingers curl into his arms and shoulders, another bid to stabilize himself despite his unwinding control, scarcely noticing at all how he continues to cry out in desperate ascensions of voice, begging to feel more of those squeezes without saying a word.
And even as he finds himself preparing for deeper thrusts, he's made to slow just to appreciate the way Emet-Selch tries to back his ass into his hips in his own desperation. He's not aroused even still, but his lover rolls into him, pronounced and demanding as his need of him, as he begs for him to be taken on a voice that ought to be stolen from him, too. Stolen entirely; stolen so far that he wouldn't even be able to flatter Mettaton any longer, even if he demanded his praises. A dangerous state to be in like this... But Mettaton didn't think so. Emet-Selch is safe with him, and he could feel it between them both: they were safe with each other, and nothing else but them mattered. Nothing but the beat of their cravings mattered, and the way Emet-Selch inadvertently tightens around his length with each curve of his back. The robot swallows, a sound still managing to slip through in a broken moan.
Nothing else mattered, certainly not Emet-Selch's capacity to walk. Why would it when Mettaton planned to take him and keep him, to hold him and fuck him? He would have no need to ambulate at all, only to lie in this bed, prone and properly bloodied and scented. If he moved, he would lose some of the come he'd spilled in him, after all. He was perfectly positioned with his hips elevated for access, already engulfing the whole of his length and stretched to fit him, and all Mettaton needed to do now was pound into him.
It was what Emet-Selch was begging for. It was what Mettaton desired, besides. Emet-Selch's desires would always be the same as Mettaton's, he's decided, and Mettaton slides his cock back out.
Only to jerk his hips sharply, thrusting into Emet-Selch's body with long, hard, quick passes. For each aching withdrawal of his length, the subsequent filling of Emet-Selch was a firmer, longer affair, a jostling of his length and rolling of hip with a focus on dragging the head of himself against Emet-Selch so deeply. It's a sensation that makes him feel as though he's stuffing Emet-Selch fuller and thicker, any withdrawal only serving to sharpen his need, to make louder his cries, to hike up his desperation; while every filling of cock served to pleasure and entice him into having more. He feels so heavy, heavier still when he bears down on Emet-Selch to better, more quickly pound into him, fingers gripping just as much as his weight pushes into him. Steadying his lover, there would be no escaping from under him like this, gripped down upon and fucked by a heavy cock, pressed under the metal weight of him that could only serve to make each thrust of his hips feel that much more pronounced.
Mettaton's delirious now with the same desire as before, but also with immense pleasure. There was his lover squeezing this intrusion, of the man rocking into his arousal, but there was also possession and relief, even as the pressure in him builds. He wants to be so demanded and needed, and he'd reward that expression of want on Emet-Selch's part by thrusting, hard and deep and fast, into his body so that he couldn't hope to think, could only hope to react. And by react, Mettaton was determined to have Emet-Selch squeezing over his whole length, pressure variable and unpredictable and dizzying, dazzling, something to blind and enrapture him.
His voice is a cry, and he's sure he had something to say...]
Hades—!
[But all he remembers to say is his lover's name, still pressing his lips to the other man's, scarcely kissing but remaining anchored there as though he could absorb anything from him should the opportunity arise. Should Emet-Selch cry out, he would be there to kiss him and take from him that, a further conquering of breath and voice. Mettaton feels so good, so stimulated; he couldn't not keep fucking his lover, if it feels this good. He feels loved and relished, demanded and needed, and those were all points of pleasure to the robotic idol: cherished and craved, he could only give Emet-Selch all of the stroking and filling he could want.
He fixes his libidinous attention upon the way his lover trembles, the way it intensifies with the stroke of his cock so deep; the way the Ascian rolls into his girth and squeezes around him, so desperate to be taken. Mettaton was desperate to take in return: taking, being so zealously wanted... those were things he was used to, and he was more than happy to fit his cock inside of Emet-Selch and to stroke him, to coax more pleasurable massaging of his length, to bring them both to that point of absolute rapture. Mettaton can taste it, and he wants to drown in that, too.
He wants to tell Emet-Selch how hard he feels, how his body's the only relief he has for this aching pressure, but he's reassured by the knowledge that this fierce pounding would surely convey that relief he finds in him. He moans instead, airy and blissful, and waiting for that blinding pressure he knows his lover will make good on delivering. ...In fact, the tension of waiting itself has him crying out once more, still rapturous, but with an edge of needy anticipation. He could hardly take it: he needed to feel Emet-Selch squeeze his cock, and his voice is pleading despite its firm command.]
Squeeze around me. I'm- so, so hard, you want me... Hades...!
[If he weren't so primal in need, he feels he might have had a handle on this voice of his...! He might have been able to describe to Emet-Selch in salacious detail what he'd feel if he obeyed, how tensing around his length would imbue him with the knowledge of how stuffed full he truly was. He wants to say it all to him, but he can only moan as he teases himself with the thought. Though his thrusting slows, it's with the ultimate goal of letting his cock linger for longer deep inside of Emet-Selch: firmer, harder pounding to allow Emet-Selch to drink in how full he is of cock, only to steal it away from him, to let him feel how uncomfortably devoid he is without. A filling, a taking; the cycle repeats, and Mettaton wants him to tense around all of it and none of it, to let him know how he needs his cock if he wants at all to feel full and satisfied.]
[Mettaton's own vocalizations were a reward in themselves, even separated from the response from his body- which was another, equally as captivating reward. Held down with a tightening grip, provided deeper, harder thrusts- it was worth his effort. It was worth every bit of his effort, his attention, and every bit of soreness he'd undoubtedly end up with. The Ascian's body and everything about it- every part of it, his energy, his attention- all of it was for Mettaton to command. To utilize, to take.
And this taking was all he could've wanted. Pushed down and pounded into, immobilized by a heavy metal body and robotic strength along with his own exhaustion further underlining how helpless he'd become. In spirit as well as body, as all he could think of doing now, was to bring his lover to increasing heights of ecstasy, however he could, at whatever cost to his flesh.
Emet-Selch shivers at the sound of his name cried out against his lips. Another reward, and his appreciation of it is returned in a kiss that's almost soft. A gentleness and moment of something like coordination, belying the intensity of the passions underneath; his exhalation is still shaky.
Though already inclined to squeeze around him, Mettaton's direction to only increases Emet-Selch's determination to do so. To tighten around his length for sharp, breathless moments, unable to find any particular pattern in his efforts, only a continuous desire to hold him as tight as he could. Sometimes it was when the glans was at its deepest point, a heavy weight inside him, a stuffing full enough and hot enough to be worth crying out for- but every vocalization he attempted was getting worse, any pause for improvement having less of an effect each time. The sharpness of his breath was all he had for sound, and whispers of Mettaton's name that were scarcely discernible from that.
(For voice and ability to move to be lost... it was a strange thing to desire, to have those aspects ruined, however temporarily. To give them up entirely in the pursuit of pleasure, and to let someone else see him so limited, weakened, made vulnerable, left reliant on Mettaton for support. That it felt simultaneously comforting and thrilling, rather than alarming and distressing was- something he just had to accept about himself.)
And when he squeezed Mettaton when he was full, it was a clear reminder of just how full he truly was- that his body could wrap round something so large and so hard felt remarkable all over again. Just as remarkable was how hard Mettaton was- something that he didn't require being told, but still did something for him to hear expressed, his form wracked with another shudder at this display of just how aroused his lover was, how much he must be aching for him, how much he was wanted. And how could he respond to that knowledge, that feeling, other than by wanting him just as severely? He was desperate for his cock, every drag of it, and he'd keep tightening around him to demonstrate it.
When Mettaton pulled back, he could tighten, stroke his length with a firm hold around him, a wordless plea for him not to leave him empty for too long. And he could also tighten on incoming thrusts, though not as any sort of defense against his intrusion, but so that they could both feel him stretched out in perfect detail as Mettaton pushed back inside, could feel his body give way to him to its strongest degree.
But sometimes Emet-Selch feels overcome enough that he can hardly tighten at all, only holding on with his arms, breathing quickly against lips (any kisses are similarly intermittent, but no less impassioned for them, damp and tinged with aching pleas for him). There was the slide of his erection to consider, and as Mettaton slows in his thrusts, there's times when he's taken by that sensation on its own, of being so deliberately ravished, of knowing that the slickness his lover was thrusting into was primarily come, of how complete he was made when their bodies were joined like this. Every retreat left him with more wanting; every time he was full, he never wanted him to leave. At the same time, Emet-Selch didn't want him to stop either, even if it meant moments of being hollow, aching (he was certain that was what the ache in his body meant) to be stuffed with cock- the stroking they were both being given was worth it. The instances of loss only made the times of complete fullness that much more valuable, worth his most rapt attention.
But it's never too long before he clenches around him again, not because he remembers to (how could he forget), but because he's overcome by the need to. To emphasize his lover's thickness to them both, to squeeze him to some impossible level of stiffness, to massage and coax and pull from him his release. And though sometimes his tightening is more of a gradual increase of pressure, a holding on against Mettaton's movements, at other times it's sharper and briefer, mere moments of clenching as tightly as he could, causing his body to try and writhe and his breath to choke and his grip to tremble.
He did want him- and when he was being fucked like this, there was little else that Emet-Selch could be certain of, other than some absolute awareness of their love, but then- their sex was just a manifestation of that truth.]
[Oversensitive and too quickly aroused, Mettaton gasps and moans at his lover's first squeezes around his length. The first is deep and firm, squeezing and pulsing around a cock that just feels overfull, two forces of pressure against each other that made his erection feel as though it would just have to give in, to spill over instantly. But it doesn't; and when Emet-Selch relaxes again, his ache is immense.
That sudden pressure remembered in his groin has his thrusts firming, stroking his cock desperately on Emet-Selch's body in bid for another squeeze. Using him, rubbing his length for relief and release, desperate to feel that pleasurable squeeze and obsessed with the addiction of orgasm. Emet-Selch squeezes again: this time, he can feel him clench mid-way up his shaft, and it's another rapturous moan from the Puca. He's positive that as he slides back inside, Emet-Selch will be able to feel him in immense definition, just as he can feel his lover's body made to part for the sloped head of him... That in itself is worthy of another moan. Squeezing, pulling, taking: it felt as though sinking his cock into Emet-Selch's body would mean he couldn't leave him, and the sensation was so immense that he wouldn't want to.
As Emet-Selch's voice diminishes, Mettaton's strengthens. Slick, hot, tight: Emet-Selch was the perfect vessel for his cock, a perfect fuck, clenching down on him every time he was full of thick, rigid flesh, and Mettaton wants to commend him for being so hot, so attractive, so beautiful in reds and purples and so good of a fuck, making a long humming sound against his palate as he kisses him in place of word formation.
Maddened, frenzied. Mettaton can't remember how many times he's done this today. He can't remember where they were, and he can barely think at all. He feels like he's in the right place, though. In his lover's arms that tighten where his body aches and fails, allowing him the push and pull of his erection with complete ease; his body's slicked by come, loads of it that he knows he's planted in his body. So many loads that his head is dizzy with thoughts and memories of it dripping down thighs, with the desire to see that result and to taste it, his own come rich and thick; he envisions vividly shoving his tongue into his lover's mouth to make him taste the result of squeezing his thick cock, the amount of ejaculate minuscule compared to the amount held by his body. But there was right now to fixate upon, barely giving Mettaton much of a chance for thought. All he knows is that he aches terribly, and each time he's squeezed is a balm. A balm he needs more and more of, a pace he needs to hasten to rub himself perfectly...
He finds a spot divine. Mettaton's eye widens, his kiss interrupted by a gasp, stroking his own cock just right on his lover's body with short, firm rubbing against his glans in a spot so slick. A body that clenches around his cock so hard that it does pull a scream from Mettaton's throat, pure and rapturous and loud, blinding and deafening as he throws his head back, writhing and thrusting madly. The ultimate flattery: Emet-Selch clenching around his heavy cock and trying to claim his body that way. Paired with this outlet for primal desire, it's one he needs to take advantage of to its fullest: the Monster finds himself craving his lover's blood again, and he doesn't know how to tell himself no to anything.
(Hard to fathom the limitations of a body so soft and giving when he can't think past his own pleasure to begin with; if Emet-Selch ached, he couldn't feel it beyond his own ache, and he couldn't fathom how worn, how sore he'd really be. (Even if he were aching from pain and soreness, it's all to serve him, and he's worthy.))
Teeth sink into his shoulder, overlapping with a bite from earlier. But a gush of blood spurts into his mouth, and Mettaton screams again into that bite, forced to let go and melt into his shoulder in the purity of his lust. He can't think: he tastes magic, feels pleasure, pressure, ache, reverie, and he feels seismic intensity.
He feels loved and tended to, pampered and treated to the highest of stimulation. A treatment worthy of him, he thought: his lover continues to apply pressure to his erection just when he needs it most, and it feels distinctly as though he's coaxing him toward climax, a sort of rub that originates at his base and slides along the shaft of his cock until his lover's body wraps around the glans. Each time, he cries out, but he never stops his frantic rhythm. With fresh blood on his lips, heat seeps from him as he nuzzles his blood-and-come-covered lover.]
Yes...! You're... like this, Hades... Feel me, I'm so—
[Hard again; or, perhaps, close. Definitely close. He thought he'd already came, but the heat of his lover's body, the come he still held, all of it overwhelms him. But he feels the distinct sensation of renewed heat, as though his cock were leaking with ejaculate, preparing him for his impending release even as he strokes himself to more intense rigidity along his body.
His lover grips down on his length so firmly that he does notice, however, his grip trembling. Faltering. But it's quickly disrupted by the sudden flood of come that spills from the slit of him, overwhelming the robot and catching him off guard as climax hits him head-on, forcing Mettaton to cry out against the other man's shoulder as he pounds into him. It's pure luxurious relief that he feels, a sort of divine pleasure exalted by the squeeze of his lover's body around his cock, the knowledge that he was depositing another thick, heavy load into his body.
When he tries to call out, it's in the form of something like "ohhh" and "hades", or a fusion of the two. He'd done everything he asked, and the result is pounding hips, the stroking of the glans against his body, a frenetic, ardent love and feverish need for him to please him, and another treatment of Mettaton curling firmly into his lover's body, as though holding him close and personal for him to deposit his release.]
[They were both raw in different ways, he would've thought had he the space for stray considerations like that. Mettaton's cock was being rubbed and rubbed again, stroked and gripped repeatedly by the tight confines of his body. No matter how slick, it was still friction, it was still use- but what was sensitivity to someone who so loved sensation, who loved being overwhelmed by it? Even if Emet-Selch would have to bear the lingering results of their indulgence, it was worth every instant, of being able to attend to his lover to this degree. So long as he had consciousness and any degree of muscle control on his part- he would continue taking him, wringing from Mettaton his essence, replacing blood with come.
It's not that thought, but that feeling that has him continue, massaging Mettaton's cock as he thrusts in irregular bursts of tension, struggling to push up every time he's shoved down, though the efforts of the rest of his body get progressively weaker. All he could do was tighten around his length, coherency scattering in the wake of this perfect plunge into his body, this hot rigidity stretching him open and claiming him, filling him so thoroughly that he might never be free. Nor would he ever want to be.
When Mettaton seems to have found a place of particular perfection, every part of the Ascian fixates on his response to it, on the thick, heavy rubs his glans was inflicting on his body- a sensation in itself that leaves his knees weak. But even if he'd had voice left to lose, he would've been struck into silence regardless, at the sound Mettaton made. Breathing stilled, body taut, Emet-Selch held on and listened to him and shivered very quietly as his body was yet fucked into the bed, held apart and taken. A deafening of senses that continues when the puca sinks his teeth into him again, into a place already raw, already bearing the marks of his jaws- widening the bite, and stealing more of his blood.
But did it count as stealing when it was Mettaton's blood to start with? The Ascian jerks underneath his hold, against his teeth, his body, his cock- reacting only to the sharpness of it all, his lips parted as he cries out in turn- though all that emerges is static, a rasping noise that trails off into silence. Eyes closed, Emet-Selch presses his head against his, breathing resuming as he pants, unable to whine or plead or cry out at all. Only to breathe quickly and dig his fingers into his back, tighten his legs around Mettaton's body, as though he could find some sort of purchase there in the face of his lover's increasing rapture- feelings washing over him in endless surges. His throat hurt and his shoulder hurt, and those were only two places among many that were sore beyond measure- but he didn't care. When Mettaton was feeling like this, when his body was wracked with such pleasure, how could anything register as pain?
A renewal of blood-smell enters his senses, reminding him further of its part in the scent of sex and their bodies otherwise together. As primal as that of come itself, and if he tries, Emet-Selch can imagine the taste of both at his lips. Something he wanted both of, but particularly his lover's come, to feel its thickness against his lips and tongue, a rich texture that lingered in his mouth, that he could share with Mettaton and spread between them. It doesn't surprise him at all that Mettaton would want to taste it on him- why wouldn't he, this warm, wet proof not only of his possession, but of his love of it, his willingness to lick up and swallow every trace of his ejaculate that he was offered, starved for it and him.
Mettaton's voice refocuses him, makes him clamp down on his cock with more stubbornness, no matter how badly he trembled, or how much he ached or how tired he was. He could feel his closeness, could practically taste it, and he squeezes his girth, feels the soft give of the head pushing and rubbing and kneading him- all until that heat is joined by greater heat. A rush of wetness adds to what his body already held and Emet-Selch nearly chokes on a breath, body going rigid, tightening in that moment as hard as he could. Clutching his cock and his body with as much of himself as he could manage, losing himself in the particular rapture of having a flood of come pouring from the tip of his lover's cock into his awaiting body.
Emet-Selch could no longer recall how much he'd taken, how much he'd held, either thrust into his ass or swallowed down his throat. But it was his now, and he wanted every part of it- just as dearly as he wanted Mettaton's pleasure in itself, nuzzling and stroking and petting his body any way he could. It didn't matter that Emet-Selch was shaking and spent- even if he hadn't been the one indulging in another orgasm- the affection was necessary. Required. He loved him too far, needed him too fiercely- feelings that kept his heart racing and his thoughts scattered. He loved this man and he would do anything for him. He knew this.
He knew this, and nothing else mattered, as damp lips press kisses to the side of his face, adoring and soothing and warm. His throat was in agony from feelings he didn't know what to do with or how to express- there were too many, and he loved him all the same.]
[Were Mettaton possessing of any ability to narrate his experiences, he might describe that his sight had diminished, all senses favoring pure tactile input in all of the colors and flavors and shades it could process. The taste of blood and sweat on his tongue and every nuance of it that screamed Emet-Selch, the echoes of his saliva still lingering on the bed of his tongue. The feeling of arms and legs squeezing and trembling, slack and tight both in erratic tension as his lover tries desperately to renew his grip upon his body, to hold tight to him with pure adoration and care writ into language unspoken. The massage of his lover along his rigid length, stroking so far and so firm that it felt as though he were being pulled so deeply into Emet-Selch's body, given the best vantage point to spill his load; and the subsequent, molten heat that gushes through him, hot and thick and dammed by the head of his cock, made to rest in the other man, to fill him completely.
There's nuzzling against his face, petting against his back. A vibration; Emet-Selch's shaking, and as Mettaton finds every drop of come he can muster for this release coaxed from the tip of his cock with pulling, tightening muscle, he considers in some part of a nonfunctional mind that he, too, would be trembling if he had the body for it. If he wasn't about to lay uselessly in dazed stupor instead. But he focuses on these very organic responses from Emet-Selch in his ardor for him, the way his body holds his come and his cock so warmly and squeezes him, muscle and flesh his container, the body beneath him bearing every mark of their passion.
The softest whine slips his throat, more of a noise of contented pleasure than being one of any desperation as he tries to nuzzle back. Affection he adored. The world's collapsed in on them and only the room exists, only the bed exists, only Emet-Selch beneath his sinking body exists as he tucks his cheek against Emet-Selch's where he's invited to lie, the rest of his body falling into place.
This chance to demonstrate the whole of his passion over and over is something Mettaton can't fathom being without. So strongly he feels for Emet-Selch: he trusts him with it all, his whole heart and soul and body, and he treats him here to kisses soothing and wonderful. MTT's overwhelmed by emotion both light and delectable, and heavy and thick, something to sink into and be wrapped in. He can't tell the origin of either, but he can tell they're not all his own.
But he knew he loved Emet-Selch with just as much heat and passion, and the framework of his body remains curled into him, holding tightly and reliably even after his climax. He's thankful, then, for his body that maintains such rigidity in the face of his loss of control as it merely pauses in the heat of his release, clutching Emet-Selch close as he falls into him and his hold, his nuzzling and kissing.
He's hot; he realizes he's hot suddenly, his body reaching temperatures that might err on the side of dangerous for him, but he barely cares. Kisses are his salve, the body beneath him all that matters. And how soft Emet-Selch is, not just in vessel, but in manner... Soft, but so intensely felt. Each kiss carried something deep even when gently applied, damp and full of feeling, and Mettaton shudders at the emotion of it rather than any other sort of input. His eye's closed; he can't bring himself yet to open it, riding along the shockwaves of orgasm, still hyper-aware of the weight of his cock, of his hips flush to his Bonded's ass, of their deeply felt connection to each other.
And he's still in heartfelt bliss for it all. There's love, there's radiance; but there's also satisfaction and contentedness, a sort of territorial, base claim that breeds more satisfaction. Emet-Selch remains pinned under his body and in his hands, between claws and cock, and he could drink in his essence in taste and smell and sensation.
It's worth another shudder, even as he tries for voice. It's soft and smooth, but low in volume.]
Hades... Oh my god...
[Some choice words for something that blew his mind so fast. He thought he'd last for longer, but the fever of Mettaton's need seems to push him to release so quickly when he pairs thought, desire, smell, sight, and taste together, all for Emet-Selch's body to be the final element to push him over the edge. The robot's head shifts a degree to better receive those kisses, the best attempt he can manage to lean into him without pressing into him completely.]
I... love you... I...
[Would love him always; wants to marry him; finds him dear; feels so loved by him... There are a lot of things that try to surface to complete this sentiment, but his tongue feels thick — or maybe his mind's too inundated by sensation and love to make sense of speech, even when speaking is a Mettaton priority. Instead, he turns his head to try to kiss back. It's a poorly coordinated job, even when his eye cracks open, gazing at him fondly with a still luminous, dark gaze full of want.
He would always want Emet-Selch. That much was certain. In different shades, in different ways, moods, contexts, but he'd want him all the same. They could both feel secure in that, just as Mettaton felt secure in the knowing that Emet-Selch would give him anything.]
[Slow petting and kissing continues as Mettaton sinks into him, and the Ascian's body is made to give way to him there too, to be the one to meld to him. The robot's hold could still be firm, to make up for his own trembling and fatigue, and in some part of his mind, he was grateful for the stability. Each of Mettaton's forms had their advantages, had things to appreciate in them, and in this one, Emet-Selch found the lack of give in him reassuring. The Ascian would wrap him up in tired arms all the same, press back against his face and breathe him in, his own pulse still racing from all that had occurred. Even without his own climax, there was a sense of... needing to come down from it all; an effect of being so enraptured by his partner's experience with orgasm.
And how sharply undone he'd seemed; Emet-Selch still shivered a little to consider it (though it might've been just more of that persistent trembling manifesting instead). There had been no holding back, he felt- as though there ever was with them- but with all they had already done together, he wondered if they were both left rawer for it all, and not only in body (though certainly in body as well, at least for anything that was organic in composition). To continue experiencing one another at the height of blissful, extreme sensation- and rather than a dulling of intensity, it only seemed to bring different aspects of it into focus. Every part was individually vivid, yet when overlayed there was a pattern of inevitable and increasing rawness left behind.
--But not necessarily in the painful sense. Though there was that too, for Emet-Selch, at least, when emotions were running this high and this hot, fatigue only making it that much more pronounced, unable to be defended against at all. But it was- pleasant all the same, soft and heavy, comforting and warm. A body over him worth loving to the limit of his ability, and even past it, somehow. A feeling worth aching over, even if there was a lot of aching.
Mettaton's first words bring a flicker of amusement, and a deeper one of endearment. Pleasure. The satisfaction of knowing he'd had release pulled from him so thoroughly, the evidence of it still heating the interior of his body (which was a thought that did nothing to lower his pulse, that threatened to cause him to tense all over again; thinking of the amount Mettaton had given him also did nothing to help, and added a shiver to the mix, no matter how incredibly heated he was throughout his body). That they could be so inundated with each other was a pleasure in itself, and something Emet-Selch could only begin to grasp. If it needed grasped at all, perhaps, if just feeling it was enough.
The statement of love softens and tenderizes him to an additional degree, though he can't melt further back into the bed. Though he tries to murmur a reply, his voice fails to manifest, any sound just the faintest rasp. But that was fine. Mettaton was trying to kiss him back anyway, and he could respond that way instead.
His own eyes remain closed, and his kiss isn't that much more coordinated. But did it have to be? There was the press of lips to either of their faces, his own breath and blood between them, the affection that they both needed to express. When words or voice faltered, there was always this, there was always contact, touch, sensation. Sentiment expressed through lips and fingers and the rest of their bodies, from the cock still nestled inside him, to the press of their faces.
There was a security that he couldn't begin to fathom, in knowing what they were to one another. And for all that there was always more to learn, there was an understanding all the same. That despite their differences, they could... adapt. Allow space for each other, all with the result of becoming ever closer.
It's not so much a thought, but with that feeling in mind, Emet-Selch only tries to pull Mettaton closer, somehow. To kiss him more deeply, if slowly, tongue slipping its way past his lips, in a gesture of more warmth than particular heat. But desirous of him all the same, if in a way that spoke as much of a longing for his specific company, as it did for his body (though his attraction to Mettaton in form could hardly be divorced from everything else he felt for him).]
[The attempt to murmur a reply it all is all Mettaton really needs, even if a kiss hadn't followed it. Sloppy kissing, in itself, wasn't at all a misfortune: it meant the spreading of saliva and the chances to kiss each other in ways different from lips, sometimes finding themselves kissing corners of lips or rolling to chins, kissing slightly off the mark and sucking at upper lips or cheeks. It was fun, if anything, Mettaton always thought: cute, endearing, on both of their behalves, and he smiles, making it that much more difficult to properly kiss each other.
There was... immense intimacy between them. Holding each other in this very romantic sense, divorced completely from any form of casual sex as could have been passed off for their first encounters - though Mettaton feels even those were intimate, an exploration of character and battling of resistance to get to the heart of him. Even so, they hold each other by shoulders and around bodies, with claws and tender fingertips. They face each other, separated only by a layer of jewels that could hardly be called separating, with Emet-Selch in a position so prone and available, Mettaton posed in a similarly suggestive mounting of him. That it would be suggestive couldn't begin to cover how thoroughly Mettaton has his cock inserted into his lover, slid in to his hips and comfortably lodged so thickly, so deeply within. Their position surpasses intimacy, but Mettaton thought it had much more to do with the way they kissed each other.
So when Emet-Selch takes to pulling him ever closer, to kiss him with an ounce more coordination, with the slip of tongue and the proper press of lips, Mettaton can't even complain. He sinks into it, into him, parting lips and coaxing forth his tongue with his own, making room for it, welcoming Emet-Selch with equal desire, a wanting in body and equal parts in company. The tilt of his head and the press of his chest, he gladly takes the depth of Emet-Selch's kiss with obvious eagerness. Where the flames of libidinous heat could have swallowed him whole, Mettaton's been tempered into something no more chaste, but more contained, inviting his kiss with a greediness for his company and his attention.
A small, pleased noise slips Mettaton's lips under Emet-Selch's attention as he tastes him, recognizes him as his own, the blend of their mouths still starkly similar from so much engagement, sloppy or otherwise. As if they could close any distance whatsoever, Mettaton finds himself nuzzling further into the kiss, nestling his body into Emet-Selch's with a tight, deliberate shift of his figure to express the comfort he's found there, in his presence and his hold. In his body, filling it and taking it, and part of that physical attraction's made to flare back to life when he deliberately shifts his hips to show off his cock.
He's not as rigid and hot, in the process of relaxing as he is. But he remains deep, remains pressing into him so that none of the hot come he'd deposited could escape. At the same time, Mettaton shifts his hips back just a touch, flirting with the idea of withdrawing and considering the way his release would dribble down the planes of Emet-Selch's lovebitten thighs... It's a thought to heat him up, an already hot mouth hotter in manner when he sucks on Emet-Selch's tongue with another sighing sound of pleasant delight.
There aren't words to accompany it all, but aside from the love he feels, there's so much Mettaton feels for Emet-Selch. Trust is a big one, and one he'd held for him from the start. Contentedness, comfort, the full disclosure of his self and anything that hurts or heals him. The want to know all of Emet-Selch's heart and to be trusted with it, and the dreadful, intense attraction he has for the other man. In body, yes, but also in manner and action, the way he sounds when he speaks or the way he looks at him, the expressions he makes and the way he feels in emotion. So raw, so intense... Mettaton loves all of him, even when there are parts - big parts - he disagrees with.
He doesn't speak while they're at work kissing each other like this, but his fingers curl into his shoulder. The one he has holding his bicep shifts, and he worms his hand beneath Emet-Selch's head to tangle fingers and claws in dark hair. Sharp nails graze along his neck in the process, a gentle scratching as he finds further leveraging to press into their kiss, to run his tongue along Emet-Selch's and to suck every so often, wanting and expressing that want for him to remain. For Emet-Selch to keep him, and for Emet-Selch to be kept by Mettaton.]
[It was a reassurance still to realize that they yet both tasted primarily of each other, and it was a status that was always worth renewing. Though it's not quite sound that forms in his throat, there's a hint of pleased vibration at Mettaton's answer to the kiss, the stroke and sliding of their tongues together, as they slipped entirely naturally into making out with each other. And Emet-Selch can tell that even though they weren't at their most desperate, panting and frantic and hot, a haphazard meeting of lip and tongue, peppered with bites and moans- that it was still far from light or innocent, or the kind of kissing they could get away with doing for too long in public. It was far too intimate for that. Even the slight jostling of Mettaton's length felt as much intimate as it did outright sexual (though it was that too, of course, inescapably so). But it felt almost- affectionate, in a way, a reminder of their closeness, that this joining of their bodies went deeper than that.
Of course, considering their bodies as a whole, Mettaton still mounting the Ascian, cock stuffed inside him, blood and come smeared between them, saliva also in any number of places... intimacy would've been a more likely assumption than not. But not a given, he thought; it would've been possible for something like this to be primarily carnal alone- though it was hard for him to imagine ever divorcing it entirely from its emotional aspect, not with them, not after all they'd spoken of and done together. This degree of comfort and shared passions would never have been possible had they not fallen as far as they had for each other. So much of the pleasure was due to their mutual trust, respect, affection....
Even from their first encounters, Emet-Selch knew emotion had played a certain important role. That from the start they had been interested in one another, curious- a mutual investment that had grown over time. And that Mettaton could be so unalarmed by it, could approach these feelings so steadily as though there was nothing to be afraid of in falling in love, no reason to hold back or deny- it was something the Ascian still didn't understand but was grateful for. If Mettaton hadn't, then- he doubted he ever would've acknowledged a thing.
The way they kissed each other now, though- it would be impossible to mistake it as anything but the actions of two people fiercely in love with one another. The intimacy had become intrinsic, and this meeting of lips and tongue was the clearest sign of it, even more than that of anywhere else their bodies met and merged. And for the moment it was tempered passion, though not spent- something that had been fed once more, yet still possessing of the capacity to be stoked once again. That it could still rise and consume them, and that they would do nothing but welcome being burned.
Emet-Selch knew this, and in some distant, uninvolved way, also had an idea of the likely condition of his body- but his kiss becomes no less invested, with no degree of hesitancy in the potential of encouraging Mettaton's continued arousal towards him. Even if his body faltered, it was fine- his lover's occasional suck upon his tongue only assured him he was fine, somehow. The hand in his hair, claws so gentle across his skin... he felt so secure with every touch, and that bit more renewed in his devotion to him. It wasn't even a question of failing to not encourage him; the Ascian wanted him still, from claws to cock, and would be satisfied with his company alone. He even thinks again about marrying him, and in this moment, at least, he can't imagine why he had ever felt hesitation, or some inclination towards denying him; how could he ever refuse some additional means of tying Mettaton to himself, unnecessary as it would be?
They... belonged together. Emet-Selch knew that much, at least. Everything else would fall into place. They would make it so- and how could reality deny the two of them, when their desires were aligned?
The slightest pulling back of Mettaton's hips still surprised him though, and Emet-Selch couldn't decide how he felt about it. Having his lover's thickness buried to the root was good- more than that, it was right, that he could hold him that way, no matter how sore he became. But he was reminded as well of what Mettaton's cock was blocking, that he was preventing his come from leaking free. Though with the Ascian's hips still up, he didn't think too much would manage to escape even so... but just the memory of the way it had felt, dripping uncontrollably from his body while his lover could watch it was- shiver inducing. Tension encouraging.
Enough that it does disrupt that kiss a little (if sucking on Mettaton's lower lip could count as a disruption, or nuzzling at the corner of his mouth, or pressing damp lips over whatever place on his Bonded's face that he happened to touch; he would agree entirely that messy kissing had its own charm, its own appeal, and the result of a face smeared with saliva was hardly a drawback). His hands scratch slowly through the fur at Mettaton's back, his sides, as his body shifts slightly underneath him. Just the prospect of dripping for him was an appealing one, enough to heat him even in his exhaustion- for all that he loved the feeling of his cock just as dearly. Swallowing back a noise (that wouldn't have been much of one anyway; he winces a little regardless), he tugs at the robot's lower lip with his teeth, between intermittent swipes at it with his tongue, as though either of them needed any more saliva anywhere.]
[Now that Mettaton was producing saliva at all it would be a waste not to smear it on his lover's face, to make known to all that he'd just kissed him with wild abandon... To make known to Emet-Selch that he'd just keep doing it, too. To coat him with any of the fluids and pheromones he could produce that were his now, just like this body was his now, just like Emet-Selch was his now, all things to conquer and claim. He'd wear his lover's blood on his face like a mark of pride. (Even though it would only end up alarming people, and the Coven might get him in trouble for becoming a maneater... Mettaton's not thinking about any of that.)
There was the swapping of spit, but there was intensity in emotion that gets that golden eye of Mettaton's to flutter shut just to bask in. Feelings of adoration and admiration both, ones he reciprocated. He could feel and enjoy and feed into the simmering warmth between them best exhibited by the slow, intent way they focused so purely on kissing each other, on each other's bodies and souls, somewhere he felt... comfortable. They could both just be themselves in the purest, rawest sense in each other's presence, and though the idol was never pretending to be someone he wasn't... It was different to be in the sole company of his Bonded, and they both understood why. He could tell Emet-Selch felt similarly, even if it always struck the robot that he wasn't ever sure what such a state should be for himself — but he would simply be with him anyway, and that was pleasing to him to witness.
Like this, it would make sense that as soon as Mettaton shifts his hips and draws his cock, both of them would end up on the same page. He could almost feel the complexity of mood on the matter from the both of them: drawing even an inch from Emet-Selch was the reminder that being inside of him was where Mettaton should be. He could feel Emet-Selch agreed with that fiercely. Down to the root should he be buried, where Emet-Selch could continue to rub and squeeze the glans of his cock as soon as he (inevitably) stiffened again... But what was a bit of playful adjusting, a bit of exploratory shuffling of positions? It sounds enticing to the Puca, and he makes the decision to change things up for experiment's sake. To see what calls to him most, to see what his lover would do.
Emet-Selch's stuttered in his kiss, misaligning their lips after a good shiver. Mettaton only smiles, a smooth, soft laugh replacing soft moans. And yet still, it's painted in pleasure.]
You're keeping step with me even still, I see...
[Not at all in body. Even Mettaton was presently in his right mind enough to take in how beaten down Emet-Selch was, bloodied and bruised, and — really, his neck was something that he thinks a human would get alarmed at. He looks like he was strangled and worse... but the amount of bruising on his neck would surely give away that it was from passion alone, and not of hateful violence. After all, were they from injury, that would be enough to... severely harm his lover, he thinks, but he's not sure.
Necks are tender, vulnerable places; he knew that first-hand. Mettaton draws back just enough to regard the other man's throat, blinking at it all. It would be rarer to find a spot unmarked on him now... Indeed, it would have to be bruising from the sucking of lips or the biting of teeth, all of it passionate and sensual.
But where Emet-Selch falters in body, he keeps up with him in imagination and thought and spirit. That's what the Puca's getting at: both of them felt the shift of his hips and both of them, he's sure, envisioned the way Emet-Selch would drip with come were he righted from this spot. And both of them wondered... should they do it? Should they watch him try to rise, only to find themselves fiercely aroused by his state? Just picturing the events that could potentially unfold after Emet-Selch's valiant attempt has Mettaton putting a firm halt on them, but not to spare his lover. Only to spare himself the fantasy, so that he could watch the real thing.
So Emet-Selch keeps up with him in consideration, passion, intensity, and anticipation. His voice, the soreness of his body... He was spent, but it wouldn't be so bad, Mettaton thought. All Emet-Selch would have to do is take his cock some more, more and more and more as he left in him load after load so that he could see just how full he could leave him, time and again. But right now was a good point to check.
With a firm kiss to his lover's cheek, Mettaton flashes Emet-Selch a charming smile with teeth: canines manicured sharp, incisors long, an odd combination but one he owns in this moment. There's a mischievousness to his gaze. Not at all burdened by the events of their time tangled together, Mettaton shifts to half-rise from Emet-Selch's body... but drawing his cock out is more of an ordeal. It's done with obvious regret on his features, the contortion of displeasure from leaving the heat and squeeze of his lover's body and with a shaky sigh to match. But even regarding Emet-Selch's body has Mettaton interrupting his efforts to press a quick kiss to his chest.]
Don't worry, Hades. I'm sure you'll still feel full... And should you not, you'll tell me, right?
[With that, he slinks along his body to rise to his knees, narrowing his eyes with a sultry heat to his gaze, watching him behind dark lashes with a predator's hunger.]
I'll fill you right back up...
[It's up to Emet-Selch to decide if that's a guarantee - that if he feels too empty, he'd fill him - or if that's a promise anyway - that he'd stuff his cock back inside of him regardless of his feeling. But it would almost certainly be the latter: they both knew Mettaton won't be able to hold back if he catches sight of his lover so full of his come that it runs down his thighs.
But Mettaton seems determined to get the best view, leaning back with an air of expectant intensity. His cock, only semi-stiff in its attempt to relax, is slick with a sheen, evidence to its bed of come and lube but on full display. The way he leans is regal and pompous, the diamonds spilling over his neck only adding to the picture of decadence. Darkly he watches, his perspective like this giving a full view of Emet-Selch's spread legs, from bruises to ass to cock... It's hard not to lunge for him just like this. It's obscene, his entrance so slicked and with come all over between his thighs, enough to have Mettaton near slavering over it... No, Emet-Selch wouldn't be able to leave this bed without good reason, Mettaton's sure. He couldn't allow it, and he couldn't bear it.
As though offering the illusion of freedom, Mettaton's disengaged from Emet-Selch completely. But the pressure in the air itself suggests anything but: he would surely pounce the moment it struck him to. How would he resist his lover? Ears standing tall in their interest with a pronounced lean, Mettaton tilts his head.]
Hmm... But where would I have you go? Well! I could leave that up to you. You could try for the shower... You could stretch your legs. You could come back to me... If you can move at all.
[So Mettaton sits back. He waits. He watches intently his lover from his spot between his legs, feeling pressure build all over again in his groin, tension and want filling him. From here he can still see his Bonded's face, can still watch the whole of him while sitting on his knees, but he does his best to remain purely in this moment, not in fantasy. If he gives himself over to fantasy too soon, he'll end up losing his mind.]
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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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Better for it. He'd been right the first time he'd said it and it was true now as well, he thought. While the last time had been due to the relief found in subjugation and service, he supposed this was... a continuation of that feeling. The straightforward pleasure of experiencing Mettaton's pleasure, watching and feeling as his ecstasy crested once more, having the proof of it contained still in his body. To have... this, all of this, all of this man be all that he needed to consider for a time.).
The squirming only emphasized and agitated the cock remaining within him, stirred it enough to make it take a moment's concentration to keep from tightening around it- though it does cause flickers of tension to run through the rest of his body. It was still so warm... more than that, and with the intrusion of a yet-stiffening erection remaining, it was also hard to imagine not being able to remain especially heated, at least internally. His breathing is deliberately controlled, as he holds back the instinctive urge to press into his cock.
It's not a distraction, but it's another point to focus on when Mettaton leans back enough for their working eyes to meet. And he continues with his words, dramatic and excessive- though it didn't strike the Ascian as hyperbole, exactly. No, he meant it entirely sincerely, he thought- which was endearing.
--And it wasn't as though Emet-Selch didn't feel the same, even if he wouldn't have phrased it like that.
He was still thinking about Mettaton's words when the man pounced forward again, taking him up in another heated kiss, damp and as enthusiastic as the rest of his manner- and in this, at least, the Ascian's ardor can be comparable, at least in intent. His response is immediate, pressing into his lips, shivering at the suck to his bitten one, his own tongue slipping out for a brief taste of him.
Even if it was temporary, there was more stability in these moments than he'd felt in years... longer than he wanted to count, all the way back to the beginning. Being in this world wasn't without cost. There was a lot missing, disrupted, lost. But there were benefits. Aspects that were more than just consolation.
More affection, evident through expression, through touch, in the brush of noses and the simple closeness of their faces. Tilting his head slightly, he kisses Mettaton again, as though drawn to, the touch still gentle. Heat lay beyond it, focus existed within it, and love was expressed through it. Mettaton was warm on top of him, inside him, and- warm regardless, in his nature and his mood, and as he spent more and more time in his company, Emet-Selch felt a certain contentment just to feel it, even if he could never generate anything similar. A mortal form's capacity for body heat wasn't the same thing at all.
--Words would never suffice for this gratitude. And at the moment he didn't have any, even were his throat, his voice in better condition. Where Mettaton was light and energetic in his sentiment, the Ascian remained heavy, not weighted down exactly- not in the negative sense, at least- but dark and secured. And so fond that he was a bit crushed by it himself- but that was just how love registered, to him.
So he kisses him instead, and holds him and breathes him, nuzzling at lips and wrapping up in arms and holding between his legs. Feeling little other than the desire to- stay with him, in both body and instant, to remain in this moment for as long as he could.]
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Wrapped up tightly like this, in arms and between legs and kissed some more, he feels both the inclination to sink into it... and to squirm some more. Mettaton does both: he presses against Emet-Selch's lips with a hum and shifts the entire rest of himself, the pleasure of love his cause for distraction in body. Elation and tenderness exist at once, and he fels his chest and his hips pressing more firmly into his Bonded's body like this. He may have no sense for warmth, but even the give of flesh and muscle strikes him as the suggestion of heat in body, and he's certain of Emet-Selch's warmth.
Certain of a lot of things. Their love for each other, their individual heat, and how he has his lover appropriately bedded and protected by himself in a more instinctual sort of way. Appropriately taken and marked by himself, made his own and warmly claimed by himself, with all of the love and affection that exists in even the most violent parts of himself. Mettaton's confident that the vastness of his feelings can be felt by the both of them, even when it's too much to take in in one go: that's why he can overwhelm them both in pleasure and vice to express that much more of it. But here, now, he's nuzzling his lips with his own, shifting futilely even as he demonstrates obvious reluctance to withdraw his cock. Not just reluctance, but an eagerness to remain.
Mettaton shifts one of his arms finally, unhooking it from its clutches about Emet-Selch's shoulder. He lifts it and brings his fingertips to caress gingerly his neck, before treating it with a bit less of that care and palpating it, bruises and bite marks causing his eye to brighten with a sort of sick satisfaction in the sight of such injury. He remains hovering above Emet-Selch like this, drinking in the sights of bruise and puncture, before letting his eye fix upon Emet-Selch's with an undeniable heat.
And a fervent energy, as ever.]
Haha. Just think. We were trying to get to the shower, all this time... Whoopsie. [He doesn't look ashamed at all... And Mettaton doesn't seem to be all that eager to draw away any time soon.] Of course, you'd prefer being showered in my kisses. Drenched in fluids other than water... My my, Hades. The indecency of it.
[He gives Emet-Selch a charming smile that ends up having a sort of wickedness to its edges, with the darkness of fur creeping up his shoulders and the brightness of his eyes; the ever-present animalistic manner to his every movement that feels it could ramp up in an instant. Mettaton's certainly reached a point already after his last ejaculation where his body's capable of being coaxed back into arousal, back to building up a brand new instance of release and a stiffened cock. With Mettaton's persistent shifting, it won't be hard for him to do on his own. (Or it'll be easily hard, however it should be said.)
But there's a sticky, sweet manner to him, pleased to have his lover caught and pinned and still impaled by his cock. Yes, with thoughts like these, he'll be hard in no time. But he assume Emet-Selch could only feel flattered to have Mettaton himself so hard. Being so used by him in body is an honor, after all.]
Your energy... Don't think I can't feel how much I've drained you, thought. Yet you tease me still...
[Emet-Selch teases Mettaton by existing and not trying to disengage from his body, apparently. As if he could, with a heavy robot body atop him and claws and cock pinning him in place, in a sort of position that makes him terribly prone and less capable of escape. Mettaton still continues to shift atop his body as though restless, and restless he is. With the influence of those pendants, he feels only inclined toward movement. And with his love interest in the room, he feels further inclined toward channeling all of that mischievousness and energy into fucking him, as opposed to his usual full moon activities.]
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Mettaton was touching his throat and disturbing his bruises, his clotting scratches, reminding them both of how thoroughly possessed the area was, and Emet-Selch can feel his pulse increase from the contact. A rub of clawed fingers against wounded skin, an area of his body particularly vulnerable, and he has to push back the reflex to close his eyes, in some instinctive desire to acknowledge that claim, that Mettaton had true control over his neck, and how intact it was allowed to remain. Instead, for all of the drain and weakness in his body, the Ascian's gaze stays focused, expectant- exhausted yet... eager all the same. There's certainly no suggestion of not intending to encourage his lover's arousal, and his tired body shifts as best it can underneath him, in its own version of restlessness.
But that's right... Mettaton had offered to take him to the shower (presumably to take him in the shower) some rounds ago, but each attempt had been aborted with increasing swiftness. They'd only made it off the bed once (because Mettaton brought him to the floor), and the last time he'd barely had his cock withdrawn before it was stuffed back in again, Emet-Selch pulled back into his lap where he belonged, onto the erection they both wanted him to take. It's a memory that has his breathing shiver and his blood rousing; the suggestion of potential violence in Mettaton's manner did nothing to dissuade him. It was much the opposite: every look stoked his desire for him, a hunger to be torn apart by his monstrous Bonded. Love was written in every drop of blood he lost, and he always had more to lose. And more bruises to gain. And more come to lay somewhere on his body.
He did appreciate being clean. But he also appreciated this, coated and smeared and dripped upon... it was indecent, every part of his body on potential display, available for use, and showing every sign of having been indulged in. And yet even now, while exhausted in body... there's little sign of Emet-Selch being any less wanting, any less fixated on his lover. A rapt, heated inclination that continued in spite of any weakness in body.]
You're- just as much of a tease.
[The barest suggestion of a voice, but it's... sort of there. Mettaton was similarly teasing by just existing in the Ascian's presence and his body, agitating the filling cock within him, looking down at him as though he were only a few suggestions away from ravishing him yet again. Not so much giving into animalistic impulses but harnessing them, using their influence to seek ever greater enjoyment for them both. Instincts that were worth indulging, when they could lead to pleasure like this, an intense way of expressing their mutual love.
It's not much more than a nudge, but Emet-Selch tries to push his ass back against Mettaton's hips. As though either of them needed any reminder over where the puca remained, and what the Ascian contained because of it.]
Yet. Even if you allowed me to rise....
[If they made yet another valiant attempt towards a shower... or to just sit up at all, he would drip with come, they both would notice it, Mettaton would fall on him, Emet-Selch would give himself over, and the cycle would continue. And every time he'd get a few more scratches, or another bruise, and his constitution would be eroded that bit more, until he could hardly move at all, could only shiver and twitch and yet still attempt to reach for him. Yet would still desire being fucked. He was well on the way to that state already.]
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[It's true: Emet-Selch's body is the perfect place to find himself popping another erection all over again, all of that frustrated pressure given a place to be squeezed back. There's nothing more divine than that, he thought: whether it's a body of metal or of blood, the result of arousal would lead Mettaton to some manner of pressure that would eventually evolve into something near unbearable not to stroke. It would frustrate and, if ever he were the one pinned in place and deprived of touch (something he feels a sudden surge of ferocity toward in sheer defiance of such a fate, his tail flicking at the mere consideration), it would overwhelm him. He'd be desperate and aching, his cock either pulsing with the beat of his heart or simply growing fuller and fuller as the minutes ticked by. He would arch his back, strive for even a skim of a touch just to feel some manner of satisfaction. He would struggle and squirm and seduce, he would bite and fight and work his legs until he received the relief he craved.
Mettaton didn't think he'd handle being deprived of his senses very well. He'd spiral, and in a headspace like the one he's presently in, he feels he'd be apt to lose his mind completely if he didn't get the touch he deserved.
This was favorable, then. Immediately, Mettaton's gratified with pressure, with the push of Emet-Selch's ass into his hips, and that's all he needs to find himself hardening at a rapid rate. All he needs to find his hips jerking in place, echoing that nudge with more intensity, jostling his length within Emet-Selch's body and giving him front row seats to experiencing Mettaton's inevitable arousal. So inevitable that it's coming to as each moment passes, a thickening and stiffening of his cock to fill his lover all over again with something rigid, something both to stroke and to be stroked.
They both teased each other into wanting each other's sex. Even if only one of them would end up hard and orgasming, it was still satisfying in the end. Mettaton's had his share of being on the end of finding bliss in Emet-Selch coming between his thighs, in his fingers, on his tongue; it stands that his lover would take deep pleasure in giving his body over for use, for massaging his cock to his own climax. Mettaton is enticed by decadence: given the hint of intense sensation, he can't help but indulge.
And should Emet-Selch be given freedom, Mettaton only imagines how he'd find himself dripping again. It's a thought he revisits so frequently, and with the same exact result each time: he gets hard. He gets hungry for the taste of his partner's body, in blood or saliva or sweat or skin. He wants to taste that rich come soaking his thighs, wants to taste it on Emet-Selch's mouth, but he can't even get to the point of withdrawing his cock when it lodges itself so comfortably, so erotically contained in Emet-Selch's body.
Mettaton's already down to the root of his arousal, and he soaks in the knowledge that Emet-Selch's wound around his base already, stretched to fit. He may as well belong here now. The very moment he withdrew, Emet-Selch's body would have to readjust... and how unpleasant. He grins.]
Both of us. Would... [The idol bends in to kiss at Emet-Selch's neck, following the grazing of dark, sharp nails as though applying soft lips as a balm to his touch.] —Would situate ourselves, back in our place.
[As his place is obviously with his cock, engorged and needy, stuffed inside of his lover's body. Emet-Selch's place, wrapped around a thick cock and with his legs spread about Mettaton's hips. Without his length... Sure, Emet-Selch would demonstrate all of the physical notes of being empty of such thickness. No glans to hold back the spilled come he held, no girth to fill a space made for Mettaton to fill...
Mettaton withdraws his cock half-way. What was it like, to be anywhere but in the heat of his Bonded's body...? Even this much has him repositioning again to kiss Emet-Selch, to nip at his lip with a sort of hiss through his teeth. But just as much as ever, his voice is perfect in poise: a smooth, low purr, especially given the shape and size of his desire.]
Tell me... How desperate you are. For me to fill you. For me to fuck you.
[...in truth, Mettaton's the one with the engorged erection. That doesn't at all stop him from demanding to be craved. He wants Emet-Selch's notice and wants Emet-Selch to desire him so strongly that being without was intolerable, just as much as it is for him. He nearly can't stand it: Mettaton nearly jerks his hips again, nearly needs to slam his hips to his ass to feel the whole of his cock being squeezed over as it fills, but he abstains. He lets his own darkening frustration grow willingly, two sides to a burgeoning violence impending that could only be soothed by the compliment of abject desire.
It would flatter his ego. It would tame this uncontrollable, primal need for sex, the recognition and subsequent soothing of his heat to hear Emet-Selch tell him he craves his cock, that he needs to be used and subdued, that he'd stroke and service Mettaton in moments dark and demanding and sensual just like this one.]
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A faint shiver runs through him, breath faltering for a moment as lips softly touch his wounded, loved neck. As his lover's voice confirms what they already know. Even should Mettaton pull free from him, the result... would only have him stuffing his way back inside his come-smeared ass, while the Ascian cried out, spreading his legs ever further to accommodate him, to welcome him shoved hard back into the depths of his body, a body already so slickened internally by all of the thick, milky come Mettaton had gifted him.
But that would entail pulling out, when they were already both in their place, the pair of them. Mettaton removing himself even halfway has him suck in a breath, tighten around him as if to hold onto what his body yet contained of him. The puca's lips were against his own, as were his teeth; his voice was clear, words and tone that would've been capable of arousing on their own, had the Ascian's body not been so thoroughly drained. He kisses him back through teeth.]
How much....
[Emet-Selch doesn't waste his throat in voicing something like that, only mouthing the words as he thinks. As he considers him, Mettaton dark and demanding, clearly tense no matter his robotic shell, wanting to thrust fully back into his body where they knew he belonged. Where the Ascian could continue to warm the full length of the shaft, could squeeze it, his body's adoration of it manifesting in both how tightly he'd wrap around him, as well as how fully he'd accommodate him.
And already it felt strange, to have him partially withdrawn, while not in a state of thrusting, of stroking the thick, engorged tip all along the interior of his body. It was better than not having him at all, but it was simultaneously a frustration, wanting his girth pushed further than that, wanting the swell of the head to rub him as deeply as it could reach, wanting his lover's hips flush to his body once again.
When was he not desperate for him? Not wanting to be filled or fucked, to see his lover bearing down on him- he couldn't imagine it. It didn't matter that he wasn't the one stiff, that he was aching more from use than from arousal, Mettaton's expectation of flattery, of being wanted, didn't strike him as strange at all. It felt unthinkable to not yearn for him, and part of that yearning was for this kind of submission, to have this focus, to have someone to serve and adore and desire.
His breathing shudders; his hands stroke roughly over Mettaton's sides. Swallowing, he tries to speak.]
There's nothing I wouldn't do for it. Anything you asked, for you, I- how could I hesitate?
[It barely qualifies as a whisper and it hurts, but he manages. He had to.]
When you bury yourself in me, I-- [He didn't have to think. He didn't want to think about not having to think. And he didn't have to like this, not when he had Mettaton above him, blotting out all else. With that reward, how could he do anything but want him, as fervently as his beloved desired of him?] I need your cock. Every part of it, and every part of you.
[It's scarcely audible, lips brushing against Mettaton's as he speaks, manner caught between a desperate plea and a just as desperate demand, an insistence on being fucked, no matter how much his body trembled from its mix of fatigue and agitation.]
I would- give you everything, for this.
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And it's a need to feel him buried, to feel the whole of his cock. But over this, it's so that Emet-Selch could give him everything. Could do anything he asked. He'd do anything to feel his cock, he says. He'd relinquished Emet-Selch's lip for speech, but he smiles against his lips. He has no lungs to necessitate panting, and has no state of breathlessness to achieve, but the way Mettaton begins to squirm in place is all the signal needed to demonstrate that apprehension, that want, that explosive desire apt to go off in instants.
It's what he wants to hear, this dedication to his service. He'd do anything he asked, he wouldn't hesitate, he'd give everything to feel every part of Mettaton's body bearing down upon his own. During the course of Mettaton's excitable shifting, he notes that his entire abdomen feels flush with pressure so great that the next jostle of his length causes a sharp moan to escape from between his teeth.
Before he can give him his cock in full, Mettaton feels he needs to tell Emet-Selch his status.]
H... Hades, god... Good. You're... exactly what I'd hoped for. You're doing so well. I'm-
[It's never some hitch of breath to interrupt, but rather, a mere interruption of thought itself. An excitability in manner or a seizing of body, an overload of input to process that drowns him, and he drowns with pleasure.]
I'm so- [Hard; losing of sense and restraint; aching for relief;] You need... You'll take my cock. All of me, and you'll fulfill me. And... You'll be sure to squeeze me. Until I'm screaming, Hades. Do this. Make me- stroke me, give yourself to me.
[Those are his terms whispered darkly against Emet-Selch's lips, littered with presses that could be construed as kisses and sometimes hissed from behind gritted teeth. His Bonded wasn't rendered so sore that he wouldn't move for him, and until then, he'd wring from him everything. He had the plan to render him so used that taking a shower, in their future, would be no easy feat; it was only fitting that it would continue to be a struggle, that Emet-Selch would have such difficulty standing from overuse that he might just need to be supported, might just need to be held against Mettaton's body and forced back atop his cock.
That Emet-Selch would have no options but to be used and fucked for days under Mettaton's watch — and it sounds especially pleasant to his Monster-adddled mind, to... Take Emet-Selch, run off with him, to make them both disappear for Mettaton's exclusive passions to enchant them for a spell of time. Hearing his Bonded covet him so wholly only makes the Puca's more primal side overcome any vanity-fueled fury, the swing of a pendulum going in all of the more affectionate, excessive aspects of his change. He could have all of Emet-Selch's exclusive attention.
This want to have the whole of his lover propels him to slam his hips against him once more, and he feels that much more aching for it. He feels so hard that it would surprise him that he's already fucked Emet-Selch multiple times over the evening: it felt as though he'd been nursing an aching cock for an impossibly long time, biding his time and waiting for this moment to stuff his lover full of him. He feels the full swell of his glans pushing Emet-Selch apart deep within, making up a space for itself and the rest of his similarly thick shaft, and Emet-Selch...
His body is impossibly warm and hospitable to his erection. Mettaton's voice is tight when he moans, fulfilled by having himself deep enough for his balls to rest comfortably against his lover's body. And though relief washes over him thick and sweet, he aches still. He aches so much that he wonders if Emet-Selch would be able to feel it across their tether.
Though he doesn't notice it, Mettaton's right hand grips for purchase on... something. He ends up grabbing Emet-Selch's bicep, his other hand still nearly digging into his shoulder with hardy claws. Mettaton's delirious with impending desire, shifting his hips only enough to rock the head of his erection as deeply inside of him as he can reach, stroking the glans with rapturous need.
Ears that once stood attentively assume their nonsensical posture: slack, askew. The idol stammers on words normally more reliable than most, difficult to make falter.]
Show me... Show me your... desire...!
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But Mettaton was speaking, and despite the longing of his body for this satisfaction, it's not difficult for him to become caught up in listening. To hear not only his voice, the way it could be broken up by the puca's own wanting, his own intensity catching up to him, rather than some failure of mortal lung- but also what Mettaton wanted. What he expected from him, and Emet-Selch could think of nothing else outside of wanting to fulfill him. To hear his lovely voice taken by screaming, to hear and feel him come undone by the pleasure his body could give him.
It could hardly be called kissing, his own presses of lips against Mettaton's, but it's a touch of breath and tongue and teeth, shivering and determined. Shaky and firm, he wanted to touch and taste and devour him as far as he could, even if Mettaton was the one pressing down on him, keeping him against the bed, penetrating him with a heavy, engorged cock that his body was made to take. To not only endure but enjoy every inch he was given, to worship and stroke him to completion- why else would the interior of his body be so hot and tight, if not for this purpose?
And was there anything more fulfilling than having one's purpose be satisfied? Strangled though it is, Emet-Selch still cries out when Mettaton shoves his hips forward, impaling him wholly again. It's a roughened, raspy sound that trails off into what would've been a moan as his whole body shudders, as he clenches hard around his cock. A welcoming tightness, an embrace by his body, a fierce squeeze as though to entice him to remain this time, to just keep fucking him indefinitely. He would give him orgasm after orgasm, until he could no longer stand, much less walk. But why would Emet-Selch even need to walk? In this moment he couldn't think of any reason why that would ever be necessary- and with his legs spread, wrapped around Mettaton's hips, how could he have ever managed to walk in the first place? It wouldn't be conductive towards being fucked at all, which meant it was something to be discarded.
Desires notwithstanding (literally), there is still some relief on the Ascian's part for the mercy of having his hips thoroughly raised by pillows. His legs already had a persistent tremble to them, that was only partially due to having the tip of Mettaton's cock rubbing him as far as it could reach (though that in itself was both a thought and sensation to leave him weak, to have the thickness of the head in a constant massage, while he was made to stretch around the entirety of his shaft, all the way to the root, where his entrance had a tight hold on him). The less Emet-Selch had to hold up on his own, the better- and the easier it was to devote himself entirely to clenching around his length with shuddered, harsh breaths, with attempted rolls of his body further onto his cock. He could feel his lover's aching, and it leaves him wanting to whine in sympathy for it, to shift, to tense, to cling, to do anything to bring him to relief, however temporary.
Over and over, he'd bring him this, milk from him brief moments of satiation, while simultaneously tempting him into further excess. More cries to take, more come to hold. If Mettaton always needed his body for this pleasure, it meant he could never leave him.]
Mettaton--
[Even if words were lost to him again, there was still his name, there were still the sounds he shouldn't be making, and which troubled an already raw throat to produce. Mettaton's claws were digging into him, his grip holding him down, bracing himself against the Ascian's body in a way that kept him secure, kept him safe, that eliminated any chance of escape. But as deep as Mettaton was, as thoroughly as he could feel the glans of his length shoved inside of him, he wanted his movement, wanted to feel his body pounded into the bed with hard shoves of his lover's hips. He wanted to feel crushed by his body and his cock, so that he couldn't move, even if Mettaton was cruel enough to abandon him entirely. That he'd still be left there, broken and shivering, used and filthy and exhausted, yet despairing for more of his touch all the same.
Soft, rough; forced through a throat that desired nothing but silence.]
Take me- I want- I need you, don't--
[Don't stop. Don't leave. Don't forget. Don't stop.]
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And even as he finds himself preparing for deeper thrusts, he's made to slow just to appreciate the way Emet-Selch tries to back his ass into his hips in his own desperation. He's not aroused even still, but his lover rolls into him, pronounced and demanding as his need of him, as he begs for him to be taken on a voice that ought to be stolen from him, too. Stolen entirely; stolen so far that he wouldn't even be able to flatter Mettaton any longer, even if he demanded his praises. A dangerous state to be in like this... But Mettaton didn't think so. Emet-Selch is safe with him, and he could feel it between them both: they were safe with each other, and nothing else but them mattered. Nothing but the beat of their cravings mattered, and the way Emet-Selch inadvertently tightens around his length with each curve of his back. The robot swallows, a sound still managing to slip through in a broken moan.
Nothing else mattered, certainly not Emet-Selch's capacity to walk. Why would it when Mettaton planned to take him and keep him, to hold him and fuck him? He would have no need to ambulate at all, only to lie in this bed, prone and properly bloodied and scented. If he moved, he would lose some of the come he'd spilled in him, after all. He was perfectly positioned with his hips elevated for access, already engulfing the whole of his length and stretched to fit him, and all Mettaton needed to do now was pound into him.
It was what Emet-Selch was begging for. It was what Mettaton desired, besides. Emet-Selch's desires would always be the same as Mettaton's, he's decided, and Mettaton slides his cock back out.
Only to jerk his hips sharply, thrusting into Emet-Selch's body with long, hard, quick passes. For each aching withdrawal of his length, the subsequent filling of Emet-Selch was a firmer, longer affair, a jostling of his length and rolling of hip with a focus on dragging the head of himself against Emet-Selch so deeply. It's a sensation that makes him feel as though he's stuffing Emet-Selch fuller and thicker, any withdrawal only serving to sharpen his need, to make louder his cries, to hike up his desperation; while every filling of cock served to pleasure and entice him into having more. He feels so heavy, heavier still when he bears down on Emet-Selch to better, more quickly pound into him, fingers gripping just as much as his weight pushes into him. Steadying his lover, there would be no escaping from under him like this, gripped down upon and fucked by a heavy cock, pressed under the metal weight of him that could only serve to make each thrust of his hips feel that much more pronounced.
Mettaton's delirious now with the same desire as before, but also with immense pleasure. There was his lover squeezing this intrusion, of the man rocking into his arousal, but there was also possession and relief, even as the pressure in him builds. He wants to be so demanded and needed, and he'd reward that expression of want on Emet-Selch's part by thrusting, hard and deep and fast, into his body so that he couldn't hope to think, could only hope to react. And by react, Mettaton was determined to have Emet-Selch squeezing over his whole length, pressure variable and unpredictable and dizzying, dazzling, something to blind and enrapture him.
His voice is a cry, and he's sure he had something to say...]
Hades—!
[But all he remembers to say is his lover's name, still pressing his lips to the other man's, scarcely kissing but remaining anchored there as though he could absorb anything from him should the opportunity arise. Should Emet-Selch cry out, he would be there to kiss him and take from him that, a further conquering of breath and voice. Mettaton feels so good, so stimulated; he couldn't not keep fucking his lover, if it feels this good. He feels loved and relished, demanded and needed, and those were all points of pleasure to the robotic idol: cherished and craved, he could only give Emet-Selch all of the stroking and filling he could want.
He fixes his libidinous attention upon the way his lover trembles, the way it intensifies with the stroke of his cock so deep; the way the Ascian rolls into his girth and squeezes around him, so desperate to be taken. Mettaton was desperate to take in return: taking, being so zealously wanted... those were things he was used to, and he was more than happy to fit his cock inside of Emet-Selch and to stroke him, to coax more pleasurable massaging of his length, to bring them both to that point of absolute rapture. Mettaton can taste it, and he wants to drown in that, too.
He wants to tell Emet-Selch how hard he feels, how his body's the only relief he has for this aching pressure, but he's reassured by the knowledge that this fierce pounding would surely convey that relief he finds in him. He moans instead, airy and blissful, and waiting for that blinding pressure he knows his lover will make good on delivering. ...In fact, the tension of waiting itself has him crying out once more, still rapturous, but with an edge of needy anticipation. He could hardly take it: he needed to feel Emet-Selch squeeze his cock, and his voice is pleading despite its firm command.]
Squeeze around me. I'm- so, so hard, you want me... Hades...!
[If he weren't so primal in need, he feels he might have had a handle on this voice of his...! He might have been able to describe to Emet-Selch in salacious detail what he'd feel if he obeyed, how tensing around his length would imbue him with the knowledge of how stuffed full he truly was. He wants to say it all to him, but he can only moan as he teases himself with the thought. Though his thrusting slows, it's with the ultimate goal of letting his cock linger for longer deep inside of Emet-Selch: firmer, harder pounding to allow Emet-Selch to drink in how full he is of cock, only to steal it away from him, to let him feel how uncomfortably devoid he is without. A filling, a taking; the cycle repeats, and Mettaton wants him to tense around all of it and none of it, to let him know how he needs his cock if he wants at all to feel full and satisfied.]
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And this taking was all he could've wanted. Pushed down and pounded into, immobilized by a heavy metal body and robotic strength along with his own exhaustion further underlining how helpless he'd become. In spirit as well as body, as all he could think of doing now, was to bring his lover to increasing heights of ecstasy, however he could, at whatever cost to his flesh.
Emet-Selch shivers at the sound of his name cried out against his lips. Another reward, and his appreciation of it is returned in a kiss that's almost soft. A gentleness and moment of something like coordination, belying the intensity of the passions underneath; his exhalation is still shaky.
Though already inclined to squeeze around him, Mettaton's direction to only increases Emet-Selch's determination to do so. To tighten around his length for sharp, breathless moments, unable to find any particular pattern in his efforts, only a continuous desire to hold him as tight as he could. Sometimes it was when the glans was at its deepest point, a heavy weight inside him, a stuffing full enough and hot enough to be worth crying out for- but every vocalization he attempted was getting worse, any pause for improvement having less of an effect each time. The sharpness of his breath was all he had for sound, and whispers of Mettaton's name that were scarcely discernible from that.
(For voice and ability to move to be lost... it was a strange thing to desire, to have those aspects ruined, however temporarily. To give them up entirely in the pursuit of pleasure, and to let someone else see him so limited, weakened, made vulnerable, left reliant on Mettaton for support. That it felt simultaneously comforting and thrilling, rather than alarming and distressing was- something he just had to accept about himself.)
And when he squeezed Mettaton when he was full, it was a clear reminder of just how full he truly was- that his body could wrap round something so large and so hard felt remarkable all over again. Just as remarkable was how hard Mettaton was- something that he didn't require being told, but still did something for him to hear expressed, his form wracked with another shudder at this display of just how aroused his lover was, how much he must be aching for him, how much he was wanted. And how could he respond to that knowledge, that feeling, other than by wanting him just as severely? He was desperate for his cock, every drag of it, and he'd keep tightening around him to demonstrate it.
When Mettaton pulled back, he could tighten, stroke his length with a firm hold around him, a wordless plea for him not to leave him empty for too long. And he could also tighten on incoming thrusts, though not as any sort of defense against his intrusion, but so that they could both feel him stretched out in perfect detail as Mettaton pushed back inside, could feel his body give way to him to its strongest degree.
But sometimes Emet-Selch feels overcome enough that he can hardly tighten at all, only holding on with his arms, breathing quickly against lips (any kisses are similarly intermittent, but no less impassioned for them, damp and tinged with aching pleas for him). There was the slide of his erection to consider, and as Mettaton slows in his thrusts, there's times when he's taken by that sensation on its own, of being so deliberately ravished, of knowing that the slickness his lover was thrusting into was primarily come, of how complete he was made when their bodies were joined like this. Every retreat left him with more wanting; every time he was full, he never wanted him to leave. At the same time, Emet-Selch didn't want him to stop either, even if it meant moments of being hollow, aching (he was certain that was what the ache in his body meant) to be stuffed with cock- the stroking they were both being given was worth it. The instances of loss only made the times of complete fullness that much more valuable, worth his most rapt attention.
But it's never too long before he clenches around him again, not because he remembers to (how could he forget), but because he's overcome by the need to. To emphasize his lover's thickness to them both, to squeeze him to some impossible level of stiffness, to massage and coax and pull from him his release. And though sometimes his tightening is more of a gradual increase of pressure, a holding on against Mettaton's movements, at other times it's sharper and briefer, mere moments of clenching as tightly as he could, causing his body to try and writhe and his breath to choke and his grip to tremble.
He did want him- and when he was being fucked like this, there was little else that Emet-Selch could be certain of, other than some absolute awareness of their love, but then- their sex was just a manifestation of that truth.]
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That sudden pressure remembered in his groin has his thrusts firming, stroking his cock desperately on Emet-Selch's body in bid for another squeeze. Using him, rubbing his length for relief and release, desperate to feel that pleasurable squeeze and obsessed with the addiction of orgasm. Emet-Selch squeezes again: this time, he can feel him clench mid-way up his shaft, and it's another rapturous moan from the Puca. He's positive that as he slides back inside, Emet-Selch will be able to feel him in immense definition, just as he can feel his lover's body made to part for the sloped head of him... That in itself is worthy of another moan. Squeezing, pulling, taking: it felt as though sinking his cock into Emet-Selch's body would mean he couldn't leave him, and the sensation was so immense that he wouldn't want to.
As Emet-Selch's voice diminishes, Mettaton's strengthens. Slick, hot, tight: Emet-Selch was the perfect vessel for his cock, a perfect fuck, clenching down on him every time he was full of thick, rigid flesh, and Mettaton wants to commend him for being so hot, so attractive, so beautiful in reds and purples and so good of a fuck, making a long humming sound against his palate as he kisses him in place of word formation.
Maddened, frenzied. Mettaton can't remember how many times he's done this today. He can't remember where they were, and he can barely think at all. He feels like he's in the right place, though. In his lover's arms that tighten where his body aches and fails, allowing him the push and pull of his erection with complete ease; his body's slicked by come, loads of it that he knows he's planted in his body. So many loads that his head is dizzy with thoughts and memories of it dripping down thighs, with the desire to see that result and to taste it, his own come rich and thick; he envisions vividly shoving his tongue into his lover's mouth to make him taste the result of squeezing his thick cock, the amount of ejaculate minuscule compared to the amount held by his body. But there was right now to fixate upon, barely giving Mettaton much of a chance for thought. All he knows is that he aches terribly, and each time he's squeezed is a balm. A balm he needs more and more of, a pace he needs to hasten to rub himself perfectly...
He finds a spot divine. Mettaton's eye widens, his kiss interrupted by a gasp, stroking his own cock just right on his lover's body with short, firm rubbing against his glans in a spot so slick. A body that clenches around his cock so hard that it does pull a scream from Mettaton's throat, pure and rapturous and loud, blinding and deafening as he throws his head back, writhing and thrusting madly. The ultimate flattery: Emet-Selch clenching around his heavy cock and trying to claim his body that way. Paired with this outlet for primal desire, it's one he needs to take advantage of to its fullest: the Monster finds himself craving his lover's blood again, and he doesn't know how to tell himself no to anything.
(Hard to fathom the limitations of a body so soft and giving when he can't think past his own pleasure to begin with; if Emet-Selch ached, he couldn't feel it beyond his own ache, and he couldn't fathom how worn, how sore he'd really be. (Even if he were aching from pain and soreness, it's all to serve him, and he's worthy.))
Teeth sink into his shoulder, overlapping with a bite from earlier. But a gush of blood spurts into his mouth, and Mettaton screams again into that bite, forced to let go and melt into his shoulder in the purity of his lust. He can't think: he tastes magic, feels pleasure, pressure, ache, reverie, and he feels seismic intensity.
He feels loved and tended to, pampered and treated to the highest of stimulation. A treatment worthy of him, he thought: his lover continues to apply pressure to his erection just when he needs it most, and it feels distinctly as though he's coaxing him toward climax, a sort of rub that originates at his base and slides along the shaft of his cock until his lover's body wraps around the glans. Each time, he cries out, but he never stops his frantic rhythm. With fresh blood on his lips, heat seeps from him as he nuzzles his blood-and-come-covered lover.]
Yes...! You're... like this, Hades... Feel me, I'm so—
[Hard again; or, perhaps, close. Definitely close. He thought he'd already came, but the heat of his lover's body, the come he still held, all of it overwhelms him. But he feels the distinct sensation of renewed heat, as though his cock were leaking with ejaculate, preparing him for his impending release even as he strokes himself to more intense rigidity along his body.
His lover grips down on his length so firmly that he does notice, however, his grip trembling. Faltering. But it's quickly disrupted by the sudden flood of come that spills from the slit of him, overwhelming the robot and catching him off guard as climax hits him head-on, forcing Mettaton to cry out against the other man's shoulder as he pounds into him. It's pure luxurious relief that he feels, a sort of divine pleasure exalted by the squeeze of his lover's body around his cock, the knowledge that he was depositing another thick, heavy load into his body.
When he tries to call out, it's in the form of something like "ohhh" and "hades", or a fusion of the two. He'd done everything he asked, and the result is pounding hips, the stroking of the glans against his body, a frenetic, ardent love and feverish need for him to please him, and another treatment of Mettaton curling firmly into his lover's body, as though holding him close and personal for him to deposit his release.]
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It's not that thought, but that feeling that has him continue, massaging Mettaton's cock as he thrusts in irregular bursts of tension, struggling to push up every time he's shoved down, though the efforts of the rest of his body get progressively weaker. All he could do was tighten around his length, coherency scattering in the wake of this perfect plunge into his body, this hot rigidity stretching him open and claiming him, filling him so thoroughly that he might never be free. Nor would he ever want to be.
When Mettaton seems to have found a place of particular perfection, every part of the Ascian fixates on his response to it, on the thick, heavy rubs his glans was inflicting on his body- a sensation in itself that leaves his knees weak. But even if he'd had voice left to lose, he would've been struck into silence regardless, at the sound Mettaton made. Breathing stilled, body taut, Emet-Selch held on and listened to him and shivered very quietly as his body was yet fucked into the bed, held apart and taken. A deafening of senses that continues when the puca sinks his teeth into him again, into a place already raw, already bearing the marks of his jaws- widening the bite, and stealing more of his blood.
But did it count as stealing when it was Mettaton's blood to start with? The Ascian jerks underneath his hold, against his teeth, his body, his cock- reacting only to the sharpness of it all, his lips parted as he cries out in turn- though all that emerges is static, a rasping noise that trails off into silence. Eyes closed, Emet-Selch presses his head against his, breathing resuming as he pants, unable to whine or plead or cry out at all. Only to breathe quickly and dig his fingers into his back, tighten his legs around Mettaton's body, as though he could find some sort of purchase there in the face of his lover's increasing rapture- feelings washing over him in endless surges. His throat hurt and his shoulder hurt, and those were only two places among many that were sore beyond measure- but he didn't care. When Mettaton was feeling like this, when his body was wracked with such pleasure, how could anything register as pain?
A renewal of blood-smell enters his senses, reminding him further of its part in the scent of sex and their bodies otherwise together. As primal as that of come itself, and if he tries, Emet-Selch can imagine the taste of both at his lips. Something he wanted both of, but particularly his lover's come, to feel its thickness against his lips and tongue, a rich texture that lingered in his mouth, that he could share with Mettaton and spread between them. It doesn't surprise him at all that Mettaton would want to taste it on him- why wouldn't he, this warm, wet proof not only of his possession, but of his love of it, his willingness to lick up and swallow every trace of his ejaculate that he was offered, starved for it and him.
Mettaton's voice refocuses him, makes him clamp down on his cock with more stubbornness, no matter how badly he trembled, or how much he ached or how tired he was. He could feel his closeness, could practically taste it, and he squeezes his girth, feels the soft give of the head pushing and rubbing and kneading him- all until that heat is joined by greater heat. A rush of wetness adds to what his body already held and Emet-Selch nearly chokes on a breath, body going rigid, tightening in that moment as hard as he could. Clutching his cock and his body with as much of himself as he could manage, losing himself in the particular rapture of having a flood of come pouring from the tip of his lover's cock into his awaiting body.
Emet-Selch could no longer recall how much he'd taken, how much he'd held, either thrust into his ass or swallowed down his throat. But it was his now, and he wanted every part of it- just as dearly as he wanted Mettaton's pleasure in itself, nuzzling and stroking and petting his body any way he could. It didn't matter that Emet-Selch was shaking and spent- even if he hadn't been the one indulging in another orgasm- the affection was necessary. Required. He loved him too far, needed him too fiercely- feelings that kept his heart racing and his thoughts scattered. He loved this man and he would do anything for him. He knew this.
He knew this, and nothing else mattered, as damp lips press kisses to the side of his face, adoring and soothing and warm. His throat was in agony from feelings he didn't know what to do with or how to express- there were too many, and he loved him all the same.]
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There's nuzzling against his face, petting against his back. A vibration; Emet-Selch's shaking, and as Mettaton finds every drop of come he can muster for this release coaxed from the tip of his cock with pulling, tightening muscle, he considers in some part of a nonfunctional mind that he, too, would be trembling if he had the body for it. If he wasn't about to lay uselessly in dazed stupor instead. But he focuses on these very organic responses from Emet-Selch in his ardor for him, the way his body holds his come and his cock so warmly and squeezes him, muscle and flesh his container, the body beneath him bearing every mark of their passion.
The softest whine slips his throat, more of a noise of contented pleasure than being one of any desperation as he tries to nuzzle back. Affection he adored. The world's collapsed in on them and only the room exists, only the bed exists, only Emet-Selch beneath his sinking body exists as he tucks his cheek against Emet-Selch's where he's invited to lie, the rest of his body falling into place.
This chance to demonstrate the whole of his passion over and over is something Mettaton can't fathom being without. So strongly he feels for Emet-Selch: he trusts him with it all, his whole heart and soul and body, and he treats him here to kisses soothing and wonderful. MTT's overwhelmed by emotion both light and delectable, and heavy and thick, something to sink into and be wrapped in. He can't tell the origin of either, but he can tell they're not all his own.
But he knew he loved Emet-Selch with just as much heat and passion, and the framework of his body remains curled into him, holding tightly and reliably even after his climax. He's thankful, then, for his body that maintains such rigidity in the face of his loss of control as it merely pauses in the heat of his release, clutching Emet-Selch close as he falls into him and his hold, his nuzzling and kissing.
He's hot; he realizes he's hot suddenly, his body reaching temperatures that might err on the side of dangerous for him, but he barely cares. Kisses are his salve, the body beneath him all that matters. And how soft Emet-Selch is, not just in vessel, but in manner... Soft, but so intensely felt. Each kiss carried something deep even when gently applied, damp and full of feeling, and Mettaton shudders at the emotion of it rather than any other sort of input. His eye's closed; he can't bring himself yet to open it, riding along the shockwaves of orgasm, still hyper-aware of the weight of his cock, of his hips flush to his Bonded's ass, of their deeply felt connection to each other.
And he's still in heartfelt bliss for it all. There's love, there's radiance; but there's also satisfaction and contentedness, a sort of territorial, base claim that breeds more satisfaction. Emet-Selch remains pinned under his body and in his hands, between claws and cock, and he could drink in his essence in taste and smell and sensation.
It's worth another shudder, even as he tries for voice. It's soft and smooth, but low in volume.]
Hades... Oh my god...
[Some choice words for something that blew his mind so fast. He thought he'd last for longer, but the fever of Mettaton's need seems to push him to release so quickly when he pairs thought, desire, smell, sight, and taste together, all for Emet-Selch's body to be the final element to push him over the edge. The robot's head shifts a degree to better receive those kisses, the best attempt he can manage to lean into him without pressing into him completely.]
I... love you... I...
[Would love him always; wants to marry him; finds him dear; feels so loved by him... There are a lot of things that try to surface to complete this sentiment, but his tongue feels thick — or maybe his mind's too inundated by sensation and love to make sense of speech, even when speaking is a Mettaton priority. Instead, he turns his head to try to kiss back. It's a poorly coordinated job, even when his eye cracks open, gazing at him fondly with a still luminous, dark gaze full of want.
He would always want Emet-Selch. That much was certain. In different shades, in different ways, moods, contexts, but he'd want him all the same. They could both feel secure in that, just as Mettaton felt secure in the knowing that Emet-Selch would give him anything.]
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And how sharply undone he'd seemed; Emet-Selch still shivered a little to consider it (though it might've been just more of that persistent trembling manifesting instead). There had been no holding back, he felt- as though there ever was with them- but with all they had already done together, he wondered if they were both left rawer for it all, and not only in body (though certainly in body as well, at least for anything that was organic in composition). To continue experiencing one another at the height of blissful, extreme sensation- and rather than a dulling of intensity, it only seemed to bring different aspects of it into focus. Every part was individually vivid, yet when overlayed there was a pattern of inevitable and increasing rawness left behind.
--But not necessarily in the painful sense. Though there was that too, for Emet-Selch, at least, when emotions were running this high and this hot, fatigue only making it that much more pronounced, unable to be defended against at all. But it was- pleasant all the same, soft and heavy, comforting and warm. A body over him worth loving to the limit of his ability, and even past it, somehow. A feeling worth aching over, even if there was a lot of aching.
Mettaton's first words bring a flicker of amusement, and a deeper one of endearment. Pleasure. The satisfaction of knowing he'd had release pulled from him so thoroughly, the evidence of it still heating the interior of his body (which was a thought that did nothing to lower his pulse, that threatened to cause him to tense all over again; thinking of the amount Mettaton had given him also did nothing to help, and added a shiver to the mix, no matter how incredibly heated he was throughout his body). That they could be so inundated with each other was a pleasure in itself, and something Emet-Selch could only begin to grasp. If it needed grasped at all, perhaps, if just feeling it was enough.
The statement of love softens and tenderizes him to an additional degree, though he can't melt further back into the bed. Though he tries to murmur a reply, his voice fails to manifest, any sound just the faintest rasp. But that was fine. Mettaton was trying to kiss him back anyway, and he could respond that way instead.
His own eyes remain closed, and his kiss isn't that much more coordinated. But did it have to be? There was the press of lips to either of their faces, his own breath and blood between them, the affection that they both needed to express. When words or voice faltered, there was always this, there was always contact, touch, sensation. Sentiment expressed through lips and fingers and the rest of their bodies, from the cock still nestled inside him, to the press of their faces.
There was a security that he couldn't begin to fathom, in knowing what they were to one another. And for all that there was always more to learn, there was an understanding all the same. That despite their differences, they could... adapt. Allow space for each other, all with the result of becoming ever closer.
It's not so much a thought, but with that feeling in mind, Emet-Selch only tries to pull Mettaton closer, somehow. To kiss him more deeply, if slowly, tongue slipping its way past his lips, in a gesture of more warmth than particular heat. But desirous of him all the same, if in a way that spoke as much of a longing for his specific company, as it did for his body (though his attraction to Mettaton in form could hardly be divorced from everything else he felt for him).]
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There was... immense intimacy between them. Holding each other in this very romantic sense, divorced completely from any form of casual sex as could have been passed off for their first encounters - though Mettaton feels even those were intimate, an exploration of character and battling of resistance to get to the heart of him. Even so, they hold each other by shoulders and around bodies, with claws and tender fingertips. They face each other, separated only by a layer of jewels that could hardly be called separating, with Emet-Selch in a position so prone and available, Mettaton posed in a similarly suggestive mounting of him. That it would be suggestive couldn't begin to cover how thoroughly Mettaton has his cock inserted into his lover, slid in to his hips and comfortably lodged so thickly, so deeply within. Their position surpasses intimacy, but Mettaton thought it had much more to do with the way they kissed each other.
So when Emet-Selch takes to pulling him ever closer, to kiss him with an ounce more coordination, with the slip of tongue and the proper press of lips, Mettaton can't even complain. He sinks into it, into him, parting lips and coaxing forth his tongue with his own, making room for it, welcoming Emet-Selch with equal desire, a wanting in body and equal parts in company. The tilt of his head and the press of his chest, he gladly takes the depth of Emet-Selch's kiss with obvious eagerness. Where the flames of libidinous heat could have swallowed him whole, Mettaton's been tempered into something no more chaste, but more contained, inviting his kiss with a greediness for his company and his attention.
A small, pleased noise slips Mettaton's lips under Emet-Selch's attention as he tastes him, recognizes him as his own, the blend of their mouths still starkly similar from so much engagement, sloppy or otherwise. As if they could close any distance whatsoever, Mettaton finds himself nuzzling further into the kiss, nestling his body into Emet-Selch's with a tight, deliberate shift of his figure to express the comfort he's found there, in his presence and his hold. In his body, filling it and taking it, and part of that physical attraction's made to flare back to life when he deliberately shifts his hips to show off his cock.
He's not as rigid and hot, in the process of relaxing as he is. But he remains deep, remains pressing into him so that none of the hot come he'd deposited could escape. At the same time, Mettaton shifts his hips back just a touch, flirting with the idea of withdrawing and considering the way his release would dribble down the planes of Emet-Selch's lovebitten thighs... It's a thought to heat him up, an already hot mouth hotter in manner when he sucks on Emet-Selch's tongue with another sighing sound of pleasant delight.
There aren't words to accompany it all, but aside from the love he feels, there's so much Mettaton feels for Emet-Selch. Trust is a big one, and one he'd held for him from the start. Contentedness, comfort, the full disclosure of his self and anything that hurts or heals him. The want to know all of Emet-Selch's heart and to be trusted with it, and the dreadful, intense attraction he has for the other man. In body, yes, but also in manner and action, the way he sounds when he speaks or the way he looks at him, the expressions he makes and the way he feels in emotion. So raw, so intense... Mettaton loves all of him, even when there are parts - big parts - he disagrees with.
He doesn't speak while they're at work kissing each other like this, but his fingers curl into his shoulder. The one he has holding his bicep shifts, and he worms his hand beneath Emet-Selch's head to tangle fingers and claws in dark hair. Sharp nails graze along his neck in the process, a gentle scratching as he finds further leveraging to press into their kiss, to run his tongue along Emet-Selch's and to suck every so often, wanting and expressing that want for him to remain. For Emet-Selch to keep him, and for Emet-Selch to be kept by Mettaton.]
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Of course, considering their bodies as a whole, Mettaton still mounting the Ascian, cock stuffed inside him, blood and come smeared between them, saliva also in any number of places... intimacy would've been a more likely assumption than not. But not a given, he thought; it would've been possible for something like this to be primarily carnal alone- though it was hard for him to imagine ever divorcing it entirely from its emotional aspect, not with them, not after all they'd spoken of and done together. This degree of comfort and shared passions would never have been possible had they not fallen as far as they had for each other. So much of the pleasure was due to their mutual trust, respect, affection....
Even from their first encounters, Emet-Selch knew emotion had played a certain important role. That from the start they had been interested in one another, curious- a mutual investment that had grown over time. And that Mettaton could be so unalarmed by it, could approach these feelings so steadily as though there was nothing to be afraid of in falling in love, no reason to hold back or deny- it was something the Ascian still didn't understand but was grateful for. If Mettaton hadn't, then- he doubted he ever would've acknowledged a thing.
The way they kissed each other now, though- it would be impossible to mistake it as anything but the actions of two people fiercely in love with one another. The intimacy had become intrinsic, and this meeting of lips and tongue was the clearest sign of it, even more than that of anywhere else their bodies met and merged. And for the moment it was tempered passion, though not spent- something that had been fed once more, yet still possessing of the capacity to be stoked once again. That it could still rise and consume them, and that they would do nothing but welcome being burned.
Emet-Selch knew this, and in some distant, uninvolved way, also had an idea of the likely condition of his body- but his kiss becomes no less invested, with no degree of hesitancy in the potential of encouraging Mettaton's continued arousal towards him. Even if his body faltered, it was fine- his lover's occasional suck upon his tongue only assured him he was fine, somehow. The hand in his hair, claws so gentle across his skin... he felt so secure with every touch, and that bit more renewed in his devotion to him. It wasn't even a question of failing to not encourage him; the Ascian wanted him still, from claws to cock, and would be satisfied with his company alone. He even thinks again about marrying him, and in this moment, at least, he can't imagine why he had ever felt hesitation, or some inclination towards denying him; how could he ever refuse some additional means of tying Mettaton to himself, unnecessary as it would be?
They... belonged together. Emet-Selch knew that much, at least. Everything else would fall into place. They would make it so- and how could reality deny the two of them, when their desires were aligned?
The slightest pulling back of Mettaton's hips still surprised him though, and Emet-Selch couldn't decide how he felt about it. Having his lover's thickness buried to the root was good- more than that, it was right, that he could hold him that way, no matter how sore he became. But he was reminded as well of what Mettaton's cock was blocking, that he was preventing his come from leaking free. Though with the Ascian's hips still up, he didn't think too much would manage to escape even so... but just the memory of the way it had felt, dripping uncontrollably from his body while his lover could watch it was- shiver inducing. Tension encouraging.
Enough that it does disrupt that kiss a little (if sucking on Mettaton's lower lip could count as a disruption, or nuzzling at the corner of his mouth, or pressing damp lips over whatever place on his Bonded's face that he happened to touch; he would agree entirely that messy kissing had its own charm, its own appeal, and the result of a face smeared with saliva was hardly a drawback). His hands scratch slowly through the fur at Mettaton's back, his sides, as his body shifts slightly underneath him. Just the prospect of dripping for him was an appealing one, enough to heat him even in his exhaustion- for all that he loved the feeling of his cock just as dearly. Swallowing back a noise (that wouldn't have been much of one anyway; he winces a little regardless), he tugs at the robot's lower lip with his teeth, between intermittent swipes at it with his tongue, as though either of them needed any more saliva anywhere.]
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There was the swapping of spit, but there was intensity in emotion that gets that golden eye of Mettaton's to flutter shut just to bask in. Feelings of adoration and admiration both, ones he reciprocated. He could feel and enjoy and feed into the simmering warmth between them best exhibited by the slow, intent way they focused so purely on kissing each other, on each other's bodies and souls, somewhere he felt... comfortable. They could both just be themselves in the purest, rawest sense in each other's presence, and though the idol was never pretending to be someone he wasn't... It was different to be in the sole company of his Bonded, and they both understood why. He could tell Emet-Selch felt similarly, even if it always struck the robot that he wasn't ever sure what such a state should be for himself — but he would simply be with him anyway, and that was pleasing to him to witness.
Like this, it would make sense that as soon as Mettaton shifts his hips and draws his cock, both of them would end up on the same page. He could almost feel the complexity of mood on the matter from the both of them: drawing even an inch from Emet-Selch was the reminder that being inside of him was where Mettaton should be. He could feel Emet-Selch agreed with that fiercely. Down to the root should he be buried, where Emet-Selch could continue to rub and squeeze the glans of his cock as soon as he (inevitably) stiffened again... But what was a bit of playful adjusting, a bit of exploratory shuffling of positions? It sounds enticing to the Puca, and he makes the decision to change things up for experiment's sake. To see what calls to him most, to see what his lover would do.
Emet-Selch's stuttered in his kiss, misaligning their lips after a good shiver. Mettaton only smiles, a smooth, soft laugh replacing soft moans. And yet still, it's painted in pleasure.]
You're keeping step with me even still, I see...
[Not at all in body. Even Mettaton was presently in his right mind enough to take in how beaten down Emet-Selch was, bloodied and bruised, and — really, his neck was something that he thinks a human would get alarmed at. He looks like he was strangled and worse... but the amount of bruising on his neck would surely give away that it was from passion alone, and not of hateful violence. After all, were they from injury, that would be enough to... severely harm his lover, he thinks, but he's not sure.
Necks are tender, vulnerable places; he knew that first-hand. Mettaton draws back just enough to regard the other man's throat, blinking at it all. It would be rarer to find a spot unmarked on him now... Indeed, it would have to be bruising from the sucking of lips or the biting of teeth, all of it passionate and sensual.
But where Emet-Selch falters in body, he keeps up with him in imagination and thought and spirit. That's what the Puca's getting at: both of them felt the shift of his hips and both of them, he's sure, envisioned the way Emet-Selch would drip with come were he righted from this spot. And both of them wondered... should they do it? Should they watch him try to rise, only to find themselves fiercely aroused by his state? Just picturing the events that could potentially unfold after Emet-Selch's valiant attempt has Mettaton putting a firm halt on them, but not to spare his lover. Only to spare himself the fantasy, so that he could watch the real thing.
So Emet-Selch keeps up with him in consideration, passion, intensity, and anticipation. His voice, the soreness of his body... He was spent, but it wouldn't be so bad, Mettaton thought. All Emet-Selch would have to do is take his cock some more, more and more and more as he left in him load after load so that he could see just how full he could leave him, time and again. But right now was a good point to check.
With a firm kiss to his lover's cheek, Mettaton flashes Emet-Selch a charming smile with teeth: canines manicured sharp, incisors long, an odd combination but one he owns in this moment. There's a mischievousness to his gaze. Not at all burdened by the events of their time tangled together, Mettaton shifts to half-rise from Emet-Selch's body... but drawing his cock out is more of an ordeal. It's done with obvious regret on his features, the contortion of displeasure from leaving the heat and squeeze of his lover's body and with a shaky sigh to match. But even regarding Emet-Selch's body has Mettaton interrupting his efforts to press a quick kiss to his chest.]
Don't worry, Hades. I'm sure you'll still feel full... And should you not, you'll tell me, right?
[With that, he slinks along his body to rise to his knees, narrowing his eyes with a sultry heat to his gaze, watching him behind dark lashes with a predator's hunger.]
I'll fill you right back up...
[It's up to Emet-Selch to decide if that's a guarantee - that if he feels too empty, he'd fill him - or if that's a promise anyway - that he'd stuff his cock back inside of him regardless of his feeling. But it would almost certainly be the latter: they both knew Mettaton won't be able to hold back if he catches sight of his lover so full of his come that it runs down his thighs.
But Mettaton seems determined to get the best view, leaning back with an air of expectant intensity. His cock, only semi-stiff in its attempt to relax, is slick with a sheen, evidence to its bed of come and lube but on full display. The way he leans is regal and pompous, the diamonds spilling over his neck only adding to the picture of decadence. Darkly he watches, his perspective like this giving a full view of Emet-Selch's spread legs, from bruises to ass to cock... It's hard not to lunge for him just like this. It's obscene, his entrance so slicked and with come all over between his thighs, enough to have Mettaton near slavering over it... No, Emet-Selch wouldn't be able to leave this bed without good reason, Mettaton's sure. He couldn't allow it, and he couldn't bear it.
As though offering the illusion of freedom, Mettaton's disengaged from Emet-Selch completely. But the pressure in the air itself suggests anything but: he would surely pounce the moment it struck him to. How would he resist his lover? Ears standing tall in their interest with a pronounced lean, Mettaton tilts his head.]
Hmm... But where would I have you go? Well! I could leave that up to you. You could try for the shower... You could stretch your legs. You could come back to me... If you can move at all.
[So Mettaton sits back. He waits. He watches intently his lover from his spot between his legs, feeling pressure build all over again in his groin, tension and want filling him. From here he can still see his Bonded's face, can still watch the whole of him while sitting on his knees, but he does his best to remain purely in this moment, not in fantasy. If he gives himself over to fantasy too soon, he'll end up losing his mind.]
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