[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only made it off the bed once (because Mettaton brought him to the floor), and the last time he'd barely had his cock withdrawn before it was stuffed back in again, Emet-Selch pulled back into his lap where he belonged, onto the erection they both wanted him to take.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.]
[Mettaton drawing back to observe his neck has the Ascian automatically displaying it, tilting it slightly as he rests his head back against the bed, drawing a breath through a throat well-damaged. He wondered what it did look like, as any movement only reminded him that more than the interior of his throat had been used. It was... stiff, terribly so, where any motion tugged at one bite or scratch or another, or put pressure on a bruise left behind. But he also imagined that it probably looked worse than it was, no matter how colorful or smeared with blood. It was the injury of extensive passion, rather than anything dangerous... though he knew already (and had accepted, in the back of his mind) that the upcoming days for him would be uncomfortable ones. Stiff and aching (and not even in the aroused sense), and reluctant to move or speak. Glaring at his conspicuously unharmed lover... while also wanting to curl up and sleep against him as well.
But for now, he couldn't even pretend to mind, as his eyes opened to watch his lover's regard, conscious of their contrasting shapes. Mettaton remained dark and magnificent, ever more the predator in every way he moved or looked, and in insultingly good condition despite all they had been through. If Emet-Selch weren't so prone to him, attracted to him, desirous of him even at this point- it would've drawn a huff of irritation.
Instead, the sight of him there, with a dangerous smile and sharp teeth, and a gaze that felt as though it could pierce him just as easily- it leaves him with a sense of longing, an ache for his touch, no matter how far it reduced him in the process. It's a longing that only increases when Mettaton slowly pulls his length from his body (a body that, contrarily, decides to hurt more now that it was no longer being stretched and had to adjust to a different state), and especially when it affords him a glimpse of his half-hardened cock, glistening and hot. Watching his lover lounge like this at all, looking down at the state of his body, the Ascian's possession on full display for him- he felt- pleased. Comfortable and warm, and perhaps even a bit smug in his exhaustion. Mettaton was... perfection like this, he thought, dark and haughty, assured and dangerous, bright and adoring in his potential for viciousness. Lovingly malicious. And Emet-Selch was arrogant enough to accept nothing less than that. Who else would he want to be broken down for, would he spare the most vulnerable parts of himself to?
And Mettaton waits, offers him the illusion of freedom, when both of them knew that no matter where he went, he'd end up back where he belonged- on his cock. Their bodies would wrap up in one another again, thoughts of any separation discarded. And the Ascian wondered that if he delayed too long, whether the idol would slither back over his body again, press him down and fuck him once more; he certainly had the air of impending need, and an inclination towards fulfilling it inside of him. A state he was hardly opposed to, but... if Mettaton had spared him this opportunity, he should try to make something of it. His gaze turns thoughtful, even as he continues scanning over his lover's body, distraction that it was from coherent thought.
If he could move at all. That really was the sticking point. Emet-Selch's entire body felt stiff, glued to the bed, positioned between pillows and trapped in this prison of softness and uncooperative muscles. His legs remained spread, and his ass thoroughly exposed, lifted not only for Mettaton's use, but now for his observation as well- it's enough to keep his pulse likewise lifted, fully aware of what he must look like, how used, how wet. And how much more slick he would become if he moved... and he was no less curious to find out what it would look and feel like now, with these added loads allowed to spill over.
But Mettaton had suggested a shower... lifetimes ago, by this point. Emet-Selch wanted to be fucked, no matter how inadvisably his body considered the prospect (a warning to be ignored), he wanted to feel come slide down his thighs, and he wanted to be washed off as well, to settle warm and clean and comfortable(ish) with his lover. That these were somewhat mutually exclusive options didn't matter: he would have them all in some order or another.
And so he decides: he would make a stand, for... attempting to stand. And would perhaps even walk. And if that didn't work, then the other two options would immediately be in play. They would... probably be immediately in play regardless, but he can't think that far ahead. All he knows is that he can't take too long on the sitting up part of affairs, lest he be caught immediately by the sensation of come spilling from his body, and be rendered unable to move from the awareness of that alone.
Taking a breath, Emet-Selch steels himself as best he can for the inevitable discomfort of changing positions and moving his body whatsoever. Rather than attempt to sit up, he twists himself onto his side first, hissing anyway as... any number of things protested this new arrangement. Wounds on his back lodged their complaints, as did his neck out of solidarity, though the greatest offender were his hips, his thighs, his ass. No matter how much he knew that Mettaton's erection belonged inside of his body as much as possible (a truth he knew Mettaton concurred with), parts of his body had failed to accept this, and had the gall to become sore at being stretched and rubbed for extended periods of time.
Alongside that, his muscles in general were just sore from exertion, and had stiffened into place while the Ascian had been on his back, thighs splayed, hips raised (a natural position). On his side, Emet-Selch lingers for several moments, half-curled and more than a bit awkward in his position amidst pillows and covers. But with pulls of his arms (while continuing to avoid sitting up at all), he drags and shifts himself towards the edge of the bed. Bits of fabric attempt to stick to his back and shoulders before being tugged away, reopening wounds a degree; thin trails of blood escape from several clotted bites, but Emet-Selch doesn't notice. Dragging his legs over the edge, he tries to roll himself into standing up all at once- no delay, nothing by degrees, an all or nothing attempt. He would stand, or he would crumple, and he would be a mess in either case.
--And he stands. Sort of. Badly. A sound escapes his throat, something pained and sharp and his entire body flinches as his breathing goes shaky. Just being upright so suddenly leaves him dizzy, and it felt as though every part of his body was aching in unison. But he stands, even as his legs tremble, and his eyes are tightly closed, and he gropes out an arm to reach for Mettaton's- shoulder, possibly, whatever he could grasp for some kind of support. He even takes a sort of shuffling step, though it would be optimistic to call it any kind of deliberate movement on Emet-Selch's part, rather than something akin to a stumble, a lurch forward. His lower body ached terribly, not approving of what he was doing whatsoever- almost to the point where he doesn't notice inevitability dripping down between his thighs.
Almost. A wash of heat runs through him that vies with pain for his attention, a confusing mix of sensations for his body to adjust to. He was upright, in pain, dizzy, overheated, indisposed. Milky come was also beginning to trail down skin already marked by bruise or previous release. It could've been demeaning, this sign of both weakness and use, but he could only revel in it. He's also not entirely sure if he can walk, but in this moment he's not inclined to try. Standing alone was taking a lot out of him.]
[It was true that if Emet-Selch had remained still, Mettaton would have eventually asked if he'd even tried, but would somehow twist it around into being a bid for more of his attention just as he was: ass accessible, body prone, placed just where Mettaton wanted him. That the other man could barely speak wasn't a matter when Mettaton could make assumptions for him and watch his reaction. But he drinks in the sights, the expressions, until Emet-Selch seems to consider his method of "escape," or "use of freedom," or whatever he might call it. Mettaton was eager to see, especially if he was going to make this call while ogling his body as he was.
He's not at all shy, and he readjusts his posture, sitting upon his hip as he keeps his legs spread as he watches him back.
There are moments of silence and appreciation for the thought spared to this task, to designing the best course of action to achieve Standing. If Mettaton's going to be so generous, he appreciates that it's being taken advantage of, and he smiles upon his lover's form as he rocks himself onto his side. He cranes his neck, getting a good understanding as to why he'd be in such pain, and he grits his teeth (in a grin) in sympathy (that he barely has, they're bite marks he made and he likes them). Moreover, he's getting a better understanding of his lover's ache, watching as he pulls himself together and braces himself for further movement, humming as his ears stand perky and his gaze remains bright, attentive. Mettaton nearly shuffles with him to the edge of the bed, doing so in a much more refined manner on his hip and moving with his legs, his ears still high and his eyes still fixed, interested in his lover's ambitions but remaining quiet in this curiosity.
And he launches himself directly into a standing position, getting off of the bed and everything. Mettaton gasps shortly, emoting more than the actual emotion warrants by pressing fingers to his lower lip in his shock for the daring attempt that appears to take a lot out of the Ascian, who even manages to make a sound to express his pain, who even flinches and wavers. Even so, Mettaton claps his hands together.]
You're vertical. That's a start!
[He beams, even as Emet-Selch's eyes are squeezed shut. But his lover tries too soon to walk — though the robot immediately registers it as more of a stumble as he reaches for his shoulder (and reaches successfully, there's a lot of real estate there), prompting him to spread his arms for him and to kick his legs gracefully over the side of the bed, hands hovering about his figure. A fail-safe to catch him, should he stumble and fall. His smile is hot, attention hotter, even as he regards him with a sort of excitement. An excitement for his lover to... attempt to disengage from their passionate lovemaking, only to fail, which would be the only outcome. The expected outcome, making it nothing but a success. Mettaton hums again, his yellow eye fixed on Emet-Selch with something that is a hybrid between pleased with his attempt, and hungry for him to succumb.]
Naturally, you're choosing to come back to me...
[There's a sick sort of fascination he gets out of this, and he tries to place it. Not that he examines it too hard, but his lover's standing, barely, beautiful wearing his bruises and blood, come and sweat, nothing else at all, scarcely able to even walk... So wonderfully impacted by the throes of their passion, moreso than Mettaton could ever be, he was rendered so worn and vulnerable to Mettaton's delectation. Emet-Selch couldn't and wouldn't escape, and (barring teleportation) even if he tried, it was obvious that he'd be made to submit to Mettaton. But the thing that strikes Mettaton as most desirable of all is how obvious the signs of his use are, in body: how disagreeable his hips have become, his thighs set to trembling and his body rendered totally worn down.
Mettaton has to sigh at it all, dreamlike and appreciative as he lets a hand rub encouragingly against Emet-Selch's back. He doesn't see this show of vulnerability to be anything but arousing and intimate, nothing short of what they'd show each other.
But more than that, he waited for that surefire sign that something had changed. And as soon as it comes, as soon as he can tell Emet-Selch's given up on trying to do any walking in favor of just standing, a sort of tense heat washing over them both, Mettaton's energy peaks in eager alertness. He gropes Emet-Selch's hip in the front, and the other hand wraps around his side to grab his ass, as though needing to brace himself just as much he braces Emet-Selch, giving him the option of succumbing to his arms.
He knows what's happening, and he can barely restrain his excitement. Mettaton bites at his lower lip for some grasp on control, feeling pressure swiftly pool and squeeze his lower body in a manner that feels so alive and fulfilling, needy and reactive. He pulls their bodies closer together, stabilizing him and bringing Emet-Selch's hip between his spread thighs as he leans in to press a needy, damp kiss to his torso. But as soon as Emet-Selch's been slipped between thighs (and with his thigh surely pressed against a rousing cock), Mettaton unhands his ass to let fingers drag along his inner thighs. He lets out the sound of a collapsing sigh.]
Hades... You— [Mettaton swallows, too much saliva in his mouth. His finger skims along his tissue, riding up bruises and prodding their way up to his ass, where he can trace this rivulet of come back to the source. He presses his finger firmly, ardently, against his entrance — either trying to stop the dribble of come from all of his past releases, or trying to feel it more acutely.] It's... I-I need to...
[He swallows again. Kisses his chest again, with more pronounced wetness to his lips, his tongue. Mettaton rises suddenly, sidestepping the Ascian with such direction and command. Keeping his finger nestled right against Emet-Selch's entrance, the rest of his fingers squeeze his ass as Mettaton presses his hand against his lover's upper back, coaxing him, forcing him to lean forward, over the bed, bending at the hip as the robot stands behind him. He sighs again, his words taking on a sort of overeager cant, uncontrollable fever seeping into his words as his restraint leaves him.]
Standing, keep doing that... You're doing fabulously. And bend over for me, my dear... Just like this.
[And "for him," he means to sate his appetite, to gawk and soak in the sight of his thighs dripping with come, to see it trailing down already-bitten thighs for himself. Mettaton lets his claws run along Emet-Selch's back as he takes a step back to appreciate the view, and the sight of him has Mettaton stalling, staggering, pressure in his crotch immense and sudden. Thick, milky come, so much of it already, drips from his lover's body, and Mettaton's spreads his lover's ass to get a better sight of him. A sight to have him moaning, to feel a rush of heat and tension coax his own arousal to full, thick rigidity.
An arousal the robot immediately shoves against his entrance, the glans pushing and poking at him, getting slicked up by his own come. A sight and sensation to have Mettaton moaning again as he manually manipulates his cock with a hand, rubbing the glans firmly against Emet-Selch's entrance, collecting come and letting it drip along his cock. Mettaton's voice is labored as the Puca has a hard time maintaining any sense or sanity in the face of his lust.]
Hades... You must feel so... empty now. You're dripping so much...
[If he'd had more concentration to spare on anything other than 'remaining vertical' and its various aspects and effects, Emet-Selch might've given Mettaton's verbal shows of support a huff of performative displeasure. Perhaps some look of minor reproach, along with his own spoken complaint over how careless his lover had clearly been with him (even if care had been involved at every step of the way, a way that had involved very few steps, actually), and what trouble it was....
But he's not really capable of speech nor has the capacity to do more than force his legs upright (while using Mettaton for support), while trying to convince himself that the way forward was to move forward, somehow. But he couldn't- though whether that was due more to disagreeable legs, the discomfort involved, or the feeling of dripping come- he couldn't decide. Especially when Mettaton was right there, a source of safety and reassurance somehow (for all that he'd been the one responsible for leaving him like this), someone to lean on and huddle close to, and Emet-Selch veered between stubbornly maintaining his current posture (useless, he couldn't get anywhere like this), and giving in and collapsing back into his Bonded's waiting arms and onto his waiting cock. To use what energy he had on clinging to him instead, to catch his breath and bury himself against him, and give up on ever going anywhere at all.
But he remains standing somehow, kind of, trembling faintly from it all, including Mettaton's encouraging stroke to his back (though he couldn't tell if it was an encouragement towards staying upright and attempting A Walk, or an encouragement towards giving up and succumbing to him). And he trembles that bit more when he feels Mettaton's understanding over what was taking place, what they both knew would happen if he made some ill-advised but brave hobble towards independence. Scarcely able to move of his own accord anyway, Emet-Selch is shuffled as Mettaton directs, tensing that bit more in place at the combination of a cock pressed to his thigh, and a hand moving to reach between them, fingers unerringly sliding over bruises made slick, trailing all the way to his entrance.
Between Mettaton's reaction, the damp kiss to his chest, and the intimacy of his finger- Emet-Selch lost any chance of moving of his own accord. So when his Bonded pushes him over, he catches himself against the bed, willingly spreads his legs for him, and shudders at the hold of his ass, of Mettaton naturally moving up and around him to get a better look of what he'd wrought. He can only imagine his own appearance, in both how thick come was dripping steadily from him, making his ass and thighs ever more of a sloppy mess, as well as how it fit into his composure as a whole. Or... lack of composure, really, as he existed only in these individual moments, feeling the ache of his body, a body that was there for Mettaton's perusal and for no other purpose.
Could it really be called standing, at this point? Hunched over the bed with his legs spread, his arms supporting himself against the mattress, his knees with a persistent tremble to them, barely even pretending to want to do anything other than kneel upon the covers he'd barely left. Emet-Selch would be exposed to him regardless, a sight made that much more explicit as Mettaton spreads his ass apart, and his breath hitches on a low, ragged moan. So ragged that it's barely recognizable as one, context mostly giving it away.
It felt uncontrollable, this display, because it was. Permitted some pretense of standing, an allowance only for the sake of this, a result they both wanted, as though drawn to this excess, this indulgence. To watch or feel Mettaton's claim of him spilling down his body, in a way that marked him even more by it- that he wasn't meant to only keep his come tidily hidden inside, but to show his possession in starkest detail. There could be no mistaking of who he belonged to, not with this proof coated between his legs.
Mettaton was pressing his glans to his sore, dripping entrance, and Emet-Selch is made to cry out- or try to, anyway- his shivering only becoming more pronounced, entirely conscious of the effect this sight was having upon his lover, how hard he was made by it. How his cock must look with his own come smeared across the swollen tip in a milky sheen. It's something he nudges back against, as though to assist in its spread, to demonstrate his want for it and him, this desire for his lover to take in this sight and this use of him. He was more empty now, wasn't he? Emet-Selch was made to hold both his cock and his come, and one of those had pulled free, while the other was in the process of escape.
And his body's priorities naturally shift away from any concerns about discomfort and onto to a favoring of lust, onto the promise of more sex, on having another erection stroking his body. It didn't matter that he was collapsing, sore, spent- pushed to his limits and left shaking. All of this: his exposure and vulnerability, his weakness, his lover's arousal, Mettaton's ejaculate smearing copiously between them, something he wished he had the balance to spare to move a hand between his legs to feel for himself- yes, how could he care about pain when he had everything else to contend with? More important things like Mettaton's erection and his pleasure? As though to assure him that his priorities were moving in the right direction, the Ascian's own cock begins to stiffen once more, as though attracted to obscenity itself. But it's a welcome heaviness between his legs, and he doesn't want to think about what that says about him, that a body so given over to fatigue would still find it in itself to stir one more time for this.]
[It's even more pleasant that Emet-Selch would spread his legs, would aid in making himself viewable to Mettaton's delight, and would be so lovely a sight in his eye. Even standing at full height like this (albeit with a slight bend to his knee to better align their bodies), Mettaton's enraptured by the sight of his cock glazed with milky come, thick dribbles of it slipping down his shaft. It's a sight to generate ideas, cravings, thoughts of Emet-Selch's lips being forced against the head only for him to eagerly suck and lap at thick come that had escaped his body; of Emet-Selch being reintroduced immediately to the come he'd lost by having Mettaton reuse it as lube, to slip his cock inside of his already-stretched, already-prepared body and to fuck him just like this, to render his trembling knees weak so that he was forced to stand by the presence of a heavy cock.
Mettaton's blearily watching, gripping onto Emet-Selch's hip as his own come slicks up his other hand as natural as anything. The urgency to slip his lover the full of his length grows beyond him as he answers his lover's raspy, poorly-formed moans with his own louder, clearer one. His hips shift, dipping the head of his cock against the slick mess of Emet-Selch's entrance, continuously flirting with slipping the tip of his cock within his waiting body... And how easy it would be, something he could do to fill Emet-Selch in an instant. The sloping glans looks like such a perfect fit — a perfect squeeze maybe, but a perfect fit nonetheless. It would be moments unaware for his lover until he felt the filling flare of the corona stretching him, until the rest of the thick shaft followed...
It's then that Emet-Selch curves his back, bumps with intent against the robot's hardened erection. That's right: Mettaton mused earlier that Emet-Selch would tell him if he no longer felt so full, didn't he? And with voice reduced, this must be his way of telling him he needed more come, needed the thick shaft of his cock, and needed all as deeply as he could manage.
A sudden craving to nearly set Mettaton to ferality again, gnashing his teeth as his fingers curl into his grip on Emet-Selch's hip in his sheer pleasure, the ache in his abdomen growing intense enough to darken the world around him save for this. For his lover leaned over the bed, supporting himself on arms against the blankets, with his legs spread and ass up for Mettaton's use, not just prone but giving himself to the idol. He laughs, both light and dark at once and pressing forward with insistence, with claim, with intention as he nestles the head of his cock threateningly against the Ascian's ass.
Mettaton leans forward, following the bend of Emet-Selch's body with his own to bring himself closer to his shoulder. His cock remains pressed to his entrance, insistent and slowly, slowly slipping its way inside: how could it not, if it was so slick, if there was this pressure, if Emet-Selch's body was made to fit him? It's a realization to have Mettaton drooling when he gets closer to his lover's neck.]
You're not feeling full enough, are you...?
[Light and dark, just like his laugh. Pressure still, the head of his cock sinks slowly and insistently into his lover's body with just a bit of firm rocking as Mettaton strokes the head of his cock in and out of Emet-Selch's entrance, relishing how sloppy he's been made from being filled with so much of his own come. A complete mark of possession: Emet-Selch is bruised, bitten, and come-marked, rendered scarcely able to move, and it's all a part of Mettaton's design. The pressure in his crotch is unbearable; he exhales heat, bringing forward his come-slicked hand and pressing it to his lover's lips.
Slick, thick fluid coats the robot's fingers and claws, even down to his palms — a thoroughness to tease how messy Emet-Selch is, how messy they both are now that he's let just some of the ejaculate spill from his body. Mouthing and kissing Emet-Selch's neck, the Puca continues to rock his hips, to stroke more and more of his cock against just the tight, slick ring of his lover's entrance while he presses insistent fingers to Emet-Selch's lips.]
This is only a fraction of what you've lost... Clean it up, darling. [Another heavy, heated kiss to his neck.] As your reward... I'll f... fill you properly.
[Fill him properly, as opposed to dipping the head of his cock in and out of his body shallowly, letting the ridge of the head continuously stroke along Emet-Selch's entrance. Mettaton talks about it as though he's the one treating Emet-Selch, but the restraint he practices is shoddy at best: Mettaton's craving for this body are beyond him, and he wants the man himself even more. How distracted he can play him, how thoroughly he can work him to live from moment to moment... It's a fulfilling thing to witness. But even as he presses come-slicked fingers to Emet-Selch's lips, he gasps and sighs at the sensation of such a tight slip of his cock: at the squeeze of muscle around the glans, as it pulls and squeezes and manipulates the glans with each pass with indelible pressure, the only defense his body has against Mettaton's inevitable pounding.]
[With Mettaton digging in with his hand at his hip, but not delving inside him with his cock, Emet-Selch felt like he ached ever harder for him with every moment that passed without. An ache that he knew his lover shared, that the puca's newly fully-engorged length would feel much better stuffed back into the heat of his body, where he could make the both of them ever hotter. But at the same time... he could also fully understand the delay, the captivation of watching his previous releases dripping all over stiff flesh, coating it so delectably that it would be impossible to resist licking it off, or begging for it to be plunged back into his body, where they both knew he would fit it perfectly. How slick they both were, and how stretched and used he already was... Mettaton would be able to claim him to the root again and his body would be complete once more, while his thighs would remain wet and sticky with every thrust, a rich reminder of the result of their passions.
The sound of the idol's laugh fills him with expectant tension, and Mettaton looming over him carried the threat of being mounted again- or the reward of it. It was the same feeling in the end, and his legs shook that little bit more from his anticipation for it, his wanting of it, even spreading himself that bit more for him in the process, as though to further appeal to him. Or to make it that bit easier for any wayward nudge of his cock to make its way inside. And when Mettaton speaks close to his neck, Emet-Selch stills, hoping that it meant what he thought it meant, that he'd spare them both any further time separated. So when a bit of pressure against his entrance becomes more persistent- more than a teasing, stroking rub against tight, if sore, muscle- when he's slowly made to stretch around the shape of the head, wrap around this sensitive part of him and squeeze, the both of them wet with come- his legs nearly give out entirely. Kneeling on the bed for better support, his voice is lost to something else that could've been a moan.
His lover knew exactly how to treat him, what to give him, what he wanted. From this allowance to drip for them, to maneuver and expose himself in a different way, to be permitted the struggle of moving himself only to end up back upon the bed, with his ass available to him once again. To this partial re-taking, knowing that Mettaton would eventually be moved to fill him completely, was teasing them both in another way by allowing him only the thicker head to tighten around, to feel the way it stretched him so perfectly, preventing much of anything else from escaping him. But he was still entirely aware of how much he'd already lost....
--And then Mettaton could satisfy him this way too, with a hand slipped in front of him, coated from claws to palm to the point of dripping, tasking him with thick come to lick. As though this weren't a reward in itself, having his lover's fluids made handily available to him. Fingers press to his lips and his breathing shudders hard, and his cock continues to fill from just the awareness of his lover's come-stickied fingers shoved against his mouth with a demand to clean them. And apart from a moment just soak in the vast desire he held for both this and him, Emet-Selch lunges upon his fingers with a ravenous energy, not caring if he nicked any part of his face with sharp claws in his desire to lick and suck and taste every bit of his lover's ejaculate.
Pressed to his face like this, it was inevitable that some of the milky fluid ends up on parts of his skin that weren't his lips or tongue, but as far as Emet-Selch was concerned that was no detriment. It's a messier affair altogether, due both to how much Mettaton had spread across his hand, dripping nearly to his wrist, all the way up to the tips of pointed nails- as well as the Ascian having no control over the position of Mettaton's hand. His neck- still sore, bitten, scratched- tilts and stretches as he fights to claim every part of his Bonded's come, lapping at it with broad swipes of his tongue, as well as more pointed licks. Anything he can get into his mouth he sucks on, tongue inevitably giving way to teeth. Any part of Mettaton's hand that he could reach that might conceivably have come on it gets worked over, attended to, smeared with come-tinged-saliva. The result is a hand that's not really any dryer, much less cleaner by any reasonable definition of the word.
But his mouth was full of the taste of him, the viscous texture lingering after each heavy swallow, a knowledge that leaves him warm and aching. His face felt- damp, from the aftermath of his ardor, in a mix of saliva and come that he feels no trace of self-consciousness about. There was only the pleasure of it, a continued hunger, and his breathing is quick against his fingers; Emet-Selch's senses were so full of Mettaton that there was space for little else but his love for more of him. More of his come to lick, his cock to take- he tries to push back with his hips, as though demanding his 'reward'... as though he hadn't already sucked a portion of it down his throat. This time with him... this was all that mattered.]
[It's not unusual for Mettaton's ears to take a useless, floppy posture during sex, as though he's too drunk to passively hold them up. But Mettaton's attention is so focused on Emet-Selch's ravenous appetite for his slick, sticky fingers that his ears are upright, leaning forward attentively as he smiles wickedly, eye wide and bright as he licks his lips in sympathy. Even though Emet-Selch can't steady his hand, it was fine: wasn't there something attractive about the messiness of his application, the way lips and tongue wrap around digits and nails yet he manages to get traces of come on his chin, on his cheek? There was, and Mettaton feels a rush of delight that forces him to give his lover a profound thrust as though his own legs were trying to give way, a sharp push of shaft, another act of sympathy.
Mettaton's mind wants to deprive them both until they couldn't stand it, but Mettaton's body rebels, and he moans at the additional warmth surrounding his cock, the way the swell of the shaft is squeezed so delectably by Emet-Selch's body.
But his lover should have no trouble licking up as much come as he can, as Mettaton's sure to keep (sometimes hazy) watch over his work, turning his hand and urging him to lick here and there, never once taking from him his fingers until he was sure his lover had lapped it clean. His observation of the Ascian's work is a strange mix of anticipation and satisfaction, being satisfied all while on the edge of his seat, attention stolen by each flick of tongue and wrap of lips, by each inch of white left slick with spit rather than milky with errant come. And saliva-coated he is, as Emet-Selch even gets some of that on his face in his focus, teeth sometimes gripping fingers to better access spots of his hand that escaped even the Puca's notice, he finds himself spellbound by the touch and understanding of what unfolds before him.
His dedication is something to be admired, thought Mettaton, witnessing for himself how thorough Emet-Selch was about licking him clean of ejaculate, letting the taste and texture swim in his mouth, letting it coat and flavor his lips. He's the intended, sole audience to a show so erotic that he finds that pressure of his cock building, engorged, thick and hard and undeniable, his body aching to be suffused with warmth and pressure, to be massaged and stroked and slicked over. But all Mettaton does is drool some more, kissing and mouthing Emet-Selch's shoulder, only swallowing when he remembers, when he feels his lover has an especially full mouth and he feels sympathetic toward it.
He's utterly captivated by the sight. There's not a doubt in the Puca's mind that Emet-Selch tastes completely of his come, that he feels it lingering in his mouth even as he finalizes his work, licking with long, broad strokes along fingers to capture every last taste. The robot shudders in his lust: what could be more flattering than all of this want? He may not be speaking, but having Emet-Selch use his mouth in another way to demonstrate the vastness of his desire was... more than an adequate replacement for speech-sound. It was delightful, it was erotic, it was enough to have Mettaton completely rigid and full, for his arousal to feel so heavy between his thighs.
He loved it. This ache was intense. He thought he could come by this feeling alone, just focusing on all of the sights and sensations that could lead him to feeling so full, so thick, so engorged; if he were squeezed, it would feel raw and ever more aching, and he would love even that, would cry out loud and strong just from that. Craving it like nothing else, Mettaton withdraws his hand to wrap it around Emet-Selch's waist in an embrace as he moans into his shoulder, shuddering.
It's after a few more swallows, a few more kisses to lap up some of the spit he'd left on his skin, that Mettaton manages to collect himself enough to speak — not that he hadn't already stuffed more of his cock within, not that Emet-Selch wasn't already asking without words for his promised 'reward' by shoving into his hips.]
You're perfect, darling... Just perfect. [Emet-Selch is treated to a series of kisses that trail up his neck, up to his ear, as far as he can reach.] You had me enchanted by your dedication... Licking up every trace of come you'd lost. For that, your prize... I'm sure you can feel.
[He could probably already feel how engorged he was, how he's already beginning to slip in restraint, thrusting with more fervor.]
How thick I am, now that you've been so thorough... You did this, you know. You're why I... H- Oh, I. I'm...
[Composure slipping, Mettaton grips his hip some more, thrusts harder some more, agreeing with Emet-Selch's nudging with the sudden, full thrust of his hips. The full length of his cock sinks into Emet-Selch's body as the ever continuing reward he'd promised, filling him out to the root of his cock once more. Everything in the right place, Emet-Selch stuffed from glans to base, his body made to squeeze and bear down upon the rigidity of Mettaton's arousal. He moans again, but instead of throwing his head back, Mettaton bears down on Emet-Selch, curling into him, mounting him, pushing him into the bed some more.]
I'm... I ache, Hades, I'm so f...
[Full, he wants to say, but all the robotic idol can do is moan next to his neck, kissing and sucking on skin as his dark ears give way to gravity once more, flopping forward while Mettaton gives himself over to lust and appetite, grinding his hips into Emet-Selch's ass and feeling the drag of the glans so deeply inside of him, enough to pull gasp after sigh from him. Then, a short burst of laughter as he thinks to himself that he's not the one who's full, Emet-Selch is. Mettaton buries his nose affectionately in his shoulder, shifting both of his arms to wrap around his lover's torso, hands bracing against his shoulders to better mount him, to better pound into him.
And pound he does, short, firm curves of his body to jostle and stroke his length against Emet-Selch's body. From lazy arousal to being so suddenly engorged in hardly any time and all, Mettaton can only follow the current of his own libido, can only stroke and satisfy each of his cravings... And Emet-Selch was both the cause and the cure for each incident, his lover so tantalizing, so prone, so desirable in his nudity, his attitude, his intensity and his follow-through. The amount of want between them was... probably alarming, their appetites equally alarming in its insatiability. But they loved each other, and it was that, Mettaton felt, that made them both want to consume each other bodily, sexually; to wear each other down emotionally, too, until they were their most core selves and with nothing else to concern themselves over in the world but each other.]
Edited (i realized x hours later that i didn't even finish my goddamn tag... i was tagging-cooking dinner, the fearsome hybrid) 2020-09-21 03:32 (UTC)
[It was most gratifying of all to feel Mettaton's attempts at controlling himself (or at least, delaying a full thrust into his body) partially give way while Emet-Selch was still servicing his fingers. A push of the head deeper into his body, if not completely there- but more to tighten around, a step closer to being filled up once again. And it also served as an encouragement to continue with the fervency of his cleaning, spurred on by their mutual excitement in it. Though his eyes had briefly opened (for all that he could've seen was a blurry, too-close shot of his lover's hand and claws, as it changed from coated-in-come to coated-in-spit), they closed once more at the sound of his moan, his own throat longing to echo the sound.
But he swallows it back, and come with it. A sore action, certainly... but worth it, to feel Mettaton's presence once more on the inside of his throat, if due to his ejaculate, rather than his erection in itself.
Nearly as heady as the flavor overwhelming him, and his clear love of this taking of his lover's come, was the satisfaction of knowing Mettaton could watch him do it. Could see his focus, his dedication to what had been set before him, this hunger for the taste of his essence. Could feel the firm, wet brushes of his tongue over every part of his hand, and even if he'd have to imagine the heat of his mouth on his fingers, the suction was still evident, as was the dig of teeth. The drool Emet-Selch could feel against his shoulder spoke of Mettaton's approval in a way that made words unnecessary, and was a particularly pleasing thing to feel somehow, particularly when followed by his moan. Every response on his lover's part satisfied him, from the particular stiffness of his cock (and the way he had given in and stuffed it half inside him already), to the intense mouthing of his shoulder, to the way a robot could be made to shudder.
But eventually his hand was as clean as the Ascian could render it, and Mettaton wraps that hand and arm instead around his body, in a way that registered as both loving and practical, holding him in place. Emet-Selch would hum if he could, at the succession of kisses along his neck, tilting it into his lips and ignoring the protests of bitten and bruised skin. And he takes a careful breath at Mettaton's response, flickers of tension coursing through him; he swallows, still tasting him.
And he could feel how engorged he'd been made... how thick Mettaton could be, and how full he could make him. And when Mettaton begins to thrust, begins to take him, a noise tries to come from Emet-Selch's throat, distorted down into a soft, harsh rasp. It seems to be approving though, ecstatic and relieved all at once, as his hips shift back, as he squeezes hard around him as Mettaton takes him down to the root of his cock. Finally. Not that it had been that long since he'd been without... since the puca had withdrawn his length and given him permission to try to stand.
With the expected result: Emet-Selch, back onto the bed, legs parted and ass up, Mettaton fucking him once again.
But Mettaton presses down, and the Ascian gives further way to him; even if he hadn't been weakened, the robot would've gotten little resistance, deliberate or otherwise, from the man. His hands dig into the covers as he's thrust into steadily, as he's mounted and claimed another time, as though there could be any doubt at this point of who he belonged to. Come still stickied up his thighs, was spread between his ass and Mettaton's crotch, and he knew just how much his lover was currently rubbing his erection into. And that the result would only be an addition, another mess to potentially leak from him.
Mettaton laughs, and it's a delightful sound to hear from him- as were all of his noises, from sighs to gasps to moans to attempts toward speech. Everything about him was delightful, really- at the moment, at least, everything was flawless. Mettaton's face was warm against his damp shoulder, his arms were securely around him, keeping his body steady for a thorough pounding. Pushed into the bed, his breathing sharpens at the pleasure wrought at the thick, steady movements provided by his cock, the way the slope of the glans stroked him as deeply as it could reach, firm caresses he regularly clenched around, holding Mettaton's length ever tighter. Even with himself mostly collapsed under the robot, he could do this, could help massage his lover's cock with his body, could twitch backwards with his own hips, to feel him as thoroughly as he could.
That, time and again, they could fall upon each other with no less hunger was a reassurance in a way that threaded through the ache of arousal. It was inescapably warm, this sort of love.]
[Even as the robot loses himself to thrusting, stroking his cock with intention in each position to keep the rub focused and heavy enough to have Mettaton biting his lip, one of his hands takes an adventure toward Emet-Selch's waist.
It's a slow caress, digits savoring the planes and contours of his lover's figure — a figure far more delicate than his own, each curve something he had to pay mind to rather than something so noticeable, as is true on his own body. Mettaton is all dramatic angles and curves, protrusions and dips: a broad chest, a slight waist, and now with rounder hips, it was all something he'd become extremely familiar with before he did with Emet-Selch's body. And even though Emet-Selch follows a natural human pattern of body, Mettaton found that it was gentle, understated in variation. Even as he pulls and pushes his arousal, strokes both himself and his lover with the thick, defined head, his entire erection swollen and rigid compared to the giving softness of his partner's body, Mettaton's fingers rove his body, drinking in the slight dips of muscle, of ribs; of his waist, slipping over his abdomen and to his hip, where it palpates bone (and previous claw-based injury), moving lower, swinging to Emet-Selch's backside between their bodies to give his ass a squeeze. Mettaton hums close to his neck, pleased at all he feels.
For now, his hand settles against his ass, closer to his hip and sometimes groping him again, sometimes getting a chance to slip between their bodies to spread Emet-Selch's ass, to make more defined how vulnerable his lover feels to their sex.
He sighs close to his neck, not at all a sigh intended to catch breath but to express an emotion: dreamy, in love. This close, it becomes clear that the sound doesn't carry as much air as a sigh ought to from a human: it's purely a vocalization on the robot's part.]
Even diminished, your voice is lovely... I thrive on hearing you react. [There's not a point where Mettaton forgets that this voice has always been something Emet-Selch had as his own. He gives him a short squeeze with his remaining arm, though he's sure to supplement it with a squeeze to his ass.] Your reactions tell me you love this. You can't get enough of it... Being pushed down into the bed and so taken by me. [Another dreamy sigh.] We are well-matched...
[An implication that Mettaton can't get enough of performing the action, that he thrills on the feeling of filling Emet-Selch with a hard cock and feeling him wrap and squeeze around him, just as he does right now. Emet-Selch couldn't see his expressions right now, but there's nothing about Mettaton that suggests he's at all as composed as his voice suggests, stabilized only by virtue of being a robot without the sway of organic components that would see fit to be heaving, pounding, or overheating. Mettaton overheats, but he does it without notice, his body feeling otherwise well in order aside from a bit of trembling and tensing in his now-hybrid legs.
Mettaton would overheat before any notice came that he was giving in at all, in summary. But that wasn't likely to occur, not with all of his repairs and the extra assistance of cooling ears to expend some of that heat.
Heat does build, however. How could it not, when Mettaton's so fierce and into it that his thrusts are always so full-bodied, deliberate and firm, using the whole roll of his hips? Never is he halfhearted about it. The robot pushes Emet-Selch forward on the bed using the whole of his body - hips, arms, hands, cock - and slides on after him, kneeling behind him with his feet off the edge as he bears down on Emet-Selch, curling into him some more. Like this, his thrusts hasten: faster, firmer, fuller, Mettaton strokes the body that holds him and massages his own cock on the tensing, reactive muscle of his lover's body, moaning into his shoulder before following with a sigh, a kiss that flirts with dragging his teeth along skin.]
God, Hades... You're even a perfect fit for me. You're... So tight, so eager to stroke me and take all of me... Don't think I don't feel the way you work those hips.
[To emphasize, Mettaton's hand circles around to his hip again and pulls it back into his own hips, giving Emet-Selch a more pronounced, firm thrust of hips to ass, slamming his cock more deeply within his body. He notes how exhausted Emet-Selch is besides, so used and worn, but he still puts forth the effort to pleasure his lover, puts forth the desire to be fucked...
Mettaton wonders, then, about his lover's cock. He'd been aware that his lover hadn't gotten aroused before, and assumed that he'd outmatched his ability to become physically aroused (which didn't at all daunt the idol: he knew what it was like to be mentally aroused, and assumed Emet-Selch was still getting something out of this). The hand on his hip slips down to cup his Bonded's cock, something that gets an eager, full palming out of him and a delighted gasp.]
Oh...! My. [Voice dropping even lower, Mettaton mouths Emet-Selch's neck, finishing it off with a firm bite.] All along, you've been pleasuring yourself on me, too... I'm flattered.
[Only skimming his fingers along Emet-Selch's length, he gives the head of his erection a squeeze, stroking his fingers along the broadest part of its tip before giving the tip of him a few taps. The thrusting of his hips slow, but they grow no softer, only firmer, thicker plunges of his cock, steady and with more intent to give Emet-Selch the fullness of their combining as his hand moves down to cup Emet-Selch's balls, thumb rubbing along the shaft of him.]
Though I know... I don't have to do a thing. You could get off by being made to sit flush to my hips, and nothing else... you like being filled with me that much.
[Mettaton even unhands his cock then, once more gripping onto his hip as though to further steady his body for firm, deep thrusts. He smiles against Emet-Selch's neck, sinking more of his upper body against him to impress upon him that feeling of being mounted and fucked, no doubt affected by the knowledge of Emet-Selch's arousal: his thrusts take on a harder, deeper, more fervent push, made eager by the knowledge that Emet-Selch was aroused and getting off on their combining.]
[Chest heaving as he breathes, Emet-Selch feels the exploratory way Mettaton's hand inspected his body. The touch of fingers and claws over skin that he knew his lover was well-familiar with by now. They were both knowledgeable of one another's forms, he considered- and that despite their differences in shape and material, they still fit together perfectly. Even if it was mostly the Ascian's body doing the physical accommodation- he could accommodate, he wanted to- to feel every sharp curve and unforgiving plane pressed to his body, inescapable. Even Mettaton's cock- a shapeshifted addition, and therefore more thoroughly organic than anything else- was more frequently hardened than otherwise, a perfect stiffness. Something for him to conform to as well, no matter where it was pressed; he would adapt to him, support him and love him, and he knew Mettaton would never leave him unsatisfied for his devotion. That his lover was no less devoted to him, to his pleasure and safety- and it's a softer thought, something that would accompany a more tender kiss were it physically possible. But the sentiment remains, an affection amidst the heat and lust.
Mettaton was palpating him all over, something that causes a shiver at some points, and a shudder at others, wondering at how even fingers brushing over his abdomen (still bearing mostly-dried come upon it) or hips (marked by claws, the ghost of where his hands had been) was enough to heighten his arousal. It wasn't as though the grind of the idol's erection along with the taste of his come at his lips weren't already enough to keep him hard, now that his body had been given enough time to respond once more to his lover's presence with a stiff cock. Being aroused by him was a natural state, after all, whether his body could keep up with his feelings or not. Even when he wasn't able to match him in hardness- he loved sex with him just as fiercely. And when Mettaton was touching him so nicely, skimming over muscle and the protrusion of bone- there was nothing about the contact that didn't entice.
It's a touch that of course ends up with Mettaton's hand at his ass, groping it. And it's worth another tremble when he feels his ass held, pushed apart, only emphasizing how far Mettaton could press, how thick his cock was, and yet how the Ascian could still hold him all the way to the root. The firm sensation of hips impacting his body provided a confirmation with each thrust, and yet with Mettaton's manipulation of his ass, it was made that much more explicit how exposed he was, how available- that the robot could stuff him down to the base of his erection, and his body would just have to take it.
Take it and love it; even were Emet-Selch not physically aroused, it would've been clear how much he reveled in the sensation of taking a heavy cock, of taking Mettaton in particular between his legs. That he adored the feeling of being shoved down and worn out, his body failing but still a warm place for his lover's erection to slide inside, and that he wanted nothing more than feel him rub himself off this way, while doing all that he could to intensify that feeling.
Mettaton's approval, his appreciation and pleasure only spur him to continue to shift, to tighten as best as he can, no matter the quivering of muscle or the progression of exhaustion that was getting that much harder to deny. Arms and hands bracing themselves against the bed, the Ascian's knees also try to provide what stability they can for him, despite having the whole of his robotic lover mounting him. But having it be a struggle was its own sort of appealing, Emet-Selch thought, in some hazy part of his mind- that he had to fight to shift, to press back, and that all of his effort was in the direction of... being fucked ever harder. Being taken more thoroughly still. Demonstrating his need for his cock, so much so that he would force disagreeable, fading limbs and a sore body to roll back into Mettaton's thrusts regardless.
...It's still a much weaker motion than he would've once been able to manage, and it's not wholly reliable either, his body just- refusing to move sometimes, no matter how much he told it to. More possible to maintain were regular tightenings around Mettaton's cock, hard squeezings of muscle around slick, rigid flesh- and were something he would've had a hard time preventing even if he'd wanted to. Which of course he does not want to, and Emet-Selch loses the occasional breath entirely (which does nothing to improve the strength of his overall condition), just from the sharp intensity of the sensation.
But the more Mettaton mounted him, the fuller the thrusts, the more Emet-Selch tries desperately to meet him, even as it feels as though he sinks further into the bed with every push on his lover's part. A wonderful sensation overall, this weakness... as his limbs continuing to give way were yet another sign of how everything on the Ascian's part would be made to give way, to adapt, to take all that Mettaton could give him. And he wanted him, every shove and grasp, the moans over his shoulder and the threat of teeth- as though his body weren't already well-marked by them.
But then Mettaton's hand drifts lower between his legs, brushing against his stiffened cock in a touch that causes the Ascian's body to jolt in place, to tighten automatically around him with a gasp for breath. A gasp that tries to turn into a moan before failing that as well, his shuddering feeling that much harder with the way he was restrained, pushed against the bed, as though it were compressed to make up for his inability to move. It was attention to his sensitive length that leaves him ever weaker. From the squeeze to the glans, to the handling of his balls- as when Mettaton was prodding over the rest of his body, it felt a particularly vulnerable touch, knowing that it would be impossible for him to hide or hold back any part of himself. No matter how personal or sensitive, every inch of his body was there for him, for his whim- whether it was to bite or scratch or stroke or ignore- it was just part of being possessed. And yet with Mettaton, this vulnerability of self, of body and heart was- wanted. Desirable in a way that he could only express though these physical responses, or through the desperate affection conveyed through Bond, a yearning for more than his cock (but also his cock). He shudders; gives another hoarse noise in some version of crying out.
Though when Mettaton lets go of his erection, leaving it to get what stimulation it could from the bed alone, Emet-Selch couldn't feel too much in the way of regret. Because his lover was entirely right: he could climax from the sensation of being full of him on its own. As much as he loved Mettaton's touch dancing across his own heavy length- whether he was stroking or sucking him, or otherwise pulling at his cock- there was a different sort of pleasure in knowing that it was technically unnecessary for him to get off. Holding Mettaton's erection inside his body, dwelling on its shape, how engorged he could render it, from the swollen tip to the thickness of the shaft, all the way to hips that push against his body, reminding him of his depth, how far they could be joined together... that was all he required.]
[As Emet-Selch finds his strength diminishing with each round, succumbing more and more to soreness and finding that even now, his ability to push back into Mettaton's thrusts is lacking, Mettaton has a maintained level of perfect capability: the perks of a robotic form. Sure, his strength temporarily fades after each disorienting release, leaving his consciousness suspended in a sort of intoxicated stupor, but his sense faithfully returns to him quickly and fiercely. He can't stop: his energy and libido push him further and further, and the slavering insatiability is intensified by the presence of two moon-shaped pendants in the room. He takes monstrous to a different dimension like this, in the presence of a man he's so smitten by, so attracted to, especially when combined with his own.
But there's the persisting nag in the back of his head prevalent, a sort of embittered bite that returns to him that can only be satisfied so far by expressions of bodily pleasure and desire. Sure, Emet-Selch shows all of the signs of loving this, loving him: he tries to back his hips into him; he's aroused by him; he tries to cry out, to moan, to succumb and obey Mettaton's body. And all of this is beyond satisfying, and Mettaton finds himself moaning against his neck just from the thought of it all, fingers stroking his hip...
A stroke that turns into a sudden, fierce grip. Nails are used to anchor Emet-Selch close, to give Mettaton a perfect vantage point to thrust into him, and he withdraws his other arm to latch onto his other hip. Claws begin to slowly pierce flesh as Mettaton's manner swings violently, mood following suit.
Emet-Selch's being run ragged... being diminished. Reduced. Worn down. Yet he manages an erection, manages a cry here or there, broken though they may be. Manages to remain with his ass up for Mettaton's use, his body still holding, squeezing, massaging a thick cock while bearing his own, so much pressure concentrated around Emet-Selch's lower body, from his own erection to the one he holds. He manages all of this, but the idol begins to wonder when he'll remember to pay him the compliments he's due, for all of his godly magnificence. He's worth it, and Emet-Selch ought to remember that his reverence is required for his mercy. Lips peel back once more in a snarl as Mettaton begins to feel... agitated.
His voice is low once more, but it's not at all the same sort of sensual purr. It's low and dark, demanding, a warning.]
So... erect as you are... So covetous of my body. You think I'm... attractive. Tell me what captives your heart about... me.
[And as low as his voice is, it's broken, descending gradually, perhaps quickly, into madness. It would be hard to say what his next move would be, depending on how appeased or frustrated he ends up in moments. But for the time being, his temper pauses in its incensing. For the moment, he gives Emet-Selch the space to react.
But only verbally, as his body hastens in thrusts. He strokes his cock furiously, harshly against his lover's body, fingers curling into his hips and pushing Emet-Selch's ass flush with a demanding heat to his hips, giving himself the fullest access to deep, fulfilling thrusts. Massaging his length for his own pleasure, stuffing Emet-Selch full of his erection, never once giving him a break — Mettaton wanted to make sure his lover felt his senses swallowed by him, from the taste of come on his lips to the sound of his voice in his ears; from the filling of come to the burying of his cock; from the sensation of pain to the lull of pleasure.
Mettaton didn't want Emet-Selch to pay attention to anything but him. To them, combined. To his gory, to his devotion. To his beauty and Emet-Selch's dedication to that, to their love and the many products of it, their entwining of body and soul and feeling and smell, how they're everything when they're unified like this. Mettaton pounds into him deeply, small sounds of pleasure rocked from his body with each collision of hips to ass as Mettaton finds a satisfying, if savage, point of pleasure in this rub, in his devolving insanity. Emet-Selch's body tightens and clenches wonderfully, wrapped around his cock like this... And he squeezes so rhythmically from the tip of his glans and rubs down to the base of his cock. Does Emet-Selch know what he does to him? He doesn't think he could ever get enough.
And he wants to hear of Emet-Selch's devotion in turn. Wants to hear again how desperately Emet-Selch wanted his taste, heat, fullness... And wanted to hear how he was beautiful, how Emet-Selch wanted only to feel the Puca lose himself to his body... That he'd live for him, his pleasure, his body. Things he'd already said to him, things his mind plays on repeat like a record, but he wants to hear it. All over again, he wants his lover's voice on soft notes that he can barely manage.
He doesn't just want it, he needs it. He demands it, and he deserves it. Mettaton mouths his neck and shoulder again, teeth always grazing alongside the softness of lips and tongue. Teeth so sharp that the firm fucking Emet-Selch's being treated to would almost be enough to push him into them, to slip them through skin, if not for the way Mettaton steadies his hips with the puncture of thick, dark claws.
On a voice intended to inundate Emet-Selch completely, to captivate his awareness completely, he speaks again, just as low and dark and soft. Patience thinning, conceit mounting, demand increasing, madness ruling, Mettaton pushes himself into his lover some more, curving into him and bringing them closer together. Inescapable.]
[Danger was in the air, and it was carried by Mettaton's voice.
It was building there, along with pleasure itself. Feeding off of it, off of him- as though the robot were draining it from Emet-Selch and taking it as his own as well, as though he could replenish himself from the Ascian's body, rather than merely sate himself temporarily in it. And that there was a logical explanation for these abrupt veerings towards madness- pendants, blood-stained jewelry- is something that exists in the back of his mind, but unreachable. Only feelings remained: that Mettaton's reactions were explicable, and justified. To someone in possession of such viciousness and beauty, the only one with the right to mount and fuck him like this, dark and terrible and magnificent in it all- why shouldn't he be relentless in his demands to hear it expressed? Why would saying it only once be enough to sustain him?
(In some other corner of his mind, Emet-Selch might wonder if Mettaton had managed to impossibly temper him after all; those thusly stained by their god exist thereafter only to serve and to praise, all other desires diminished to naught. And their most beloved deity requires this worship. Is fed by it, strengthened by it; the tempered's purpose in life was only to provide this sustenance at any cost.
Emet-Selch was thoroughly stained by now, in come and blood and spit. In exhaustion, choked and torn. Worn away to nothing, of course the result would be his unerring devotion.)
Claws dig into his hip, as rigid as the cock pounding his body, and as inescapable. Mettaton's voice followed, as captivating as it ever was, if on a far darker note. The kind of tone to leave him shivering, and not wholly in pleasure and arousal- the kind of shiver that spoke of dangerously building tension, to a change in air pressure, a threat immanent. But even this was beautiful, in its stark, descending madness, something he longed to be torn apart by. The more his body faltered, the more he felt Mettaton's darkness closing in, the more he knew it not as an embrace of warmth and comfort, but something colored in savagery and chaos. His lover's mood was plunging, and Emet-Selch knew, he knew that the only way to stave off Mettaton's wrath, his righteous fury, was to speak of him, with the words he deserved, with the sincerity in his heart reflected in his broken voice. What else would be enough? Even that would barely suffice, even when paired with the sacrifice of his body.
Mettaton pushed harder, and Emet-Selch could feel the sharpness of teeth against sweaty, bruised skin, held back from tearing into him with something that could scarcely be called restraint. The Ascian's thoughts were scattered, distorted, fragments of things he'd already said, fragments of other things Mettaton deserved to hear. There was... so much to express, he realized. Everything that he loved about him, things that shook his heart to understand, even when faced with his lover's swiftly mounting impatience. It was a clarity of feeling that he could do nothing with, the only result a feeling of strange despair.
It didn't matter; incoherency would have to do, and with lips parted from panting, he forces more than breath through his wounded throat.
...But nothing came.
Nothing like words, anyway. Nothing like speech. Raspy, almost guttural noises that weren't distinguishable from much of anything. He'd used his voice too much the last time; Emet-Selch would need more time than this for it to recover.
It's something he realizes, but has little capacity to comprehend right away, as he gasps out something no more useful as his body continues to fail, to collapse. The harder Mettaton moved, grinding his erection so deeply into him, slamming his hips against his ass- the more his feeble attempts to brace himself failed, limbs driven into the bed, unable to support himself. Nor was he able to push back with his own hips any longer- not with any sort of energy that could be distinguished from the force Mettaton could exert on him.
He was desperate for him: that much was true. But he had little way of expressing it, was left trembling as he absorbs every thrust, exhausted and wanting, thoughts solely on him, on every movement, every sound, every feeling he sought to inflict on him, no matter how raw or furious. Even insane, this was Mettaton, and he loved this too.]
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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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But for now, he couldn't even pretend to mind, as his eyes opened to watch his lover's regard, conscious of their contrasting shapes. Mettaton remained dark and magnificent, ever more the predator in every way he moved or looked, and in insultingly good condition despite all they had been through. If Emet-Selch weren't so prone to him, attracted to him, desirous of him even at this point- it would've drawn a huff of irritation.
Instead, the sight of him there, with a dangerous smile and sharp teeth, and a gaze that felt as though it could pierce him just as easily- it leaves him with a sense of longing, an ache for his touch, no matter how far it reduced him in the process. It's a longing that only increases when Mettaton slowly pulls his length from his body (a body that, contrarily, decides to hurt more now that it was no longer being stretched and had to adjust to a different state), and especially when it affords him a glimpse of his half-hardened cock, glistening and hot. Watching his lover lounge like this at all, looking down at the state of his body, the Ascian's possession on full display for him- he felt- pleased. Comfortable and warm, and perhaps even a bit smug in his exhaustion. Mettaton was... perfection like this, he thought, dark and haughty, assured and dangerous, bright and adoring in his potential for viciousness. Lovingly malicious. And Emet-Selch was arrogant enough to accept nothing less than that. Who else would he want to be broken down for, would he spare the most vulnerable parts of himself to?
And Mettaton waits, offers him the illusion of freedom, when both of them knew that no matter where he went, he'd end up back where he belonged- on his cock. Their bodies would wrap up in one another again, thoughts of any separation discarded. And the Ascian wondered that if he delayed too long, whether the idol would slither back over his body again, press him down and fuck him once more; he certainly had the air of impending need, and an inclination towards fulfilling it inside of him. A state he was hardly opposed to, but... if Mettaton had spared him this opportunity, he should try to make something of it. His gaze turns thoughtful, even as he continues scanning over his lover's body, distraction that it was from coherent thought.
If he could move at all. That really was the sticking point. Emet-Selch's entire body felt stiff, glued to the bed, positioned between pillows and trapped in this prison of softness and uncooperative muscles. His legs remained spread, and his ass thoroughly exposed, lifted not only for Mettaton's use, but now for his observation as well- it's enough to keep his pulse likewise lifted, fully aware of what he must look like, how used, how wet. And how much more slick he would become if he moved... and he was no less curious to find out what it would look and feel like now, with these added loads allowed to spill over.
But Mettaton had suggested a shower... lifetimes ago, by this point. Emet-Selch wanted to be fucked, no matter how inadvisably his body considered the prospect (a warning to be ignored), he wanted to feel come slide down his thighs, and he wanted to be washed off as well, to settle warm and clean and comfortable(ish) with his lover. That these were somewhat mutually exclusive options didn't matter: he would have them all in some order or another.
And so he decides: he would make a stand, for... attempting to stand. And would perhaps even walk. And if that didn't work, then the other two options would immediately be in play. They would... probably be immediately in play regardless, but he can't think that far ahead. All he knows is that he can't take too long on the sitting up part of affairs, lest he be caught immediately by the sensation of come spilling from his body, and be rendered unable to move from the awareness of that alone.
Taking a breath, Emet-Selch steels himself as best he can for the inevitable discomfort of changing positions and moving his body whatsoever. Rather than attempt to sit up, he twists himself onto his side first, hissing anyway as... any number of things protested this new arrangement. Wounds on his back lodged their complaints, as did his neck out of solidarity, though the greatest offender were his hips, his thighs, his ass. No matter how much he knew that Mettaton's erection belonged inside of his body as much as possible (a truth he knew Mettaton concurred with), parts of his body had failed to accept this, and had the gall to become sore at being stretched and rubbed for extended periods of time.
Alongside that, his muscles in general were just sore from exertion, and had stiffened into place while the Ascian had been on his back, thighs splayed, hips raised (a natural position). On his side, Emet-Selch lingers for several moments, half-curled and more than a bit awkward in his position amidst pillows and covers. But with pulls of his arms (while continuing to avoid sitting up at all), he drags and shifts himself towards the edge of the bed. Bits of fabric attempt to stick to his back and shoulders before being tugged away, reopening wounds a degree; thin trails of blood escape from several clotted bites, but Emet-Selch doesn't notice. Dragging his legs over the edge, he tries to roll himself into standing up all at once- no delay, nothing by degrees, an all or nothing attempt. He would stand, or he would crumple, and he would be a mess in either case.
--And he stands. Sort of. Badly. A sound escapes his throat, something pained and sharp and his entire body flinches as his breathing goes shaky. Just being upright so suddenly leaves him dizzy, and it felt as though every part of his body was aching in unison. But he stands, even as his legs tremble, and his eyes are tightly closed, and he gropes out an arm to reach for Mettaton's- shoulder, possibly, whatever he could grasp for some kind of support. He even takes a sort of shuffling step, though it would be optimistic to call it any kind of deliberate movement on Emet-Selch's part, rather than something akin to a stumble, a lurch forward. His lower body ached terribly, not approving of what he was doing whatsoever- almost to the point where he doesn't notice inevitability dripping down between his thighs.
Almost. A wash of heat runs through him that vies with pain for his attention, a confusing mix of sensations for his body to adjust to. He was upright, in pain, dizzy, overheated, indisposed. Milky come was also beginning to trail down skin already marked by bruise or previous release. It could've been demeaning, this sign of both weakness and use, but he could only revel in it. He's also not entirely sure if he can walk, but in this moment he's not inclined to try. Standing alone was taking a lot out of him.]
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He's not at all shy, and he readjusts his posture, sitting upon his hip as he keeps his legs spread as he watches him back.
There are moments of silence and appreciation for the thought spared to this task, to designing the best course of action to achieve Standing. If Mettaton's going to be so generous, he appreciates that it's being taken advantage of, and he smiles upon his lover's form as he rocks himself onto his side. He cranes his neck, getting a good understanding as to why he'd be in such pain, and he grits his teeth (in a grin) in sympathy (that he barely has, they're bite marks he made and he likes them). Moreover, he's getting a better understanding of his lover's ache, watching as he pulls himself together and braces himself for further movement, humming as his ears stand perky and his gaze remains bright, attentive. Mettaton nearly shuffles with him to the edge of the bed, doing so in a much more refined manner on his hip and moving with his legs, his ears still high and his eyes still fixed, interested in his lover's ambitions but remaining quiet in this curiosity.
And he launches himself directly into a standing position, getting off of the bed and everything. Mettaton gasps shortly, emoting more than the actual emotion warrants by pressing fingers to his lower lip in his shock for the daring attempt that appears to take a lot out of the Ascian, who even manages to make a sound to express his pain, who even flinches and wavers. Even so, Mettaton claps his hands together.]
You're vertical. That's a start!
[He beams, even as Emet-Selch's eyes are squeezed shut. But his lover tries too soon to walk — though the robot immediately registers it as more of a stumble as he reaches for his shoulder (and reaches successfully, there's a lot of real estate there), prompting him to spread his arms for him and to kick his legs gracefully over the side of the bed, hands hovering about his figure. A fail-safe to catch him, should he stumble and fall. His smile is hot, attention hotter, even as he regards him with a sort of excitement. An excitement for his lover to... attempt to disengage from their passionate lovemaking, only to fail, which would be the only outcome. The expected outcome, making it nothing but a success. Mettaton hums again, his yellow eye fixed on Emet-Selch with something that is a hybrid between pleased with his attempt, and hungry for him to succumb.]
Naturally, you're choosing to come back to me...
[There's a sick sort of fascination he gets out of this, and he tries to place it. Not that he examines it too hard, but his lover's standing, barely, beautiful wearing his bruises and blood, come and sweat, nothing else at all, scarcely able to even walk... So wonderfully impacted by the throes of their passion, moreso than Mettaton could ever be, he was rendered so worn and vulnerable to Mettaton's delectation. Emet-Selch couldn't and wouldn't escape, and (barring teleportation) even if he tried, it was obvious that he'd be made to submit to Mettaton. But the thing that strikes Mettaton as most desirable of all is how obvious the signs of his use are, in body: how disagreeable his hips have become, his thighs set to trembling and his body rendered totally worn down.
Mettaton has to sigh at it all, dreamlike and appreciative as he lets a hand rub encouragingly against Emet-Selch's back. He doesn't see this show of vulnerability to be anything but arousing and intimate, nothing short of what they'd show each other.
But more than that, he waited for that surefire sign that something had changed. And as soon as it comes, as soon as he can tell Emet-Selch's given up on trying to do any walking in favor of just standing, a sort of tense heat washing over them both, Mettaton's energy peaks in eager alertness. He gropes Emet-Selch's hip in the front, and the other hand wraps around his side to grab his ass, as though needing to brace himself just as much he braces Emet-Selch, giving him the option of succumbing to his arms.
He knows what's happening, and he can barely restrain his excitement. Mettaton bites at his lower lip for some grasp on control, feeling pressure swiftly pool and squeeze his lower body in a manner that feels so alive and fulfilling, needy and reactive. He pulls their bodies closer together, stabilizing him and bringing Emet-Selch's hip between his spread thighs as he leans in to press a needy, damp kiss to his torso. But as soon as Emet-Selch's been slipped between thighs (and with his thigh surely pressed against a rousing cock), Mettaton unhands his ass to let fingers drag along his inner thighs. He lets out the sound of a collapsing sigh.]
Hades... You— [Mettaton swallows, too much saliva in his mouth. His finger skims along his tissue, riding up bruises and prodding their way up to his ass, where he can trace this rivulet of come back to the source. He presses his finger firmly, ardently, against his entrance — either trying to stop the dribble of come from all of his past releases, or trying to feel it more acutely.] It's... I-I need to...
[He swallows again. Kisses his chest again, with more pronounced wetness to his lips, his tongue. Mettaton rises suddenly, sidestepping the Ascian with such direction and command. Keeping his finger nestled right against Emet-Selch's entrance, the rest of his fingers squeeze his ass as Mettaton presses his hand against his lover's upper back, coaxing him, forcing him to lean forward, over the bed, bending at the hip as the robot stands behind him. He sighs again, his words taking on a sort of overeager cant, uncontrollable fever seeping into his words as his restraint leaves him.]
Standing, keep doing that... You're doing fabulously. And bend over for me, my dear... Just like this.
[And "for him," he means to sate his appetite, to gawk and soak in the sight of his thighs dripping with come, to see it trailing down already-bitten thighs for himself. Mettaton lets his claws run along Emet-Selch's back as he takes a step back to appreciate the view, and the sight of him has Mettaton stalling, staggering, pressure in his crotch immense and sudden. Thick, milky come, so much of it already, drips from his lover's body, and Mettaton's spreads his lover's ass to get a better sight of him. A sight to have him moaning, to feel a rush of heat and tension coax his own arousal to full, thick rigidity.
An arousal the robot immediately shoves against his entrance, the glans pushing and poking at him, getting slicked up by his own come. A sight and sensation to have Mettaton moaning again as he manually manipulates his cock with a hand, rubbing the glans firmly against Emet-Selch's entrance, collecting come and letting it drip along his cock. Mettaton's voice is labored as the Puca has a hard time maintaining any sense or sanity in the face of his lust.]
Hades... You must feel so... empty now. You're dripping so much...
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But he's not really capable of speech nor has the capacity to do more than force his legs upright (while using Mettaton for support), while trying to convince himself that the way forward was to move forward, somehow. But he couldn't- though whether that was due more to disagreeable legs, the discomfort involved, or the feeling of dripping come- he couldn't decide. Especially when Mettaton was right there, a source of safety and reassurance somehow (for all that he'd been the one responsible for leaving him like this), someone to lean on and huddle close to, and Emet-Selch veered between stubbornly maintaining his current posture (useless, he couldn't get anywhere like this), and giving in and collapsing back into his Bonded's waiting arms and onto his waiting cock. To use what energy he had on clinging to him instead, to catch his breath and bury himself against him, and give up on ever going anywhere at all.
But he remains standing somehow, kind of, trembling faintly from it all, including Mettaton's encouraging stroke to his back (though he couldn't tell if it was an encouragement towards staying upright and attempting A Walk, or an encouragement towards giving up and succumbing to him). And he trembles that bit more when he feels Mettaton's understanding over what was taking place, what they both knew would happen if he made some ill-advised but brave hobble towards independence. Scarcely able to move of his own accord anyway, Emet-Selch is shuffled as Mettaton directs, tensing that bit more in place at the combination of a cock pressed to his thigh, and a hand moving to reach between them, fingers unerringly sliding over bruises made slick, trailing all the way to his entrance.
Between Mettaton's reaction, the damp kiss to his chest, and the intimacy of his finger- Emet-Selch lost any chance of moving of his own accord. So when his Bonded pushes him over, he catches himself against the bed, willingly spreads his legs for him, and shudders at the hold of his ass, of Mettaton naturally moving up and around him to get a better look of what he'd wrought. He can only imagine his own appearance, in both how thick come was dripping steadily from him, making his ass and thighs ever more of a sloppy mess, as well as how it fit into his composure as a whole. Or... lack of composure, really, as he existed only in these individual moments, feeling the ache of his body, a body that was there for Mettaton's perusal and for no other purpose.
Could it really be called standing, at this point? Hunched over the bed with his legs spread, his arms supporting himself against the mattress, his knees with a persistent tremble to them, barely even pretending to want to do anything other than kneel upon the covers he'd barely left. Emet-Selch would be exposed to him regardless, a sight made that much more explicit as Mettaton spreads his ass apart, and his breath hitches on a low, ragged moan. So ragged that it's barely recognizable as one, context mostly giving it away.
It felt uncontrollable, this display, because it was. Permitted some pretense of standing, an allowance only for the sake of this, a result they both wanted, as though drawn to this excess, this indulgence. To watch or feel Mettaton's claim of him spilling down his body, in a way that marked him even more by it- that he wasn't meant to only keep his come tidily hidden inside, but to show his possession in starkest detail. There could be no mistaking of who he belonged to, not with this proof coated between his legs.
Mettaton was pressing his glans to his sore, dripping entrance, and Emet-Selch is made to cry out- or try to, anyway- his shivering only becoming more pronounced, entirely conscious of the effect this sight was having upon his lover, how hard he was made by it. How his cock must look with his own come smeared across the swollen tip in a milky sheen. It's something he nudges back against, as though to assist in its spread, to demonstrate his want for it and him, this desire for his lover to take in this sight and this use of him. He was more empty now, wasn't he? Emet-Selch was made to hold both his cock and his come, and one of those had pulled free, while the other was in the process of escape.
And his body's priorities naturally shift away from any concerns about discomfort and onto to a favoring of lust, onto the promise of more sex, on having another erection stroking his body. It didn't matter that he was collapsing, sore, spent- pushed to his limits and left shaking. All of this: his exposure and vulnerability, his weakness, his lover's arousal, Mettaton's ejaculate smearing copiously between them, something he wished he had the balance to spare to move a hand between his legs to feel for himself- yes, how could he care about pain when he had everything else to contend with? More important things like Mettaton's erection and his pleasure? As though to assure him that his priorities were moving in the right direction, the Ascian's own cock begins to stiffen once more, as though attracted to obscenity itself. But it's a welcome heaviness between his legs, and he doesn't want to think about what that says about him, that a body so given over to fatigue would still find it in itself to stir one more time for this.]
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Mettaton's blearily watching, gripping onto Emet-Selch's hip as his own come slicks up his other hand as natural as anything. The urgency to slip his lover the full of his length grows beyond him as he answers his lover's raspy, poorly-formed moans with his own louder, clearer one. His hips shift, dipping the head of his cock against the slick mess of Emet-Selch's entrance, continuously flirting with slipping the tip of his cock within his waiting body... And how easy it would be, something he could do to fill Emet-Selch in an instant. The sloping glans looks like such a perfect fit — a perfect squeeze maybe, but a perfect fit nonetheless. It would be moments unaware for his lover until he felt the filling flare of the corona stretching him, until the rest of the thick shaft followed...
It's then that Emet-Selch curves his back, bumps with intent against the robot's hardened erection. That's right: Mettaton mused earlier that Emet-Selch would tell him if he no longer felt so full, didn't he? And with voice reduced, this must be his way of telling him he needed more come, needed the thick shaft of his cock, and needed all as deeply as he could manage.
A sudden craving to nearly set Mettaton to ferality again, gnashing his teeth as his fingers curl into his grip on Emet-Selch's hip in his sheer pleasure, the ache in his abdomen growing intense enough to darken the world around him save for this. For his lover leaned over the bed, supporting himself on arms against the blankets, with his legs spread and ass up for Mettaton's use, not just prone but giving himself to the idol. He laughs, both light and dark at once and pressing forward with insistence, with claim, with intention as he nestles the head of his cock threateningly against the Ascian's ass.
Mettaton leans forward, following the bend of Emet-Selch's body with his own to bring himself closer to his shoulder. His cock remains pressed to his entrance, insistent and slowly, slowly slipping its way inside: how could it not, if it was so slick, if there was this pressure, if Emet-Selch's body was made to fit him? It's a realization to have Mettaton drooling when he gets closer to his lover's neck.]
You're not feeling full enough, are you...?
[Light and dark, just like his laugh. Pressure still, the head of his cock sinks slowly and insistently into his lover's body with just a bit of firm rocking as Mettaton strokes the head of his cock in and out of Emet-Selch's entrance, relishing how sloppy he's been made from being filled with so much of his own come. A complete mark of possession: Emet-Selch is bruised, bitten, and come-marked, rendered scarcely able to move, and it's all a part of Mettaton's design. The pressure in his crotch is unbearable; he exhales heat, bringing forward his come-slicked hand and pressing it to his lover's lips.
Slick, thick fluid coats the robot's fingers and claws, even down to his palms — a thoroughness to tease how messy Emet-Selch is, how messy they both are now that he's let just some of the ejaculate spill from his body. Mouthing and kissing Emet-Selch's neck, the Puca continues to rock his hips, to stroke more and more of his cock against just the tight, slick ring of his lover's entrance while he presses insistent fingers to Emet-Selch's lips.]
This is only a fraction of what you've lost... Clean it up, darling. [Another heavy, heated kiss to his neck.] As your reward... I'll f... fill you properly.
[Fill him properly, as opposed to dipping the head of his cock in and out of his body shallowly, letting the ridge of the head continuously stroke along Emet-Selch's entrance. Mettaton talks about it as though he's the one treating Emet-Selch, but the restraint he practices is shoddy at best: Mettaton's craving for this body are beyond him, and he wants the man himself even more. How distracted he can play him, how thoroughly he can work him to live from moment to moment... It's a fulfilling thing to witness. But even as he presses come-slicked fingers to Emet-Selch's lips, he gasps and sighs at the sensation of such a tight slip of his cock: at the squeeze of muscle around the glans, as it pulls and squeezes and manipulates the glans with each pass with indelible pressure, the only defense his body has against Mettaton's inevitable pounding.]
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The sound of the idol's laugh fills him with expectant tension, and Mettaton looming over him carried the threat of being mounted again- or the reward of it. It was the same feeling in the end, and his legs shook that little bit more from his anticipation for it, his wanting of it, even spreading himself that bit more for him in the process, as though to further appeal to him. Or to make it that bit easier for any wayward nudge of his cock to make its way inside. And when Mettaton speaks close to his neck, Emet-Selch stills, hoping that it meant what he thought it meant, that he'd spare them both any further time separated. So when a bit of pressure against his entrance becomes more persistent- more than a teasing, stroking rub against tight, if sore, muscle- when he's slowly made to stretch around the shape of the head, wrap around this sensitive part of him and squeeze, the both of them wet with come- his legs nearly give out entirely. Kneeling on the bed for better support, his voice is lost to something else that could've been a moan.
His lover knew exactly how to treat him, what to give him, what he wanted. From this allowance to drip for them, to maneuver and expose himself in a different way, to be permitted the struggle of moving himself only to end up back upon the bed, with his ass available to him once again. To this partial re-taking, knowing that Mettaton would eventually be moved to fill him completely, was teasing them both in another way by allowing him only the thicker head to tighten around, to feel the way it stretched him so perfectly, preventing much of anything else from escaping him. But he was still entirely aware of how much he'd already lost....
--And then Mettaton could satisfy him this way too, with a hand slipped in front of him, coated from claws to palm to the point of dripping, tasking him with thick come to lick. As though this weren't a reward in itself, having his lover's fluids made handily available to him. Fingers press to his lips and his breathing shudders hard, and his cock continues to fill from just the awareness of his lover's come-stickied fingers shoved against his mouth with a demand to clean them. And apart from a moment just soak in the vast desire he held for both this and him, Emet-Selch lunges upon his fingers with a ravenous energy, not caring if he nicked any part of his face with sharp claws in his desire to lick and suck and taste every bit of his lover's ejaculate.
Pressed to his face like this, it was inevitable that some of the milky fluid ends up on parts of his skin that weren't his lips or tongue, but as far as Emet-Selch was concerned that was no detriment. It's a messier affair altogether, due both to how much Mettaton had spread across his hand, dripping nearly to his wrist, all the way up to the tips of pointed nails- as well as the Ascian having no control over the position of Mettaton's hand. His neck- still sore, bitten, scratched- tilts and stretches as he fights to claim every part of his Bonded's come, lapping at it with broad swipes of his tongue, as well as more pointed licks. Anything he can get into his mouth he sucks on, tongue inevitably giving way to teeth. Any part of Mettaton's hand that he could reach that might conceivably have come on it gets worked over, attended to, smeared with come-tinged-saliva. The result is a hand that's not really any dryer, much less cleaner by any reasonable definition of the word.
But his mouth was full of the taste of him, the viscous texture lingering after each heavy swallow, a knowledge that leaves him warm and aching. His face felt- damp, from the aftermath of his ardor, in a mix of saliva and come that he feels no trace of self-consciousness about. There was only the pleasure of it, a continued hunger, and his breathing is quick against his fingers; Emet-Selch's senses were so full of Mettaton that there was space for little else but his love for more of him. More of his come to lick, his cock to take- he tries to push back with his hips, as though demanding his 'reward'... as though he hadn't already sucked a portion of it down his throat. This time with him... this was all that mattered.]
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Mettaton's mind wants to deprive them both until they couldn't stand it, but Mettaton's body rebels, and he moans at the additional warmth surrounding his cock, the way the swell of the shaft is squeezed so delectably by Emet-Selch's body.
But his lover should have no trouble licking up as much come as he can, as Mettaton's sure to keep (sometimes hazy) watch over his work, turning his hand and urging him to lick here and there, never once taking from him his fingers until he was sure his lover had lapped it clean. His observation of the Ascian's work is a strange mix of anticipation and satisfaction, being satisfied all while on the edge of his seat, attention stolen by each flick of tongue and wrap of lips, by each inch of white left slick with spit rather than milky with errant come. And saliva-coated he is, as Emet-Selch even gets some of that on his face in his focus, teeth sometimes gripping fingers to better access spots of his hand that escaped even the Puca's notice, he finds himself spellbound by the touch and understanding of what unfolds before him.
His dedication is something to be admired, thought Mettaton, witnessing for himself how thorough Emet-Selch was about licking him clean of ejaculate, letting the taste and texture swim in his mouth, letting it coat and flavor his lips. He's the intended, sole audience to a show so erotic that he finds that pressure of his cock building, engorged, thick and hard and undeniable, his body aching to be suffused with warmth and pressure, to be massaged and stroked and slicked over. But all Mettaton does is drool some more, kissing and mouthing Emet-Selch's shoulder, only swallowing when he remembers, when he feels his lover has an especially full mouth and he feels sympathetic toward it.
He's utterly captivated by the sight. There's not a doubt in the Puca's mind that Emet-Selch tastes completely of his come, that he feels it lingering in his mouth even as he finalizes his work, licking with long, broad strokes along fingers to capture every last taste. The robot shudders in his lust: what could be more flattering than all of this want? He may not be speaking, but having Emet-Selch use his mouth in another way to demonstrate the vastness of his desire was... more than an adequate replacement for speech-sound. It was delightful, it was erotic, it was enough to have Mettaton completely rigid and full, for his arousal to feel so heavy between his thighs.
He loved it. This ache was intense. He thought he could come by this feeling alone, just focusing on all of the sights and sensations that could lead him to feeling so full, so thick, so engorged; if he were squeezed, it would feel raw and ever more aching, and he would love even that, would cry out loud and strong just from that. Craving it like nothing else, Mettaton withdraws his hand to wrap it around Emet-Selch's waist in an embrace as he moans into his shoulder, shuddering.
It's after a few more swallows, a few more kisses to lap up some of the spit he'd left on his skin, that Mettaton manages to collect himself enough to speak — not that he hadn't already stuffed more of his cock within, not that Emet-Selch wasn't already asking without words for his promised 'reward' by shoving into his hips.]
You're perfect, darling... Just perfect. [Emet-Selch is treated to a series of kisses that trail up his neck, up to his ear, as far as he can reach.] You had me enchanted by your dedication... Licking up every trace of come you'd lost. For that, your prize... I'm sure you can feel.
[He could probably already feel how engorged he was, how he's already beginning to slip in restraint, thrusting with more fervor.]
How thick I am, now that you've been so thorough... You did this, you know. You're why I... H- Oh, I. I'm...
[Composure slipping, Mettaton grips his hip some more, thrusts harder some more, agreeing with Emet-Selch's nudging with the sudden, full thrust of his hips. The full length of his cock sinks into Emet-Selch's body as the ever continuing reward he'd promised, filling him out to the root of his cock once more. Everything in the right place, Emet-Selch stuffed from glans to base, his body made to squeeze and bear down upon the rigidity of Mettaton's arousal. He moans again, but instead of throwing his head back, Mettaton bears down on Emet-Selch, curling into him, mounting him, pushing him into the bed some more.]
I'm... I ache, Hades, I'm so f...
[Full, he wants to say, but all the robotic idol can do is moan next to his neck, kissing and sucking on skin as his dark ears give way to gravity once more, flopping forward while Mettaton gives himself over to lust and appetite, grinding his hips into Emet-Selch's ass and feeling the drag of the glans so deeply inside of him, enough to pull gasp after sigh from him. Then, a short burst of laughter as he thinks to himself that he's not the one who's full, Emet-Selch is. Mettaton buries his nose affectionately in his shoulder, shifting both of his arms to wrap around his lover's torso, hands bracing against his shoulders to better mount him, to better pound into him.
And pound he does, short, firm curves of his body to jostle and stroke his length against Emet-Selch's body. From lazy arousal to being so suddenly engorged in hardly any time and all, Mettaton can only follow the current of his own libido, can only stroke and satisfy each of his cravings... And Emet-Selch was both the cause and the cure for each incident, his lover so tantalizing, so prone, so desirable in his nudity, his attitude, his intensity and his follow-through. The amount of want between them was... probably alarming, their appetites equally alarming in its insatiability. But they loved each other, and it was that, Mettaton felt, that made them both want to consume each other bodily, sexually; to wear each other down emotionally, too, until they were their most core selves and with nothing else to concern themselves over in the world but each other.]
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But he swallows it back, and come with it. A sore action, certainly... but worth it, to feel Mettaton's presence once more on the inside of his throat, if due to his ejaculate, rather than his erection in itself.
Nearly as heady as the flavor overwhelming him, and his clear love of this taking of his lover's come, was the satisfaction of knowing Mettaton could watch him do it. Could see his focus, his dedication to what had been set before him, this hunger for the taste of his essence. Could feel the firm, wet brushes of his tongue over every part of his hand, and even if he'd have to imagine the heat of his mouth on his fingers, the suction was still evident, as was the dig of teeth. The drool Emet-Selch could feel against his shoulder spoke of Mettaton's approval in a way that made words unnecessary, and was a particularly pleasing thing to feel somehow, particularly when followed by his moan. Every response on his lover's part satisfied him, from the particular stiffness of his cock (and the way he had given in and stuffed it half inside him already), to the intense mouthing of his shoulder, to the way a robot could be made to shudder.
But eventually his hand was as clean as the Ascian could render it, and Mettaton wraps that hand and arm instead around his body, in a way that registered as both loving and practical, holding him in place. Emet-Selch would hum if he could, at the succession of kisses along his neck, tilting it into his lips and ignoring the protests of bitten and bruised skin. And he takes a careful breath at Mettaton's response, flickers of tension coursing through him; he swallows, still tasting him.
And he could feel how engorged he'd been made... how thick Mettaton could be, and how full he could make him. And when Mettaton begins to thrust, begins to take him, a noise tries to come from Emet-Selch's throat, distorted down into a soft, harsh rasp. It seems to be approving though, ecstatic and relieved all at once, as his hips shift back, as he squeezes hard around him as Mettaton takes him down to the root of his cock. Finally. Not that it had been that long since he'd been without... since the puca had withdrawn his length and given him permission to try to stand.
With the expected result: Emet-Selch, back onto the bed, legs parted and ass up, Mettaton fucking him once again.
But Mettaton presses down, and the Ascian gives further way to him; even if he hadn't been weakened, the robot would've gotten little resistance, deliberate or otherwise, from the man. His hands dig into the covers as he's thrust into steadily, as he's mounted and claimed another time, as though there could be any doubt at this point of who he belonged to. Come still stickied up his thighs, was spread between his ass and Mettaton's crotch, and he knew just how much his lover was currently rubbing his erection into. And that the result would only be an addition, another mess to potentially leak from him.
Mettaton laughs, and it's a delightful sound to hear from him- as were all of his noises, from sighs to gasps to moans to attempts toward speech. Everything about him was delightful, really- at the moment, at least, everything was flawless. Mettaton's face was warm against his damp shoulder, his arms were securely around him, keeping his body steady for a thorough pounding. Pushed into the bed, his breathing sharpens at the pleasure wrought at the thick, steady movements provided by his cock, the way the slope of the glans stroked him as deeply as it could reach, firm caresses he regularly clenched around, holding Mettaton's length ever tighter. Even with himself mostly collapsed under the robot, he could do this, could help massage his lover's cock with his body, could twitch backwards with his own hips, to feel him as thoroughly as he could.
That, time and again, they could fall upon each other with no less hunger was a reassurance in a way that threaded through the ache of arousal. It was inescapably warm, this sort of love.]
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It's a slow caress, digits savoring the planes and contours of his lover's figure — a figure far more delicate than his own, each curve something he had to pay mind to rather than something so noticeable, as is true on his own body. Mettaton is all dramatic angles and curves, protrusions and dips: a broad chest, a slight waist, and now with rounder hips, it was all something he'd become extremely familiar with before he did with Emet-Selch's body. And even though Emet-Selch follows a natural human pattern of body, Mettaton found that it was gentle, understated in variation. Even as he pulls and pushes his arousal, strokes both himself and his lover with the thick, defined head, his entire erection swollen and rigid compared to the giving softness of his partner's body, Mettaton's fingers rove his body, drinking in the slight dips of muscle, of ribs; of his waist, slipping over his abdomen and to his hip, where it palpates bone (and previous claw-based injury), moving lower, swinging to Emet-Selch's backside between their bodies to give his ass a squeeze. Mettaton hums close to his neck, pleased at all he feels.
For now, his hand settles against his ass, closer to his hip and sometimes groping him again, sometimes getting a chance to slip between their bodies to spread Emet-Selch's ass, to make more defined how vulnerable his lover feels to their sex.
He sighs close to his neck, not at all a sigh intended to catch breath but to express an emotion: dreamy, in love. This close, it becomes clear that the sound doesn't carry as much air as a sigh ought to from a human: it's purely a vocalization on the robot's part.]
Even diminished, your voice is lovely... I thrive on hearing you react. [There's not a point where Mettaton forgets that this voice has always been something Emet-Selch had as his own. He gives him a short squeeze with his remaining arm, though he's sure to supplement it with a squeeze to his ass.] Your reactions tell me you love this. You can't get enough of it... Being pushed down into the bed and so taken by me. [Another dreamy sigh.] We are well-matched...
[An implication that Mettaton can't get enough of performing the action, that he thrills on the feeling of filling Emet-Selch with a hard cock and feeling him wrap and squeeze around him, just as he does right now. Emet-Selch couldn't see his expressions right now, but there's nothing about Mettaton that suggests he's at all as composed as his voice suggests, stabilized only by virtue of being a robot without the sway of organic components that would see fit to be heaving, pounding, or overheating. Mettaton overheats, but he does it without notice, his body feeling otherwise well in order aside from a bit of trembling and tensing in his now-hybrid legs.
Mettaton would overheat before any notice came that he was giving in at all, in summary. But that wasn't likely to occur, not with all of his repairs and the extra assistance of cooling ears to expend some of that heat.
Heat does build, however. How could it not, when Mettaton's so fierce and into it that his thrusts are always so full-bodied, deliberate and firm, using the whole roll of his hips? Never is he halfhearted about it. The robot pushes Emet-Selch forward on the bed using the whole of his body - hips, arms, hands, cock - and slides on after him, kneeling behind him with his feet off the edge as he bears down on Emet-Selch, curling into him some more. Like this, his thrusts hasten: faster, firmer, fuller, Mettaton strokes the body that holds him and massages his own cock on the tensing, reactive muscle of his lover's body, moaning into his shoulder before following with a sigh, a kiss that flirts with dragging his teeth along skin.]
God, Hades... You're even a perfect fit for me. You're... So tight, so eager to stroke me and take all of me... Don't think I don't feel the way you work those hips.
[To emphasize, Mettaton's hand circles around to his hip again and pulls it back into his own hips, giving Emet-Selch a more pronounced, firm thrust of hips to ass, slamming his cock more deeply within his body. He notes how exhausted Emet-Selch is besides, so used and worn, but he still puts forth the effort to pleasure his lover, puts forth the desire to be fucked...
Mettaton wonders, then, about his lover's cock. He'd been aware that his lover hadn't gotten aroused before, and assumed that he'd outmatched his ability to become physically aroused (which didn't at all daunt the idol: he knew what it was like to be mentally aroused, and assumed Emet-Selch was still getting something out of this). The hand on his hip slips down to cup his Bonded's cock, something that gets an eager, full palming out of him and a delighted gasp.]
Oh...! My. [Voice dropping even lower, Mettaton mouths Emet-Selch's neck, finishing it off with a firm bite.] All along, you've been pleasuring yourself on me, too... I'm flattered.
[Only skimming his fingers along Emet-Selch's length, he gives the head of his erection a squeeze, stroking his fingers along the broadest part of its tip before giving the tip of him a few taps. The thrusting of his hips slow, but they grow no softer, only firmer, thicker plunges of his cock, steady and with more intent to give Emet-Selch the fullness of their combining as his hand moves down to cup Emet-Selch's balls, thumb rubbing along the shaft of him.]
Though I know... I don't have to do a thing. You could get off by being made to sit flush to my hips, and nothing else... you like being filled with me that much.
[Mettaton even unhands his cock then, once more gripping onto his hip as though to further steady his body for firm, deep thrusts. He smiles against Emet-Selch's neck, sinking more of his upper body against him to impress upon him that feeling of being mounted and fucked, no doubt affected by the knowledge of Emet-Selch's arousal: his thrusts take on a harder, deeper, more fervent push, made eager by the knowledge that Emet-Selch was aroused and getting off on their combining.]
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Mettaton was palpating him all over, something that causes a shiver at some points, and a shudder at others, wondering at how even fingers brushing over his abdomen (still bearing mostly-dried come upon it) or hips (marked by claws, the ghost of where his hands had been) was enough to heighten his arousal. It wasn't as though the grind of the idol's erection along with the taste of his come at his lips weren't already enough to keep him hard, now that his body had been given enough time to respond once more to his lover's presence with a stiff cock. Being aroused by him was a natural state, after all, whether his body could keep up with his feelings or not. Even when he wasn't able to match him in hardness- he loved sex with him just as fiercely. And when Mettaton was touching him so nicely, skimming over muscle and the protrusion of bone- there was nothing about the contact that didn't entice.
It's a touch that of course ends up with Mettaton's hand at his ass, groping it. And it's worth another tremble when he feels his ass held, pushed apart, only emphasizing how far Mettaton could press, how thick his cock was, and yet how the Ascian could still hold him all the way to the root. The firm sensation of hips impacting his body provided a confirmation with each thrust, and yet with Mettaton's manipulation of his ass, it was made that much more explicit how exposed he was, how available- that the robot could stuff him down to the base of his erection, and his body would just have to take it.
Take it and love it; even were Emet-Selch not physically aroused, it would've been clear how much he reveled in the sensation of taking a heavy cock, of taking Mettaton in particular between his legs. That he adored the feeling of being shoved down and worn out, his body failing but still a warm place for his lover's erection to slide inside, and that he wanted nothing more than feel him rub himself off this way, while doing all that he could to intensify that feeling.
Mettaton's approval, his appreciation and pleasure only spur him to continue to shift, to tighten as best as he can, no matter the quivering of muscle or the progression of exhaustion that was getting that much harder to deny. Arms and hands bracing themselves against the bed, the Ascian's knees also try to provide what stability they can for him, despite having the whole of his robotic lover mounting him. But having it be a struggle was its own sort of appealing, Emet-Selch thought, in some hazy part of his mind- that he had to fight to shift, to press back, and that all of his effort was in the direction of... being fucked ever harder. Being taken more thoroughly still. Demonstrating his need for his cock, so much so that he would force disagreeable, fading limbs and a sore body to roll back into Mettaton's thrusts regardless.
...It's still a much weaker motion than he would've once been able to manage, and it's not wholly reliable either, his body just- refusing to move sometimes, no matter how much he told it to. More possible to maintain were regular tightenings around Mettaton's cock, hard squeezings of muscle around slick, rigid flesh- and were something he would've had a hard time preventing even if he'd wanted to. Which of course he does not want to, and Emet-Selch loses the occasional breath entirely (which does nothing to improve the strength of his overall condition), just from the sharp intensity of the sensation.
But the more Mettaton mounted him, the fuller the thrusts, the more Emet-Selch tries desperately to meet him, even as it feels as though he sinks further into the bed with every push on his lover's part. A wonderful sensation overall, this weakness... as his limbs continuing to give way were yet another sign of how everything on the Ascian's part would be made to give way, to adapt, to take all that Mettaton could give him. And he wanted him, every shove and grasp, the moans over his shoulder and the threat of teeth- as though his body weren't already well-marked by them.
But then Mettaton's hand drifts lower between his legs, brushing against his stiffened cock in a touch that causes the Ascian's body to jolt in place, to tighten automatically around him with a gasp for breath. A gasp that tries to turn into a moan before failing that as well, his shuddering feeling that much harder with the way he was restrained, pushed against the bed, as though it were compressed to make up for his inability to move. It was attention to his sensitive length that leaves him ever weaker. From the squeeze to the glans, to the handling of his balls- as when Mettaton was prodding over the rest of his body, it felt a particularly vulnerable touch, knowing that it would be impossible for him to hide or hold back any part of himself. No matter how personal or sensitive, every inch of his body was there for him, for his whim- whether it was to bite or scratch or stroke or ignore- it was just part of being possessed. And yet with Mettaton, this vulnerability of self, of body and heart was- wanted. Desirable in a way that he could only express though these physical responses, or through the desperate affection conveyed through Bond, a yearning for more than his cock (but also his cock). He shudders; gives another hoarse noise in some version of crying out.
Though when Mettaton lets go of his erection, leaving it to get what stimulation it could from the bed alone, Emet-Selch couldn't feel too much in the way of regret. Because his lover was entirely right: he could climax from the sensation of being full of him on its own. As much as he loved Mettaton's touch dancing across his own heavy length- whether he was stroking or sucking him, or otherwise pulling at his cock- there was a different sort of pleasure in knowing that it was technically unnecessary for him to get off. Holding Mettaton's erection inside his body, dwelling on its shape, how engorged he could render it, from the swollen tip to the thickness of the shaft, all the way to hips that push against his body, reminding him of his depth, how far they could be joined together... that was all he required.]
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But there's the persisting nag in the back of his head prevalent, a sort of embittered bite that returns to him that can only be satisfied so far by expressions of bodily pleasure and desire. Sure, Emet-Selch shows all of the signs of loving this, loving him: he tries to back his hips into him; he's aroused by him; he tries to cry out, to moan, to succumb and obey Mettaton's body. And all of this is beyond satisfying, and Mettaton finds himself moaning against his neck just from the thought of it all, fingers stroking his hip...
A stroke that turns into a sudden, fierce grip. Nails are used to anchor Emet-Selch close, to give Mettaton a perfect vantage point to thrust into him, and he withdraws his other arm to latch onto his other hip. Claws begin to slowly pierce flesh as Mettaton's manner swings violently, mood following suit.
Emet-Selch's being run ragged... being diminished. Reduced. Worn down. Yet he manages an erection, manages a cry here or there, broken though they may be. Manages to remain with his ass up for Mettaton's use, his body still holding, squeezing, massaging a thick cock while bearing his own, so much pressure concentrated around Emet-Selch's lower body, from his own erection to the one he holds. He manages all of this, but the idol begins to wonder when he'll remember to pay him the compliments he's due, for all of his godly magnificence. He's worth it, and Emet-Selch ought to remember that his reverence is required for his mercy. Lips peel back once more in a snarl as Mettaton begins to feel... agitated.
His voice is low once more, but it's not at all the same sort of sensual purr. It's low and dark, demanding, a warning.]
So... erect as you are... So covetous of my body. You think I'm... attractive. Tell me what captives your heart about... me.
[And as low as his voice is, it's broken, descending gradually, perhaps quickly, into madness. It would be hard to say what his next move would be, depending on how appeased or frustrated he ends up in moments. But for the time being, his temper pauses in its incensing. For the moment, he gives Emet-Selch the space to react.
But only verbally, as his body hastens in thrusts. He strokes his cock furiously, harshly against his lover's body, fingers curling into his hips and pushing Emet-Selch's ass flush with a demanding heat to his hips, giving himself the fullest access to deep, fulfilling thrusts. Massaging his length for his own pleasure, stuffing Emet-Selch full of his erection, never once giving him a break — Mettaton wanted to make sure his lover felt his senses swallowed by him, from the taste of come on his lips to the sound of his voice in his ears; from the filling of come to the burying of his cock; from the sensation of pain to the lull of pleasure.
Mettaton didn't want Emet-Selch to pay attention to anything but him. To them, combined. To his gory, to his devotion. To his beauty and Emet-Selch's dedication to that, to their love and the many products of it, their entwining of body and soul and feeling and smell, how they're everything when they're unified like this. Mettaton pounds into him deeply, small sounds of pleasure rocked from his body with each collision of hips to ass as Mettaton finds a satisfying, if savage, point of pleasure in this rub, in his devolving insanity. Emet-Selch's body tightens and clenches wonderfully, wrapped around his cock like this... And he squeezes so rhythmically from the tip of his glans and rubs down to the base of his cock. Does Emet-Selch know what he does to him? He doesn't think he could ever get enough.
And he wants to hear of Emet-Selch's devotion in turn. Wants to hear again how desperately Emet-Selch wanted his taste, heat, fullness... And wanted to hear how he was beautiful, how Emet-Selch wanted only to feel the Puca lose himself to his body... That he'd live for him, his pleasure, his body. Things he'd already said to him, things his mind plays on repeat like a record, but he wants to hear it. All over again, he wants his lover's voice on soft notes that he can barely manage.
He doesn't just want it, he needs it. He demands it, and he deserves it. Mettaton mouths his neck and shoulder again, teeth always grazing alongside the softness of lips and tongue. Teeth so sharp that the firm fucking Emet-Selch's being treated to would almost be enough to push him into them, to slip them through skin, if not for the way Mettaton steadies his hips with the puncture of thick, dark claws.
On a voice intended to inundate Emet-Selch completely, to captivate his awareness completely, he speaks again, just as low and dark and soft. Patience thinning, conceit mounting, demand increasing, madness ruling, Mettaton pushes himself into his lover some more, curving into him and bringing them closer together. Inescapable.]
Tell me how desperately you crave me.
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It was building there, along with pleasure itself. Feeding off of it, off of him- as though the robot were draining it from Emet-Selch and taking it as his own as well, as though he could replenish himself from the Ascian's body, rather than merely sate himself temporarily in it. And that there was a logical explanation for these abrupt veerings towards madness- pendants, blood-stained jewelry- is something that exists in the back of his mind, but unreachable. Only feelings remained: that Mettaton's reactions were explicable, and justified. To someone in possession of such viciousness and beauty, the only one with the right to mount and fuck him like this, dark and terrible and magnificent in it all- why shouldn't he be relentless in his demands to hear it expressed? Why would saying it only once be enough to sustain him?
(In some other corner of his mind, Emet-Selch might wonder if Mettaton had managed to impossibly temper him after all; those thusly stained by their god exist thereafter only to serve and to praise, all other desires diminished to naught. And their most beloved deity requires this worship. Is fed by it, strengthened by it; the tempered's purpose in life was only to provide this sustenance at any cost.
Emet-Selch was thoroughly stained by now, in come and blood and spit. In exhaustion, choked and torn. Worn away to nothing, of course the result would be his unerring devotion.)
Claws dig into his hip, as rigid as the cock pounding his body, and as inescapable. Mettaton's voice followed, as captivating as it ever was, if on a far darker note. The kind of tone to leave him shivering, and not wholly in pleasure and arousal- the kind of shiver that spoke of dangerously building tension, to a change in air pressure, a threat immanent. But even this was beautiful, in its stark, descending madness, something he longed to be torn apart by. The more his body faltered, the more he felt Mettaton's darkness closing in, the more he knew it not as an embrace of warmth and comfort, but something colored in savagery and chaos. His lover's mood was plunging, and Emet-Selch knew, he knew that the only way to stave off Mettaton's wrath, his righteous fury, was to speak of him, with the words he deserved, with the sincerity in his heart reflected in his broken voice. What else would be enough? Even that would barely suffice, even when paired with the sacrifice of his body.
Mettaton pushed harder, and Emet-Selch could feel the sharpness of teeth against sweaty, bruised skin, held back from tearing into him with something that could scarcely be called restraint. The Ascian's thoughts were scattered, distorted, fragments of things he'd already said, fragments of other things Mettaton deserved to hear. There was... so much to express, he realized. Everything that he loved about him, things that shook his heart to understand, even when faced with his lover's swiftly mounting impatience. It was a clarity of feeling that he could do nothing with, the only result a feeling of strange despair.
It didn't matter; incoherency would have to do, and with lips parted from panting, he forces more than breath through his wounded throat.
...But nothing came.
Nothing like words, anyway. Nothing like speech. Raspy, almost guttural noises that weren't distinguishable from much of anything. He'd used his voice too much the last time; Emet-Selch would need more time than this for it to recover.
It's something he realizes, but has little capacity to comprehend right away, as he gasps out something no more useful as his body continues to fail, to collapse. The harder Mettaton moved, grinding his erection so deeply into him, slamming his hips against his ass- the more his feeble attempts to brace himself failed, limbs driven into the bed, unable to support himself. Nor was he able to push back with his own hips any longer- not with any sort of energy that could be distinguished from the force Mettaton could exert on him.
He was desperate for him: that much was true. But he had little way of expressing it, was left trembling as he absorbs every thrust, exhausted and wanting, thoughts solely on him, on every movement, every sound, every feeling he sought to inflict on him, no matter how raw or furious. Even insane, this was Mettaton, and he loved this too.]
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