[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.]
[Danger was the game they'd both been flirting with this entire time, Mettaton never quite aware that he'd been acting any differently. Not even while reduced to a state of placation did he find himself reflecting upon this dangerously flaring temper, finding that all was right in the world as long as he was being paid the respect he was due. And he deserved that kind of praise, where Emet-Selch told him all of the ways he found him divine, exalted him with testaments to his radiance, regarded him with precisely the amount of deification he required.
And in behavior... Emet-Selch offered up every bit of his body for Mettaton's use. He laid down, he offered his sex for Mettaton's pleasure and loved every moment of it. Right now, he lays bare and bruised and sweaty, slicked over with excess come with his ass up for Mettaton's indulgence, giving himself over to being fucked, to being stroked by an arousal so unbearably hot and engorged that Mettaton can't stand it. He gave away his voice to his wanton indulgence... He gave Mettaton his blood, his magic; he obeyed his every command. And just a moment ago, that was enough for the robot.
But where are the words he requires? Where's the sound of his lover's voice, devotee that he is, telling him he longed to be torn apart? Either way, he's asking to be torn into, with or without words.
His upper lip curls. A metallic static takes over his tune as his throat rumbles in his fury, a smile of malice carved upon his features even as he mouths the Ascian's neck. He can't believe this. Emet-Selch is so wonderful to him... He services him with everything he has. Though the idol can understand on a purely logical level why he wouldn't speak, it doesn't pardon it: Emet-Selch had managed before. It should be no different. He could snap his vocal chords for this, he could make his throat bleed if he needed, but he should do as he says.
...That would be if logic could persist in a mood and a mind like this, where threadbare patience didn't afford such luxuries, not where he's so wild, not where the carnal takes on the hue of carnage, where only red would suffice. He loves that look on his lover, and always thought red would be lovely on him... on them both, really: he knew how good he himself looked in a deep crimson. How good his lover would look bathed in it, how he'd no doubt find the words to call him so striking, would fall to his knees in beholding such apotheosis as he beholds him in the hue of his own blood drenching them both... The very thought of Emet-Selch staring upon him in awe and telling him how much he craved his touch and body is static, and it's infuriating to Mettaton all while it fans the flames of his passion ever more.
He wants the words to fill his ears in this moment. He wants something to match this desire of his own, and he can't take it any longer.
The idol snaps down upon Emet-Selch's left shoulder, his teeth vicious and sharp and terrifying in the depth of his bite. Senseless, excessive, unrestrained. But just as soon as he so much as tastes that blood on his tongue, he moans: it's delicious. Emet-Selch is decadence; to consume his body is pure delight. To fuck him is ascension, and Mettaton continues to stroke himself on his body, mounting him, moaning into his flesh, filling him deeply with a heavy, thick cock with such vigor and violence that he was sure he'd lose his mind. But another contributor to this insanity was the taste in his mouth, the white noise in his ears, the lack of voice an affront to his image.
Mettaton is a whirlwind of righteous insanity, greedy lasciviousness, and indignant rage. His body is hot with intensity, sensuality, and eroticism, getting off on the purely primal aspect of stuffing his lover with his cock while anger grips his heart and the extravagance of blood forces him to tremble, moaning louder, harder into this bite of Emet-Selch's shoulder. A purity of bliss and of wrath, tearing at his body with the feral ferocity of sharpened canines and incisors both. He loved him, terribly. He expected the world out of him.
He wouldn't be permitted to disappoint Mettaton, because Mettaton would cut his praise out of him if he had to. Fucking him hard enough could get him to scream — it could be done to make him form speech sounds, too. A smooth, voluminous moan careens into a hiss, a deep, rumbling growl that persists as he drinks, as he fucks, as he uses what magic he could drink just to keep any manner of sanity — which is hardly enough to make any humane judgement calls like this.
Why would he need to make judgement calls? This is his judgement, passed. Emet-Selch would redeem himself by speaking, and Mettaton would force it out of him. He moans; he growls. He buries his cock in his body, strokes the head so deeply, cries out in his delight at the sensation of its pressure being so squeezed and stroked, delightful enough to get lost in, all while he drowns himself in the taste of blood. He's mad and he's euphoric; he's enraged and he's dangerous, yanking his head as his teeth are sunken in his shoulder, as though tear from him words, sounds, anything.
...He's so close to orgasm. He pounds into Emet-Selch, the fringes of his mind dreaming of being praised, coveted, loved, revered. But he drinks blood delectable enough to intoxicate, enough to pour into his mouth, enough flesh between his teeth to tear a bite from, to scar and mark, to consume his lover bite by bite... And he massages his cock on his lover's body, its ache soon to be satisfied by either tearing Emet-Selch apart, or by being begged to tear him apart. He needed his lover's voice in his ears, he needed his blood to cope with the indignation, he needed his body to ease the pressure that builds in his cock, that fills him with heaviness unbearable between his legs. He couldn't stop.]
[Emet-Selch knew what the penalty for silence was. The penalty for praise insufficiently expressed, Mettaton lauded to a degree unsatisfactory. He knew, and there was nothing he could do to avert or avoid it, no argument to be made, no struggle to fend him off. If he'd had the voice or strength for that, after all, he could've used it on worship. His pulse feels thready, his breathing too fast; spite was damply mouthing his neck, maliciousness incarnate. Of course his lover was a vengeful god; this was right. This was right.
Tension snaps, but doesn't fade; jaws find a new home in his shoulder, anchoring so deeply and scraping so far that it was impossible to think of ever removing them. It was impossible to think in any case. It would surely scar. Redness wells up, rich and heady; some aspects of Emet-Selch's body could still comply to Mettaton's wishes. The act of bleeding, for example, his heart automatically working to push blood from the wound, past the monster's expecting lips and tongue, to stain his mouth and both of their bodies. His blood, at least, could worship him, knew better than to try and deny him, not when the puca was so kind as to provide Emet-Selch the snapping of his teeth, was considerate enough to tear flesh that existed only to exalt him.
It's pitiful, really. Pain blinds him entirely, consumes him even as Mettaton himself was consuming him, mouthfuls of blood and flesh at a time. But while his bodily reaction is a sharper jolt, it's yet a feeble one compared to the hurt that's overwhelmed him, a jerking writhe of his body that's barely more than a particularly tense twitch; his muscles refused to comply, even in reflex. They were held still less from pain, and more from weakness, as though even unconscious self-preservation had given up and abandoned him, leaving Emet-Selch to his fate of being devoured.
He does cry out. It's a louder, more pointed cry than what he'd managed before, though there's nothing deliberate about it, and what sound that's torn from him fades into softer rasping in the next gasp for breath. It certainly did nothing to improve the condition of his throat, and it wasn't even that loud- nothing like what an undamaged neck could produce, though the hurt in it was clear, a cry of agony itself. His breath is no less struggled, fast and pained, if sometimes choked into nothing, in response to a particularly vicious thrust, a plunge of Mettaton's cock that could compare in sensation to the tearing of his teeth. Between the two, there was only submission.
He's still hard, somehow. An erection that managed to continue to manifest, as though disconnected or indifferent to any of the foregoing. Pain may wrack the rest of Emet-Selch's body, focused tightly in his shoulder and radiating outward in waves that accompanied the beat of his heart, but his cock was still stiff, as though he couldn't help but take some strange enjoyment in even this agony, the way this manifestation of fury was fucking him. He's not terribly close though, if the Ascian could even manage to climax at all, under the circumstances; everything about him was running searingly hot, an intensity that blistered, and his body had already been put through too many orgasms. He was aroused, but that was it.
As even like this, Mettaton was unbearably attractive to him. He didn't have to look at him to know it, his movements themselves were the fiercest argument yet for his splendor. The insulted rage suffocating him was all Emet-Selch could comprehend- if it could ever really be comprehended and not only experienced, survived. Hopefully. But it was expressed through every aspect of his lover's bearing. Every push of his cock or snap of his teeth, every growl and hiss and furious moan. All evidence of both ecstatic pleasure and just as ecstatic frustration, both seeking satisfaction from his body, even if Mettaton had to rip it from him mouthfuls at a time.
There was no giving in or giving over; Emet-Selch was well past that, past even the implication that there could be any other option than this. Resistance was unfathomable, but yet he couldn't speak; he still tries, less out of any desire to prevent further damage, to divert Mettaton from his righteous course, but because he wanted to revere him this way, to gratify and please him. But his throat doesn't care about gods or either of their needs; it's sore and raw and produces little more than verbal static. Even his rasp is weaker and tastes of metal, though he can't tell if whether that's due to the stronger scent of blood that joined the smell of their sex.
He couldn't move at all, and sound itself is lost; in even something like this, he'd failed. That it hadn't taken him thousands of years to do it... hardly even counts as consolation.]
[It's a level of fury he's never experienced before that accompanies his climax, seething and as white-hot as his core itself, as his soul itself, transcendent and sublime in its intensity. It's only because he moans and cries out that Mettaton doesn't deliver unto him a second bite, one to steady that neck of his as his memory recalls in some hazy, incomplete way the manner he bled from there, the sacrifice he could take from that spot, something that fills him with... two feelings.
The first: absolute lust. His body's so tight, so welcoming and warm and soft, a bed for Mettaton to rest in, to leave behind his come. He wants to drink him up, to suck down Emet-Selch's essence to make up for all else he lacks in this moment. He screams; it's hardly enough, and it's not applied to words that he deserves to hear, something to jilt him further. An offense as grave as fucking himself on his fingers, to dedicate his voice to his own pain. Yes, if he could only have enough of his blood, it might suffice to soothe him — he always feels so soothed when he downs his Witch's blood, something to calm the tempest of his mood that grows and aches beyond him.
Ache, that's a second feeling. There's the ache of arousal and the ache of denial, but there's really something else the robot can't put a finger on that partners the feeling of his release. He's pounding into Emet-Selch (right, correct), fucking him senselessly in his pleasure and fervor, in his fury and insanity, stroking his cock until it feels like it would tear his lover open, it's so hard, unfulfilled. His lover's compliments should be accompanying this hot release, he can't think... but he did just moments ago, before similarly white-hot come gushes from him, filling Emet-Selch fuller and fuller of his essence.
(He doesn't deserve this reward, some deep part of him thinks—)
(He loves Emet-Selch and could still grant him mercy, still give him a chance to make right this wrong, another part of him considers—)
Nothing really resounds in him, and there's still another dimension to this second feeling. Like the drop of organs, the pull on his trachea; the loss of blood before he blacks out. None of the physical weakness that accompanies it all, but there's a similar feeling somewhere inside of him that colors his release, lacking in the praise he wanted and all, colored even by his Bondmate's feelings seeping over into his own. Could that be it? Could Emet-Selch be having some unpleasant feelings, even while he should be devoting himself to him? Why? That is a terrible, wretched thought; no proper fan, no devotee of his should be feeling so sick, unless it were because he knew he was failing him.
(But it's possible for this to originate from himself. He just can't fathom it. He can't really think of much at all, can't see beyond his pleasure and seething. Righteous indignation overtakes any and all of his senses, truly coloring his climax.)
It's an orgasm intense. He moans into blood. Intense, but not pure rapture like he wants it to be, not something Mettaton can lose himself any more to as madness and euphoria split him apart.
Emet-Selch's static of voice joins the static that comprises Mettaton's thoughts as he continues to lose himself to ecstasy and savagery, monstrous and primal and increasingly unstable. The only pleasure he can derive from this is the subjugation, the massage of Emet-Selch's body around his length, the way he can push and squeeze the glans against his lover's body...
It feels like an instant this time, until Mettaton releases his jaw, rubbing his face uselessly into his lover's shoulder, smearing it in blood. All of his weight becomes Emet-Selch's burden for the moment, a temporary suspension of proper consciousness — but implacable, building violence and anger build in him still, even in these moments where he should be basking in the euphoric afterglow of sex. And he does some of that, too: pleasure to overwhelm his body, mixed with the absolute indignation of this deprivation of worship. His body would have to make due, and purely in that, Mettaton reached orgasm; Mettaton deposited his load deeply, thickly inside of him; he felt such relief bodily, for his aching cock to be tended to, for that weight to be given place to rest.
Another shudder; another soft moan, spared for that bliss, at least. All else boils in him still, as bright and blinding as facets of diamonds. But for this moment, Mettaton is spent, collapsed upon his lover. He even unhands his hips, wrapping his arms snug around his waist on reflex. He loves him; he hasn't forgiven him.]
[It was an anger to suffocate. Though he can tell he's breathing, the rasp of it dimly audible to his ears, Emet-Selch feels dizzied nonetheless, prevented air not from the pressure of the body on top of him, the pounding he was sustaining, but Mettaton's mood in itself. The weight of his offense could hold him down, keep the air from his lungs and his muscles from providing any more than a shiver; teeth and claws and cock weren't required to keep him in place.
It felt both interminable and brief, these moments, his throat not functional and his lover's spite barely distracted even by the blood he was taking from him, the further damage he was causing his body with his bite. But he had to endure it, even if he could do nothing to mollify, nothing to fix this frailty on his own part, this faltering when he should have been stronger; all he could do was endure his lover's displeasure... which was far worse of a feeling than any tearing by teeth.
(Even in this, reduced to one task, one person alone, and he couldn't even make him happy when he needed to--)
It doesn't matter, but he still tries, still forces some attempt at sound through his throat, though even if Emet-Selch had succeeded, if some miracle had occurred and he was spared a moment of verbal clarity- it would've been wasted regardless; language itself was lost to him. It would've only been noise. It's still noise, each fainter and hoarser than the last, tries punctuated by coughing in his desperation and an increasing taste of blood, each effort only making everything worse. But he'd never known when to stop.
(This was futility.)
Emet-Selch doesn't even moan (or its ruined equivalent) when Mettaton's orgasm hits, when he feels the distinctive rush of his come filling him, hotter even than his cock, and notable even amongst all of the come his body already contained. There was little relief in it either and not much in the way of satisfaction- which was unusual in itself, contrary to how he usually felt in the middle of his partner's climax. No restfulness of rapture, no pleasure in feeling Mettaton attain his peak- or significantly less of it, at least- only continued dissatisfaction, tension, pain.
For that it was a release, it didn't release him from his duties or this moment, which remained permanent and instantaneous. There was the consolation of still having his lover's cock, still receiving his come, still having the contact of his body. There was even the firmness of arms around him, sparing him even the piercing of nails, but it's an embrace that brought little comfort. Even when Mettaton releases his bite, rubs his face against the wound- something that normally would've registered as an overpouring of affection, the natural blending of pain and pleasure, kindness and cruelty, it felt- different than that. A reminder of insufficiency, of what the Ascian had prevented them from achieving due to his weakness. Of what they could've been enjoying together in this moment, had he been able to provide Mettaton what he required. What he deserved.
He couldn't tell where all of the emotions were coming from; not an uncommon thing, with their Bond, particularly during sex. Not being certain had been a part of the pleasure, a sign of their feelings appropriately commingled, a dissolving of the borders between them. They belonged to one another; therefore, their emotions did as well. But now... the potential for violence that still churned away, still seethed beneath the most delicate veneer of an afterglow- Emet-Selch knew that much, at least, was Mettaton's. The physical relief too, the natural response to leaving another load of come behind, of having that single need attended to, in the heat and softness of his body- that was the puca's.
And all of the darkness and barely-spent fury... that was also his lover's, but it drowned him. And where despair and misery lay- yes, that was familiar. That was his own, and how reassuring it was to return to them again; he'd felt less of their presence in Mettaton's company over time, had less reason to dwell significantly upon them, their edges softened into a more common melancholy. But no, they were still there. It was foolish to even pretend otherwise, that there were other options than this.
But in dissatisfaction and unease, unhappiness and unfulfillment- Emet-Selch becomes more uncertain. Even some of the anger he's unsure of; it wasn't as though he weren't frustrated with himself, agitated in his abject exhaustion. The edges blurred, but when all was dark to begin with- did it matter that he couldn't see the shape of it?
Mettaton's full weight was heavy on top of him, pushing him solidly into the bed and holding him there. All limbs fully collapsed, his fingers dig faintly into the covers, and his heart feels like it could burst. There's no resistance to his body, no movement other than a faint, irregular tremble.]
[There is only one thing that has managed to take the edge off of Mettaton's feral-spiraling mindset, and that's his Witch's blood. All else can't be helped save for with the praise he seeks, strictly verbal and in the most blatant terms possible. Nothing else would satisfy him, not even body language, not even his own deliberate interpretations of events intended to flatter himself.
And even here, as he lays atop his lover and feels Emet-Selch's mood pitch into a stormy, uncertain haze, Mettaton's raging temper continues. His body lays prone, still and unbending in these moments of recovery while his anger stews dangerously, nonsensical and crazed. But there's blood he has to rely on, more blood — more of that could sate this anger, he hoped, could release him from the torrent of passionate fury.
Mettaton isn't a stranger to being righteously mad, but never like this, and it aches not unlike the pressure of arousal — only far less pleasant. A mood unchanging and without his lover to do his duty, to perform the simple act of worship because his voice was thrown out, he guessed, but it wasn't mattering very much, the why of it all. He was letting him down. He was furious. Boiling. He could hardly see straight, he was so ticked.
And he tries once more to snap down on his lover's delicious skin, but his body's still disagreeable. He heads right back for that (bad, deep, injurious, healthily bleeding) bite on Emet-Selch's shoulder and tries to sink his teeth into it again, only managing by virtue of hitting some of the already broken flesh. His jaw isn't cooperating with him yet, however, making it weaker overall — but Mettaton still gets his blood, and he still emits a low, throaty sound into his flesh. It was the only thing Emet-Selch could give him anymore when he needed him.
(He's going mad all over again, and if Emet-Selch weren't here — he needs him still. He can't take this anger at the rate it grows. He needs him to... be violent toward? To take his teeth and exchange it with the soothing magic from his blood, the only reason the pendants and his vainglory haven't compounded into a full, feral swing. But his fury takes on the edge of spite and resentment, growing more monstrous alongside his gradual depth of lunacy. He tries to pull blood for his placation.
(He remembers Emet-Selch, reclining on a bed of cold sweat and blood, lifeless for hours, the sight of him diminished and weak. Resting at his side, helping him drink, watching over him as he lay pale and clammy, and — he'd done that to him. He'd do it all over again, and he loved him too much to succumb to that desire. Thinking was hard, but he knew this was true.))
All at once, Mettaton pulls off of Emet-Selch. He loses his shift — a sudden, jarring loss that ached, for the cock he'd relished using on his Bonded to be gone (and surely a strange sensation to have it just... disappear), leaving him feeling off-kilter, distracted. But no more off-kilter than did the fury that brewed as ever, even while he battled with conflicting desires. He didn't want Emet-Selch to end up like that, and the instinct to protect him kicks in.
(What is he protecting him from?)
Kneeling in a strange sort of crouch atop the bed, Mettaton leans in to try... cleaning his neck, he thought, but then he smells blood. He bares his teeth. He loses sense again. Emet-Selch had done him wrong and his temper flares to life with a vengeance, and he knows he ought to take from him what he was owed: his voice, for keeps. All for himself. His senses demanded Emet-Selch's throat, the sight of red decorating them both—
It makes him apprehensive, too. He pulls back all over again, but not at all in disgust, even when he covers his mouth with a hand. (There's his lover's saliva on his fingers... his blood on his nails, and he smells it all.) In fact, he longed to drown himself in the blood of his Bonded... He wanted to drink his lover dry. Emet-Selch is face down, but unease flashes in Mettaton's bright, golden eye. His voice is stuttering; his fur is so dark, his ears are flat, and...]
Tell me... [His voice is low, spoken from between fingers, and he can't keep his stern, reprimanding tone out of there. Serious and severe, but it trembles with rage, and with his own conflict.] Praise me—
[A memory slaps him in the face when the sound of Emet-Selch's pitiful cry resounds in his head. He can't tell him he desires him above all. He can't tell him anything. That doesn't make this any better — it's offensive and disappointing, but Mettaton can't make sense of why he can't just... make sounds anyway for his sake. To help him tone down this anger so he could feel something other than it, and he begins to growl again, lowering himself to the bed.
...Emet-Selch is in such sorry shape. Pity hits him again: Emet-Selch can barely walk, can hardly move, is bleeding and bruised and sore and despairing, and Mettaton can feel that as fury parts for just a moment. He loves him. He trusts him.
But he can't see straight, he's so mad. Mettaton wants to grab him and tear him apart with his teeth, and it dominates his sights, his claws sharp and needing to sink into his flesh, to tear away... his sadness, his ache, his soreness, everything that was making Emet-Selch in pain, too pained to tell him he's beautiful. It makes perfect sense now! Mettaton reaches for Emet-Selch again. He snags him with claws: one against his furthest shoulder, the other against his waist. Manhandling him, the feral Puca pulls him closer, righting him somewhat no matter how in pain he obviously is — glaring at him, hungry for something Emet-Selch isn't providing, baring his teeth.
But he holds him steady, forcing Emet-Selch to be half-upright on his side, making him face Mettaton. He stares at him. He closes in, his gaze fixed on Emet-Selch's throat, longing and livid.]
I need you to tell me... How much you...
[But Emet-Selch can't talk. All at once, Mettaton drops the Ascian and withdraws his hands, kicking himself off of the bed in a fluid swipe of legs and stomping out of the room, subsumed by fury. His heels click and he's a mess of come and sweat and blood, but if he stayed — he'd surely tear into Emet-Selch in moments. His body moves for him, his head racing and his claws so sharp that they could almost pierce his own palms, balled up as they are. ...Putting some distance between himself and the pendants will probably help him come down from madness, at least, given a moment of time away.]
[There was nothing in these actions that struck Emet-Selch as insane or unreasonable; in this moment, it all made perfect sense. Mettaton was clear in his instructions, in his needs, and he'd neglected him. Why wouldn't that spark rage, to be failed by someone who was there to love and adore you, to fulfill every stated desire?
(He couldn't even apologize.)
Though his lips part, little sound emerges when Mettaton scrapes his jaws along his skin, sinking teeth back into the deep wound he'd just inflicted, though the pain was no less raw, no less severe. But there was no noise to spare for it. Even his body barely reacts with more than a harder shudder as Mettaton pulls a few more mouthfuls of blood from torn flesh, an injury deepened, made that bit more acceptable to the monster. All Emet-Selch could do was bleed for him, and even that required more of his lover's work to provide enough.
But it wasn't enough. Fury still rolled off of the robotic puca, and this amount of his witch's magic alone could barely stem the tide. Other than willing himself to bleed faster, the Ascian knew not what to do, staring down a helplessness that was nearly as terrible as the guilt.
A guilt compounded when Mettaton pulls free from him, and Emet-Selch can't feel his cock at all, something that was additionally alarming in itself, considering how much time he'd just spent in constant contact with it. A whine wants to escape his throat, but nothing can get through, he can only feel increasingly unsettled at every sign of his deficiency, as though his lover had no further interest in fucking him, could get no more pleasure out of him, now that it had been proven that he couldn't live up to his expectations. Mettaton closes in to his neck but- doesn't bite; the Ascian shivers underneath him, feeling the mixture of impulses that his lover was inundated with, completely unable to make any sense of them. Not the hesitations caught between tempests, nor the protectiveness slipped between abject wrath.
Mettaton's voice comes from behind him, and Emet-Selch goes still, trapped by the sound of it, growing colder, more distraught with every syllable. Every note of his lover's continued rage. A maelstrom he had no means of soothing, if even his blood or his body weren't doing the trick, if he couldn't please him with his essence or being a place to shove his cock.
But of course he couldn't answer, couldn't croak out a single word to exalt him as he should. And suddenly, Mettaton drags him over and pulls him partially up- acts that leave Emet-Selch shuddering in pain, his breath hitching as he's made to look up. Startled, stricken yellow eyes meet Mettaton's own- and he feels himself break that bit more at the sight of him. Beautiful, furious, starved for him, yearning for him to fulfill this one request- this one thing that he was helpless to give him.
--And Mettaton leaves him.
In retrospect, Emet-Selch would understand, he would realize why Mettaton had leapt from the bed as he had. That it was the only sane option left to them, an act that likely saved his life- or at least prevented him from experiencing another bout of dangerously extreme blood loss. And even in this moment he knew two things: that if it would spare Mettaton this furious madness, he would give him every drop of blood he possessed; and he never wanted to see him as upset as he'd been when he'd drained him so severely. These were mutually exclusive truths.
But right now it didn't matter, and he can't think of safety or what Mettaton's retreat meant- all he knew was that his lover was abandoning him. The one thing he feared above all else. Panic freezes his heart, but not his body; even as Mettaton unhands him, leaving him to collapse against the bed, storming off in a righteous fury, the Ascian struggles to push himself back up, to reach out to him, to--
--But he can't call out to him.
A hand touches his throat- scratched and bruised, so bruised, though he couldn't see it. He felt sick. His fingers shake that much more than the rest of him, compensating by digging into wounded skin instead, as though inclined to tear it open himself in a moment of despair-fueled spite. Mettaton had left him, and he didn't even have the voice to plead with him to stay- and why should he be convinced to stay, when his lover didn't have the voice to praise him?
Unfortunately Emet-Selch lacks the sharpened nails to rip apart his own neck. But even that dismay was little distraction when compared to the awareness of being abandoned, cast aside due to his failures. It didn't matter that his legs weren't working, that every twist of hips or back or neck sent stabs of agony rocking through him, the sort of pain that stole both breath and thought- it was nothing to the panic of being alone. Emet-Selch crawled and clawed his way out of bed, desperate to follow after wherever Mettaton had gone, to convince him somehow to return--
Unfortunately it does matter that his legs weren't working. Emet-Selch crumples immediately with a sharp, pained sound (that he immediately resents), onto a splay of knees, leaning bodily against the foot of the bed. Breathing quickly, he huddles partly inward, shivering, trying to will himself back onto his feet. But what would even happen if he caught up to Mettaton? In the state he was in, he was useless to him, if not even his blood was sufficient enough of a draw to keep him at his side. He was just a wreck- covered in blood and bruises, saliva and sweat, collapsed on the floor at the foot of his lover's bed, naked and shaking. Upright like this, he can feel Mettaton's ejaculate dripping from him again, a wetness slowly spreading between his legs- though for once it's not an arousing prospect (and not that he was aroused at all, at this point), only something to provoke another pang of loss, that he wasn't allowed to hold even this.
--No, it would be pointless to catch up to Mettaton, even if he could. It's only at this thought, this realization, this version of clarity that he begins to cry. Slumped against the bed, blood runs in a rivulet down his back, come pools between his legs, and he closes in on himself. Disconsolate; his grief is quiet, as all his sounds are, now.]
[The door is slammed behind him in the wake of his stride, the robotic idol marching down the hall on quick steps. He paces in circles and lines and stomps the halls blindly, down the stairs, seeing only mere feet in front of him in his rage that won't quell. In the living room he tears open the pillow Papyrus used to use on full moons to chew on, caring not at all that he definitely just... chewed on that. He tears it to shreds. He moves onto all of the nicer ones he'd bought, too, slicing them apart with teeth and claws in his mindless fury. At first, Mettaton knows only this: Emet-Selch wouldn't call him desirable, wouldn't tell him he'd service him and deify him and praise him for eternity, leaving his thoughts of red devoid of sound save for static when they should have been accompanied by the song of his lover's voice. He's deprived again, disappointed, and rightfully seething.
There's a lot of static in these moments, but their Bond remains completely open, stormy and black and tumultuous. It could have gotten so rotten that, were they newly-Bonds, it may have been enough emotion to rip it apart. It could have been enough to wreck even this... but it holds fast. (Neither of them would really want it to break, and it wasn't as though either of them were in their best frame of mind.) But the Puca's ire grows beyond him, tangles and grows thorns, thickets of steely barbs, and Mettaton kicks over decorative glass with such violence that it shatters from impact alone. But it wasn't at all satisfying to Mettaton's raging temper, even though the entire world ought to be as furious as he is, shambling and destructive. Mettaton finds himself darkening, furious that nobody in the world could compare to Emet-Selch's praise and he'd lost even that.
Something worthy of praise continues to entice, lighting this building aflame, making it explode — and had he the magic, he would've done it in an instant. All people would behold it with awe and terror, and (Emet-Selch was upstairs still, he didn't want to hurt him, but) he didn't care who was caught in the crossfire. The robotic Puca tears into books, breaks porcelain, listens to the insanity of sound to replace the void where Emet-Selch's low, intimate voice should have been. Yes, his fury was appropriate, for why wouldn't a god demand worship and express his fury thusly? Abandon his devotees who couldn't appropriately laud him with reverence—
(He doesn't want to leave Emet-Selch behind... but he can't even focus on that anymore, thinking only in such fleeting frames of instants that this gets lost in the shuffle.)
The house is his storm and he doesn't even know where he's gone for a few minutes, hearing only the cacophony of breaking glass and pounding into the wall here and there. Nothing fixes this; nobody could match Emet-Selch's devotion, and his devotion failed him, left him wanting, and he wanted so much. He wanted it all, wanted the world and wanted his lover's body all over again.
Property stops enticing; Mettaton turns in on himself, gnawing on his arms. Tearing black fur, giving himself points of intensity to focus on, to lose his mind to, raking his claws over walls and feeling them pulled by unyielding drywall. Raking his claws over his metal body, too, to shudder with more intensity at the horrible scrape of nails against steel. None of this is with the intent to be self-destructive as much as it is to be real, to recognize for himself that he was so beautiful, undeniable and present and imposing, touchable and able to feel. But nothing tides him over; he can barely remember why he's so angry, and the feverish pitch of his emotions ties with... despair? He feels such despair, and he can't even tell that it's not his own, but it all intensifies his emotions even away from the pendant... urging him evermore toward ferality that couldn't subside. Not with such godly fury, vindictive and malicious as he's become.
—Until his claws snag on his shoulder jewelry. Diamonds spill from him like droplets of sparkling blood, clattering upon the floor as the jewelry comes unfastened by the neck, an entire section of it falling apart. This is worth despair, and Mettaton glances around him, shocked by the sudden loss of such a dazzling piece that slips off of his body like water. Emotions are high still, but as he stoops to the ground to lament the loss of his diamonds, so too does he lose the flaring rampage he could no longer place.
And he stills, staring at the glittering gems under the light, thinking about how he'd gotten here. Staring at blood on his hands; smelling it on his body. His own come, his lover's sweat and blood and...
(The sound of his pain, he wondered — but most certainly, the presence of grief that could fill the emptying space of their Bond where his own fury diminished, making room for the torrent of his Bonded's negativity.)
Not even caring to make himself presentable, Mettaton rises to his feet in an instant. Agile on the tips of his toes, he sprints for the stairs — feelings of disbelief, worry, pity and ache overwhelming him. It's not even ten (five? somewhere between there, he had no idea) minutes later that he's charging back into the room with a sudden slam of the door.]
Hades...?
[Voice softer, but still full of his emotion. Emotions not chastising or furious, but emotions of a similar intensity, concerned, but still fierce and passionate. Mettaton doesn't hover in place, immediately encroaching on his lover's space, no matter where he lay. If that was the floor, so be it — he would stoop down and collect him into his arms, alarmed less at the sight of blood and bruise as much as the flashes of recollection of his stricken, terrified eyes, of his despair, of... leaving him behind like that, even if it was for the better of them both. Of this sight before him. His lover's a mess, covered in blood and come and sweat, in tears and crumpled to the floor, made raw, rendered so painfully vulnerable yet left like this... How could Mettaton not want to pull him into his arms? He loves him, even if he's out of his mind.
Being in this room for long would surely influence him all over again in the moons' favor, but his fur's since colored itself silver, though it remains touched dark from the remaining intensity of his emotion.]
Edited (flipped 2 words; not sure if his claws are keratin tbh) 2020-09-23 01:48 (UTC)
[It wasn't comfort that he felt, when Emet-Selch realized that Mettaton was remaining in the building. That he wasn't far, that he could track his position through the clatter of shattered objects, or the stomp of pacing heels. The Bond, as well, remained close. So close, and so open that it burned.
(More than once he was afraid it would break, their connection. His heart lurched with every distant smash, and his breathing stopped, lungs aching along with his throat, waiting for his lover's soaring madness to veer into hatred, if only for an instant. To decide he was truly unforgivable, and to snap what he truly was looking to break. But the moment never arrives and he ends up choking on air some seconds later, dizzied and still sick, waiting for the next brutal peak.)
No, Mettaton remaining close was its own version of dread. As rather than this small separation bringing calm, it only served to intensify the storm, with the only outlet being the insufficiency of objects. Even through his despair, Emet-Selch could tell it was getting worse, a haze of furor so thick he couldn't see past it, couldn't feel anything but his lover's suffering.
More than once does he try to convince himself to stand, to find him. So long as he could hear things shattering, breaking, a monster stalking about his possessions and smashing them, Mettaton was still somewhere he could reach. But his legs shake as much from fear as pain as his Bonded's mood deepens past blackened and into pure ferality. Into unthinking rage and frustration, broken and animalistic, surely tearing into anything that he could grasp. Even himself, perhaps.
(Emet-Selch remembered Mettaton describing his time becoming feral during their captivity, the way he'd ripped at himself without realizing, and he felt nauseous all over again. He should be there, he should be able to help, how... how could he have let it get this far-- he'd told him. He'd told him before that it wouldn't have to happen again, now that they were Bonded.)
He wanted to reach him. Even if he couldn't appease him through word, then his blood, his body- if Mettaton could tear into him instead, then- maybe that would be enough to save him. If the Ascian were the cause for this insanity, then he had to be the one to fix it. His blood would be succor, even if Mettaton had to devour him entirely for it to be enough. Then- then he could stop. They both could stop.
But he couldn't move from his place by the bed, curled against it as though trying to find some protection there, gaze fixed on the closed door even through his tears. But he couldn't move no matter how much he cursed at himself to try, to place himself in Mettaton's path again, even if it meant that the last thing he felt would be his teeth in his throat; at least it would mean that he wouldn't die alone.
When the fury begins to diminish by degrees, the Ascian doesn't immediately notice, his own feelings only becoming more predominant instead, the blackness of rage smoothing easily into that of misery. Despair remaining greatest of all, in its encompassing familiarity. It's etched starkly into every thought- or what passes for them- twisting all to fit a darker interpretation, reminding him in convincing whispers of the perfect uselessness in ever getting attached. One way or another he would be abandoned, and it was that much more bitter to know that it was his own fault.
The door opens with a loud noise and he freezes, as though the witch were the one with the puca's instinct towards stillness. Emet-Selch stares, not hearing him, and scarcely seeing him either, not even knowing what to hope for. Perhaps Mettaton had decided to try and sate himself on his blood after all, or had recalled that he was the one at fault for his current madness. There was something less dark about him, but- his vision is too blurry to know what or why. But... even if it was only another sign of his weakness, he... was relieved to see him again. It didn't matter if Mettaton was just here to kill him. This would be enough.
The puca closes in, lowering himself, and scooping Emet-Selch up into his arms. And for a moment, the Ascian remains frozen, not breathing- not resisting, but not helping either. He didn't understand it, what was happening, why Mettaton wasn't biting him, why he was being- kind?- to him after all this.
He shivers, but doesn't relax, rigidity only giving way to an exhausted tremble. Fear remains, evident in every breath, in the tears that continued to make a mess of his limited vision; not of Mettaton, or any danger he might pose to him, but only of him vanishing again.]
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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.]
no subject
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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And in behavior... Emet-Selch offered up every bit of his body for Mettaton's use. He laid down, he offered his sex for Mettaton's pleasure and loved every moment of it. Right now, he lays bare and bruised and sweaty, slicked over with excess come with his ass up for Mettaton's indulgence, giving himself over to being fucked, to being stroked by an arousal so unbearably hot and engorged that Mettaton can't stand it. He gave away his voice to his wanton indulgence... He gave Mettaton his blood, his magic; he obeyed his every command. And just a moment ago, that was enough for the robot.
But where are the words he requires? Where's the sound of his lover's voice, devotee that he is, telling him he longed to be torn apart? Either way, he's asking to be torn into, with or without words.
His upper lip curls. A metallic static takes over his tune as his throat rumbles in his fury, a smile of malice carved upon his features even as he mouths the Ascian's neck. He can't believe this. Emet-Selch is so wonderful to him... He services him with everything he has. Though the idol can understand on a purely logical level why he wouldn't speak, it doesn't pardon it: Emet-Selch had managed before. It should be no different. He could snap his vocal chords for this, he could make his throat bleed if he needed, but he should do as he says.
...That would be if logic could persist in a mood and a mind like this, where threadbare patience didn't afford such luxuries, not where he's so wild, not where the carnal takes on the hue of carnage, where only red would suffice. He loves that look on his lover, and always thought red would be lovely on him... on them both, really: he knew how good he himself looked in a deep crimson. How good his lover would look bathed in it, how he'd no doubt find the words to call him so striking, would fall to his knees in beholding such apotheosis as he beholds him in the hue of his own blood drenching them both... The very thought of Emet-Selch staring upon him in awe and telling him how much he craved his touch and body is static, and it's infuriating to Mettaton all while it fans the flames of his passion ever more.
He wants the words to fill his ears in this moment. He wants something to match this desire of his own, and he can't take it any longer.
The idol snaps down upon Emet-Selch's left shoulder, his teeth vicious and sharp and terrifying in the depth of his bite. Senseless, excessive, unrestrained. But just as soon as he so much as tastes that blood on his tongue, he moans: it's delicious. Emet-Selch is decadence; to consume his body is pure delight. To fuck him is ascension, and Mettaton continues to stroke himself on his body, mounting him, moaning into his flesh, filling him deeply with a heavy, thick cock with such vigor and violence that he was sure he'd lose his mind. But another contributor to this insanity was the taste in his mouth, the white noise in his ears, the lack of voice an affront to his image.
Mettaton is a whirlwind of righteous insanity, greedy lasciviousness, and indignant rage. His body is hot with intensity, sensuality, and eroticism, getting off on the purely primal aspect of stuffing his lover with his cock while anger grips his heart and the extravagance of blood forces him to tremble, moaning louder, harder into this bite of Emet-Selch's shoulder. A purity of bliss and of wrath, tearing at his body with the feral ferocity of sharpened canines and incisors both. He loved him, terribly. He expected the world out of him.
He wouldn't be permitted to disappoint Mettaton, because Mettaton would cut his praise out of him if he had to. Fucking him hard enough could get him to scream — it could be done to make him form speech sounds, too. A smooth, voluminous moan careens into a hiss, a deep, rumbling growl that persists as he drinks, as he fucks, as he uses what magic he could drink just to keep any manner of sanity — which is hardly enough to make any humane judgement calls like this.
Why would he need to make judgement calls? This is his judgement, passed. Emet-Selch would redeem himself by speaking, and Mettaton would force it out of him. He moans; he growls. He buries his cock in his body, strokes the head so deeply, cries out in his delight at the sensation of its pressure being so squeezed and stroked, delightful enough to get lost in, all while he drowns himself in the taste of blood. He's mad and he's euphoric; he's enraged and he's dangerous, yanking his head as his teeth are sunken in his shoulder, as though tear from him words, sounds, anything.
...He's so close to orgasm. He pounds into Emet-Selch, the fringes of his mind dreaming of being praised, coveted, loved, revered. But he drinks blood delectable enough to intoxicate, enough to pour into his mouth, enough flesh between his teeth to tear a bite from, to scar and mark, to consume his lover bite by bite... And he massages his cock on his lover's body, its ache soon to be satisfied by either tearing Emet-Selch apart, or by being begged to tear him apart. He needed his lover's voice in his ears, he needed his blood to cope with the indignation, he needed his body to ease the pressure that builds in his cock, that fills him with heaviness unbearable between his legs. He couldn't stop.]
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Tension snaps, but doesn't fade; jaws find a new home in his shoulder, anchoring so deeply and scraping so far that it was impossible to think of ever removing them. It was impossible to think in any case. It would surely scar. Redness wells up, rich and heady; some aspects of Emet-Selch's body could still comply to Mettaton's wishes. The act of bleeding, for example, his heart automatically working to push blood from the wound, past the monster's expecting lips and tongue, to stain his mouth and both of their bodies. His blood, at least, could worship him, knew better than to try and deny him, not when the puca was so kind as to provide Emet-Selch the snapping of his teeth, was considerate enough to tear flesh that existed only to exalt him.
It's pitiful, really. Pain blinds him entirely, consumes him even as Mettaton himself was consuming him, mouthfuls of blood and flesh at a time. But while his bodily reaction is a sharper jolt, it's yet a feeble one compared to the hurt that's overwhelmed him, a jerking writhe of his body that's barely more than a particularly tense twitch; his muscles refused to comply, even in reflex. They were held still less from pain, and more from weakness, as though even unconscious self-preservation had given up and abandoned him, leaving Emet-Selch to his fate of being devoured.
He does cry out. It's a louder, more pointed cry than what he'd managed before, though there's nothing deliberate about it, and what sound that's torn from him fades into softer rasping in the next gasp for breath. It certainly did nothing to improve the condition of his throat, and it wasn't even that loud- nothing like what an undamaged neck could produce, though the hurt in it was clear, a cry of agony itself. His breath is no less struggled, fast and pained, if sometimes choked into nothing, in response to a particularly vicious thrust, a plunge of Mettaton's cock that could compare in sensation to the tearing of his teeth. Between the two, there was only submission.
He's still hard, somehow. An erection that managed to continue to manifest, as though disconnected or indifferent to any of the foregoing. Pain may wrack the rest of Emet-Selch's body, focused tightly in his shoulder and radiating outward in waves that accompanied the beat of his heart, but his cock was still stiff, as though he couldn't help but take some strange enjoyment in even this agony, the way this manifestation of fury was fucking him. He's not terribly close though, if the Ascian could even manage to climax at all, under the circumstances; everything about him was running searingly hot, an intensity that blistered, and his body had already been put through too many orgasms. He was aroused, but that was it.
As even like this, Mettaton was unbearably attractive to him. He didn't have to look at him to know it, his movements themselves were the fiercest argument yet for his splendor. The insulted rage suffocating him was all Emet-Selch could comprehend- if it could ever really be comprehended and not only experienced, survived. Hopefully. But it was expressed through every aspect of his lover's bearing. Every push of his cock or snap of his teeth, every growl and hiss and furious moan. All evidence of both ecstatic pleasure and just as ecstatic frustration, both seeking satisfaction from his body, even if Mettaton had to rip it from him mouthfuls at a time.
There was no giving in or giving over; Emet-Selch was well past that, past even the implication that there could be any other option than this. Resistance was unfathomable, but yet he couldn't speak; he still tries, less out of any desire to prevent further damage, to divert Mettaton from his righteous course, but because he wanted to revere him this way, to gratify and please him. But his throat doesn't care about gods or either of their needs; it's sore and raw and produces little more than verbal static. Even his rasp is weaker and tastes of metal, though he can't tell if whether that's due to the stronger scent of blood that joined the smell of their sex.
He couldn't move at all, and sound itself is lost; in even something like this, he'd failed. That it hadn't taken him thousands of years to do it... hardly even counts as consolation.]
no subject
The first: absolute lust. His body's so tight, so welcoming and warm and soft, a bed for Mettaton to rest in, to leave behind his come. He wants to drink him up, to suck down Emet-Selch's essence to make up for all else he lacks in this moment. He screams; it's hardly enough, and it's not applied to words that he deserves to hear, something to jilt him further. An offense as grave as fucking himself on his fingers, to dedicate his voice to his own pain. Yes, if he could only have enough of his blood, it might suffice to soothe him — he always feels so soothed when he downs his Witch's blood, something to calm the tempest of his mood that grows and aches beyond him.
Ache, that's a second feeling. There's the ache of arousal and the ache of denial, but there's really something else the robot can't put a finger on that partners the feeling of his release. He's pounding into Emet-Selch (right, correct), fucking him senselessly in his pleasure and fervor, in his fury and insanity, stroking his cock until it feels like it would tear his lover open, it's so hard, unfulfilled. His lover's compliments should be accompanying this hot release, he can't think... but he did just moments ago, before similarly white-hot come gushes from him, filling Emet-Selch fuller and fuller of his essence.
(He doesn't deserve this reward, some deep part of him thinks—)
(He loves Emet-Selch and could still grant him mercy, still give him a chance to make right this wrong, another part of him considers—)
Nothing really resounds in him, and there's still another dimension to this second feeling. Like the drop of organs, the pull on his trachea; the loss of blood before he blacks out. None of the physical weakness that accompanies it all, but there's a similar feeling somewhere inside of him that colors his release, lacking in the praise he wanted and all, colored even by his Bondmate's feelings seeping over into his own. Could that be it? Could Emet-Selch be having some unpleasant feelings, even while he should be devoting himself to him? Why? That is a terrible, wretched thought; no proper fan, no devotee of his should be feeling so sick, unless it were because he knew he was failing him.
(But it's possible for this to originate from himself. He just can't fathom it. He can't really think of much at all, can't see beyond his pleasure and seething. Righteous indignation overtakes any and all of his senses, truly coloring his climax.)
It's an orgasm intense. He moans into blood. Intense, but not pure rapture like he wants it to be, not something Mettaton can lose himself any more to as madness and euphoria split him apart.
Emet-Selch's static of voice joins the static that comprises Mettaton's thoughts as he continues to lose himself to ecstasy and savagery, monstrous and primal and increasingly unstable. The only pleasure he can derive from this is the subjugation, the massage of Emet-Selch's body around his length, the way he can push and squeeze the glans against his lover's body...
It feels like an instant this time, until Mettaton releases his jaw, rubbing his face uselessly into his lover's shoulder, smearing it in blood. All of his weight becomes Emet-Selch's burden for the moment, a temporary suspension of proper consciousness — but implacable, building violence and anger build in him still, even in these moments where he should be basking in the euphoric afterglow of sex. And he does some of that, too: pleasure to overwhelm his body, mixed with the absolute indignation of this deprivation of worship. His body would have to make due, and purely in that, Mettaton reached orgasm; Mettaton deposited his load deeply, thickly inside of him; he felt such relief bodily, for his aching cock to be tended to, for that weight to be given place to rest.
Another shudder; another soft moan, spared for that bliss, at least. All else boils in him still, as bright and blinding as facets of diamonds. But for this moment, Mettaton is spent, collapsed upon his lover. He even unhands his hips, wrapping his arms snug around his waist on reflex. He loves him; he hasn't forgiven him.]
no subject
It felt both interminable and brief, these moments, his throat not functional and his lover's spite barely distracted even by the blood he was taking from him, the further damage he was causing his body with his bite. But he had to endure it, even if he could do nothing to mollify, nothing to fix this frailty on his own part, this faltering when he should have been stronger; all he could do was endure his lover's displeasure... which was far worse of a feeling than any tearing by teeth.
(Even in this, reduced to one task, one person alone, and he couldn't even make him happy when he needed to--)
It doesn't matter, but he still tries, still forces some attempt at sound through his throat, though even if Emet-Selch had succeeded, if some miracle had occurred and he was spared a moment of verbal clarity- it would've been wasted regardless; language itself was lost to him. It would've only been noise. It's still noise, each fainter and hoarser than the last, tries punctuated by coughing in his desperation and an increasing taste of blood, each effort only making everything worse. But he'd never known when to stop.
(This was futility.)
Emet-Selch doesn't even moan (or its ruined equivalent) when Mettaton's orgasm hits, when he feels the distinctive rush of his come filling him, hotter even than his cock, and notable even amongst all of the come his body already contained. There was little relief in it either and not much in the way of satisfaction- which was unusual in itself, contrary to how he usually felt in the middle of his partner's climax. No restfulness of rapture, no pleasure in feeling Mettaton attain his peak- or significantly less of it, at least- only continued dissatisfaction, tension, pain.
For that it was a release, it didn't release him from his duties or this moment, which remained permanent and instantaneous. There was the consolation of still having his lover's cock, still receiving his come, still having the contact of his body. There was even the firmness of arms around him, sparing him even the piercing of nails, but it's an embrace that brought little comfort. Even when Mettaton releases his bite, rubs his face against the wound- something that normally would've registered as an overpouring of affection, the natural blending of pain and pleasure, kindness and cruelty, it felt- different than that. A reminder of insufficiency, of what the Ascian had prevented them from achieving due to his weakness. Of what they could've been enjoying together in this moment, had he been able to provide Mettaton what he required. What he deserved.
He couldn't tell where all of the emotions were coming from; not an uncommon thing, with their Bond, particularly during sex. Not being certain had been a part of the pleasure, a sign of their feelings appropriately commingled, a dissolving of the borders between them. They belonged to one another; therefore, their emotions did as well. But now... the potential for violence that still churned away, still seethed beneath the most delicate veneer of an afterglow- Emet-Selch knew that much, at least, was Mettaton's. The physical relief too, the natural response to leaving another load of come behind, of having that single need attended to, in the heat and softness of his body- that was the puca's.
And all of the darkness and barely-spent fury... that was also his lover's, but it drowned him. And where despair and misery lay- yes, that was familiar. That was his own, and how reassuring it was to return to them again; he'd felt less of their presence in Mettaton's company over time, had less reason to dwell significantly upon them, their edges softened into a more common melancholy. But no, they were still there. It was foolish to even pretend otherwise, that there were other options than this.
But in dissatisfaction and unease, unhappiness and unfulfillment- Emet-Selch becomes more uncertain. Even some of the anger he's unsure of; it wasn't as though he weren't frustrated with himself, agitated in his abject exhaustion. The edges blurred, but when all was dark to begin with- did it matter that he couldn't see the shape of it?
Mettaton's full weight was heavy on top of him, pushing him solidly into the bed and holding him there. All limbs fully collapsed, his fingers dig faintly into the covers, and his heart feels like it could burst. There's no resistance to his body, no movement other than a faint, irregular tremble.]
no subject
And even here, as he lays atop his lover and feels Emet-Selch's mood pitch into a stormy, uncertain haze, Mettaton's raging temper continues. His body lays prone, still and unbending in these moments of recovery while his anger stews dangerously, nonsensical and crazed. But there's blood he has to rely on, more blood — more of that could sate this anger, he hoped, could release him from the torrent of passionate fury.
Mettaton isn't a stranger to being righteously mad, but never like this, and it aches not unlike the pressure of arousal — only far less pleasant. A mood unchanging and without his lover to do his duty, to perform the simple act of worship because his voice was thrown out, he guessed, but it wasn't mattering very much, the why of it all. He was letting him down. He was furious. Boiling. He could hardly see straight, he was so ticked.
And he tries once more to snap down on his lover's delicious skin, but his body's still disagreeable. He heads right back for that (bad, deep, injurious, healthily bleeding) bite on Emet-Selch's shoulder and tries to sink his teeth into it again, only managing by virtue of hitting some of the already broken flesh. His jaw isn't cooperating with him yet, however, making it weaker overall — but Mettaton still gets his blood, and he still emits a low, throaty sound into his flesh. It was the only thing Emet-Selch could give him anymore when he needed him.
(He's going mad all over again, and if Emet-Selch weren't here — he needs him still. He can't take this anger at the rate it grows. He needs him to... be violent toward? To take his teeth and exchange it with the soothing magic from his blood, the only reason the pendants and his vainglory haven't compounded into a full, feral swing. But his fury takes on the edge of spite and resentment, growing more monstrous alongside his gradual depth of lunacy. He tries to pull blood for his placation.
(He remembers Emet-Selch, reclining on a bed of cold sweat and blood, lifeless for hours, the sight of him diminished and weak. Resting at his side, helping him drink, watching over him as he lay pale and clammy, and — he'd done that to him. He'd do it all over again, and he loved him too much to succumb to that desire. Thinking was hard, but he knew this was true.))
All at once, Mettaton pulls off of Emet-Selch. He loses his shift — a sudden, jarring loss that ached, for the cock he'd relished using on his Bonded to be gone (and surely a strange sensation to have it just... disappear), leaving him feeling off-kilter, distracted. But no more off-kilter than did the fury that brewed as ever, even while he battled with conflicting desires. He didn't want Emet-Selch to end up like that, and the instinct to protect him kicks in.
(What is he protecting him from?)
Kneeling in a strange sort of crouch atop the bed, Mettaton leans in to try... cleaning his neck, he thought, but then he smells blood. He bares his teeth. He loses sense again. Emet-Selch had done him wrong and his temper flares to life with a vengeance, and he knows he ought to take from him what he was owed: his voice, for keeps. All for himself. His senses demanded Emet-Selch's throat, the sight of red decorating them both—
It makes him apprehensive, too. He pulls back all over again, but not at all in disgust, even when he covers his mouth with a hand. (There's his lover's saliva on his fingers... his blood on his nails, and he smells it all.) In fact, he longed to drown himself in the blood of his Bonded... He wanted to drink his lover dry. Emet-Selch is face down, but unease flashes in Mettaton's bright, golden eye. His voice is stuttering; his fur is so dark, his ears are flat, and...]
Tell me... [His voice is low, spoken from between fingers, and he can't keep his stern, reprimanding tone out of there. Serious and severe, but it trembles with rage, and with his own conflict.] Praise me—
[A memory slaps him in the face when the sound of Emet-Selch's pitiful cry resounds in his head. He can't tell him he desires him above all. He can't tell him anything. That doesn't make this any better — it's offensive and disappointing, but Mettaton can't make sense of why he can't just... make sounds anyway for his sake. To help him tone down this anger so he could feel something other than it, and he begins to growl again, lowering himself to the bed.
...Emet-Selch is in such sorry shape. Pity hits him again: Emet-Selch can barely walk, can hardly move, is bleeding and bruised and sore and despairing, and Mettaton can feel that as fury parts for just a moment. He loves him. He trusts him.
But he can't see straight, he's so mad. Mettaton wants to grab him and tear him apart with his teeth, and it dominates his sights, his claws sharp and needing to sink into his flesh, to tear away... his sadness, his ache, his soreness, everything that was making Emet-Selch in pain, too pained to tell him he's beautiful. It makes perfect sense now! Mettaton reaches for Emet-Selch again. He snags him with claws: one against his furthest shoulder, the other against his waist. Manhandling him, the feral Puca pulls him closer, righting him somewhat no matter how in pain he obviously is — glaring at him, hungry for something Emet-Selch isn't providing, baring his teeth.
But he holds him steady, forcing Emet-Selch to be half-upright on his side, making him face Mettaton. He stares at him. He closes in, his gaze fixed on Emet-Selch's throat, longing and livid.]
I need you to tell me... How much you...
[But Emet-Selch can't talk. All at once, Mettaton drops the Ascian and withdraws his hands, kicking himself off of the bed in a fluid swipe of legs and stomping out of the room, subsumed by fury. His heels click and he's a mess of come and sweat and blood, but if he stayed — he'd surely tear into Emet-Selch in moments. His body moves for him, his head racing and his claws so sharp that they could almost pierce his own palms, balled up as they are. ...Putting some distance between himself and the pendants will probably help him come down from madness, at least, given a moment of time away.]
no subject
(He couldn't even apologize.)
Though his lips part, little sound emerges when Mettaton scrapes his jaws along his skin, sinking teeth back into the deep wound he'd just inflicted, though the pain was no less raw, no less severe. But there was no noise to spare for it. Even his body barely reacts with more than a harder shudder as Mettaton pulls a few more mouthfuls of blood from torn flesh, an injury deepened, made that bit more acceptable to the monster. All Emet-Selch could do was bleed for him, and even that required more of his lover's work to provide enough.
But it wasn't enough. Fury still rolled off of the robotic puca, and this amount of his witch's magic alone could barely stem the tide. Other than willing himself to bleed faster, the Ascian knew not what to do, staring down a helplessness that was nearly as terrible as the guilt.
A guilt compounded when Mettaton pulls free from him, and Emet-Selch can't feel his cock at all, something that was additionally alarming in itself, considering how much time he'd just spent in constant contact with it. A whine wants to escape his throat, but nothing can get through, he can only feel increasingly unsettled at every sign of his deficiency, as though his lover had no further interest in fucking him, could get no more pleasure out of him, now that it had been proven that he couldn't live up to his expectations. Mettaton closes in to his neck but- doesn't bite; the Ascian shivers underneath him, feeling the mixture of impulses that his lover was inundated with, completely unable to make any sense of them. Not the hesitations caught between tempests, nor the protectiveness slipped between abject wrath.
Mettaton's voice comes from behind him, and Emet-Selch goes still, trapped by the sound of it, growing colder, more distraught with every syllable. Every note of his lover's continued rage. A maelstrom he had no means of soothing, if even his blood or his body weren't doing the trick, if he couldn't please him with his essence or being a place to shove his cock.
But of course he couldn't answer, couldn't croak out a single word to exalt him as he should. And suddenly, Mettaton drags him over and pulls him partially up- acts that leave Emet-Selch shuddering in pain, his breath hitching as he's made to look up. Startled, stricken yellow eyes meet Mettaton's own- and he feels himself break that bit more at the sight of him. Beautiful, furious, starved for him, yearning for him to fulfill this one request- this one thing that he was helpless to give him.
--And Mettaton leaves him.
In retrospect, Emet-Selch would understand, he would realize why Mettaton had leapt from the bed as he had. That it was the only sane option left to them, an act that likely saved his life- or at least prevented him from experiencing another bout of dangerously extreme blood loss. And even in this moment he knew two things: that if it would spare Mettaton this furious madness, he would give him every drop of blood he possessed; and he never wanted to see him as upset as he'd been when he'd drained him so severely. These were mutually exclusive truths.
But right now it didn't matter, and he can't think of safety or what Mettaton's retreat meant- all he knew was that his lover was abandoning him. The one thing he feared above all else. Panic freezes his heart, but not his body; even as Mettaton unhands him, leaving him to collapse against the bed, storming off in a righteous fury, the Ascian struggles to push himself back up, to reach out to him, to--
--But he can't call out to him.
A hand touches his throat- scratched and bruised, so bruised, though he couldn't see it. He felt sick. His fingers shake that much more than the rest of him, compensating by digging into wounded skin instead, as though inclined to tear it open himself in a moment of despair-fueled spite. Mettaton had left him, and he didn't even have the voice to plead with him to stay- and why should he be convinced to stay, when his lover didn't have the voice to praise him?
Unfortunately Emet-Selch lacks the sharpened nails to rip apart his own neck. But even that dismay was little distraction when compared to the awareness of being abandoned, cast aside due to his failures. It didn't matter that his legs weren't working, that every twist of hips or back or neck sent stabs of agony rocking through him, the sort of pain that stole both breath and thought- it was nothing to the panic of being alone. Emet-Selch crawled and clawed his way out of bed, desperate to follow after wherever Mettaton had gone, to convince him somehow to return--
Unfortunately it does matter that his legs weren't working. Emet-Selch crumples immediately with a sharp, pained sound (that he immediately resents), onto a splay of knees, leaning bodily against the foot of the bed. Breathing quickly, he huddles partly inward, shivering, trying to will himself back onto his feet. But what would even happen if he caught up to Mettaton? In the state he was in, he was useless to him, if not even his blood was sufficient enough of a draw to keep him at his side. He was just a wreck- covered in blood and bruises, saliva and sweat, collapsed on the floor at the foot of his lover's bed, naked and shaking. Upright like this, he can feel Mettaton's ejaculate dripping from him again, a wetness slowly spreading between his legs- though for once it's not an arousing prospect (and not that he was aroused at all, at this point), only something to provoke another pang of loss, that he wasn't allowed to hold even this.
--No, it would be pointless to catch up to Mettaton, even if he could. It's only at this thought, this realization, this version of clarity that he begins to cry. Slumped against the bed, blood runs in a rivulet down his back, come pools between his legs, and he closes in on himself. Disconsolate; his grief is quiet, as all his sounds are, now.]
no subject
There's a lot of static in these moments, but their Bond remains completely open, stormy and black and tumultuous. It could have gotten so rotten that, were they newly-Bonds, it may have been enough emotion to rip it apart. It could have been enough to wreck even this... but it holds fast. (Neither of them would really want it to break, and it wasn't as though either of them were in their best frame of mind.) But the Puca's ire grows beyond him, tangles and grows thorns, thickets of steely barbs, and Mettaton kicks over decorative glass with such violence that it shatters from impact alone. But it wasn't at all satisfying to Mettaton's raging temper, even though the entire world ought to be as furious as he is, shambling and destructive. Mettaton finds himself darkening, furious that nobody in the world could compare to Emet-Selch's praise and he'd lost even that.
Something worthy of praise continues to entice, lighting this building aflame, making it explode — and had he the magic, he would've done it in an instant. All people would behold it with awe and terror, and (Emet-Selch was upstairs still, he didn't want to hurt him, but) he didn't care who was caught in the crossfire. The robotic Puca tears into books, breaks porcelain, listens to the insanity of sound to replace the void where Emet-Selch's low, intimate voice should have been. Yes, his fury was appropriate, for why wouldn't a god demand worship and express his fury thusly? Abandon his devotees who couldn't appropriately laud him with reverence—
(He doesn't want to leave Emet-Selch behind... but he can't even focus on that anymore, thinking only in such fleeting frames of instants that this gets lost in the shuffle.)
The house is his storm and he doesn't even know where he's gone for a few minutes, hearing only the cacophony of breaking glass and pounding into the wall here and there. Nothing fixes this; nobody could match Emet-Selch's devotion, and his devotion failed him, left him wanting, and he wanted so much. He wanted it all, wanted the world and wanted his lover's body all over again.
Property stops enticing; Mettaton turns in on himself, gnawing on his arms. Tearing black fur, giving himself points of intensity to focus on, to lose his mind to, raking his claws over walls and feeling them pulled by unyielding drywall. Raking his claws over his metal body, too, to shudder with more intensity at the horrible scrape of nails against steel. None of this is with the intent to be self-destructive as much as it is to be real, to recognize for himself that he was so beautiful, undeniable and present and imposing, touchable and able to feel. But nothing tides him over; he can barely remember why he's so angry, and the feverish pitch of his emotions ties with... despair? He feels such despair, and he can't even tell that it's not his own, but it all intensifies his emotions even away from the pendant... urging him evermore toward ferality that couldn't subside. Not with such godly fury, vindictive and malicious as he's become.
—Until his claws snag on his shoulder jewelry. Diamonds spill from him like droplets of sparkling blood, clattering upon the floor as the jewelry comes unfastened by the neck, an entire section of it falling apart. This is worth despair, and Mettaton glances around him, shocked by the sudden loss of such a dazzling piece that slips off of his body like water. Emotions are high still, but as he stoops to the ground to lament the loss of his diamonds, so too does he lose the flaring rampage he could no longer place.
And he stills, staring at the glittering gems under the light, thinking about how he'd gotten here. Staring at blood on his hands; smelling it on his body. His own come, his lover's sweat and blood and...
(The sound of his pain, he wondered — but most certainly, the presence of grief that could fill the emptying space of their Bond where his own fury diminished, making room for the torrent of his Bonded's negativity.)
Not even caring to make himself presentable, Mettaton rises to his feet in an instant. Agile on the tips of his toes, he sprints for the stairs — feelings of disbelief, worry, pity and ache overwhelming him. It's not even ten (five? somewhere between there, he had no idea) minutes later that he's charging back into the room with a sudden slam of the door.]
Hades...?
[Voice softer, but still full of his emotion. Emotions not chastising or furious, but emotions of a similar intensity, concerned, but still fierce and passionate. Mettaton doesn't hover in place, immediately encroaching on his lover's space, no matter where he lay. If that was the floor, so be it — he would stoop down and collect him into his arms, alarmed less at the sight of blood and bruise as much as the flashes of recollection of his stricken, terrified eyes, of his despair, of... leaving him behind like that, even if it was for the better of them both. Of this sight before him. His lover's a mess, covered in blood and come and sweat, in tears and crumpled to the floor, made raw, rendered so painfully vulnerable yet left like this... How could Mettaton not want to pull him into his arms? He loves him, even if he's out of his mind.
Being in this room for long would surely influence him all over again in the moons' favor, but his fur's since colored itself silver, though it remains touched dark from the remaining intensity of his emotion.]
no subject
(More than once he was afraid it would break, their connection. His heart lurched with every distant smash, and his breathing stopped, lungs aching along with his throat, waiting for his lover's soaring madness to veer into hatred, if only for an instant. To decide he was truly unforgivable, and to snap what he truly was looking to break. But the moment never arrives and he ends up choking on air some seconds later, dizzied and still sick, waiting for the next brutal peak.)
No, Mettaton remaining close was its own version of dread. As rather than this small separation bringing calm, it only served to intensify the storm, with the only outlet being the insufficiency of objects. Even through his despair, Emet-Selch could tell it was getting worse, a haze of furor so thick he couldn't see past it, couldn't feel anything but his lover's suffering.
More than once does he try to convince himself to stand, to find him. So long as he could hear things shattering, breaking, a monster stalking about his possessions and smashing them, Mettaton was still somewhere he could reach. But his legs shake as much from fear as pain as his Bonded's mood deepens past blackened and into pure ferality. Into unthinking rage and frustration, broken and animalistic, surely tearing into anything that he could grasp. Even himself, perhaps.
(Emet-Selch remembered Mettaton describing his time becoming feral during their captivity, the way he'd ripped at himself without realizing, and he felt nauseous all over again. He should be there, he should be able to help, how... how could he have let it get this far-- he'd told him. He'd told him before that it wouldn't have to happen again, now that they were Bonded.)
He wanted to reach him. Even if he couldn't appease him through word, then his blood, his body- if Mettaton could tear into him instead, then- maybe that would be enough to save him. If the Ascian were the cause for this insanity, then he had to be the one to fix it. His blood would be succor, even if Mettaton had to devour him entirely for it to be enough. Then- then he could stop. They both could stop.
But he couldn't move from his place by the bed, curled against it as though trying to find some protection there, gaze fixed on the closed door even through his tears. But he couldn't move no matter how much he cursed at himself to try, to place himself in Mettaton's path again, even if it meant that the last thing he felt would be his teeth in his throat; at least it would mean that he wouldn't die alone.
When the fury begins to diminish by degrees, the Ascian doesn't immediately notice, his own feelings only becoming more predominant instead, the blackness of rage smoothing easily into that of misery. Despair remaining greatest of all, in its encompassing familiarity. It's etched starkly into every thought- or what passes for them- twisting all to fit a darker interpretation, reminding him in convincing whispers of the perfect uselessness in ever getting attached. One way or another he would be abandoned, and it was that much more bitter to know that it was his own fault.
The door opens with a loud noise and he freezes, as though the witch were the one with the puca's instinct towards stillness. Emet-Selch stares, not hearing him, and scarcely seeing him either, not even knowing what to hope for. Perhaps Mettaton had decided to try and sate himself on his blood after all, or had recalled that he was the one at fault for his current madness. There was something less dark about him, but- his vision is too blurry to know what or why. But... even if it was only another sign of his weakness, he... was relieved to see him again. It didn't matter if Mettaton was just here to kill him. This would be enough.
The puca closes in, lowering himself, and scooping Emet-Selch up into his arms. And for a moment, the Ascian remains frozen, not breathing- not resisting, but not helping either. He didn't understand it, what was happening, why Mettaton wasn't biting him, why he was being- kind?- to him after all this.
He shivers, but doesn't relax, rigidity only giving way to an exhausted tremble. Fear remains, evident in every breath, in the tears that continued to make a mess of his limited vision; not of Mettaton, or any danger he might pose to him, but only of him vanishing again.]
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