[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.]
[Ever since he rose from his place in a sea of diamonds, disoriented with the loss of such intense emotion, an impassioned, ever-present fury... Disorientation's plagued Mettaton. It was a feeling to consume him and drive him to blindness, all for it to dissipate with an errant swipe of claws. Ears flatten as he reels from it all, finally committing fully to that urge to protect his loved one. To protect him from them both, as it happens.
Easing himself down onto his knees and pulling Emet-Selch between his thighs, he presses his nose into his hair, breathing him in. The Ascian smells so strongly of blood and sex and spit, a look so raw and vulnerable and not one he'd like for anyone else to see of him. Not because it was the product of fearsome and passionate entwining, but because this was only for his own consumption: Emet-Selch in every way is for Mettaton's eyes, whether it's in his haughty grace or his power, or in shambles, broken and crying and smeared in come and blood on the floor, curled up at the foot of Mettaton's bed. For now, this was where they both belonged, and Mettaton wraps him tight in his winding arms.
To see Emet-Selch so wrung out, despairing and sore and expecting to be carved into with teeth... yet feeling only relief at seeing him again tells a tale Mettaton can read word for word. He knows his lover's heart: the many times Emet-Selch has asked for him not to leave all comes together in this moment after a cry of pain, after Mettaton's turbulent descent into ferality from a lack of... voice, he's certain. His fingers trace Emet-Selch's throat gently as he holds him close, tucking his Bonded into the crook of his neck.
Even though he feels immense sorrow and pity for Emet-Selch... the Puca can't help but think he looks beautiful like this, in his terror and vulnerability. Soft, just like his body; like his heart, tenderized and wounded, manifest upon tissue in patterns of red and purple and streaks of fluid drying and wet alike. A smell of being ravaged and used, a sight of it, too: hair tangled, mussed, stiff and sticky, Emet-Selch was still lovely like this.
And though he'd just marched in after losing his mind, even though he feels all of that disorientation and emptiness where such burning hot rage used to live, it fills quickly with emotions just as wild as Mettaton is, but no longer bound so strictly to the course of madness. It's that fondness, an awe; but it's also pity, worry; and... sorrow, that it ended up this way. There's a streak of incredulity in it all for the same reason, that they found themselves... like this. But with intensity and extremity like theirs, where else would they end up but fucking passionately as it dips around into considering the taking of lives? Their relationship was chaos, unpredictable and fierce enough to burn them both alive, to consume them and everything around them, and this... this could have been anticipated. Even without a necklace, couldn't they find themselves here with the right fury, the right passion, the right ache and the proper catalyst?
If Mettaton felt any regret, it was that it felt so much like the time he'd nearly killed Emet-Selch. He clutches him closer, soft body that he is. His claws are still sharp, one of the residual effects that lingers after the sway of moons as his fur gradually pitches again, as his very aura goes blacker, ghastly, monstrous... But not feral.
There was a lot to address between them, but Mettaton needs to cover the most basic of them all. His lover trembles; he answers it by letting him in the safety of his arms, even though he's the most dangerous thing in this house. No... They both are. The two of them are both dangerous to Emet-Selch. But perhaps, when together... They could both keep him safe. (If they actually tried.)
Emet-Selch was self-destructive. He knows that. And perhaps his life would have been proper sacrifice to a deity as grand as himself... But Mettaton doesn't want that. He wants to keep his lover well in hand, bruised and bitten and marked up by him, but what good is that if he kills him? And he doesn't want to hurt him that badly. Ever.
Lips trail down Emet-Selch's temple, stopping next to his ear before Mettaton pulls back just enough to gaze into his lover's eyes. Luminous gold meets his lover's, softer around the edges, no longer the look belonging to a beast of spiteful insanity. His lips are parted, still stained in dried blood, still sharp of teeth, and he runs a curled finger against Emet-Selch's eye. He doesn't even need to ask that Emet-Selch's heartache is sourced from fearing abandonment, of his disappearance. He shows him mercy, but he's also no longer requiring the reverence and worship of a deity just to think straight. ...On that note, Mettaton knows he fears being left alone. But the fear he sees in his eyes, the way he doesn't at all resist the possibility of Mettaton's feral teeth sinking into his flesh in this moment should he have been too Monstrous, too lost to see straight... it's that self-destructive streak at work, he thought. It was still a surprise that he didn't fear him, but that he'd anticipate his behavior wasn't a surprise. Even though he was locked in the righteously indignant insanity of his own mind, Mettaton was aware of everything. He knowingly did what he did, opted to spare him, opted to drink him, opted to leave... Only upon exiting did he succumb to any sort of uncontrollable behavior, tearing and breaking and gnawing and scratching at the confines of the house, his body, his fury. He can pitch furious with ease, but it's the sort that turns the brightness of cheer into the licking flames of animosity.
That Emet-Selch would anticipate his demise and do nothing to stop it... Mettaton strokes his throat some more, claws only grazing his skin as he traces up to his hairline, stroking through deep brown locks of hair, even when it's tangled in spit, matted with blood. He squeezes him between his thighs, pulling him flush to his body. Once more, Emet-Selch's form is made to give way to Mettaton's metal one.]
My darling Hades... I...
[He could've hurt him, terribly. Emet-Selch would've let him, too. He would've laid down and allowed Mettaton to tear out his throat, would've given himself as a sacrifice to temper his ferality even just for a moment of peace. In the end, Mettaton did hurt him, but not with teeth or claws. It had to happen.
The last he left him, he notes he was on the bed. On the bed and dropped, and he remembers, vaguely, the sound of something thudding onto the ground. That must've been Emet-Selch, trying his best to hobble after him on disagreeable limbs that ached, with a heart heavy and sore and fear alive like static in his brain. He imagines him crumpling here, used and feeling disposed, abandoned, and Mettaton strokes his hair some more. Unable to call out with his voice the way it is, he couldn't tell Mettaton to return. ...It was for the best that he didn't at that time. What would he have done to him? Mettaton didn't like the thought. He liked that less than the vivid flashes of wild fever, of chewing his arms and clawing his hips.
He exhales heat into his hair, letting his hand run down the back of his neck, down his spine, and to his side again.]
Thank you for waiting for me. ... I was losing my mind. I had to clear my head somehow, before seeing red turned into something... worse. [He kisses his forehead again. He doesn't quite know how his head was cleared, nor why he ended up that way save for the lack of proper recognition — an affront to be sure, but nothing worth killing his beloved over. He knows he was trying, besides. He saw it in his every move, in his every feeble mouthing or desperate sound.] ... We lost ourselves again, didn't we?
[Like the last time he nearly tore out Emet-Selch's throat.]
[The embrace continued, but no violence with it. It's something that Emet-Selch at first isn't sure what to make of, why Mettaton would touch his throat so tenderly but not drive himself into it with incisors bared. Why he would stroke his hair or hold him close, pull him against the comforting stability of his body. Against all odds, he'd not only returned but had decided to show him mercy, and in his current state, the Ascian doesn't know which part confuses him more. His own disorientation lingered; everything had happened so quickly, with his lover's cascading anger and his own inability to quell it, to do anything for him--
That line of thinking only led to more tears welling up, even as he was slowly accepting that for whatever reason Mettaton hadn't given up on him. That his mood was- while still intense, still bearing emotions strong enough to unsteady the Ascian- not overrun with a god's vengefulness and capacity for wrath. That he'd lost his shoulder jewelry goes unnoticed; his lover was a capricious god, and who was he to question his decisions? With a weakened nudge, he buries his face against Mettaton's neck as he's tucked there, breathing him in- the familiar scent of him, and his blood, and their sex, all layered together, as it should be.
Slowly, he calms by degrees, as Mettaton holds him and shows no sign of leaving him again. With effort, Emet-Selch manages to wrap an arm around him in turn, and from tension, his body gradually just- gives up. Not relaxing, but only losing the ability to hold himself steady, collapsing against him. Curling against him as though he were the only thing in the world, as though he could protect him from- the both of them, he likewise realizes.
They had been doing so well, he had thought. Mettaton still bit him, because they both enjoyed that, the giving of blood and the taking of it. It had been manageable, and while their passions were always high, they'd avoided ever veering again into dangerous territory. Bleeding out as far as he had was a... complicated memory, but an important lesson in maintaining some degree of moderation in their aggressions, their desires, their fears. Mettaton didn't want to hurt him, and Emet-Selch didn't want to upset him. They both knew this.
But had they really improved? Or was it through chance alone that they had managed to avoid any particular catalyst in the interim? What if there hadn't been any particular deliberation on their part; would inevitability itself always drag them back to this place? To a state of high emotions requiring a payment made in blood and sacrifice.
--But this had had the potential of being more than that. It wasn't only recklessly strong emotion leading to a bite made too deep by incidentally poor luck, drunk from too heavily, with neither of them knowing concern until it was nearly too late. Emet-Selch could feel this pitching darker than that, that Mettaton could've easily and deliberately snapped his jaws through his throat, and neither of them would've done a thing to prevent it. Even now in this immediate aftermath, when everything was at its most raw and he lay shivering in his lover's arms, Emet-Selch knows he wouldn't try to stop him. Should Mettaton's mood turn dark again (and something about him seemed darker once more, if only monstrous rather than feral) it wouldn't take any convincing. He would offer himself to claws, to teeth, to spite. Because he loved him.
Mettaton lines his face with presses of lips before nudging him back, meeting his eyes. Emet-Selch blinks repeatedly to try and clear his, to focus on his lover's countenance through a blurry haze. Even distorted by his vision, Mettaton was still strikingly beautiful to him. The blood was no detriment, nor was the suggestion of sharpened teeth. His own look remains somewhat lost, uncertain, as watchful as he can manage, as though if he weren't careful, Mettaton would vanish on him again. Mettaton traces around his eye, and he holds still, and nor does he flinch when those fingers trail over his throat, over scratch and bruise. Whether his lover decided to tear into him or not was--
--probably not something that he should view with such ambivalence.
Tugged closer again, he feels himself stroked, petted, kept firmly and safely against his body (he would always be safe there, except when he wasn't), and his eyes close for a moment at the kiss to his forehead. Mettaton thanking him for staying even when he'd wanted to reach him fills him with another sort of unease, knowing that if he had been able to more easily move, he would've gone to him. He would've found him, and Mettaton would've either killed him, or been forced to retreat even further.
(He didn't want to see him upset. That was his only hesitation. His only regret now was disappointing him.)
Emet-Selch still couldn't speak. But he listens, moving a hand up to gently touch the side of Mettaton's face, the side with his working eye. He feels for familiar details with his eyes closed, with unsteady fingers. At the last of his words, he pauses, then nods. Even knowing better, they'd done this to each other. It hadn't ended up with him unconscious and fading from a lack of blood, but he wouldn't at all have called this version an improvement. He didn't know how to stop it; there was no reason to believe it wouldn't happen again, considering how intensely they felt everything.]
[Fingers roam the panels of his cheek, seams, the corner of his eye — though smooth, there are a lot of details to take in, slight lines and changes in material that make up the composite of his features. Naturally as anything, Mettaton leans into his touch. Naturally as anything, he strokes reassuringly over Emet-Selch's back, noting that his lover's distress scarred... deeply. Tapping into feelings rooted in love and attachment, but how else could these feelings manifest on a man who has lost so much, who loved so hard, who made himself so vulnerable to the idol?
When Mettaton examines his own actions, he does so from a more creative, poetic lens, and dislikes the thought of his extricating himself from Them to be some kind of poetic foreshadowing. As though the only way for them both to remain well in hand should be that they separate themselves... As if! He holds Emet-Selch tighter, not at all fearing the analysis he'd have to put into their combination that made it so threatening to Emet-Selch's well-being. It all came down to Mettaton's carelessness, his lack of forethought or examining the consequences of his actions; as well as Emet-Selch's self-destructive, similarly consequences-what-consequences attitude. He was so loyal, so good to him, so dedicated, so giving and willing that he'd give his life over to Mettaton because the Puca had the whim to take it.
It pulls a sigh from Mettaton in this moment, and he shakes his head, but... he smiles, bittersweet. He wanted to see Mettaton happy and well, sated and sane, so of course he'd offer his body where his voice failed... It was a matter of trying to check himself, but how could he do that if he were going feral? ...Emet-Selch had told him he wouldn't have to veer feral while they were Bonded, but Mettaton knows there isn't anything about this world that wouldn't try to see him that way. Whether it was a curse or some amplification of the moons, he could go feral in a more sudden, more unrelenting context... This was during a play of passion, and probably more dangerous because their bodies were so entwined and blood was so plentiful...
Mettaton examines Emet-Selch's body like this, claws lightly grazing over his back. Nails sharp and curved, he doesn't allow them to do anything more than glide along the surface of his lover's skin while he can't keep them duller and controlled. If he can't keep himself controlled, if controlling at all is no option, what would Emet-Selch do for him? There was still something that helped in this equation, even if it had the potential to be dangerous, and that was his blood. Mettaton knows for a fact that it steadied his mind... He would have slipped quite a few minutes beforehand, had he not had that. His emotions were rampant and vicious, and blood is a vice of his. Mollifying and clarifying, Emet-Selch's blood would keep him from pitching feral. But what if he was already inevitably headed there, or already there...?
It's an answer he doesn't have at the moment, and he leans in to kiss Emet-Selch's eyes. To ease his tears, to reassure him that he's here and he loves him, no matter what. They could figure out how to manage themselves along the way. Mistakes were inevitable... But it was a matter of keeping them in check, to prevent lethal failures like this one could have been.
But it wasn't, because one of them eventually showed restraint. Mettaton made that conscious decision with his fraying mind, relying on the blood of the Ascian to make the call to leave, to stop fantasizing about his trachea in his teeth and scarlet on their bodies, to stop himself from devouring his Bonded's body from the inside out because he loved him that much, his beautiful, soulbound lover who could make bruises and tears and sweat look like a signature of fervent adoration on his skin. ...But Mettaton could hardly call this an improvement either. It had been too close. And his own judgement aside (which was capricious indeed, and conceptualized too late), Emet-Selch's was... lacking in self-preservation.
That there was a cursed necklace involved didn't matter to Mettaton, either, even while he begins to piece that bit together on his own. That was a basement full of cursed objects. That he thought it natural on him meant two things: one, he could be cursed and not know it. Two, that kind of behavior... was an integral part of his personality drawn to the surface, the desire to be revered in darkness and lust and deified, worshiped. Though he may not be like that all the time didn't mean he couldn't find himself behaving that way again, couldn't see himself slipping into ferality if he lacked the proper admiration... And really, when he thinks about it, he's the kind of person he could see justifying the exchange of someone's life for their lack of ardent support. It was within him, and the jewelry just brought that to the surface. He wouldn't place any accountability on a curse: this was about Emet-Selch's life, and he'd have to overcome a curse to see to his well-being. The problem here was rooted in a lack of reason: if he'd had any to begin with, he'd know that Emet-Selch could no longer speak, and if Emet-Selch had any, he'd try to express this, would try to preserve himself.
But they were both inclined toward being unreasonable at times. Mettaton knew that. They were volatile and ferocious, passionate and extreme. They just had to recognize when that was happening and try to heal from the wounds they inflicted, like this one.
Mettaton leans in to perform an act of extreme intimacy considering this moment, stooping down to kiss and mouth Emet-Selch's throat. There's no teeth, only gentle sucking and licking, the soft press of silicone lips and the betrayal of heat that has mounted so extremely that it was unmistakable. They would both have to figure out what was dangerous, and what was not — like this. His ears are folded back, comfortable and inviting and sure of his place here, holding Emet-Selch and being held, being collapsed upon; Mettaton is deserving of love and willing to dole it out plentifully. Emet-Selch deserved him, too. And by Bond, his emotions are strongly felt, passionate, stabilized and sure. Sure that they would overcome this together.
Close to his neck, Mettaton kisses up his jaw and to Emet-Selch's cheek, licking up any tears that found their way down his cheek in the process, even those which mingled with blood. He rises enough to press their noses together, to press a kiss to his lips... but he can never have just one, so he gets a couple of those.]
... We'll do better, then. [Even if they continued to make this mistake... They'd surely have successes peppered between. And they'd have to do better: Mettaton wanted Emet-Selch safe, and Emet-Selch didn't want Mettaton upset. They went hand-in-hand, this goal.] Won't we?
[There wasn't any option. The failure would be Emet-Selch's ruination at Mettaton's hands, and the terror that would follow. It would be excess to the highest degree, but so transient, so fatal. If they were both ever-wanting, it would make sense that they'd see to their continued ability to want each other. Mettaton's sure of this, and he offers Emet-Selch a smile against his lips.]
You must be so sore. [Soreness is okay to inflict. Bleeding is okay to inflict. Fatal injuries... not okay.] I don't imagine you fare much better than before, walking... How about standing?
[Aftercare could be performed when he's cleaning his Bonded up, but how well could they do even that, with Emet-Selch like this? He still had the intent to take him to the shower. He was... quite the mess, and Mettaton would gladly look out for him, care for him, see to it that the injury he had inflicted could be cleaned and soothed. Everything including the heartache he could feel so starkly, the one that drowned in misery and fear: abandonment.]
[Slowly, the close contact soothed, some better degree of rationality returning (particularly as he was no longer being fed Mettaton's feral state via Bond, to return it to him with his own increasing agitation). Though he was still badly shaken, and would be for some time (and would likely spend the next few days demanding his lover's continuous company while he healed), his breathing was a bit steadier, and it was possible to look back on what had happened with some small amount of thoughtfulness. Or thought at all, rather than only reacting.
...Emet-Selch knew, in some abstract way, that Mettaton had made the right decision in separating from him then. It didn't erase the fear that lingered, the feeling of being left behind, abandoned and unable to follow. But he knew. He remembered his lover's tears falling on him after his awakening from bleeding out. Mettaton's fear and relief, how stricken he had been... and in that case, Emet-Selch had survived. But what if he hadn't? What if he, as he'd wanted to do in this case, had willingly and deliberately placed himself in Mettaton's way, offered his life up to spare his mind... even if it had worked, how would his lover have felt about the aftermath? After he'd realized what he'd done, and what the Ascian had allowed him to do?
It's a thought to strike him cold, that causes him to shiver, to burrow himself that bit more against Mettaton's metal frame, to feel his sore body give in to it. From touching Mettaton's face, he lets his hand fall back, his arm to wrap more tightly around him, as much as his reduced strength would permit. But this was a feeling he tried to ingrain in himself; he knew it was likely the most effective means he had for tempering his own nature, should a similar circumstance occur.
As ferality would happen, insanity would happen; it had been careless to think a Bond alone would be enough to always prevent it. Outside influences happened, emotional disturbances certainly happened, and considering the degree to which they felt things... no, even without a curse, they were fully capable of doing this to one another. Mettaton's desire for being desired, heightened to a god's demand for appropriate reverence... his own want to live in service, coupled with existing self-destructiveness, heightened to a willingness to offer his life even when unnecessary. They operated so frequently in extremes; this was inevitable. Even knowing better, having stared down the risk of their excess once before, it was inevitable.
How then, could they be trusted to manage it? Though they fed into each other so easily, Emet-Selch knew his blood could have a calming, clarifying effect on the puca. And there was nothing wrong with providing it to him in principle, he thought. And he could spare quite a bit without it becoming dangerous. But in the heat of a moment like this, how could they ensure that Mettaton didn't snap down on anything immediately lethal? And that if he tried to, that the Ascian would be willing to stop him? Those things were... the truest problem.
And one he didn't know the answer to. Even though he felt sick now at the thought of his lover having to face having accidentally murdered him while in a state of blood-soaked madness, emerging from his rapturous fury only to find his mangled corpse- he knew himself well enough to be uncertain how well he'd remember that lesson when required. These past few minutes had been proof enough of that; even now, the thought of his lover's teeth in his throat was--
--still disturbingly acceptable.
...And that in itself was a problem he hadn't wanted to consider and also didn't have an answer to. But while Emet-Selch didn't have Mettaton's optimism, he was stubborn. There really was no other option: they would have to manage this. As he also refused to entertain any possibility that the only way to avoid this fate was to separate. They were too arrogant to give in to that, too entwined- and too much in love. Enough not only to refuse to part, but also to be motivated to find some means of sparing the other pain.
But his thoughts are disrupted when he feels Mettaton's lips move to his throat- and even now, he felt no hesitation in having his attention there, softness applied to wounded skin, a heat that only... soothed. Comforted. And while he would've liked to believe that his lack of concern was due to feeling no trace of aggression on his lover's part, that there was no reason to think that he would snap down on him now- Emet-Selch can't be entirely sure. That much, he tries not to dwell on; this moment, at least, was safe. Mettaton wouldn't hurt him... the Bond made that clear. And for all that he couldn't match the robot's stability, his sentiment was no less determined, desperately so. Mettaton's lips reach his face, kiss away blood-diluted tears, before finding their way to his own lips. Kisses there were the most natural thing to follow, and the most comforting part of all- particularly the ever-familiar inclination to never just leave it at one. Though with nerves as raw as his, it's affection that in itself nearly leaves him stricken, even as he loves him for it.
...They would do better. Even if they kept making mistakes, they would keep trying... they would survive. Swallowing painfully, Emet-Selch nods again, following it with another kiss, feeling his lover's smile, endeared terribly to him.
The comment on his soreness though, almost gets a sigh, though it's limited to a slightly heavier exhalation. A practical consideration was a momentary reprieve, even if it wasn't as though his overwhelming bodily aching and fatigue were particularly pleasant. But in comparison to his emotional state, it was straightforward; in itself, there was nothing wrong with blood or bruise.
(He still clings to him; still huddles close. Just the thought of even temporarily separating from Mettaton was- panic-inducing. He needed to touch him, to smell him, to have his company as close as possible, to bury himself inside it.)
But could he stand.... 'Not really', Emet-Selch mouths against his lips, following it with a shake of his head. If he absolutely had to, he could stand, he thought, especially if he had support, but walking... if his life depended on it, probably. And in that case he'd rather risk teleporting.]
[An answer to coax a hum from Mettaton's throat as he pulls back again, getting a look at his lover, envisioning him as he was for... who knows how long. Legs spread, always riding Mettaton's hips in one regard or another, always permitting the Puca to pleasure himself on his body... A hum that actually has him pulling a cheeky smirk, in spite of the heaviness of their recent threat. Or, more aptly, of Mettaton's recent threat toward Emet-Selch. Or perhaps their mutual threat toward Emet-Selch's continued life, and Mettaton's conscience. It was a complicated combination.]
I can hardly imagine it! Being so sore... [And the way he says it implies he wishes he could imagine it... Mettaton.] I'll give you options, then. How about that?
[Before providing his options, Mettaton readjusts his arms. He releases Emet-Selch from his tight embrace with one hand, shifting his thighs so he's not trapping him on the floor between them as he worms his hand beneath the other man's knees. With relative ease, Mettaton braces his arm against Emet-Selch's back as he lifts him from the floor — a bridal carry, despite the fact that they're unmarried, it was fine. It's a quick maneuver, one intended to carry Emet-Selch to the bed, where Mettaton deliberately places him somewhere less... messy.
The covers would all have to be changed, eventually. They had been plentiful in their endeavors, liquids of all kinds merely a byproduct to pleasure. Mettaton stares at it all, before realizing that he'd settled Emet-Selch close to the two pendants. He stares at them, too.
His fur's darkened completely again, spreading as prolifically as the fluids they've left in their wake. He's not feral still: he remains perfectly even-tempered, his mood by Bond stable as he gently lowers Emet-Selch back to recline on the mess of pillows he always keeps on his bed. His hands remain on Emet-Selch's skin, claws as present as fingertips as he pets gently over his thigh, on his shoulder, redirecting his gaze back to Emet-Selch's. He remains touching him, standing at the edge of the bed before he sidles upon its surface on his hip, pressing his thigh along his lover's side as his hands drift to lace with Emet-Selch's fingers. ...Unable to restrain himself, he leans in to press another kiss to Emet-Selch's lips.
His desires mount all over again, undeniable urges clouding his head to... once more, bed his lover. An exhalation of heat, a tightening of fingers laced with his. Carnal, primal, he's sure that if he were shapeshifted still, if he had the body for it, Emet-Selch would just watch him get interested in him all over again — exasperating really, considering their most recent engagement and the dangers it posed them. That his body would continue to keep him interested had a lot to do with the way the moons influenced him, particularly while around Emet-Selch. He was fully aware, fully conscious of these desires and fully in control of them, even when his body had desires of their own, and he gives the pendants a pointed look again as he draws back, eyelids dropping a degree.
Not that he needed pendants or moons to agitate his high libido. He wouldn't describe himself as easily distracted by sex, but he was certainly easy to arouse, even if he could think around it all. Emet-Selch was his kryptonite.
Then he fixes his attention back on Emet-Selch's gaze, ears rising enough to properly lean forward toward his Bonded.]
I could help you shower. Or... If you'd like to recover first, we can stay here together. How about it?
[Emet-Selch would be creative enough to express his preference even without the use of his throat, Mettaton knew. He could mouth it, make a face, move his body... And Mettaton would know. But he takes a moment to unhand Emet-Selch, grabs one of the two pendants (just one!), and... throws it across the room.
Luckily, it is a fairly spacious room. Immediately, any pressure he felt begins to diminish as the sisters are once more separated. It wasn't intolerable by any stretch of the word, especially while he lacked the diamonds around his neck (diamonds he'd clean off the floor... later, unless Papyrus found them first and got confused (MTT was sure he'd tidy them up and understand that diamonds are Mettaton's, he still wants them)), but it was still less precarious like this. Any of the more wild inclinations he might have during the pull of the moons, such as the desire to run, to play tricks, to get petty revenge... They'd diminish like this. He didn't need the draw of the moons to be attracted to his Bonded, nor to give into whimsy. He could do that on his own.
That taken care of, he joins their hands again. The change back would be gradual, but he's sure to lean closer to Emet-Selch, to make it easy for him to be kissed, even if Emet-Selch would have to work for it like this.]
You're getting a shower, no matter what. But we could wait. [Even though Mettaton would towel him off at least of the worst of it.]
[That his physical condition was becoming something Mettaton could view with some amusement didn't particularly surprise him (nor did Mettaton's apparent desire to experience said soreness... absurd as it was, his fascination with sensations like that was a point of fondness). And even with the immediate crisis so briefly behind them, it wouldn't be hard to take a single glance at the Ascian's body and not be reminded of exactly how he had been made to be so sore. How long he'd gone with his legs wrapped around Mettaton or otherwise spread, with a cock stroking his body so deeply. It wasn't as though their most recent unfortunate conclusion could erase the pleasure they'd both took in everything preceding it.
Mettaton's mention of options draws a blink, especially when instead of going ahead and giving them to him, he shifts an arm underneath the Ascian's legs, scooping him up into a scandalous, unmarried bridal-carry. But other than continuing to attach to him as much as possible, Emet-Selch does nothing to prevent or protest this, caring only about remaining in contact with his body. Of course, any kind of movement hurt, put pressure on one thing, or pulled at something else. None of it was comfortable. But then, neither was remaining where he had been, curled against his lover's body while on the floor.
It was still a small relief to be placed down somewhere softer, even if any contact with his shoulders stung, and his gaze remains on Mettaton, more relieved when the other man was careful to never break contact with him, even when settling him in place upon the pillows. Deliberate contact, even when it was relatively small- the brush of claw-tipped fingers, or the nudge of a hip- it was enough to sustain him through the process. Watching his lover's fur darken again (and only then really recognizing that it had briefly returned to its more familiar silvery-hue), sparks more fascination than concern; after all, his mood still felt secure. Whether his fur was dark or light, both looks were striking on him....
And it was the strangest point of reassurance, as Mettaton sidles into bed with him, thigh against his body, fingers together, leaned in for a kiss- to note his lover's continued desire for him. To recognize those glimmers of arousal, evident even in a body currently without a cock to make it particularly blatant. And he kisses him back, firmly, loving, with a heat of his own- though it's more in the direction of a want for his company than anything strictly sexual. Just- wanting him overall.
Mettaton looking back to the pendants reminds Emet-Selch of them again; that would explain the puca's forced shifting, the increase in certain inclinations, despite there being no full moon. But it was also clear that it was only an influence rather than control, nudges in certain directions that he could choose to indulge in or not.
And then Mettaton provides him his options (shower now, or later), asks him what he prefers- and then distracts him by letting go of his hand, picking up one of the pendants, and throwing it to the other side of the room. Landing with a distant clatter, Emet-Selch understands after a moment the point of such sudden anti-jewelry activity. Thusly separated, their influence should be greatly reduced... and his lover wouldn't have those extra inclinations nagging at him. It was a reasonable action, and the Ascian settles stiffly back into the bed, accepting his hand again as Mettaton resumes leaning close.
Squeezing a little at their fingers, Emet-Selch thinks about what he'd prefer. He did, sorely (literally) desire to be clean, a feeling that did steadily increase the longer he was left like this, and as uncomfortable as the process would be, the result would be soothing, a sign that everything would be fine... even if it took a while to get there. But Mettaton had also just picked him up and placed him down so kindly upon the bed... stained as it was, damp in any number of places. For at least a little while, then... he could rest here.
In either case, he just wanted to be with him. Leaning up, he does go to the effort to kiss him again, a firm touch of lips. ...But his neck hurt to stretch out like that, so he lets his head fall back against the pillows with what would've been a huff. But with the way he settles in, it seems to indicate a desire to stay where he was, for the time being. Still wanting to kiss him, and wanting him closer in general, he lets go of his hand in order to bring fingers to the back of Mettaton's head, tugging him downward, in the direction of his lips.
It's not much of a tug, all things considered. But he tries.]
[There was always another point of amusement to keeping his eyes on Emet-Selch: watching what he'd do. And without voice, every little detail of movement and flit of his gaze was worth his attention, watching him watch him in his explanation or action, from the following of his gaze as he offered him options to the way he'd grab for him, this close.
And if anything, these points of action offered perfect clarity for Mettaton. He knew what his lover wanted. There were options off the menu, and Emet-Selch just wanted Mettaton, and whatever Mettaton would do. But judging by his behavior, settling in place and wrapping his fingers around the back of his neck, staying just where he was would be fine for a while. To remain in bed, to be held, simple as that. That was congenial, and Mettaton smirks upon him for his attempts at kissing that fell flat, just as much as Emet-Selch fell back onto the pillows behind him.
(And, in a distant way, gazing upon Emet-Selch's body and smelling the sex on him, the scent of himself and Emet-Selch entwined together... It was primal, sure, but he relished the thought of his markings of blood and come remaining on his body, as though leaving them to stain skin. It was arousing, possessive, something worth his contentment and pride. ...He couldn't possibly help the way a spark of heat enters his gaze, in spite of their too-recent scare, the air between them fragile as anything. He just couldn't help wanting him, not when he was displayed before him like this.
...It was no wonder a feral-minded version of himself found this body impossible to resist. That he did it at all impressed Mettaton in the present, even though he'd do his best to resist him right now.)
To sate Emet-Selch's need for kisses, the Puca leans in to press one squarely, softly, against his lips. But it's only soft for so long, until it intensifies into a deeper, passionate affair, mouthing and sucking his lip, flicking him with tongue and tasting him, the knowledge of how much come Emet-Selch has consumed coming to the forefront of Mettaton's thoughts to entice. But he wouldn't let it distract him when he wants simply to foster contact, to be with him. At his core, for all of his desires, he only wanted to be touched and loved in return.
It's not a kiss to suffocate, and it has an end. Mettaton lingers against his lips, resting there for a spell as he keeps their fingers laced together — just as they are, squeezing tight and bowing his head to push their foreheads together for an added nudge of affection. ...For knowing each other for almost nine months, it felt like he'd known Emet-Selch for much longer. Perhaps it's their Bond, the way it penetrates them both... He could feel Emet-Selch at all hours of the day, and their interactions deepen with each encounter. Even seeing him in the morning, or wishing him goodnight, all of it compounded into a feeling of familiarity. Moments like these became ones to deepen their bond further, even if it tore them apart first to do it. How long had it been since Mettaton kept the company of someone steadily like this? ...Not as long as he imagines it's been for Emet-Selch, but he finds a renewed appreciation for it anyway. Here, against his lips, he closes his eye and soaks in the moment, all of its fears and its love and its weight. The intensity of it all impresses him and always entices him. Entertains him. Fascinates him. It was effortless.
Drawing back so slightly, Mettaton frees one of his hands to reach for that promised towel — rather, the throw he'd used earlier to wipe off Emet-Selch's face. (He doesn't keep towels near their bed. He should.) Though he appreciates the come and blood slathered on his lover's body, some of it... could go, if he wanted to nap at all comfortably under blankets. It was a different sort of contact, wiping at his abdomen with the dry face of a blanket; moving to a different part and repeating the process on the front of his blood-and-spit coated shoulders and chest, mindful of clotting wounds, to the best of his ability. He clicks his tongue.]
You're such a mess. Look at you. [As though chiding. He was part of the cause: Emet-Selch wouldn't have made all of this mess without Mettaton, after all. But Emet-Selch can't talk back, so he won't bother acknowledging that. The smile on his face suggests that he knows, and he's proud of it.] But we can at least get you dry enough for now...
[Changing his grip on the blanket again, Mettaton forces his way between Emet-Selch's thighs, lifting each and wiping him of any excess ejaculate. Toweling him and watching, his gaze fixed on come and bruise alike — and how much there is, really... Some of it has dried, and some of it yet remains on Emet-Selch's backside, but he wasn't trying to be extremely thorough. He still leans down to kiss his hips, letting go of the throw blanket for a moment to smooth his palms over his thighs, pressing fingers into taut, tender muscle, experimental and investigative.]
[There was a lot to observe, he knew. How marked he was, how claimed... every sign of his subjugation to him. Even if it had almost come at a price, it didn't erase how attractive of a look it was. And even though it meant living with being sticky and thoroughly unwashed for a time longer, to be surrounded by these signs of his lover's possession of him, to rest while still smelling their sex, still feeling it dried upon his skin- it wasn't the worst of things by far.
Emet-Selch tries to make some sort of low, pleased sound, ill-advised as it would be, but not much of anything emerges. Which is probably for the best anyway; it just would've sounded like a staticy rasp, context alone indicating pleasure or approval. And he had the rest of his manner to indicate that, tired as he was. But a soft kiss that turns into a deeper one- that was exactly what he wanted.
Even though he has no energy for any sort of followthrough or particular arousal, it's the sort of kiss that would've caused a moan, and which did cause his pulse to rise a notch. Mettaton's own passion was always catching, the sort of thing Emet-Selch had little resistance to- whenever he wasn't trying to incite it himself. Any effort to entice each another tended to be successful, attracted as they were to each other. Even now, when he knew they weren't actively trying to bed one another, weren't trying to tempt towards another round, it was impossible to remove all trace of heat between their contact. Whether it was represented through the threading of their fingers, or the depth of a kiss, the slipping of tongues against one another's, or the hint of suction- passion always remained. It was a natural part of them.
And it was hard to forget all that he'd taken into his mouth over this past... while. Both Mettaton's cock and his come, repeatedly- and the thought of how much he'd swallowed down, the memory of the taste of him thick in his mouth, was a deeply pleasurable one. He would always want to suck him off, or lick the excess from his fingers. And even if those earliest rounds had led to this, with the damaging of his throat, the rendering of him unable to speak and all that had followed because of his inability to vocalize sufficient praise- he didn't regret it. He didn't think they should've gone easier on him either, and he knew he'd want Mettaton to fuck his throat just as thoroughly in future. They would just... have to be a little more careful elsewhere, that was all.
Though he's a touch breathless at the end of the kiss, it's only a touch. Brushing his lips across his afterward in the faintest of nuzzles, with the press of their foreheads together, along with the union of their hands- he felt loved. And that in itself would be enough to take his breath, loving him in return just as severely. That it felt that bit sharper, heavier- Emet-Selch assumed that was due to what had just happened, heights of emotion finding a sort of catharsis, a release into utter affection and care that could reach ever deeper. But even when they weren't tearing each other open like this- physically, emotionally- he found the way they settled into one another reassuring. There was an ease there that was both restful and anything but, considering how frequently they turned towards passionate entwining. But even then, what was that but a somewhat more energetic display of affection?
Intensity was always there, no matter how gentle or impassioned they were being. They just had to find ways to channel it that wouldn't end with the Ascian's throat torn out.
But for now there was this. There was aftercare and love and soreness and mess, a considerable amount of them all. And Emet-Selch sighs quietly when Mettaton pulls back slightly, enough to take up a blanket that had become a towel, wiping up some of the excess... everything, that he'd been slathered in. Coated in. Stained by. Blood and come, sweat and saliva- the four cornerstones of their union.
Mettaton's comment does get a look of mild objection, as though to protest not only his current state, but his lover's hand in it (even if it was the result of his cock primarily, or his teeth... though his claws had played some role as well), along with his current non-verbal status. It's a very efficient look that way, far more so than any sort of speech would be. Mettaton's pride was also expected and- well. He can't blame him. To render him as thoroughly used as this, in absolute disarray, it was something worth appreciation (and as uncomfortable as it was, Emet-Selch found it no less impressive, even if he couldn't see it all).
Cleaning his thighs of excesses of come (there sure was a lot... which was satisfying to realize, and a point of strange smugness, to have inspired his lover to leave him with this much), he knew there would still be a certain amount of residue, but Emet-Selch appreciated Mettaton's overall gentleness towards him. And even if he did still feel like a mess and knew he looked like one, considering all that had already dried on him... it was better. The consideration alone made it better.
Tilting his head up a little (though not for too long, it wasn't exactly comfortable), Emet-Selch watches Mettaton's kiss to his hip, the palpitations over his thighs. Bruised skin and tired muscle- legs that had spent more time spread around his lover than otherwise, tight and tensing. Even now they twinged a little on reflex from being prodded. But even sore... it was nice to feel his touch on him regardless.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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(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.]
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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.]
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(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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Easing himself down onto his knees and pulling Emet-Selch between his thighs, he presses his nose into his hair, breathing him in. The Ascian smells so strongly of blood and sex and spit, a look so raw and vulnerable and not one he'd like for anyone else to see of him. Not because it was the product of fearsome and passionate entwining, but because this was only for his own consumption: Emet-Selch in every way is for Mettaton's eyes, whether it's in his haughty grace or his power, or in shambles, broken and crying and smeared in come and blood on the floor, curled up at the foot of Mettaton's bed. For now, this was where they both belonged, and Mettaton wraps him tight in his winding arms.
To see Emet-Selch so wrung out, despairing and sore and expecting to be carved into with teeth... yet feeling only relief at seeing him again tells a tale Mettaton can read word for word. He knows his lover's heart: the many times Emet-Selch has asked for him not to leave all comes together in this moment after a cry of pain, after Mettaton's turbulent descent into ferality from a lack of... voice, he's certain. His fingers trace Emet-Selch's throat gently as he holds him close, tucking his Bonded into the crook of his neck.
Even though he feels immense sorrow and pity for Emet-Selch... the Puca can't help but think he looks beautiful like this, in his terror and vulnerability. Soft, just like his body; like his heart, tenderized and wounded, manifest upon tissue in patterns of red and purple and streaks of fluid drying and wet alike. A smell of being ravaged and used, a sight of it, too: hair tangled, mussed, stiff and sticky, Emet-Selch was still lovely like this.
And though he'd just marched in after losing his mind, even though he feels all of that disorientation and emptiness where such burning hot rage used to live, it fills quickly with emotions just as wild as Mettaton is, but no longer bound so strictly to the course of madness. It's that fondness, an awe; but it's also pity, worry; and... sorrow, that it ended up this way. There's a streak of incredulity in it all for the same reason, that they found themselves... like this. But with intensity and extremity like theirs, where else would they end up but fucking passionately as it dips around into considering the taking of lives? Their relationship was chaos, unpredictable and fierce enough to burn them both alive, to consume them and everything around them, and this... this could have been anticipated. Even without a necklace, couldn't they find themselves here with the right fury, the right passion, the right ache and the proper catalyst?
If Mettaton felt any regret, it was that it felt so much like the time he'd nearly killed Emet-Selch. He clutches him closer, soft body that he is. His claws are still sharp, one of the residual effects that lingers after the sway of moons as his fur gradually pitches again, as his very aura goes blacker, ghastly, monstrous... But not feral.
There was a lot to address between them, but Mettaton needs to cover the most basic of them all. His lover trembles; he answers it by letting him in the safety of his arms, even though he's the most dangerous thing in this house. No... They both are. The two of them are both dangerous to Emet-Selch. But perhaps, when together... They could both keep him safe. (If they actually tried.)
Emet-Selch was self-destructive. He knows that. And perhaps his life would have been proper sacrifice to a deity as grand as himself... But Mettaton doesn't want that. He wants to keep his lover well in hand, bruised and bitten and marked up by him, but what good is that if he kills him? And he doesn't want to hurt him that badly. Ever.
Lips trail down Emet-Selch's temple, stopping next to his ear before Mettaton pulls back just enough to gaze into his lover's eyes. Luminous gold meets his lover's, softer around the edges, no longer the look belonging to a beast of spiteful insanity. His lips are parted, still stained in dried blood, still sharp of teeth, and he runs a curled finger against Emet-Selch's eye. He doesn't even need to ask that Emet-Selch's heartache is sourced from fearing abandonment, of his disappearance. He shows him mercy, but he's also no longer requiring the reverence and worship of a deity just to think straight. ...On that note, Mettaton knows he fears being left alone. But the fear he sees in his eyes, the way he doesn't at all resist the possibility of Mettaton's feral teeth sinking into his flesh in this moment should he have been too Monstrous, too lost to see straight... it's that self-destructive streak at work, he thought. It was still a surprise that he didn't fear him, but that he'd anticipate his behavior wasn't a surprise. Even though he was locked in the righteously indignant insanity of his own mind, Mettaton was aware of everything. He knowingly did what he did, opted to spare him, opted to drink him, opted to leave... Only upon exiting did he succumb to any sort of uncontrollable behavior, tearing and breaking and gnawing and scratching at the confines of the house, his body, his fury. He can pitch furious with ease, but it's the sort that turns the brightness of cheer into the licking flames of animosity.
That Emet-Selch would anticipate his demise and do nothing to stop it... Mettaton strokes his throat some more, claws only grazing his skin as he traces up to his hairline, stroking through deep brown locks of hair, even when it's tangled in spit, matted with blood. He squeezes him between his thighs, pulling him flush to his body. Once more, Emet-Selch's form is made to give way to Mettaton's metal one.]
My darling Hades... I...
[He could've hurt him, terribly. Emet-Selch would've let him, too. He would've laid down and allowed Mettaton to tear out his throat, would've given himself as a sacrifice to temper his ferality even just for a moment of peace. In the end, Mettaton did hurt him, but not with teeth or claws. It had to happen.
The last he left him, he notes he was on the bed. On the bed and dropped, and he remembers, vaguely, the sound of something thudding onto the ground. That must've been Emet-Selch, trying his best to hobble after him on disagreeable limbs that ached, with a heart heavy and sore and fear alive like static in his brain. He imagines him crumpling here, used and feeling disposed, abandoned, and Mettaton strokes his hair some more. Unable to call out with his voice the way it is, he couldn't tell Mettaton to return. ...It was for the best that he didn't at that time. What would he have done to him? Mettaton didn't like the thought. He liked that less than the vivid flashes of wild fever, of chewing his arms and clawing his hips.
He exhales heat into his hair, letting his hand run down the back of his neck, down his spine, and to his side again.]
Thank you for waiting for me. ... I was losing my mind. I had to clear my head somehow, before seeing red turned into something... worse. [He kisses his forehead again. He doesn't quite know how his head was cleared, nor why he ended up that way save for the lack of proper recognition — an affront to be sure, but nothing worth killing his beloved over. He knows he was trying, besides. He saw it in his every move, in his every feeble mouthing or desperate sound.] ... We lost ourselves again, didn't we?
[Like the last time he nearly tore out Emet-Selch's throat.]
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That line of thinking only led to more tears welling up, even as he was slowly accepting that for whatever reason Mettaton hadn't given up on him. That his mood was- while still intense, still bearing emotions strong enough to unsteady the Ascian- not overrun with a god's vengefulness and capacity for wrath. That he'd lost his shoulder jewelry goes unnoticed; his lover was a capricious god, and who was he to question his decisions? With a weakened nudge, he buries his face against Mettaton's neck as he's tucked there, breathing him in- the familiar scent of him, and his blood, and their sex, all layered together, as it should be.
Slowly, he calms by degrees, as Mettaton holds him and shows no sign of leaving him again. With effort, Emet-Selch manages to wrap an arm around him in turn, and from tension, his body gradually just- gives up. Not relaxing, but only losing the ability to hold himself steady, collapsing against him. Curling against him as though he were the only thing in the world, as though he could protect him from- the both of them, he likewise realizes.
They had been doing so well, he had thought. Mettaton still bit him, because they both enjoyed that, the giving of blood and the taking of it. It had been manageable, and while their passions were always high, they'd avoided ever veering again into dangerous territory. Bleeding out as far as he had was a... complicated memory, but an important lesson in maintaining some degree of moderation in their aggressions, their desires, their fears. Mettaton didn't want to hurt him, and Emet-Selch didn't want to upset him. They both knew this.
But had they really improved? Or was it through chance alone that they had managed to avoid any particular catalyst in the interim? What if there hadn't been any particular deliberation on their part; would inevitability itself always drag them back to this place? To a state of high emotions requiring a payment made in blood and sacrifice.
--But this had had the potential of being more than that. It wasn't only recklessly strong emotion leading to a bite made too deep by incidentally poor luck, drunk from too heavily, with neither of them knowing concern until it was nearly too late. Emet-Selch could feel this pitching darker than that, that Mettaton could've easily and deliberately snapped his jaws through his throat, and neither of them would've done a thing to prevent it. Even now in this immediate aftermath, when everything was at its most raw and he lay shivering in his lover's arms, Emet-Selch knows he wouldn't try to stop him. Should Mettaton's mood turn dark again (and something about him seemed darker once more, if only monstrous rather than feral) it wouldn't take any convincing. He would offer himself to claws, to teeth, to spite. Because he loved him.
Mettaton lines his face with presses of lips before nudging him back, meeting his eyes. Emet-Selch blinks repeatedly to try and clear his, to focus on his lover's countenance through a blurry haze. Even distorted by his vision, Mettaton was still strikingly beautiful to him. The blood was no detriment, nor was the suggestion of sharpened teeth. His own look remains somewhat lost, uncertain, as watchful as he can manage, as though if he weren't careful, Mettaton would vanish on him again. Mettaton traces around his eye, and he holds still, and nor does he flinch when those fingers trail over his throat, over scratch and bruise. Whether his lover decided to tear into him or not was--
--probably not something that he should view with such ambivalence.
Tugged closer again, he feels himself stroked, petted, kept firmly and safely against his body (he would always be safe there, except when he wasn't), and his eyes close for a moment at the kiss to his forehead. Mettaton thanking him for staying even when he'd wanted to reach him fills him with another sort of unease, knowing that if he had been able to more easily move, he would've gone to him. He would've found him, and Mettaton would've either killed him, or been forced to retreat even further.
(He didn't want to see him upset. That was his only hesitation. His only regret now was disappointing him.)
Emet-Selch still couldn't speak. But he listens, moving a hand up to gently touch the side of Mettaton's face, the side with his working eye. He feels for familiar details with his eyes closed, with unsteady fingers. At the last of his words, he pauses, then nods. Even knowing better, they'd done this to each other. It hadn't ended up with him unconscious and fading from a lack of blood, but he wouldn't at all have called this version an improvement. He didn't know how to stop it; there was no reason to believe it wouldn't happen again, considering how intensely they felt everything.]
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When Mettaton examines his own actions, he does so from a more creative, poetic lens, and dislikes the thought of his extricating himself from Them to be some kind of poetic foreshadowing. As though the only way for them both to remain well in hand should be that they separate themselves... As if! He holds Emet-Selch tighter, not at all fearing the analysis he'd have to put into their combination that made it so threatening to Emet-Selch's well-being. It all came down to Mettaton's carelessness, his lack of forethought or examining the consequences of his actions; as well as Emet-Selch's self-destructive, similarly consequences-what-consequences attitude. He was so loyal, so good to him, so dedicated, so giving and willing that he'd give his life over to Mettaton because the Puca had the whim to take it.
It pulls a sigh from Mettaton in this moment, and he shakes his head, but... he smiles, bittersweet. He wanted to see Mettaton happy and well, sated and sane, so of course he'd offer his body where his voice failed... It was a matter of trying to check himself, but how could he do that if he were going feral? ...Emet-Selch had told him he wouldn't have to veer feral while they were Bonded, but Mettaton knows there isn't anything about this world that wouldn't try to see him that way. Whether it was a curse or some amplification of the moons, he could go feral in a more sudden, more unrelenting context... This was during a play of passion, and probably more dangerous because their bodies were so entwined and blood was so plentiful...
Mettaton examines Emet-Selch's body like this, claws lightly grazing over his back. Nails sharp and curved, he doesn't allow them to do anything more than glide along the surface of his lover's skin while he can't keep them duller and controlled. If he can't keep himself controlled, if controlling at all is no option, what would Emet-Selch do for him? There was still something that helped in this equation, even if it had the potential to be dangerous, and that was his blood. Mettaton knows for a fact that it steadied his mind... He would have slipped quite a few minutes beforehand, had he not had that. His emotions were rampant and vicious, and blood is a vice of his. Mollifying and clarifying, Emet-Selch's blood would keep him from pitching feral. But what if he was already inevitably headed there, or already there...?
It's an answer he doesn't have at the moment, and he leans in to kiss Emet-Selch's eyes. To ease his tears, to reassure him that he's here and he loves him, no matter what. They could figure out how to manage themselves along the way. Mistakes were inevitable... But it was a matter of keeping them in check, to prevent lethal failures like this one could have been.
But it wasn't, because one of them eventually showed restraint. Mettaton made that conscious decision with his fraying mind, relying on the blood of the Ascian to make the call to leave, to stop fantasizing about his trachea in his teeth and scarlet on their bodies, to stop himself from devouring his Bonded's body from the inside out because he loved him that much, his beautiful, soulbound lover who could make bruises and tears and sweat look like a signature of fervent adoration on his skin. ...But Mettaton could hardly call this an improvement either. It had been too close. And his own judgement aside (which was capricious indeed, and conceptualized too late), Emet-Selch's was... lacking in self-preservation.
That there was a cursed necklace involved didn't matter to Mettaton, either, even while he begins to piece that bit together on his own. That was a basement full of cursed objects. That he thought it natural on him meant two things: one, he could be cursed and not know it. Two, that kind of behavior... was an integral part of his personality drawn to the surface, the desire to be revered in darkness and lust and deified, worshiped. Though he may not be like that all the time didn't mean he couldn't find himself behaving that way again, couldn't see himself slipping into ferality if he lacked the proper admiration... And really, when he thinks about it, he's the kind of person he could see justifying the exchange of someone's life for their lack of ardent support. It was within him, and the jewelry just brought that to the surface. He wouldn't place any accountability on a curse: this was about Emet-Selch's life, and he'd have to overcome a curse to see to his well-being. The problem here was rooted in a lack of reason: if he'd had any to begin with, he'd know that Emet-Selch could no longer speak, and if Emet-Selch had any, he'd try to express this, would try to preserve himself.
But they were both inclined toward being unreasonable at times. Mettaton knew that. They were volatile and ferocious, passionate and extreme. They just had to recognize when that was happening and try to heal from the wounds they inflicted, like this one.
Mettaton leans in to perform an act of extreme intimacy considering this moment, stooping down to kiss and mouth Emet-Selch's throat. There's no teeth, only gentle sucking and licking, the soft press of silicone lips and the betrayal of heat that has mounted so extremely that it was unmistakable. They would both have to figure out what was dangerous, and what was not — like this. His ears are folded back, comfortable and inviting and sure of his place here, holding Emet-Selch and being held, being collapsed upon; Mettaton is deserving of love and willing to dole it out plentifully. Emet-Selch deserved him, too. And by Bond, his emotions are strongly felt, passionate, stabilized and sure. Sure that they would overcome this together.
Close to his neck, Mettaton kisses up his jaw and to Emet-Selch's cheek, licking up any tears that found their way down his cheek in the process, even those which mingled with blood. He rises enough to press their noses together, to press a kiss to his lips... but he can never have just one, so he gets a couple of those.]
... We'll do better, then. [Even if they continued to make this mistake... They'd surely have successes peppered between. And they'd have to do better: Mettaton wanted Emet-Selch safe, and Emet-Selch didn't want Mettaton upset. They went hand-in-hand, this goal.] Won't we?
[There wasn't any option. The failure would be Emet-Selch's ruination at Mettaton's hands, and the terror that would follow. It would be excess to the highest degree, but so transient, so fatal. If they were both ever-wanting, it would make sense that they'd see to their continued ability to want each other. Mettaton's sure of this, and he offers Emet-Selch a smile against his lips.]
You must be so sore. [Soreness is okay to inflict. Bleeding is okay to inflict. Fatal injuries... not okay.] I don't imagine you fare much better than before, walking... How about standing?
[Aftercare could be performed when he's cleaning his Bonded up, but how well could they do even that, with Emet-Selch like this? He still had the intent to take him to the shower. He was... quite the mess, and Mettaton would gladly look out for him, care for him, see to it that the injury he had inflicted could be cleaned and soothed. Everything including the heartache he could feel so starkly, the one that drowned in misery and fear: abandonment.]
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...Emet-Selch knew, in some abstract way, that Mettaton had made the right decision in separating from him then. It didn't erase the fear that lingered, the feeling of being left behind, abandoned and unable to follow. But he knew. He remembered his lover's tears falling on him after his awakening from bleeding out. Mettaton's fear and relief, how stricken he had been... and in that case, Emet-Selch had survived. But what if he hadn't? What if he, as he'd wanted to do in this case, had willingly and deliberately placed himself in Mettaton's way, offered his life up to spare his mind... even if it had worked, how would his lover have felt about the aftermath? After he'd realized what he'd done, and what the Ascian had allowed him to do?
It's a thought to strike him cold, that causes him to shiver, to burrow himself that bit more against Mettaton's metal frame, to feel his sore body give in to it. From touching Mettaton's face, he lets his hand fall back, his arm to wrap more tightly around him, as much as his reduced strength would permit. But this was a feeling he tried to ingrain in himself; he knew it was likely the most effective means he had for tempering his own nature, should a similar circumstance occur.
As ferality would happen, insanity would happen; it had been careless to think a Bond alone would be enough to always prevent it. Outside influences happened, emotional disturbances certainly happened, and considering the degree to which they felt things... no, even without a curse, they were fully capable of doing this to one another. Mettaton's desire for being desired, heightened to a god's demand for appropriate reverence... his own want to live in service, coupled with existing self-destructiveness, heightened to a willingness to offer his life even when unnecessary. They operated so frequently in extremes; this was inevitable. Even knowing better, having stared down the risk of their excess once before, it was inevitable.
How then, could they be trusted to manage it? Though they fed into each other so easily, Emet-Selch knew his blood could have a calming, clarifying effect on the puca. And there was nothing wrong with providing it to him in principle, he thought. And he could spare quite a bit without it becoming dangerous. But in the heat of a moment like this, how could they ensure that Mettaton didn't snap down on anything immediately lethal? And that if he tried to, that the Ascian would be willing to stop him? Those things were... the truest problem.
And one he didn't know the answer to. Even though he felt sick now at the thought of his lover having to face having accidentally murdered him while in a state of blood-soaked madness, emerging from his rapturous fury only to find his mangled corpse- he knew himself well enough to be uncertain how well he'd remember that lesson when required. These past few minutes had been proof enough of that; even now, the thought of his lover's teeth in his throat was--
--still disturbingly acceptable.
...And that in itself was a problem he hadn't wanted to consider and also didn't have an answer to. But while Emet-Selch didn't have Mettaton's optimism, he was stubborn. There really was no other option: they would have to manage this. As he also refused to entertain any possibility that the only way to avoid this fate was to separate. They were too arrogant to give in to that, too entwined- and too much in love. Enough not only to refuse to part, but also to be motivated to find some means of sparing the other pain.
But his thoughts are disrupted when he feels Mettaton's lips move to his throat- and even now, he felt no hesitation in having his attention there, softness applied to wounded skin, a heat that only... soothed. Comforted. And while he would've liked to believe that his lack of concern was due to feeling no trace of aggression on his lover's part, that there was no reason to think that he would snap down on him now- Emet-Selch can't be entirely sure. That much, he tries not to dwell on; this moment, at least, was safe. Mettaton wouldn't hurt him... the Bond made that clear. And for all that he couldn't match the robot's stability, his sentiment was no less determined, desperately so. Mettaton's lips reach his face, kiss away blood-diluted tears, before finding their way to his own lips. Kisses there were the most natural thing to follow, and the most comforting part of all- particularly the ever-familiar inclination to never just leave it at one. Though with nerves as raw as his, it's affection that in itself nearly leaves him stricken, even as he loves him for it.
...They would do better. Even if they kept making mistakes, they would keep trying... they would survive. Swallowing painfully, Emet-Selch nods again, following it with another kiss, feeling his lover's smile, endeared terribly to him.
The comment on his soreness though, almost gets a sigh, though it's limited to a slightly heavier exhalation. A practical consideration was a momentary reprieve, even if it wasn't as though his overwhelming bodily aching and fatigue were particularly pleasant. But in comparison to his emotional state, it was straightforward; in itself, there was nothing wrong with blood or bruise.
(He still clings to him; still huddles close. Just the thought of even temporarily separating from Mettaton was- panic-inducing. He needed to touch him, to smell him, to have his company as close as possible, to bury himself inside it.)
But could he stand.... 'Not really', Emet-Selch mouths against his lips, following it with a shake of his head. If he absolutely had to, he could stand, he thought, especially if he had support, but walking... if his life depended on it, probably. And in that case he'd rather risk teleporting.]
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I can hardly imagine it! Being so sore... [And the way he says it implies he wishes he could imagine it... Mettaton.] I'll give you options, then. How about that?
[Before providing his options, Mettaton readjusts his arms. He releases Emet-Selch from his tight embrace with one hand, shifting his thighs so he's not trapping him on the floor between them as he worms his hand beneath the other man's knees. With relative ease, Mettaton braces his arm against Emet-Selch's back as he lifts him from the floor — a bridal carry, despite the fact that they're unmarried, it was fine. It's a quick maneuver, one intended to carry Emet-Selch to the bed, where Mettaton deliberately places him somewhere less... messy.
The covers would all have to be changed, eventually. They had been plentiful in their endeavors, liquids of all kinds merely a byproduct to pleasure. Mettaton stares at it all, before realizing that he'd settled Emet-Selch close to the two pendants. He stares at them, too.
His fur's darkened completely again, spreading as prolifically as the fluids they've left in their wake. He's not feral still: he remains perfectly even-tempered, his mood by Bond stable as he gently lowers Emet-Selch back to recline on the mess of pillows he always keeps on his bed. His hands remain on Emet-Selch's skin, claws as present as fingertips as he pets gently over his thigh, on his shoulder, redirecting his gaze back to Emet-Selch's. He remains touching him, standing at the edge of the bed before he sidles upon its surface on his hip, pressing his thigh along his lover's side as his hands drift to lace with Emet-Selch's fingers. ...Unable to restrain himself, he leans in to press another kiss to Emet-Selch's lips.
His desires mount all over again, undeniable urges clouding his head to... once more, bed his lover. An exhalation of heat, a tightening of fingers laced with his. Carnal, primal, he's sure that if he were shapeshifted still, if he had the body for it, Emet-Selch would just watch him get interested in him all over again — exasperating really, considering their most recent engagement and the dangers it posed them. That his body would continue to keep him interested had a lot to do with the way the moons influenced him, particularly while around Emet-Selch. He was fully aware, fully conscious of these desires and fully in control of them, even when his body had desires of their own, and he gives the pendants a pointed look again as he draws back, eyelids dropping a degree.
Not that he needed pendants or moons to agitate his high libido. He wouldn't describe himself as easily distracted by sex, but he was certainly easy to arouse, even if he could think around it all. Emet-Selch was his kryptonite.
Then he fixes his attention back on Emet-Selch's gaze, ears rising enough to properly lean forward toward his Bonded.]
I could help you shower. Or... If you'd like to recover first, we can stay here together. How about it?
[Emet-Selch would be creative enough to express his preference even without the use of his throat, Mettaton knew. He could mouth it, make a face, move his body... And Mettaton would know. But he takes a moment to unhand Emet-Selch, grabs one of the two pendants (just one!), and... throws it across the room.
Luckily, it is a fairly spacious room. Immediately, any pressure he felt begins to diminish as the sisters are once more separated. It wasn't intolerable by any stretch of the word, especially while he lacked the diamonds around his neck (diamonds he'd clean off the floor... later, unless Papyrus found them first and got confused (MTT was sure he'd tidy them up and understand that diamonds are Mettaton's, he still wants them)), but it was still less precarious like this. Any of the more wild inclinations he might have during the pull of the moons, such as the desire to run, to play tricks, to get petty revenge... They'd diminish like this. He didn't need the draw of the moons to be attracted to his Bonded, nor to give into whimsy. He could do that on his own.
That taken care of, he joins their hands again. The change back would be gradual, but he's sure to lean closer to Emet-Selch, to make it easy for him to be kissed, even if Emet-Selch would have to work for it like this.]
You're getting a shower, no matter what. But we could wait. [Even though Mettaton would towel him off at least of the worst of it.]
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Mettaton's mention of options draws a blink, especially when instead of going ahead and giving them to him, he shifts an arm underneath the Ascian's legs, scooping him up into a scandalous, unmarried bridal-carry. But other than continuing to attach to him as much as possible, Emet-Selch does nothing to prevent or protest this, caring only about remaining in contact with his body. Of course, any kind of movement hurt, put pressure on one thing, or pulled at something else. None of it was comfortable. But then, neither was remaining where he had been, curled against his lover's body while on the floor.
It was still a small relief to be placed down somewhere softer, even if any contact with his shoulders stung, and his gaze remains on Mettaton, more relieved when the other man was careful to never break contact with him, even when settling him in place upon the pillows. Deliberate contact, even when it was relatively small- the brush of claw-tipped fingers, or the nudge of a hip- it was enough to sustain him through the process. Watching his lover's fur darken again (and only then really recognizing that it had briefly returned to its more familiar silvery-hue), sparks more fascination than concern; after all, his mood still felt secure. Whether his fur was dark or light, both looks were striking on him....
And it was the strangest point of reassurance, as Mettaton sidles into bed with him, thigh against his body, fingers together, leaned in for a kiss- to note his lover's continued desire for him. To recognize those glimmers of arousal, evident even in a body currently without a cock to make it particularly blatant. And he kisses him back, firmly, loving, with a heat of his own- though it's more in the direction of a want for his company than anything strictly sexual. Just- wanting him overall.
Mettaton looking back to the pendants reminds Emet-Selch of them again; that would explain the puca's forced shifting, the increase in certain inclinations, despite there being no full moon. But it was also clear that it was only an influence rather than control, nudges in certain directions that he could choose to indulge in or not.
And then Mettaton provides him his options (shower now, or later), asks him what he prefers- and then distracts him by letting go of his hand, picking up one of the pendants, and throwing it to the other side of the room. Landing with a distant clatter, Emet-Selch understands after a moment the point of such sudden anti-jewelry activity. Thusly separated, their influence should be greatly reduced... and his lover wouldn't have those extra inclinations nagging at him. It was a reasonable action, and the Ascian settles stiffly back into the bed, accepting his hand again as Mettaton resumes leaning close.
Squeezing a little at their fingers, Emet-Selch thinks about what he'd prefer. He did, sorely (literally) desire to be clean, a feeling that did steadily increase the longer he was left like this, and as uncomfortable as the process would be, the result would be soothing, a sign that everything would be fine... even if it took a while to get there. But Mettaton had also just picked him up and placed him down so kindly upon the bed... stained as it was, damp in any number of places. For at least a little while, then... he could rest here.
In either case, he just wanted to be with him. Leaning up, he does go to the effort to kiss him again, a firm touch of lips. ...But his neck hurt to stretch out like that, so he lets his head fall back against the pillows with what would've been a huff. But with the way he settles in, it seems to indicate a desire to stay where he was, for the time being. Still wanting to kiss him, and wanting him closer in general, he lets go of his hand in order to bring fingers to the back of Mettaton's head, tugging him downward, in the direction of his lips.
It's not much of a tug, all things considered. But he tries.]
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And if anything, these points of action offered perfect clarity for Mettaton. He knew what his lover wanted. There were options off the menu, and Emet-Selch just wanted Mettaton, and whatever Mettaton would do. But judging by his behavior, settling in place and wrapping his fingers around the back of his neck, staying just where he was would be fine for a while. To remain in bed, to be held, simple as that. That was congenial, and Mettaton smirks upon him for his attempts at kissing that fell flat, just as much as Emet-Selch fell back onto the pillows behind him.
(And, in a distant way, gazing upon Emet-Selch's body and smelling the sex on him, the scent of himself and Emet-Selch entwined together... It was primal, sure, but he relished the thought of his markings of blood and come remaining on his body, as though leaving them to stain skin. It was arousing, possessive, something worth his contentment and pride. ...He couldn't possibly help the way a spark of heat enters his gaze, in spite of their too-recent scare, the air between them fragile as anything. He just couldn't help wanting him, not when he was displayed before him like this.
...It was no wonder a feral-minded version of himself found this body impossible to resist. That he did it at all impressed Mettaton in the present, even though he'd do his best to resist him right now.)
To sate Emet-Selch's need for kisses, the Puca leans in to press one squarely, softly, against his lips. But it's only soft for so long, until it intensifies into a deeper, passionate affair, mouthing and sucking his lip, flicking him with tongue and tasting him, the knowledge of how much come Emet-Selch has consumed coming to the forefront of Mettaton's thoughts to entice. But he wouldn't let it distract him when he wants simply to foster contact, to be with him. At his core, for all of his desires, he only wanted to be touched and loved in return.
It's not a kiss to suffocate, and it has an end. Mettaton lingers against his lips, resting there for a spell as he keeps their fingers laced together — just as they are, squeezing tight and bowing his head to push their foreheads together for an added nudge of affection. ...For knowing each other for almost nine months, it felt like he'd known Emet-Selch for much longer. Perhaps it's their Bond, the way it penetrates them both... He could feel Emet-Selch at all hours of the day, and their interactions deepen with each encounter. Even seeing him in the morning, or wishing him goodnight, all of it compounded into a feeling of familiarity. Moments like these became ones to deepen their bond further, even if it tore them apart first to do it. How long had it been since Mettaton kept the company of someone steadily like this? ...Not as long as he imagines it's been for Emet-Selch, but he finds a renewed appreciation for it anyway. Here, against his lips, he closes his eye and soaks in the moment, all of its fears and its love and its weight. The intensity of it all impresses him and always entices him. Entertains him. Fascinates him. It was effortless.
Drawing back so slightly, Mettaton frees one of his hands to reach for that promised towel — rather, the throw he'd used earlier to wipe off Emet-Selch's face. (He doesn't keep towels near their bed. He should.) Though he appreciates the come and blood slathered on his lover's body, some of it... could go, if he wanted to nap at all comfortably under blankets. It was a different sort of contact, wiping at his abdomen with the dry face of a blanket; moving to a different part and repeating the process on the front of his blood-and-spit coated shoulders and chest, mindful of clotting wounds, to the best of his ability. He clicks his tongue.]
You're such a mess. Look at you. [As though chiding. He was part of the cause: Emet-Selch wouldn't have made all of this mess without Mettaton, after all. But Emet-Selch can't talk back, so he won't bother acknowledging that. The smile on his face suggests that he knows, and he's proud of it.] But we can at least get you dry enough for now...
[Changing his grip on the blanket again, Mettaton forces his way between Emet-Selch's thighs, lifting each and wiping him of any excess ejaculate. Toweling him and watching, his gaze fixed on come and bruise alike — and how much there is, really... Some of it has dried, and some of it yet remains on Emet-Selch's backside, but he wasn't trying to be extremely thorough. He still leans down to kiss his hips, letting go of the throw blanket for a moment to smooth his palms over his thighs, pressing fingers into taut, tender muscle, experimental and investigative.]
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Emet-Selch tries to make some sort of low, pleased sound, ill-advised as it would be, but not much of anything emerges. Which is probably for the best anyway; it just would've sounded like a staticy rasp, context alone indicating pleasure or approval. And he had the rest of his manner to indicate that, tired as he was. But a soft kiss that turns into a deeper one- that was exactly what he wanted.
Even though he has no energy for any sort of followthrough or particular arousal, it's the sort of kiss that would've caused a moan, and which did cause his pulse to rise a notch. Mettaton's own passion was always catching, the sort of thing Emet-Selch had little resistance to- whenever he wasn't trying to incite it himself. Any effort to entice each another tended to be successful, attracted as they were to each other. Even now, when he knew they weren't actively trying to bed one another, weren't trying to tempt towards another round, it was impossible to remove all trace of heat between their contact. Whether it was represented through the threading of their fingers, or the depth of a kiss, the slipping of tongues against one another's, or the hint of suction- passion always remained. It was a natural part of them.
And it was hard to forget all that he'd taken into his mouth over this past... while. Both Mettaton's cock and his come, repeatedly- and the thought of how much he'd swallowed down, the memory of the taste of him thick in his mouth, was a deeply pleasurable one. He would always want to suck him off, or lick the excess from his fingers. And even if those earliest rounds had led to this, with the damaging of his throat, the rendering of him unable to speak and all that had followed because of his inability to vocalize sufficient praise- he didn't regret it. He didn't think they should've gone easier on him either, and he knew he'd want Mettaton to fuck his throat just as thoroughly in future. They would just... have to be a little more careful elsewhere, that was all.
Though he's a touch breathless at the end of the kiss, it's only a touch. Brushing his lips across his afterward in the faintest of nuzzles, with the press of their foreheads together, along with the union of their hands- he felt loved. And that in itself would be enough to take his breath, loving him in return just as severely. That it felt that bit sharper, heavier- Emet-Selch assumed that was due to what had just happened, heights of emotion finding a sort of catharsis, a release into utter affection and care that could reach ever deeper. But even when they weren't tearing each other open like this- physically, emotionally- he found the way they settled into one another reassuring. There was an ease there that was both restful and anything but, considering how frequently they turned towards passionate entwining. But even then, what was that but a somewhat more energetic display of affection?
Intensity was always there, no matter how gentle or impassioned they were being. They just had to find ways to channel it that wouldn't end with the Ascian's throat torn out.
But for now there was this. There was aftercare and love and soreness and mess, a considerable amount of them all. And Emet-Selch sighs quietly when Mettaton pulls back slightly, enough to take up a blanket that had become a towel, wiping up some of the excess... everything, that he'd been slathered in. Coated in. Stained by. Blood and come, sweat and saliva- the four cornerstones of their union.
Mettaton's comment does get a look of mild objection, as though to protest not only his current state, but his lover's hand in it (even if it was the result of his cock primarily, or his teeth... though his claws had played some role as well), along with his current non-verbal status. It's a very efficient look that way, far more so than any sort of speech would be. Mettaton's pride was also expected and- well. He can't blame him. To render him as thoroughly used as this, in absolute disarray, it was something worth appreciation (and as uncomfortable as it was, Emet-Selch found it no less impressive, even if he couldn't see it all).
Cleaning his thighs of excesses of come (there sure was a lot... which was satisfying to realize, and a point of strange smugness, to have inspired his lover to leave him with this much), he knew there would still be a certain amount of residue, but Emet-Selch appreciated Mettaton's overall gentleness towards him. And even if he did still feel like a mess and knew he looked like one, considering all that had already dried on him... it was better. The consideration alone made it better.
Tilting his head up a little (though not for too long, it wasn't exactly comfortable), Emet-Selch watches Mettaton's kiss to his hip, the palpitations over his thighs. Bruised skin and tired muscle- legs that had spent more time spread around his lover than otherwise, tight and tensing. Even now they twinged a little on reflex from being prodded. But even sore... it was nice to feel his touch on him regardless.]
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