[It is just a straightforward term, exactly as stated, though he'd been able to make little use of his skillset for any non-destructive purpose in... a long time. Having little projects like this was almost congenial, in that regard, a touch nostalgic. Building something without a calamitous endgame.]
Already, you're becoming such a hassle... looking after you like this.
[But it's a mild tone. He's- not sure what to make of Mettaton's apparent trust in him. Though he knew himself to be quite capable, the robot had no real proof of that yet. It was a strange thing, to be believed.]
I suppose it's because I've never had vulnerability as the price for physical form, but the very idea feels immensely careless. To know your entire existence could be erased in a single errant snap? ...'Tis nothing like the frailties of mortalkind. They perish from naught but a stern enough look. If your ghosthood carries with it immortality, I can hardly imagine risking it for....
[Attention? Physical contact? Some lie of a connection with others? How could that ever be worth risking death for? While a part of him could almost admire the commitment to one's dreams, the rest of the Ascian remained disconcerted at the decision.
Someone... doing something he wouldn't? Having different priorities?]
Hmm. If I regretted it... I'd be posed beautifully in a coffin, my fingers folded around a bouquet of glitter-covered flowers in my final rest! Too late for regrets!! ...Unless I survive my body's destruction after all. Who knows? Then I'll regret allowing such a handsome form to be destroyed... And hold a funeral for it anyway.
But I don't think I'll ever regret it. Being corporeal. After all... I love humanity. Of course I'd risk anything to be here! I've wanted this forever.
[What would happen if his body were scrapped, core and all? He imagines he'd turn to dust, just like any other monster. For as bold as reckless as Mettaton presents himself, Emet-Selch does pose a good point, that he could be obliterated with one wrong move. Back home, he didn't have to worry about that so much. He didn't see himself as a fighter — orienting himself for any combat was Alphys's job, not his concern.
Here in Aefenglom, things are a bit different. He's had his life at risk a few times, highlighting some design flaws. At the same time, it seems as though everybody's been put on the same playing field — he continues to be the other, following his own rules completely. He feels a little jealous, that he can't be lumped in with the rest of everyone else, all while feeling special for being exempt. What a confusing emotion.
He clasps his hands together and leans closer to Emet-Selch, resting his head against his shoulder. He doesn't have a reason not to trust him at his word, even if he doesn't trust that he wouldn't do something he agrees with. So far, it seems like he's been pretty transparent in both values and opinions, in Mettatons' eyes.]
It delights me, then. That you care for me enough to save me from my hypothetical funeral. As much of an event to remember as it would be... I'd much rather live, forever. I could really take the world by storm like that! Ooh, I could even keep you company... So keeping me in good shape is for the best.
What drivel... to treat death so lightly. There's nothing attractive about dying, no charm to be applied to it. The events of our week at the Rathmores' mercy was but a precursor; their only flaw was a lack of follow-through.
[But by this point, it was the response he expected. To find entertainment in one's own funeral, to treat something like that so casually, as if it were just one more event to be the center of attention of. What a troublesome man. What irrational choices, to pick humanity over anything at all.]
That is what death will be. No mourners, no beauty- only solitude and the dark, one's only fate to be forgotten there.
[Despite his words, when Mettaton's head finds his shoulder, Emet-Selch shifts a hand up, to stroke slowly through the other man's hair, as though soothing himself with the contact. He knew miqo'te appreciated having their cat ears touched; were rabbit ears the same way? After a moment's deliberation he decides to try it; fingers slipping through his hair, the Ascian rubs gently at the base of one of those ears.]
Even if we survived... it's not as though I'd accept your company for that long.
[He says, even as he pets the puca's ears, even as he drapes his other arm loosely about his waist, encouraging his nearness.]
Really? Because I've always found human funeral customs interesting. They make a real show out of it. I'd be mourned with deep sorrow... And fondly remembered!
[He is so very confident in that. Emet-Selch could never convince Mettaton that people wouldn't remember him if he tried. How does he know what death's like, anyway? Everybody does it, except for immortal people like them. It couldn't be so horrible, thinks Mettaton, even as he doesn't want to die.
The thing he really can't convince him is that his company isn't wanted. The arm about his waist and the petting of his hair is juxtaposed against Emet-Selch's bitter statement enough to elicit a good laugh out of Mettaton, who finds himself more affectionate yet. He finally gives in and presses his body closer just in time for his ears to be toyed with.]
But don't you worry, gorgeous. You don't need to accept my company to find yourself with it! How could you say no to somebody who will always be here, posing brilliantly before you...?? Unless you're trying to tell me you're giving in. Finding me too dazzling a personality to handle... Ahaha.
[But the matter of his ears. He afforded himself some time acquainting himself with his developing body, at least, though for months it was completely unpleasant to do so. Now, however, it's nice. His ears can't emote at this angle and flop over to the side instead, and one flicks before he readjusts his head against the Ascian's shoulder with an affectionate rub of his cheek — which will begin to seem like something he just does. He hums after his laugh with the comfortable sensation of his fingers at the base of his ear: yes, he's receptive to having them touched. Though his fur's grown in silky smooth, the tissue beneath at the base of his long ears is noticeably scarred — a mix of the Rathmores, and the state of his own body rebelling against itself.
While he settles close to him, Mettaton brings one hand to grip onto Emet-Selch's other shoulder while he wraps the other arm around his back, pressing his hand square between his shoulder blades. He is so ridiculous, talking so negatively while being so pleasantly affectionate. Almost like he's trying his best to push him away... Mettaton holds tight.]
[It was annoyingly contradictory. Mettaton was still being... himself, which he was very good at, and which remained a source of relative displeasure. How do you deal with someone so completely undaunted by unrelenting negativity? Emet-Selch didn't know; he never had found an effective means of deterring that kind of behavior. Neither now nor in the past.
Even so. Mettaton's nearness was not disagreeable. Even as that laugh irritates him, the rub of his face to his shoulder is pleasant, his closeness something the Ascian wanted to hang onto, rather than push aside. Which would have been the sensible response, the natural one; what was the point of company that couldn't last? A fragmented reassurance? His arm wraps further around the puca, fingers digging in (or trying to; it's more of a scrape across the metal of his back). But there was comfort in being pressed flush against him.]
Always...? I'm almost relieved there's no such thing, even for us.
[Even as his voice is bleak, his touch over rabbit ears is gentle. The Ascian's fingers are careful around the scarring, to focus more on the soft fur, trailing over the shape of long, flopped ears. Once he reaches the tip of one, his hand returns to the back of his head, thumb rubbing slowly at the base of his neck.]
Whether I can do something or not has never entered into it. I have to.
[Be it handling eccentric pucas, or resurrecting a long-dead people, Emet-Selch seems to view it all with a relentless determination.]
[It may be against metal, but that scrape of the other man's fingers against his body earns a sigh and a shift in his grip. Such closeness is quick to ignite in Mettaton that craving for intimacy, deep and heady, and he curves his back into the tightness of Emet-Selch's grip with an airy hum. Verbally, he denies him; but in behavior, he grips tighter. As Emet-Selch's fingers draw over the length of his ear, long as it is, he tilts his head somewhat to go from pressing his cheek against his shoulder into pressing his lips there instead. His eye shutters closed, focusing on the variation of Emet-Selch's touch: gentle against his neck, desperate against his back, and firm around his waist, broken as it is.
He associates Emet-Selch's despair to some many other Mirrorbound have, in being "relieved" that there's no possible "always" for them. The nature of their existence in Aefenglom's transitory at best, and "always" can't happen. If he'd ever made some kind of vow to remain "always" by Emet-Selch's side, well... That would be a bargain he couldn't keep. That's upsetting, for some reason. He kisses his shoulder, only to resettle upon it.
When he speaks, his voice is deep and soft.]
Good. I'm beginning to... like it. Being Bonded to you. What a surprise... I'd hate it if you suddenly felt you didn't have to.
[So Mettaton focuses on now, and the kinds of ways he can be close to him here. The Puca shifts his leg, sliding it against the inside of Emet-Selch's. While they're not before an audience of all kinds, Mettaton's far less inclined to hold back on gestures that might prove to be provocative.
The hand he keeps resting upon his shoulder slides down his chest, his fingers deliberately pressing into him on its slow and firm trail down. If Emet-Selch is wearing layers, he chooses to slide his hand beneath them as he wraps his arm around his waist in return while he opens his eye again, his watch on him hungry and intense.]
[There was nothing that was entirely straightforward. Did Emet-Selch want to remain in this world? No. But what future did he have waiting for him at home, a fate he most likely could not shift? He was useless here, and soon dead there; what sort of choice was that?
He doesn't want to think on it. Sensation was better, sensation was more important right now. And sound; Mettaton's voice was almost... pleasant to listen to like this, low and close.]
Only beginning to...?
[His own tone is similarly soft, escaping on an exhalation. It didn't feel like being embraced by a machine, exactly- not in the cold and inanimate sense, at least. For all that his hands explored metal rather than skin, that there was no sign of breath or what would normally qualify as signs of 'life'... he was lively all the same. Emet-Selch wasn't- quite sure how this exactly worked for Mettaton, but he seemed to be getting something out of it, which he supposed is what mattered.
The movement of Mettaton's leg gets a low noise of approval, deep in his throat, more vibration than a sound. Shifting his one of his own legs, he hooks it around the puca's; his injurious limb was not appreciating any of this, but the Ascian didn't care for what it wanted. There was a warm sense of anticipation, a mix of feeling both languid and very alert. The awareness that they were unlikely to be interrupted, there was no one to interfere, observe, or distract. A very agreeable thing, he thinks, as he feels Mettaton's hand find its way beneath layers of fabric, muscles tensing pleasantly at this contact.
Exhaustion and misery lurked underneath it all, as it ever did- but his gaze is awake, attention focused entirely on Mettaton's face and form, meeting his eye with a shared intensity, and no small amount of heat. But his eyes close as he tilts his head forward, bringing their lips together for a kiss that conveys only the edge of his desire for the other man's touch.]
[Mettaton rises eagerly to meet his lips. It's a newly exciting prospect, being out of sight when he's so used to the opposite. There aren't any reasons to hold himself back in the privacy of his Bondmate's room. Bit by bit, any reservations about what he can do here to Emet-Selch are dropped, making way for desire unknown even to himself, unfathomable in its depth. It's his curiosity, in part: this is a new experience for him completely, getting so close to another body while truly feeling his advances. But it's not just that — could it ever be, when he's endearing to Emet-Selch? It's not the act of being kissed or touched and reciprocating that fuels his passion when he kisses him alone, but the growing desire for the Ascian himself on top of it all.
So he returns the kiss with a pleasant hum, but he settles into it like he can't get close enough. His arm around Emet-Selch's waist beneath his clothes tightens dangerously again, possessive; his tongue flicks out to follow his lower lip. He can't even get a word in for once, his passion waking on him so suddenly and so thoroughly, though he has plenty he could say. Their unexpected chemistry, the way he draws him in, how he frustrates but intrigues him, the way he makes him feel vulnerable but so very much himself all at once... That's why he finds Bonding with him better than expected.
If Emet-Selch allows it, this time, Mettaton's the one to communicate the desire to slide his tongue past his lips. If he seems passionate and intent, it's not Emet-Selch's imagination: he's found himself rewinding to the sound of Emet-Selch breathless ever since their last encounter, finding it arresting. He wants more. The hand he has against his back quickly withdraws, only to frantically slide under his clothes just like his other arm. He can't feel how warm he is, but he can feel the firm softness of his figure and finds himself wanting to see and feel even more.
His leg, invited closer by the truly sensual noise from his Bondmate, does just that, but he even twists his hip to press his upper thigh firmly Emet-Selch's groin. Part of wanting the man rather than the action alone is Mettaton's desire for his pleasure, and the sound he makes in his throat coaxes him like a demand.]
[The Ascian's lips part to the puca's tongue without hesitation, less inviting him into his mouth so much as demanding his presence there. That unusual taste Mettaton had was still in evidence, though not as unfamiliar this time, and no more unwelcome. Drawing a quick breath first, he sucks a little at the other man's tongue, barely stifling a small sound around it.
It was true that Mettaton came with... significantly less baggage, compared to those Warriors of Light. They weren't even from the same star. The robot was annoying, but a curiosity; inexplicable and unique and the strangest bit familiar. It was an effective combination, if a wholly unexpected one- but Emet-Selch found himself responding to it quite readily, even appreciating the possessiveness of Mettaton's attentions. Was it due to their few shared commonalities that he could react so strongly in turn? But underlying each touch, each sound, was a singular, unrelenting feeling: don't you dare leave me alone.
Skin-on-primarily-metal wasn't quite the same as skin-on-skin contact, but that detail hardly mattered; Emet-Selch desired it all the same. It was the presence of another alongside him, some fleeting recollection of a time before solitude. Mettaton's arms against his skin was something, but not remotely sufficient or satisfying. Yet at the same time he was loathe to let go long enough to open or remove anything. If anything, the Ascian holds the man that much tighter, blunt nails scratching down along his back, able to use more force than he would have had it been skin.
And his breath hitches against Mettaton's lips, a low moan swallowed up by them, once he feels the more direct pressure of the other's thigh. That he was completely hard by now didn't surprise him, and it's something that could likely be felt through the material of his trousers. Accompanied by a faint shudder, a hiss of breath, he presses deliberately into the puca's thigh, grinding slowly against it.]
[Mettaton moans louder than he's allowed himself to as of yet, and their passionate kiss only serves to dampen it so much. He can't help it when he shudders, his grip loosening then tightening and the way he squirms in Emet-Selch's arms, though not for any attempt to leave it. Conversely, he only positions himself more favorably, rubbing his thigh against him and curving further into his body.
From the feeling of his arousal against his thigh, the way he moves his hips into him, to the sound of his voice low and sensual against his lips, and especially the rake of his fingers, harsh against his back, it all sets the robot off. Though much of it is still metal, it's one of the places where tissue's grown in more prominently. The unfamiliar feeling and context of their contact blinds him with pleasure and makes his knees weak.
Even that haunting sentiment... Is he imagining it? He couldn't be. It's penetrates him in a way that few things could, makes him tender and... guilty. It only adds to the rawness of all he experiences, from pleasure to compassion: at this rate, Emet-Selch is on the track to opening him up so much that it could overwhelm him. His kiss softens, but not in any way where it becomes less passionate: it grows deeper and desirous rather than frenzied and passionate. He doesn't want to leave Emet-Selch. Right now he feels only like he'd be satisfied with his exclusive intimate company, oddly enough. Nobody else had to get this close, and he wouldn't want it any other way. He couldn't bear to tell others and expect them to understand in any way, even if Emet-Selch doesn't share his perspective.
Desperately, his fingers grip against Emet-Selch's bare skin and this time he can feel him, having deliberately not worn gloves for the first time in months. His claws, however, still haven't grown back in, but the feeling of his skin is enough. It justifies any of the tenderness in his fingertips to experience him.
For a fleeting moment, Mettaton breaks the kiss, but he doesn't draw away. If he panted it would be fake, so the only way it shows how starstruck he is is how he stutters.]
E... Emet...
[Mettaton could get used to this. This level of closeness, trying desperately to get closer, and if they could he knows they just might. He doesn't think it'll ever become tiresome, though. Mettaton's fingers wander toward his sides, his thumbs anchoring against Emet-Selch's hips.]
[The sounds Mettaton made were more than satisfying. The way he almost writhed against him- every response only fed into his own, heightened it, encouraged it. That it was possible to see the idol this... unguarded, responsive- it made it that bit easier to be unguarded in turn, to answer him as he naturally would, without any consideration towards pretense.
When the kiss breaks, the Ascian feels light-headed, unsure of the last time he'd taken a proper breath. It had seemed... unimportant, had traveled further down his list of priorities as the moments passed, easily eclipsed by maintaining that contact. And it's only grudgingly that he makes up for it now, breathing rapid and a bit unsteady, punctuated by shivering. Chest heaving, his hands settle for the moment at Mettaton's lower back, simply clutching at him.
There was a lot to take in, even for him. He had eons of experience, but it was eons of indifference. When he responded genuinely, it was genuine, the whole mess of him: unabashed and poorly restrained. It wasn't consciously that Emet-Selch shared that sense of desperation- not for physical satisfaction (though it certainly flavored it), but simple closeness. A bitter loneliness. How could it ever be enough? It couldn't; yet he dug in regardless.
Intense emotions on his part were always negative.
So sharply aroused that it ached, he can't stop the slow roll of his hips against the other man's thigh, nor the accompanying quiet moan. Letting go of Mettaton's back, the Ascian's hands move up to cup either side of his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. His eyes flicker open for a brief few moments, though his gaze is too unfocused to make out much of anything with his good eye. Pressing their lips together again, there's more of a gentleness to the kiss, remembering that softness he'd previously been shown, and wanting more of it. Wanting more of everything, and a little afraid of being consumed by it.]
[Hearing Emet-Selch gasping for air is dizzying. He'd been thinking about that for days after, had craved the thought of kissing him silly... And brought himself much impotent frustration over it, in fact. Though he's broken their kiss for the moment, he lets his lips linger against his while he revels in Emet-Selch's bodily reactions, from his shiver to the way he grabs at his back. His gaze is half-lidded, appropriately drunk off of proximity and the abundance of psychological stimulation enough to make the room spin.
It takes him by some surprise when Emet-Selch lets go, only to feel the Ascian's hands at his face, gentle. Mettaton tries to focus with a blink; he searches his Bondmate's expression and his unfixed gaze, when his answer's found instead in his actions. And when Emet-Selch closes in to kiss him, it yanks more affection from Mettaton's heart to be treated with so much deliberation.
He hums into it, returns it ardently, allows one of his arms to slip back around Emet-Selch's waist entirely to draw them close and tight. His other hand, however, skirts up his back, his fingers tangling in his hair and palm pressing into his neck. It demands closeness, and Mettaton once more slides his tongue between Emet-Selch's lips, tasting him and taking in his warmth with a note of pleasure. He'll scarcely give him a chance to pull away. The robot rocks his own hips, just enough to provide reciprocal friction against his thigh; the sensation's electrifying, to Mettaton.
Though at some point, he does break the kiss, but only enough to allow his partner breath. He doesn't pull away, intending only to give him a moment and nothing more.]
I'd love... more of you. [Then he captures him back up in a deep kiss, experimenting with the way this affects Emet-Selch: both his words, and the way he renders him breathless.]
[That demand for closeness provides reassurance, a steady reminder of being wanted, and wanting ever more in response. Body molding to Mettaton's as if it belonged there, it still wasn't enough, there were too many layers, unwanted barriers between them. The efforts of Mettaton's hands had been some small consolation, but even with the arm now locked around him, the pressure against his neck holding him in place, he found he needed more than that. A hint of frustration enters the kiss, even as his own hands smooth over the sides of Mettaton's face, to the back of his head, fingertips kneading at his neck.
Words. Words were quite difficult at the moment, in a way that had little to do with being kissed or out of breath. To translate a feeling into thought, and from there into speech- while being distracted anew at the depth of that kiss; he answers that first, even as he struggles for air around it. Distracted repeatedly by the thought of Mettaton's words, the sound of his voice, a taut shudder running through him, the Ascian's pulse is uncomfortably quick.]
...As much as you'd like.
[It's not even a full thought, what Emet-Selch manages to murmur against his lips, but though soft, there's a note of tension to it; if it doesn't quite reach pleading, it's something closely adjacent. For more of this, more of Mettaton specifically; nothing else would do, and even that felt like it could never be enough.
With that in mind, he nudges himself forward with a different sort of purpose (the added pressure between them a distracting bonus), but to also encourage Mettaton across the room towards the Ascian's bed. If he was going to keep feeling dizzy like this- off-center, disoriented and desperate- standing up was going to become progressively more of a risky endeavor.]
[That distraction is perfectly within Mettaton's ambitions, and he brightens with excitement and hunger at Emet-Selch's reply, both his verbal and nonverbal ones. Aside from gauging his reaction (and what a response it is, one that delights him yet softens him equally), there was an element of discovery for his partner's current status. Mettaton's pleased with his response, naturally: it means he could take what he'd like, and give as much of himself right back.
So it doesn't take much in the way of coaxing to take that quick trip to Emet-Selch's bed, considering it was Mettaton's destination to begin with. He disengages from hold at his neck, though his arm remains curled around Emet-Selch and in his clothes when he deepens his kiss once more, then breaks away. With that arm still wrapped about his waist, he tugs Emet-Selch with a flirtatious smile, eager in his body language and graceful in his steps.
Once they make it to Emet-Selch's bed, the idol tries to get Emet-Selch to collapse upon it first, envisioning the Ascian laying beneath him and completely at his whim, though he can't bear to keep his hands off. It's multitasking, then, when Mettaton finally starts to work at the Ascian's clothes.]
As much as I'd like...? [He loves that answer; he'd say as much, but he finds himself giving a stuttering sigh instead, growing deeply desirous for this outcome.] Then I'll start here.
[The removal of his clothes, the thought of pulling himself flush against his bare skin... In place of any pulse, Mettaton can feel his temperature rise at the mere thought of beholding Emet-Selch's body. For the amount of time Mettaton has spent watching humans through a screen and absorbing their figure, the naked body continues to be more elusive to him though not unfamiliar. But this is far more intimate and close, someone he can touch and take in to his satisfaction. For it to be Emet-Selch... Mettaton's eye glints with the thrill he feels at the very notion.]
[It's a good thing Mettaton is graceful enough for both of them; though there's no stumbling, the Ascian still bears a noticeable limp, made slightly worse by how much he'd been ignoring the protests of that injured leg. It was a very unhappy limb, and he cared no more for its opinions than before.
But it doesn't take much in the way of coaxing to get Emet-Selch to fall back upon the bed, imagining in turn the sight of Mettaton above him, the touch of his hands and pressure of his body flush against his skin. Even the idea is absurdly appealing, and with his back against the mattress, it was hard to not dwell on it, closing his eyes for a few moments as he tries to fight off a shiver.
But practicalities remained. Half-assisting with the fastenings of his clothes, half-getting in the way of Mettaton's hands, half-again (somehow) getting distracted by running his own hands up the other man's arms and chest, Emet-Selch stole what scraps of contact that he could. As progressively more skin was exposed to air, his anticipation only grew with it, and though his gaze remains a bit unfocused, his expression conveys something of that sense of longing.
Unfortunately, his skin is not unmarked. It is quite severely marked, in fact, fresh scarring of various depths litters his abdomen and chest, one trailing upwards towards his throat. Perhaps most unpleasant is the sense of deliberation in the marks; this wasn't the result of haphazard battle, but a conscious act on the part of their captors during that week. At least most of the bruising has since faded, apart from some faint discoloration.
A similar pattern can be found at his legs, the very worst scar being the one that extends across the length of one thigh. It still looks sore, for all the healing it's received; the damage beneath it had been extensive.
Not that Emet-Selch particularly cares what he looks like, and he felt no sense of shame or dismay over it; it probably helped that he never viewed his hosts as really being himself. Of far more value was watching Mettaton watch him, and he wondered distantly how much experience the robot had ever had with humans, having lived in a monster-filled society.]
[And with his Bondmate just where he wants him, Mettaton eases himself between his legs, at first drawing his body close to the other man's — but not quite touching. The temptation to press into him already is overbearing, and it takes great self-restraint to hold back. If he did, he'd lose himself to it. Undressing him is just as tantalizing, so it's not a hard diversion. A necessary one, at that.
Emet-Selch's "assistance" only serves to charm Mettaton, particularly when he intercepts and distracts himself with Mettaton's body. He can't wait to have him close once more, can he? Mettaotn smirks with a fond hum, and even rewards such behavior with a kiss to his neck here, or hard presses of his fingertips along his body there — but the Ascian wouldn't go without deliberate contact on Mettaton's part, who craves his body more and more with each passing moment. Seeing Emet-Selch rendered so vulnerable only heightens this craving, and that feeling snowballs the lss and less there is to cover him up.
...He'd seen what they did to people. Even where Mettaton has tissue and synthetic skin, they'd employed some similar tactics: he recognizes it as cruelly investigative. Mettaton traces a finger down the scar that spans his throat down, his eyes flicking up to watch Emet-Selch's face. These wouldn't heal, and the impact from the event itself... A pang of sympathy overcomes the Puca. Emet-Selch is too vulnerable to hanging onto such horrors, just like he is, but with his bleak outlook he wonders how badly it haunts him. Even for Mettaton, dauntless as he behaved, the experience changed him in ways he won't acknowledge.
His pants. Beyond those scars, the cyborg finds it impossible to wait a moment longer to get to touching his skin as he so desires. Mettaton moves to remove those quickly, eagerly, but not before ending his initial survey with a kiss into Emet-Selch's abdomen. Among beholding the entire rest of his body with a wide-eyed gaze, he fixes his attention on his injured leg and shakes his head in disbelief. His voice continues low, as if for Emet-Selch's ears only, though he idly brings a finger to rest against his own lower lip out of fascination with his body.]
I can't believe you. You know, darling... I'd have gladly taken you to bed far earlier, injury or not. Besides. I'm simply taken by you...
[He anchors his hands against Emet-Selch's hips. That means for all the times that he stood to meet him, he was doing it on a leg this injured. What a ridiculous man...
But while talking about his leg is a real concern of MTT's, it's also a thinly veiled excuse to stare at Emet-Selch's body, unabashed, long and hungry for every detail. It's... shocking, unfamiliar, but so recognizable to him, and he wants it. His fingers trace down from his hips to brush against the length of Emet-Selch's arousal, hardly able to contain his desire, his curiosity to experience how he's affected.]
[Having Mettaton's body so close, but contact so limited, had been a great tease in itself, moreso than no contact at all. And while his blood fairly hummed with expectation, the heaviness of want, it extended into the desire to draw out the moment, this feeling, for as long as possible. To shut out the din of intrusive thoughts, the existence of the outside world entirely--
Thoughts that were certainly worse in the aftermath of that torture. Emet-Selch had never possessed much in the way of coping methods for anything else in his life; he wasn't about to start developing them now. But... perhaps there was something to be said for the company of someone else who'd been there, had experienced the same things. Who understood the sort of things that couldn't be said.
Perhaps that made it easier for Emet-Selch to allow the idol so close now. His muscles tense pleasantly underneath that kiss, and even more at the way Mettaton was looking at him, an exploration by sight. It was a good thing the Ascian wasn't predisposed to shyness, feeling a touch amused- perhaps even flattered- at such close attention. While he wasn't the sort to crave attention in itself, he could appreciate care being taken. At Mettaton's seeming disapproval regarding his treatment of his leg, he hums in soft amusement.]
Such concern--
[Words that are cut off with a harsh intake of breath as soon as Mettaton's fingers drift from his hip to his cock. His eyes shut for a few seconds more, having to let that rush of sharper wanting run through him. From just a brush of contact; the Ascian almost has to shake his head at his own neediness. While there was still the occasional flicker of unease at being so unguarded with his own responses, the desire for company overwhelmed it.
Swallowing, he gathers his thoughts and his voice, eyes opening to gaze across at Mettaton once more.]
...Such concern is unnecessary. Though I'm not opposed to ending up here sooner.
[In future goes unspoken; the assumption that this wouldn't be the last time they were together. Raising an arm, the Ascian lets his hand trace slowly across the side of Mettaton's face, to brush through a few strands of his hair. It's- almost affectionate, in a way, though he wouldn't have recognized it as such.]
[Mettaton's eye widens again at the reaction to his touch, any words lodged behind a mental block. That does it, and he's ready to pounce; the ardor in his gaze suggests this well enough. He hears static, grounded only when Emet-Selch reaches for his face with such affection that it would surprise Mettaton to know that he didn't see it as such. His ears pull back at the feelings of desire and adoration overcoming him, relaxed, finding comfort in it, of all things. It tempers his blinded need into something he can wield with more intent, and perhaps it's for the better. It's potent, the combination of lust and infatuation.
He expects that there will be more after this, without a doubt. Tonight won't be enough. This already exceeds his expectations — perhaps not in the way that he always imagined intimacy would play out, but in its own way. Nobody he kissed and held would be Emet-Selch. He smiles playfully, quirking a brow at the Ascian's final remark.]
I'll... [Turns out he wasn't ready to speak, after all. He swallows.] Take that into... Consideration. I aim to please.
[He stares again at all of Emet-Selch, the slightest rise of his shoulders as he's taken aback at the sight of the man sprawled out before him. He decides that he can't let another second go by where he's not against him somehow, and his indecision is fleeting: he can have everything he wants and more, even if it's not all right now. Even if he wants all of him, every last bit of his composure, his body, and his soul. Already Mettaton's predisposed to thinking of him in such terms, knowing what he knows about Emet-Selch. (His mind revisits an two old considerations never clarified: how much of this body is as is, and what did Emet-Selch do to it to make it his, if anything? And... his name. What is his favored?)
That feverish intent doesn't leave even as his eyelid curtains, focusing with passion as he stoops forward. He licks his lips, his hands wandering to Emet-Selch's waist and taking hold of him firmly. The robot catches the head of his cock between his lips, his tongue stroking him from the underside, along the tip, and to the top in one fluid but deliberate motion. He keeps him between his lips, letting his tongue linger as he emits a noise of pleasant satisfaction at what he feels, tactile and temperature. He relishes it: Emet-Selch is warm, softer than he imagined, and he sucks at the tip before releasing him to let his tongue press against him sloppily. His attention's split between what's before his face and Emet-Selch's response.]
[It had been hard to be looked at like that and not touched; that for all of Mettaton's new rabbitine features, it felt like being appraised by something far more predatory. As though on the verge of being devoured in a less literal sense. While viewing such a fate as... wanted, somehow.
Had the Ascian expected any of this when he'd made that bet with the puca, while broken, bleeding, and awaiting death? Not even remotely. And though he'd never regretted the pact or its consequences, he was coming to realize that he would choose to maintain it, regardless of its potential practical value. That this Bond had... some sort of different value of its own.
...How strange, to feel as though in the process of being claimed. And why did it reassure him? Not that Emet-Selch was disinclined to dig his figurative claws into Mettaton in return.
He doesn't quite cry out, but he makes a choked sound nonetheless, an exhalation that shudders through him. The sudden presence of lips and tongue at his cock had come as a small surprise, for some reason, his next breath escaping as a low, pleased-sounding groan. His legs on either side of him tremble slightly, as Emet-Selch shifts up a little to watch Mettaton more readily.
Not that he found it easy to look at him- the sight of the other's mouth sucking at the tip of him, the way his tongue slid over sensitive, heated skin- it was nearly as intense as the feeling of it. Normally he didn't have much trouble watching this sort of thing, if he cared to bother at all- but this time the Ascian had to fight the impulse to look aside or keep his eyes closed. But he didn't want to miss a moment of it either, to pair sight with sensation, to remember them both.
And Emet-Selch had a very good memory.
Though they had stilled at the first stroke of tongue, his fingers settle further in Mettaton's hair, fingertips rubbing small, faintly unsteady circles against his scalp.]
[Even during the eye contact he makes with him to check his reception, Mettaton's attentions are purely sensuous and teetering on drunk. Delighted at being watched, it compels him to continue with a smile. Watching him in a state of longing and for him, even thinking about as much, causes Mettaton to shudder in return. Being desired isn't new to him, no, but having bonded in this manner with somebody in a way unlike anybody else...
If he knew he'd earned such a place with the Ascian, he'd say he knew he would. But it would be remiss to say that he didn't feel similarly, deciding he'd do whatever it took to keep him. Why would he give him up? He can justify keeping him in thousands of ways, though... fondness is at the forefront. He swallows again. Salivating is new to him, but he's decided that it's very, very welcome. It was already welcome, but this brings new appreciation for it.
Mettaton actively wonders what it must feel like, his ministrations which elicit such pleasure from Emet-Selch: it's contagious enough without feeling it for himself, and even that's a lot for the star to process. His sounds and his shivers are enough to give the android a heady rush, his attention fixed so wholly on the man beneath him and very little else. He tilts his head, drags the tip of his tongue down his shaft until he's at the very base, where he curls it around his girth and mouths him feverishly, wet and greedy, before dragging his lips back up to the very tip. With reestablished eye contact, he parts his lips and takes more yet of his length into his mouth, ambitious and wanting. His thumbs move down to Emet Selch's hips and his fingers wander in toward his soft abdomen, pressing gently. If he weren't treating his cock to his amorous treatment, he only imagines how he'd love to feel his naked body against himself right now, by far softer and warmer than himself — full of his vitality.
With his length far in enough to press at the back of his tongue, Mettaton hums; anyone with a gag reflex would be hard-pressed to achieve such a feat, but Mettaton doesn't even blink. Having his cock fill his mouth, hard and soft yet warm even against the heat of his mouth, makes Mettaton dizzy, and he trembles at the delight of it. He allows his tongue to rub along the underside of his cock, a sliding pressure that pulls gradually toward what he can reach of his head, though he has him in deep enough that there's not much space even for that.
Realizing this, Mettaton moans softly; his eye closes, his head lolls somewhat, kept in place by Emet-Selchs arousal. There's nowhere for it to go with an erection near the back of his throat, after all, but he loses himself to the pleasure of it, both in sensation and in psyche. Perhaps even Emet-Selch's fingers in his hair, or the reminder that his hand there, is enough to keep him from losing himself, and his eye cracks open as he pulls his mouth away from his erection, readjusting, then slides his mouth back down upon him.]
[Lips slightly parted, eyes half-closed but fixed on him, the Ascian's breath turns to a ragged panting. He doesn't even attempt to control it; it would be a futile endeavor, and he couldn't find any inclination to want to hide the effect Mettaton was having on him. As though his responses were something to inflict.
And it ached both terribly and wonderfully, feeling spurred on by each pass of the other's tongue, the softness of lips caressing his shaft, the slickness left in the wake of Mettaton's attentions. Whenever his eye met the idol's, his pulse lurched painfully, followed by an answering pang through his cock.
In a distant sort of way- the majority of his attention remaining on the sight of much of his erection being engulfed by the other man's mouth, feeling the head of it brush against the back of his throat, the sensation of humming, of all things- Emet-Selch noted that this was one occasion where not needing to breathe had specific advantages.
Unlike himself, who needed to breathe very much, and yet still felt as though he couldn't get enough air. Softer, ever needier sounds pass from his lips without being wholly conscious of it, as his body struggles not to writhe up under him, shuddering underneath the kneading of Mettaton's hands from the effort. The Ascian's free hand digs into the covers of the bed, fingers spasming slightly, unable to find any sort of anchor there- and not really wanting to.
It was unfamiliar, to let himself be overwhelmed like this- but it was a bit of an addicting sensation. And the strangest bit reassuring.
Even that brief moment without Mettaton's mouth around his cock almost hurts from the lack, a few seconds of chill as wet, hardened skin hit the cooler air around it. There's a palpable sense of relief when that heat surrounds the length of him again, even as it's followed by intensifying need. His hand settles for clutching at Mettaton's hair, unable to muster the coordination to do more than hold onto him.]
[This is the sight he'd been craving. The affection he feels over witnessing Emet-Selch coming undone before him is evident in the warmth of his gaze as he tips his head forward for the Ascian's fingers, allowing him greater access to grip into his hair, to his ears, whatever comes easiest. He wants to feel all of it.
Sentiment washes over him and he hums, love blending with his libidinous appetite and into a deep-seated ambition: to see just how much he'd come apart for him, how deeply he could touch him, how hard he could make him gasp.
After having the head of Emet-Selch's erection resting against the back of his tongue for just long enough, Mettaton pulls off of him. Reluctantly, he withdraws one of his hands from his abdomen and wipes up a bit of drool that falls from the corner of his mouth (for a lot of good that does him, all things considered), but he lets out a noise of satisfied interest as he beholds the stiffness of Emet-Selch's arousal. He thinks to speak: thinks to inform him that there are so many ways he'd have him, for all future intents; thinks to tell him how he delights him; thinks to tell him how he adores him; but he only manages to part his lips when he makes eye contact again, anticipation to take him palpable.
Hungrily, he grips at his length with his thumb against the underside of his shaft. He strokes him firmly, then leans into kiss him along the side, open-mouthed and messy. To accompany his kisses, his fingers drift up to squeeze just beneath the head, the length of his thumb following the curve of his arousal.
With another firm kiss placed against the very tip of his erection, Mettaton resumes what he's sure Emet-Selch will want. With his fingers entwined in MTT's hair, he'd be able to control him if he wanted... So he makes sure not to give him reason to. He presses him against his lips, allowing for him to pop through with a satisfied groan. As he pushes down over him he shivers as he feels his cock fill his mouth completely, clear to the back of his throat. The suddenness of it has him swallowing thickly by reflex, and MTT closes his eyes at the sensation of his throat tightening around his Bonded with another stifled gasp. As if he could gasp at all, given what occupies his throat. He'll begin to bob up and down over Emet-Selch, intent and completely lacking in any rhythm: when he remains with his lips around the base of his cock, it's because he's enjoying how his tongue lays against it; and when he comes up it's to otherwise run his tongue slow, over and around the head or to treat him to a good suck before pushing back over him. Could he get any more intense of a response than this? Could he take more of him?]
[Looking at him with heavy-lidded intent, Emet-Selch bites his lip when Mettaton pulls off of him for a time, his cock practically glistening from how slick he'd left it. It didn't feel frustrating, exactly, for all that he longed for him to continue, but it felt like a part of the experience- watching Mettaton observe his handiwork, the mess he was making of him. How much the Ascian wanted him, to an absurd degree--
The renewed touch, the firm drag of fingers down the length of his erection brings the briefest of relief, a hard shudder causing his muscles to clench. Paired with the different sensation of damp lips, the suggestion of heat from Mettaton's mouth against rigid flesh, and the feeling turns into an ever deeper ache. Something like a whine works deep in Emet-Selch's throat, and his hand returns to petting roughly at the idol's hair, as though he could coax more out of him in some way.
And the Ascian can't help but cry out when Mettaton finally takes him in again, the sound brief but loud, strangled off into another gasping for air. He's forced to close his eyes for a handful of seconds, able to hear only the rapid thudding of his heart, and the more distant echo of his own desperate breathing. When he feels himself swallowed up entirely, the constriction of Mettaton's throat around his cock, he forces himself to witness it, the sight of the man buried so fully between his thighs would have him moaning ever louder if he weren't so out of air. But he certainly seems to try, as though needing to express every scrap of intensity, every effect Mettaton was having on him. The lack of particular rhythm kept him that bit more off-balance, the mix of pressures and motions, the softness of tongue against the squeezing of being sucked upon.
There's a soft note of pleading amid the sharpness of his breath, the way the Ascian's fingers shakily stroked over the puca's rabbit ears. For- satisfaction, certainly, but a lot of other things with it. For his company, perhaps. For this moment to continue until it blotted out all other things, the despair and grief that he carried with him in perpetuity.
[If he ever had doubts about Emet-Selch's desperation, he couldn't have them any longer. The bleed of their Bond is significant with their mutual drop in guard, Mettaton attuned to the vastness of his longing and ache.
But it's not as though he needs this lack of barrier to be able to tell: the Ascian's expression, his gasps for air amidst cries of pleasure, and his body language are all he'd need to be able to tell as much, but he feels it. The true expression of his passion, however, penetrates Mettaton deep to his core, and he's affected by his lust by wanting him more and more. Compared to Emet-Selch's fingers, he can feel how blazing hot his ears are from the temperature of his body, the only real indicator of how flushed he could be if it were possible.
He can hardly think straight. For being someone lacking in the same sensory opportunities, the amount of pleasure Mettaton's experiencing is enough to make him tremble and doubt his vision, but it might not be so noticeable while they're both in the throes of passion. This is compounded upon by Emet-Selch — how could he have expected for this to be so intense?
His hand now unoccupied runs up Emet-Selch's inner thigh; the hand still on his abdomen drags from his navel down to his groin. Mettaton closes his eye for a moment but finds that even if it permits him focus, he wants to... lose himself, just like Emet-Selch. He wants to take everything he can get out of him and drown in it, so his eye opens again and he drinks in the sight of Emet-Selch, every moan and falter and plead.
He pulls back far enough that his lips, tight around the other man's shaft, catch on the head, where Mettaton finds himself lapping at him and sucking in tandem, eager and wanting. It doesn't feel like much longer before he's sliding back down enthusiastically, feeling his throat's empty without Emet-Selch's cock to press into all of the delicate parts of his mouth. He swallows again, this time intentional and hard. It's impossible to take him any deeper, but Mettaton readjusts, nuzzling into him with sincerity in his pleasure.
If he wants to forget, Mettaton can only deliver. He prides himself on being an escape. He shudders against the sensation of Emet-Selch's fingers, the press of his cock in his throat, the warmth of him there and the appearance of his Bonded before him. It's so, so much, more than he'd ever bargained for, and he doesn't even hear himself as he moans against him.]
[How could he have anticipated even a degree of this...? The Ascian's fingers squeeze intermittently at the puca's ears without realizing, noting only the heat of the skin underneath soft fur, one more point of absolute warmth touching him, yet another note to be drowned and stained by. To suffocate fully: nothing less would do, nothing else would drive the world back--
It was the depth of that combination that finally does it. The sight of his cock being taken fully by the other man's mouth. The softness of tongue and lips, the tightness of Mettaton's throat squeezing him. The overwhelming heat and wetness of it, the stroke of a hand across his thigh. The sounds, both his own, and whatever he could make out from the idol, even stifled by the cock in his mouth, but that much more arresting for it. The way their Bonds had bled together without the Ascian even realizing- shaken by how Mettaton was responding to him in turn.
Not that Emet-Selch couldn't have guessed either, due to everything else he was witnessing, but to feel it as well--
It was inevitable. Being pushed to the edge like this, there's nothing he can do to hold back, no way to stop himself from being dragged over, losing the last remnants of control as his release takes him. The Ascian's body convulses beneath Mettaton, back arching, legs shaking, head thrown back without even realizing it. And the sound he makes- it's surprisingly low, perhaps, and interrupted by irregular gasps for breath- but completely open, containing nothing but the intensity of all that was running through him. Rather than satisfied or relieved, it's a sound of hurt, raw and bordering on despair. That's what strong emotions were like. He's unsure how long it all lasts. He's unsure of much of anything, really.
When it finally begins to fade, Emet-Selch collapses, half-conscious, deafened by the blood rushing through his head, unable to stop himself from trembling.]
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Already, you're becoming such a hassle... looking after you like this.
[But it's a mild tone. He's- not sure what to make of Mettaton's apparent trust in him. Though he knew himself to be quite capable, the robot had no real proof of that yet. It was a strange thing, to be believed.]
I suppose it's because I've never had vulnerability as the price for physical form, but the very idea feels immensely careless. To know your entire existence could be erased in a single errant snap? ...'Tis nothing like the frailties of mortalkind. They perish from naught but a stern enough look. If your ghosthood carries with it immortality, I can hardly imagine risking it for....
[Attention? Physical contact? Some lie of a connection with others? How could that ever be worth risking death for? While a part of him could almost admire the commitment to one's dreams, the rest of the Ascian remained disconcerted at the decision.
Someone... doing something he wouldn't? Having different priorities?]
I hope you don't come to regret your choice.
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But I don't think I'll ever regret it. Being corporeal. After all... I love humanity. Of course I'd risk anything to be here! I've wanted this forever.
[What would happen if his body were scrapped, core and all? He imagines he'd turn to dust, just like any other monster. For as bold as reckless as Mettaton presents himself, Emet-Selch does pose a good point, that he could be obliterated with one wrong move. Back home, he didn't have to worry about that so much. He didn't see himself as a fighter — orienting himself for any combat was Alphys's job, not his concern.
Here in Aefenglom, things are a bit different. He's had his life at risk a few times, highlighting some design flaws. At the same time, it seems as though everybody's been put on the same playing field — he continues to be the other, following his own rules completely. He feels a little jealous, that he can't be lumped in with the rest of everyone else, all while feeling special for being exempt. What a confusing emotion.
He clasps his hands together and leans closer to Emet-Selch, resting his head against his shoulder. He doesn't have a reason not to trust him at his word, even if he doesn't trust that he wouldn't do something he agrees with. So far, it seems like he's been pretty transparent in both values and opinions, in Mettatons' eyes.]
It delights me, then. That you care for me enough to save me from my hypothetical funeral. As much of an event to remember as it would be... I'd much rather live, forever. I could really take the world by storm like that! Ooh, I could even keep you company... So keeping me in good shape is for the best.
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[But by this point, it was the response he expected. To find entertainment in one's own funeral, to treat something like that so casually, as if it were just one more event to be the center of attention of. What a troublesome man. What irrational choices, to pick humanity over anything at all.]
That is what death will be. No mourners, no beauty- only solitude and the dark, one's only fate to be forgotten there.
[Despite his words, when Mettaton's head finds his shoulder, Emet-Selch shifts a hand up, to stroke slowly through the other man's hair, as though soothing himself with the contact. He knew miqo'te appreciated having their cat ears touched; were rabbit ears the same way? After a moment's deliberation he decides to try it; fingers slipping through his hair, the Ascian rubs gently at the base of one of those ears.]
Even if we survived... it's not as though I'd accept your company for that long.
[He says, even as he pets the puca's ears, even as he drapes his other arm loosely about his waist, encouraging his nearness.]
no subject
[He is so very confident in that. Emet-Selch could never convince Mettaton that people wouldn't remember him if he tried. How does he know what death's like, anyway? Everybody does it, except for immortal people like them. It couldn't be so horrible, thinks Mettaton, even as he doesn't want to die.
The thing he really can't convince him is that his company isn't wanted. The arm about his waist and the petting of his hair is juxtaposed against Emet-Selch's bitter statement enough to elicit a good laugh out of Mettaton, who finds himself more affectionate yet. He finally gives in and presses his body closer just in time for his ears to be toyed with.]
But don't you worry, gorgeous. You don't need to accept my company to find yourself with it! How could you say no to somebody who will always be here, posing brilliantly before you...?? Unless you're trying to tell me you're giving in. Finding me too dazzling a personality to handle... Ahaha.
[But the matter of his ears. He afforded himself some time acquainting himself with his developing body, at least, though for months it was completely unpleasant to do so. Now, however, it's nice. His ears can't emote at this angle and flop over to the side instead, and one flicks before he readjusts his head against the Ascian's shoulder with an affectionate rub of his cheek — which will begin to seem like something he just does. He hums after his laugh with the comfortable sensation of his fingers at the base of his ear: yes, he's receptive to having them touched. Though his fur's grown in silky smooth, the tissue beneath at the base of his long ears is noticeably scarred — a mix of the Rathmores, and the state of his own body rebelling against itself.
While he settles close to him, Mettaton brings one hand to grip onto Emet-Selch's other shoulder while he wraps the other arm around his back, pressing his hand square between his shoulder blades. He is so ridiculous, talking so negatively while being so pleasantly affectionate. Almost like he's trying his best to push him away... Mettaton holds tight.]
You can handle me, can't you...?
no subject
Even so. Mettaton's nearness was not disagreeable. Even as that laugh irritates him, the rub of his face to his shoulder is pleasant, his closeness something the Ascian wanted to hang onto, rather than push aside. Which would have been the sensible response, the natural one; what was the point of company that couldn't last? A fragmented reassurance? His arm wraps further around the puca, fingers digging in (or trying to; it's more of a scrape across the metal of his back). But there was comfort in being pressed flush against him.]
Always...? I'm almost relieved there's no such thing, even for us.
[Even as his voice is bleak, his touch over rabbit ears is gentle. The Ascian's fingers are careful around the scarring, to focus more on the soft fur, trailing over the shape of long, flopped ears. Once he reaches the tip of one, his hand returns to the back of his head, thumb rubbing slowly at the base of his neck.]
Whether I can do something or not has never entered into it. I have to.
[Be it handling eccentric pucas, or resurrecting a long-dead people, Emet-Selch seems to view it all with a relentless determination.]
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He associates Emet-Selch's despair to some many other Mirrorbound have, in being "relieved" that there's no possible "always" for them. The nature of their existence in Aefenglom's transitory at best, and "always" can't happen. If he'd ever made some kind of vow to remain "always" by Emet-Selch's side, well... That would be a bargain he couldn't keep. That's upsetting, for some reason. He kisses his shoulder, only to resettle upon it.
When he speaks, his voice is deep and soft.]
Good. I'm beginning to... like it. Being Bonded to you. What a surprise... I'd hate it if you suddenly felt you didn't have to.
[So Mettaton focuses on now, and the kinds of ways he can be close to him here. The Puca shifts his leg, sliding it against the inside of Emet-Selch's. While they're not before an audience of all kinds, Mettaton's far less inclined to hold back on gestures that might prove to be provocative.
The hand he keeps resting upon his shoulder slides down his chest, his fingers deliberately pressing into him on its slow and firm trail down. If Emet-Selch is wearing layers, he chooses to slide his hand beneath them as he wraps his arm around his waist in return while he opens his eye again, his watch on him hungry and intense.]
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He doesn't want to think on it. Sensation was better, sensation was more important right now. And sound; Mettaton's voice was almost... pleasant to listen to like this, low and close.]
Only beginning to...?
[His own tone is similarly soft, escaping on an exhalation. It didn't feel like being embraced by a machine, exactly- not in the cold and inanimate sense, at least. For all that his hands explored metal rather than skin, that there was no sign of breath or what would normally qualify as signs of 'life'... he was lively all the same. Emet-Selch wasn't- quite sure how this exactly worked for Mettaton, but he seemed to be getting something out of it, which he supposed is what mattered.
The movement of Mettaton's leg gets a low noise of approval, deep in his throat, more vibration than a sound. Shifting his one of his own legs, he hooks it around the puca's; his injurious limb was not appreciating any of this, but the Ascian didn't care for what it wanted. There was a warm sense of anticipation, a mix of feeling both languid and very alert. The awareness that they were unlikely to be interrupted, there was no one to interfere, observe, or distract. A very agreeable thing, he thinks, as he feels Mettaton's hand find its way beneath layers of fabric, muscles tensing pleasantly at this contact.
Exhaustion and misery lurked underneath it all, as it ever did- but his gaze is awake, attention focused entirely on Mettaton's face and form, meeting his eye with a shared intensity, and no small amount of heat. But his eyes close as he tilts his head forward, bringing their lips together for a kiss that conveys only the edge of his desire for the other man's touch.]
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So he returns the kiss with a pleasant hum, but he settles into it like he can't get close enough. His arm around Emet-Selch's waist beneath his clothes tightens dangerously again, possessive; his tongue flicks out to follow his lower lip. He can't even get a word in for once, his passion waking on him so suddenly and so thoroughly, though he has plenty he could say. Their unexpected chemistry, the way he draws him in, how he frustrates but intrigues him, the way he makes him feel vulnerable but so very much himself all at once... That's why he finds Bonding with him better than expected.
If Emet-Selch allows it, this time, Mettaton's the one to communicate the desire to slide his tongue past his lips. If he seems passionate and intent, it's not Emet-Selch's imagination: he's found himself rewinding to the sound of Emet-Selch breathless ever since their last encounter, finding it arresting. He wants more. The hand he has against his back quickly withdraws, only to frantically slide under his clothes just like his other arm. He can't feel how warm he is, but he can feel the firm softness of his figure and finds himself wanting to see and feel even more.
His leg, invited closer by the truly sensual noise from his Bondmate, does just that, but he even twists his hip to press his upper thigh firmly Emet-Selch's groin. Part of wanting the man rather than the action alone is Mettaton's desire for his pleasure, and the sound he makes in his throat coaxes him like a demand.]
no subject
It was true that Mettaton came with... significantly less baggage, compared to those Warriors of Light. They weren't even from the same star. The robot was annoying, but a curiosity; inexplicable and unique and the strangest bit familiar. It was an effective combination, if a wholly unexpected one- but Emet-Selch found himself responding to it quite readily, even appreciating the possessiveness of Mettaton's attentions. Was it due to their few shared commonalities that he could react so strongly in turn? But underlying each touch, each sound, was a singular, unrelenting feeling: don't you dare leave me alone.
Skin-on-primarily-metal wasn't quite the same as skin-on-skin contact, but that detail hardly mattered; Emet-Selch desired it all the same. It was the presence of another alongside him, some fleeting recollection of a time before solitude. Mettaton's arms against his skin was something, but not remotely sufficient or satisfying. Yet at the same time he was loathe to let go long enough to open or remove anything. If anything, the Ascian holds the man that much tighter, blunt nails scratching down along his back, able to use more force than he would have had it been skin.
And his breath hitches against Mettaton's lips, a low moan swallowed up by them, once he feels the more direct pressure of the other's thigh. That he was completely hard by now didn't surprise him, and it's something that could likely be felt through the material of his trousers. Accompanied by a faint shudder, a hiss of breath, he presses deliberately into the puca's thigh, grinding slowly against it.]
no subject
From the feeling of his arousal against his thigh, the way he moves his hips into him, to the sound of his voice low and sensual against his lips, and especially the rake of his fingers, harsh against his back, it all sets the robot off. Though much of it is still metal, it's one of the places where tissue's grown in more prominently. The unfamiliar feeling and context of their contact blinds him with pleasure and makes his knees weak.
Even that haunting sentiment... Is he imagining it? He couldn't be. It's penetrates him in a way that few things could, makes him tender and... guilty. It only adds to the rawness of all he experiences, from pleasure to compassion: at this rate, Emet-Selch is on the track to opening him up so much that it could overwhelm him. His kiss softens, but not in any way where it becomes less passionate: it grows deeper and desirous rather than frenzied and passionate. He doesn't want to leave Emet-Selch. Right now he feels only like he'd be satisfied with his exclusive intimate company, oddly enough. Nobody else had to get this close, and he wouldn't want it any other way. He couldn't bear to tell others and expect them to understand in any way, even if Emet-Selch doesn't share his perspective.
Desperately, his fingers grip against Emet-Selch's bare skin and this time he can feel him, having deliberately not worn gloves for the first time in months. His claws, however, still haven't grown back in, but the feeling of his skin is enough. It justifies any of the tenderness in his fingertips to experience him.
For a fleeting moment, Mettaton breaks the kiss, but he doesn't draw away. If he panted it would be fake, so the only way it shows how starstruck he is is how he stutters.]
E... Emet...
[Mettaton could get used to this. This level of closeness, trying desperately to get closer, and if they could he knows they just might. He doesn't think it'll ever become tiresome, though. Mettaton's fingers wander toward his sides, his thumbs anchoring against Emet-Selch's hips.]
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When the kiss breaks, the Ascian feels light-headed, unsure of the last time he'd taken a proper breath. It had seemed... unimportant, had traveled further down his list of priorities as the moments passed, easily eclipsed by maintaining that contact. And it's only grudgingly that he makes up for it now, breathing rapid and a bit unsteady, punctuated by shivering. Chest heaving, his hands settle for the moment at Mettaton's lower back, simply clutching at him.
There was a lot to take in, even for him. He had eons of experience, but it was eons of indifference. When he responded genuinely, it was genuine, the whole mess of him: unabashed and poorly restrained. It wasn't consciously that Emet-Selch shared that sense of desperation- not for physical satisfaction (though it certainly flavored it), but simple closeness. A bitter loneliness. How could it ever be enough? It couldn't; yet he dug in regardless.
Intense emotions on his part were always negative.
So sharply aroused that it ached, he can't stop the slow roll of his hips against the other man's thigh, nor the accompanying quiet moan. Letting go of Mettaton's back, the Ascian's hands move up to cup either side of his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. His eyes flicker open for a brief few moments, though his gaze is too unfocused to make out much of anything with his good eye. Pressing their lips together again, there's more of a gentleness to the kiss, remembering that softness he'd previously been shown, and wanting more of it. Wanting more of everything, and a little afraid of being consumed by it.]
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It takes him by some surprise when Emet-Selch lets go, only to feel the Ascian's hands at his face, gentle. Mettaton tries to focus with a blink; he searches his Bondmate's expression and his unfixed gaze, when his answer's found instead in his actions. And when Emet-Selch closes in to kiss him, it yanks more affection from Mettaton's heart to be treated with so much deliberation.
He hums into it, returns it ardently, allows one of his arms to slip back around Emet-Selch's waist entirely to draw them close and tight. His other hand, however, skirts up his back, his fingers tangling in his hair and palm pressing into his neck. It demands closeness, and Mettaton once more slides his tongue between Emet-Selch's lips, tasting him and taking in his warmth with a note of pleasure. He'll scarcely give him a chance to pull away. The robot rocks his own hips, just enough to provide reciprocal friction against his thigh; the sensation's electrifying, to Mettaton.
Though at some point, he does break the kiss, but only enough to allow his partner breath. He doesn't pull away, intending only to give him a moment and nothing more.]
I'd love... more of you. [Then he captures him back up in a deep kiss, experimenting with the way this affects Emet-Selch: both his words, and the way he renders him breathless.]
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Words. Words were quite difficult at the moment, in a way that had little to do with being kissed or out of breath. To translate a feeling into thought, and from there into speech- while being distracted anew at the depth of that kiss; he answers that first, even as he struggles for air around it. Distracted repeatedly by the thought of Mettaton's words, the sound of his voice, a taut shudder running through him, the Ascian's pulse is uncomfortably quick.]
...As much as you'd like.
[It's not even a full thought, what Emet-Selch manages to murmur against his lips, but though soft, there's a note of tension to it; if it doesn't quite reach pleading, it's something closely adjacent. For more of this, more of Mettaton specifically; nothing else would do, and even that felt like it could never be enough.
With that in mind, he nudges himself forward with a different sort of purpose (the added pressure between them a distracting bonus), but to also encourage Mettaton across the room towards the Ascian's bed. If he was going to keep feeling dizzy like this- off-center, disoriented and desperate- standing up was going to become progressively more of a risky endeavor.]
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So it doesn't take much in the way of coaxing to take that quick trip to Emet-Selch's bed, considering it was Mettaton's destination to begin with. He disengages from hold at his neck, though his arm remains curled around Emet-Selch and in his clothes when he deepens his kiss once more, then breaks away. With that arm still wrapped about his waist, he tugs Emet-Selch with a flirtatious smile, eager in his body language and graceful in his steps.
Once they make it to Emet-Selch's bed, the idol tries to get Emet-Selch to collapse upon it first, envisioning the Ascian laying beneath him and completely at his whim, though he can't bear to keep his hands off. It's multitasking, then, when Mettaton finally starts to work at the Ascian's clothes.]
As much as I'd like...? [He loves that answer; he'd say as much, but he finds himself giving a stuttering sigh instead, growing deeply desirous for this outcome.] Then I'll start here.
[The removal of his clothes, the thought of pulling himself flush against his bare skin... In place of any pulse, Mettaton can feel his temperature rise at the mere thought of beholding Emet-Selch's body. For the amount of time Mettaton has spent watching humans through a screen and absorbing their figure, the naked body continues to be more elusive to him though not unfamiliar. But this is far more intimate and close, someone he can touch and take in to his satisfaction. For it to be Emet-Selch... Mettaton's eye glints with the thrill he feels at the very notion.]
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But it doesn't take much in the way of coaxing to get Emet-Selch to fall back upon the bed, imagining in turn the sight of Mettaton above him, the touch of his hands and pressure of his body flush against his skin. Even the idea is absurdly appealing, and with his back against the mattress, it was hard to not dwell on it, closing his eyes for a few moments as he tries to fight off a shiver.
But practicalities remained. Half-assisting with the fastenings of his clothes, half-getting in the way of Mettaton's hands, half-again (somehow) getting distracted by running his own hands up the other man's arms and chest, Emet-Selch stole what scraps of contact that he could. As progressively more skin was exposed to air, his anticipation only grew with it, and though his gaze remains a bit unfocused, his expression conveys something of that sense of longing.
Unfortunately, his skin is not unmarked. It is quite severely marked, in fact, fresh scarring of various depths litters his abdomen and chest, one trailing upwards towards his throat. Perhaps most unpleasant is the sense of deliberation in the marks; this wasn't the result of haphazard battle, but a conscious act on the part of their captors during that week. At least most of the bruising has since faded, apart from some faint discoloration.
A similar pattern can be found at his legs, the very worst scar being the one that extends across the length of one thigh. It still looks sore, for all the healing it's received; the damage beneath it had been extensive.
Not that Emet-Selch particularly cares what he looks like, and he felt no sense of shame or dismay over it; it probably helped that he never viewed his hosts as really being himself. Of far more value was watching Mettaton watch him, and he wondered distantly how much experience the robot had ever had with humans, having lived in a monster-filled society.]
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Emet-Selch's "assistance" only serves to charm Mettaton, particularly when he intercepts and distracts himself with Mettaton's body. He can't wait to have him close once more, can he? Mettaotn smirks with a fond hum, and even rewards such behavior with a kiss to his neck here, or hard presses of his fingertips along his body there — but the Ascian wouldn't go without deliberate contact on Mettaton's part, who craves his body more and more with each passing moment. Seeing Emet-Selch rendered so vulnerable only heightens this craving, and that feeling snowballs the lss and less there is to cover him up.
...He'd seen what they did to people. Even where Mettaton has tissue and synthetic skin, they'd employed some similar tactics: he recognizes it as cruelly investigative. Mettaton traces a finger down the scar that spans his throat down, his eyes flicking up to watch Emet-Selch's face. These wouldn't heal, and the impact from the event itself... A pang of sympathy overcomes the Puca. Emet-Selch is too vulnerable to hanging onto such horrors, just like he is, but with his bleak outlook he wonders how badly it haunts him. Even for Mettaton, dauntless as he behaved, the experience changed him in ways he won't acknowledge.
His pants. Beyond those scars, the cyborg finds it impossible to wait a moment longer to get to touching his skin as he so desires. Mettaton moves to remove those quickly, eagerly, but not before ending his initial survey with a kiss into Emet-Selch's abdomen. Among beholding the entire rest of his body with a wide-eyed gaze, he fixes his attention on his injured leg and shakes his head in disbelief. His voice continues low, as if for Emet-Selch's ears only, though he idly brings a finger to rest against his own lower lip out of fascination with his body.]
I can't believe you. You know, darling... I'd have gladly taken you to bed far earlier, injury or not. Besides. I'm simply taken by you...
[He anchors his hands against Emet-Selch's hips. That means for all the times that he stood to meet him, he was doing it on a leg this injured. What a ridiculous man...
But while talking about his leg is a real concern of MTT's, it's also a thinly veiled excuse to stare at Emet-Selch's body, unabashed, long and hungry for every detail. It's... shocking, unfamiliar, but so recognizable to him, and he wants it. His fingers trace down from his hips to brush against the length of Emet-Selch's arousal, hardly able to contain his desire, his curiosity to experience how he's affected.]
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Thoughts that were certainly worse in the aftermath of that torture. Emet-Selch had never possessed much in the way of coping methods for anything else in his life; he wasn't about to start developing them now. But... perhaps there was something to be said for the company of someone else who'd been there, had experienced the same things. Who understood the sort of things that couldn't be said.
Perhaps that made it easier for Emet-Selch to allow the idol so close now. His muscles tense pleasantly underneath that kiss, and even more at the way Mettaton was looking at him, an exploration by sight. It was a good thing the Ascian wasn't predisposed to shyness, feeling a touch amused- perhaps even flattered- at such close attention. While he wasn't the sort to crave attention in itself, he could appreciate care being taken. At Mettaton's seeming disapproval regarding his treatment of his leg, he hums in soft amusement.]
Such concern--
[Words that are cut off with a harsh intake of breath as soon as Mettaton's fingers drift from his hip to his cock. His eyes shut for a few seconds more, having to let that rush of sharper wanting run through him. From just a brush of contact; the Ascian almost has to shake his head at his own neediness. While there was still the occasional flicker of unease at being so unguarded with his own responses, the desire for company overwhelmed it.
Swallowing, he gathers his thoughts and his voice, eyes opening to gaze across at Mettaton once more.]
...Such concern is unnecessary. Though I'm not opposed to ending up here sooner.
[In future goes unspoken; the assumption that this wouldn't be the last time they were together. Raising an arm, the Ascian lets his hand trace slowly across the side of Mettaton's face, to brush through a few strands of his hair. It's- almost affectionate, in a way, though he wouldn't have recognized it as such.]
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He expects that there will be more after this, without a doubt. Tonight won't be enough. This already exceeds his expectations — perhaps not in the way that he always imagined intimacy would play out, but in its own way. Nobody he kissed and held would be Emet-Selch. He smiles playfully, quirking a brow at the Ascian's final remark.]
I'll... [Turns out he wasn't ready to speak, after all. He swallows.] Take that into... Consideration. I aim to please.
[He stares again at all of Emet-Selch, the slightest rise of his shoulders as he's taken aback at the sight of the man sprawled out before him. He decides that he can't let another second go by where he's not against him somehow, and his indecision is fleeting: he can have everything he wants and more, even if it's not all right now. Even if he wants all of him, every last bit of his composure, his body, and his soul. Already Mettaton's predisposed to thinking of him in such terms, knowing what he knows about Emet-Selch. (His mind revisits an two old considerations never clarified: how much of this body is as is, and what did Emet-Selch do to it to make it his, if anything? And... his name. What is his favored?)
That feverish intent doesn't leave even as his eyelid curtains, focusing with passion as he stoops forward. He licks his lips, his hands wandering to Emet-Selch's waist and taking hold of him firmly. The robot catches the head of his cock between his lips, his tongue stroking him from the underside, along the tip, and to the top in one fluid but deliberate motion. He keeps him between his lips, letting his tongue linger as he emits a noise of pleasant satisfaction at what he feels, tactile and temperature. He relishes it: Emet-Selch is warm, softer than he imagined, and he sucks at the tip before releasing him to let his tongue press against him sloppily. His attention's split between what's before his face and Emet-Selch's response.]
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Had the Ascian expected any of this when he'd made that bet with the puca, while broken, bleeding, and awaiting death? Not even remotely. And though he'd never regretted the pact or its consequences, he was coming to realize that he would choose to maintain it, regardless of its potential practical value. That this Bond had... some sort of different value of its own.
...How strange, to feel as though in the process of being claimed. And why did it reassure him? Not that Emet-Selch was disinclined to dig his figurative claws into Mettaton in return.
He doesn't quite cry out, but he makes a choked sound nonetheless, an exhalation that shudders through him. The sudden presence of lips and tongue at his cock had come as a small surprise, for some reason, his next breath escaping as a low, pleased-sounding groan. His legs on either side of him tremble slightly, as Emet-Selch shifts up a little to watch Mettaton more readily.
Not that he found it easy to look at him- the sight of the other's mouth sucking at the tip of him, the way his tongue slid over sensitive, heated skin- it was nearly as intense as the feeling of it. Normally he didn't have much trouble watching this sort of thing, if he cared to bother at all- but this time the Ascian had to fight the impulse to look aside or keep his eyes closed. But he didn't want to miss a moment of it either, to pair sight with sensation, to remember them both.
And Emet-Selch had a very good memory.
Though they had stilled at the first stroke of tongue, his fingers settle further in Mettaton's hair, fingertips rubbing small, faintly unsteady circles against his scalp.]
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If he knew he'd earned such a place with the Ascian, he'd say he knew he would. But it would be remiss to say that he didn't feel similarly, deciding he'd do whatever it took to keep him. Why would he give him up? He can justify keeping him in thousands of ways, though... fondness is at the forefront. He swallows again. Salivating is new to him, but he's decided that it's very, very welcome. It was already welcome, but this brings new appreciation for it.
Mettaton actively wonders what it must feel like, his ministrations which elicit such pleasure from Emet-Selch: it's contagious enough without feeling it for himself, and even that's a lot for the star to process. His sounds and his shivers are enough to give the android a heady rush, his attention fixed so wholly on the man beneath him and very little else. He tilts his head, drags the tip of his tongue down his shaft until he's at the very base, where he curls it around his girth and mouths him feverishly, wet and greedy, before dragging his lips back up to the very tip. With reestablished eye contact, he parts his lips and takes more yet of his length into his mouth, ambitious and wanting. His thumbs move down to Emet Selch's hips and his fingers wander in toward his soft abdomen, pressing gently. If he weren't treating his cock to his amorous treatment, he only imagines how he'd love to feel his naked body against himself right now, by far softer and warmer than himself — full of his vitality.
With his length far in enough to press at the back of his tongue, Mettaton hums; anyone with a gag reflex would be hard-pressed to achieve such a feat, but Mettaton doesn't even blink. Having his cock fill his mouth, hard and soft yet warm even against the heat of his mouth, makes Mettaton dizzy, and he trembles at the delight of it. He allows his tongue to rub along the underside of his cock, a sliding pressure that pulls gradually toward what he can reach of his head, though he has him in deep enough that there's not much space even for that.
Realizing this, Mettaton moans softly; his eye closes, his head lolls somewhat, kept in place by Emet-Selchs arousal. There's nowhere for it to go with an erection near the back of his throat, after all, but he loses himself to the pleasure of it, both in sensation and in psyche. Perhaps even Emet-Selch's fingers in his hair, or the reminder that his hand there, is enough to keep him from losing himself, and his eye cracks open as he pulls his mouth away from his erection, readjusting, then slides his mouth back down upon him.]
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And it ached both terribly and wonderfully, feeling spurred on by each pass of the other's tongue, the softness of lips caressing his shaft, the slickness left in the wake of Mettaton's attentions. Whenever his eye met the idol's, his pulse lurched painfully, followed by an answering pang through his cock.
In a distant sort of way- the majority of his attention remaining on the sight of much of his erection being engulfed by the other man's mouth, feeling the head of it brush against the back of his throat, the sensation of humming, of all things- Emet-Selch noted that this was one occasion where not needing to breathe had specific advantages.
Unlike himself, who needed to breathe very much, and yet still felt as though he couldn't get enough air. Softer, ever needier sounds pass from his lips without being wholly conscious of it, as his body struggles not to writhe up under him, shuddering underneath the kneading of Mettaton's hands from the effort. The Ascian's free hand digs into the covers of the bed, fingers spasming slightly, unable to find any sort of anchor there- and not really wanting to.
It was unfamiliar, to let himself be overwhelmed like this- but it was a bit of an addicting sensation. And the strangest bit reassuring.
Even that brief moment without Mettaton's mouth around his cock almost hurts from the lack, a few seconds of chill as wet, hardened skin hit the cooler air around it. There's a palpable sense of relief when that heat surrounds the length of him again, even as it's followed by intensifying need. His hand settles for clutching at Mettaton's hair, unable to muster the coordination to do more than hold onto him.]
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Sentiment washes over him and he hums, love blending with his libidinous appetite and into a deep-seated ambition: to see just how much he'd come apart for him, how deeply he could touch him, how hard he could make him gasp.
After having the head of Emet-Selch's erection resting against the back of his tongue for just long enough, Mettaton pulls off of him. Reluctantly, he withdraws one of his hands from his abdomen and wipes up a bit of drool that falls from the corner of his mouth (for a lot of good that does him, all things considered), but he lets out a noise of satisfied interest as he beholds the stiffness of Emet-Selch's arousal. He thinks to speak: thinks to inform him that there are so many ways he'd have him, for all future intents; thinks to tell him how he delights him; thinks to tell him how he adores him; but he only manages to part his lips when he makes eye contact again, anticipation to take him palpable.
Hungrily, he grips at his length with his thumb against the underside of his shaft. He strokes him firmly, then leans into kiss him along the side, open-mouthed and messy. To accompany his kisses, his fingers drift up to squeeze just beneath the head, the length of his thumb following the curve of his arousal.
With another firm kiss placed against the very tip of his erection, Mettaton resumes what he's sure Emet-Selch will want. With his fingers entwined in MTT's hair, he'd be able to control him if he wanted... So he makes sure not to give him reason to. He presses him against his lips, allowing for him to pop through with a satisfied groan. As he pushes down over him he shivers as he feels his cock fill his mouth completely, clear to the back of his throat. The suddenness of it has him swallowing thickly by reflex, and MTT closes his eyes at the sensation of his throat tightening around his Bonded with another stifled gasp. As if he could gasp at all, given what occupies his throat. He'll begin to bob up and down over Emet-Selch, intent and completely lacking in any rhythm: when he remains with his lips around the base of his cock, it's because he's enjoying how his tongue lays against it; and when he comes up it's to otherwise run his tongue slow, over and around the head or to treat him to a good suck before pushing back over him. Could he get any more intense of a response than this? Could he take more of him?]
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The renewed touch, the firm drag of fingers down the length of his erection brings the briefest of relief, a hard shudder causing his muscles to clench. Paired with the different sensation of damp lips, the suggestion of heat from Mettaton's mouth against rigid flesh, and the feeling turns into an ever deeper ache. Something like a whine works deep in Emet-Selch's throat, and his hand returns to petting roughly at the idol's hair, as though he could coax more out of him in some way.
And the Ascian can't help but cry out when Mettaton finally takes him in again, the sound brief but loud, strangled off into another gasping for air. He's forced to close his eyes for a handful of seconds, able to hear only the rapid thudding of his heart, and the more distant echo of his own desperate breathing. When he feels himself swallowed up entirely, the constriction of Mettaton's throat around his cock, he forces himself to witness it, the sight of the man buried so fully between his thighs would have him moaning ever louder if he weren't so out of air. But he certainly seems to try, as though needing to express every scrap of intensity, every effect Mettaton was having on him. The lack of particular rhythm kept him that bit more off-balance, the mix of pressures and motions, the softness of tongue against the squeezing of being sucked upon.
There's a soft note of pleading amid the sharpness of his breath, the way the Ascian's fingers shakily stroked over the puca's rabbit ears. For- satisfaction, certainly, but a lot of other things with it. For his company, perhaps. For this moment to continue until it blotted out all other things, the despair and grief that he carried with him in perpetuity.
To forget it all, if just for a short while.]
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But it's not as though he needs this lack of barrier to be able to tell: the Ascian's expression, his gasps for air amidst cries of pleasure, and his body language are all he'd need to be able to tell as much, but he feels it. The true expression of his passion, however, penetrates Mettaton deep to his core, and he's affected by his lust by wanting him more and more. Compared to Emet-Selch's fingers, he can feel how blazing hot his ears are from the temperature of his body, the only real indicator of how flushed he could be if it were possible.
He can hardly think straight. For being someone lacking in the same sensory opportunities, the amount of pleasure Mettaton's experiencing is enough to make him tremble and doubt his vision, but it might not be so noticeable while they're both in the throes of passion. This is compounded upon by Emet-Selch — how could he have expected for this to be so intense?
His hand now unoccupied runs up Emet-Selch's inner thigh; the hand still on his abdomen drags from his navel down to his groin. Mettaton closes his eye for a moment but finds that even if it permits him focus, he wants to... lose himself, just like Emet-Selch. He wants to take everything he can get out of him and drown in it, so his eye opens again and he drinks in the sight of Emet-Selch, every moan and falter and plead.
He pulls back far enough that his lips, tight around the other man's shaft, catch on the head, where Mettaton finds himself lapping at him and sucking in tandem, eager and wanting. It doesn't feel like much longer before he's sliding back down enthusiastically, feeling his throat's empty without Emet-Selch's cock to press into all of the delicate parts of his mouth. He swallows again, this time intentional and hard. It's impossible to take him any deeper, but Mettaton readjusts, nuzzling into him with sincerity in his pleasure.
If he wants to forget, Mettaton can only deliver. He prides himself on being an escape. He shudders against the sensation of Emet-Selch's fingers, the press of his cock in his throat, the warmth of him there and the appearance of his Bonded before him. It's so, so much, more than he'd ever bargained for, and he doesn't even hear himself as he moans against him.]
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It was the depth of that combination that finally does it. The sight of his cock being taken fully by the other man's mouth. The softness of tongue and lips, the tightness of Mettaton's throat squeezing him. The overwhelming heat and wetness of it, the stroke of a hand across his thigh. The sounds, both his own, and whatever he could make out from the idol, even stifled by the cock in his mouth, but that much more arresting for it. The way their Bonds had bled together without the Ascian even realizing- shaken by how Mettaton was responding to him in turn.
Not that Emet-Selch couldn't have guessed either, due to everything else he was witnessing, but to feel it as well--
It was inevitable. Being pushed to the edge like this, there's nothing he can do to hold back, no way to stop himself from being dragged over, losing the last remnants of control as his release takes him. The Ascian's body convulses beneath Mettaton, back arching, legs shaking, head thrown back without even realizing it. And the sound he makes- it's surprisingly low, perhaps, and interrupted by irregular gasps for breath- but completely open, containing nothing but the intensity of all that was running through him. Rather than satisfied or relieved, it's a sound of hurt, raw and bordering on despair. That's what strong emotions were like. He's unsure how long it all lasts. He's unsure of much of anything, really.
When it finally begins to fade, Emet-Selch collapses, half-conscious, deafened by the blood rushing through his head, unable to stop himself from trembling.]
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