[...That was a nice sound, and the Ascian is a little caught by it in turn. If they weren't so close he's sure he wouldn't have been able to hear it, or written it off as something else, which made it that much more arresting, in a way. As though being treated to small details as well as grand ones.
Still, Emet-Selch forces himself to focus (or at least, to share focuses), since this was something he'd become curious about. And definitely a better topic than his own (very assured) non-death from overbond.]
So choosy... that you placed a bet with a complete stranger over it...?
[...Perhaps discussion could be combined with affection(?). Tilting his head this time, he runs his tongue along the underside of Mettaton's jaw before continuing, voice soft.]
Not that I'm criticizing your choice, of course. [A trace smug; Emet-Selch held the contradictory conviction that he was the finest choice someone could make, as well as an absolutely terrible one.] And I admit to being a bit flattered... but why?
[Not just why him, but why no one else before him? How could he be choosy and seemingly arbitrary? The Ascian had seen a bit of what a lack of Bond does to people, at least to witches, and he can't imagine a monster having a better time of it. He wasn't sure how long Mettaton had been in the city, though- but judging from his rabbitine features, he estimated it was at least as long as himself, if not more. Long enough to feel the lack.]
[Two moves is enough to rekindle Mettaton's taste for him, as if it had ever been sated. He shudders; how is he supposed to focus? And does he really need it? Focusing would mean that he was attempting to keep a story straight, and he's not sure he should even bother with that with the Ascian, his very own Bonded. His voice is low, a playful warning while he's supposed to be talking.]
You... Trying to fluster me so soon?
[He taps his finger against Emet-Selch's back like an extension of his warning, not that there appears to be any repercussions.
For all others, Mettaton has a perfect number of reasons he Bonded with Emet-Selch: "He needs somebody positive and charming like me in his life!! Don't you agree??" "What's winning a bet if it has no consequence for the loser...? I'm perfectly suited to being dreamy, AND nightmarish." And, his favorite ridiculous line: "Simple. He has nice eyebrows." These kinds of superficial replies would be enough to satisfy others, or at least to shock them into acceptance. They're not... false, eccentric as Mettaton's tastes are, but they're not his reasons.
Two arrogant personalities in one bed.]
Winning my exclusive attentions... Feeling flattered is natural! But it's your own fault, beautiful. I can't Bond with somebody who can't figure me out on their own! Which you did, in one conversation. I like how sharp you are, in more than just your wit. [Good thing that Emet-Selch can't see the way he still looks around uncomfortably in the dark, even though he already knows.] I'd hate for some mechanic of a Bond to be the reason somebody knows I'm a ghost. I can't have others knowing, whether they're a human, artificial intelligence, or... a miqo'te. [That's what Irhya called herself.] That's my secret.
[One reason. There are many, but a lot of them have come up during their Bond; he'll focus on the motivating factors. He holds tight.]
Besides. Even I can be a little sentimental, and find comfort in the familiar. ...Your stubborn resignation and melancholy are... nostalgic. Don't get me wrong. You're not at all like anybody I've met. But I'm accustomed to such company. You're much my opposite, and I like that.
[Those are all true, and far more of the reasons he felt compelled to Bond with Emet-Selch over mere whim alone. Though that did play a part. Mettaton obeys his intuition many times, and he enjoys the result of it.]
Edited (can't spell fantasy race) 2020-03-01 00:42 (UTC)
[Making an amused sound at the- did it even qualify as a protest? a warning?- the Ascian nips lightly along the other man's jawline. How metallic. Mettaton's responsiveness remained appealing, and he couldn't deny feeling a degree more alert in response. There was a lot to pay attention to, between contact and conversation.
When he'd formed his other Bonds, Emet-Selch had asked them the why of it beforehand. Had wanted to satisfy any suggestion that it had involved anything like pity or desperation. Their reasons had been acceptable, so he agreed.
It was a bit backwards to hear Mettaton's explanation- both for why the Ascian had felt an appropriate choice, as well as why he'd avoided Bonding so deliberately- long after the fact, but even that felt natural somehow. Nothing else about their combination was conventional; why not go from torture, to the tying of souls together- and only then get into the tragic backstories and explanations for why?
But comfort in the familiar is something Emet-Selch could entirely understand. To find an echo of a similar dynamic in some foreign place....]
Hm... so you're used to attracting the despairing and dissatisfied? You do seem accustomed to dealing with us.
[And even though he'd had little say in choosing this Bond to start, the Ascian can also understand not wanting personal details to come out because of some sort of tether. Though he'd yet to experience it for himself even with his older Bonds, he'd heard that beyond the sharing of emotions, there was the sharing of memories. So Emet-Selch was a bit relieved to have found Mettaton to be more congenial for long-term associations than first impressions had provided. He would've despised someone learning of Amaurot or his name without having a choice in the matter.
So while he still didn't understand why Mettaton was so reticent about being a ghost, he could understand that it was something he wanted to hide. That it was a private detail, not information anyone deserved access to. Shifting a hand, the Ascian's fingers rub slowly at the back of the puca's neck as he considers this. To have guessed at something so personal... Mettaton hadn't seemed offended or upset when he'd figured it out. Was it because he was something of a ghost himself?]
Still, I suppose we balance one another to a degree... [A low sigh, warm against his neck.] You'll soon have me convinced this was a good idea.
[Metallic, but at least pliant, for the sake of neck flexibility. But it's not as much give as a person would have, with metal immediately underneath. He can detect a sharper sensation of teeth, and he narrows his eye, bites down on his tongue, and swallows again. Deliberately defying him to get a rise out of him, is that how he's going to play? He won't forget.]
I fancy myself a pleasure for all personality types. But... Yes. Those I grew closest to trend gloomy, against all odds. I might even call it comfortable for me.
[Claiming that it was Emet-Selch's personality that drove him to want to pursue a Bond with him sounds awfully sentimental... Much more so than the practicality of not wanting people to see his memories, he realizes. But he's being candid.
He imagines many people would find having their memories shared to be uncomfortable, no matter how inconsequential. He couldn't tell when the possibility of memory-sharing might begin in a Bond, and it wasn't something he was about to risk with those he associated with, in case they caught a glimpse of something beyond his new robotic life and had their view of him altered. He didn't think they'd understand much of anything about it.
Though he got after him for amorous advances against his neck, the sigh isn't faulted. It's still a reminder of his closeness, and Mettaton closes his eye with a short, pleasant hum, bowing his head forward just a touch to express his appreciation for the Ascian's fingers against his neck. His long ears flatten again, though purely in relaxation. This seems to startle him for a moment, before relaxing again; he's still not used to the feeling of having long rabbit ears emote for him. Mettaton smiles, twirling his finger in Emet-Selch's hair to make short spirals between combing through it. His hand wanders just so that he's able to curl his fingers about Emet-Selch's waist, which he does with a slight pressure.]
I recall having suggested that this dynamic of ours would be part of the allure! I'm glad you've come to share my perspective. [He kisses the top of his head with a grin.] Opposites attract, and all. Haha.
[It was an interesting texture, at least, different than skin and lacking a pulse. There's a small drag of teeth towards neck, where the Ascian sucks, very briefly, at the center of Mettaton's throat before answering, as though he weren't trying to distract him at all.]
--I imagine we can be quite restful, if one can accept the more depressive aspects. ...Although, I'll say that I've experienced the same phenomena. In reverse, obviously- but those I knew best were the obnoxiously sociable type.
[He says it like it's a bad thing, even as his hand continues its exploration of Mettaton's neck. There's an alternation of pressures; the light drag of a nail, a firmer rubbing with the pads of his fingers, a gentle stroke with the whole of his hand, from the top of his neck down towards his shoulder. Even as he notes the puca's responses, Emet-Selch wondered about seeking this sort of dynamic, on either side of it. It was one thing to speak of balance, but it seemed as though it should bring nothing but frustration.
Not that frustration didn't exist, but it wasn't the whole of it.
Though possessing just a cheerful demeanor wasn't enough, Emet-Selch was certain of that much. Plenty of people were friendly with no substance. A superficial shell that covered far worse traits- or nothing at all. The Ascian had no patience for that. That there was something there besides a teasing chattiness- that was crucial, annoying, and appealing.
He still huffs a little on general principle at the kiss to his head; such an affectionate sort of gesture, and what were those for? Nevermind that they'd been cuddling for some time. Or the quietly pleased noise he finds himself making at the attention to his hair, the small grip to his waist.]
I wouldn't go so far as to call it allure... but you're occasionally more tolerable than I initially believed.
["High praise" met with a smug smile that is fortunately out of sight, because he'll take it. "Occasionally more tolerable" means "you're growing on me," which is more than acceptable.
He should have expected more action against his neck, but the redoubling of his efforts has Mettaton's grip tightening as he bites his lower lip, eye blowing wide in mind-numbing shock against the teeth then his mouth against his throat. Even though it surprises him and bears some resemblance to pain, he ends up exposing his neck all the same on reflex. It means Mettaton's reeling from it while Emet-Selch gives his reply, anyway.
...Restful, all right. The amount of sleeping/fake sleeping/lying around these types do... Emet-Selch is the perfect example of it. Trying to regain some of his composure with a clear of his throat, that effort's lost when he focuses on the experimental sensations of his fingers against his neck. Their variance feels like he's checking his reaction for each, but it all ends up feeling pleasant; he finds himself sinking into his Bonded with a contented note.
He tries to smooth himself over, both from Emet-Selch's mouth and his fingers against his neck. Mettaton does his very best to reply through that.]
It's almost part of some design, that you'd be stuck with people like me.
[Some more affection: he sighs, burying his nose into Emet-Selch's hair. ...Suddenly, something strikes him.]
Say, Hades. This body of yours... Did you take it like this, in all of its loveliness...? Or do you alter your host to your liking?
[The bared throat felt like an invitation, and one that he had no problem with accepting. Dragging his teeth over the length of Mettaton's exposed neck, Emet-Selch follows it with a swipe of his tongue back upward, damp and warm. His breathing catches just for a moment at the way Mettaton leaned into him, feeling further attuned to each small movement or noise his Bonded made.
And the sound of his name still carried with it a small pang of nostalgia each time the Ascian heard it, further reassuring him that it probably had been the right decision to share it with Mettaton. The question that follows surprises him somewhat, and the logistics of it have him pause for a few seconds. Technically, the original version of this host he'd kept until its natural mortal death in his late 80s. Then he'd slept, been woken up, and decided to use the same shape as before, though at its current apparent age. His grandson having used his mortal shell as a cloning project had been incentive; plenty of nice, empty hosts for the taking.
--But none of that felt technically relevant to what Mettaton was actually asking, so he decides to not complicate matters further.]
This current shape... 'tis mostly unaltered from its original version, though I may have- tweaked a few details. Nothing that would cause him to stand out among his people, but... well, I find it far easier to use a host that feels familiar.
[From Mettaton's neck, Emet-Selch's hand drifts to explore the robot's upper back, half-kneading for the sake of touching him, half-helping to keep him pressed close. The feeling of a sigh disturbing his hair was a little... endearing, almost; the Ascian wasn't certain, but he thought that was what that emotion was.]
...It's not advisable for us to change bodies on a frequent basis. While some of my brethren chose to ignore this to their ultimate detriment, I keep my hosts for as long as possible. Ensuring they're comfortable is essential.
[Of course, hitting his neck with more purpose and teeth earns a yelp out of him. Though it was quiet and short, Mettaton surprises even himself with the noise and his ears bounce to attention; even if he wished to pretend he hadn't made the noise, he only allows more access there. Allowing more access just in time for Emet-Selch to drag his tongue across him, and he can barely control a shudder.
He has the task of trying to pay attention through this, now. Another swallow, and he goes back to burying his face into Emet-Selch's hair. Hearing of some change that might not be too intrusive, he wonders if it's the shock of white — whatever that implies for a familiar attribute. He guesses that having had so many bodies, this familiarity must have come gradually: commonalities between bodies that defined him, despite the difference in shape. Unless, of course, this familiarity was something that came from an original form.
The hand he has against his skin slides along his waist to his side, feeling for the curve of his body. The one in his hair rubs his scalp. He feels he's collected enough to speak, at least.]
... Is the white in his hair your doing? [His inquiry expresses that he'd like to know what's familiar to him. Whatever it is, it must be a commonality between his forms, something Emet-Selch liked to have as a feature that defined him.] Or maybe, whatever that is on your forehead...
[He doesn't know what a Garlean is, but even after he says it, he seems to doubt that; it would cause him to stand out, if it weren't a normal thing. Emet-Selch's fingers against his back are nice, and they encourage him to shift his body close. Closer.]
[The yelp surprises and satisfies him in turn, and Emet-Selch can't help but bury his face into Mettaton's neck with more intent, in contrast to the relative gentleness of the kisses he decorates it with. But at the base of Mettaton's neck, where it curves towards shoulder, he bites down again, brief but firm, then sucks hard at the region with a muffled sound.
...Having to continually pull himself back a little from his actions in order to speak was- an interesting experience, more than a bit testing. The Ascian remained bemused at how much temptation there could be just from remaining in Mettaton's presence, having to take the time to collect himself again as his lips release his neck and he thinks on his answer.]
The white... [Emet-Selch interrupts himself, not intentionally; the hand sliding to his side was distracting, pleasant. The muscles underneath Mettaton's hand tense faintly. He takes a breath. The touch to his hair helped him focus, somehow.] In the original world, my hair was entirely white. Garleans- that is, the group this host belongs to- do possess white hair as well, but 'tis not as commonplace.
[Combining the two did probably stand out more, but it was within acceptable limits, he felt.]
This third eye, [Because technically that thing is an eye, apparently, for all that he can see little more out of it than his ruined one.] is a strictly Garlean trait, so no, that was already there when I claimed this form. And there it must remain.
[A form that was contently melding itself to the puca's, in response to his shifting, fingers kept firm to the other's back.]
[It's a rush, feeling Emet-Selch respond to his noise by closing in on him, and he knows better than not to predict that more's coming his way. He feels warmer, anticipatory; even if Mettaton had the chance to brace himself, the escalation from the gentle scraping of teeth to a firm bite doesn't occur to him.
So this level of contact and the sheer amount he feels from it causes his body to jerk and his legs to squirm. He cries out, and it fails to sound much like he's entirely in pain so much as in pleasure. He sees stars, the feeling of his neck being sucked on as a follow-up equally delightful, so much so that he fails to notice the moan that slips from his throat in response. The robot's neck slackens and his fingers press into Emet-Selch's side some more, while he pets the back of his head — all automatically, encouraging.
It'll take a moment for Mettaton to catch up with any talk after this as well, and he won't do it as effectively. Be patient, Emet-Selch: it's all he can do, and as if to demonstrate how it takes him, he hums gently in response to the sound of his Bonded's voice.
He gets the picture: his body's a Garlean, and it seems like there are so many kinds of creatures where he comes from. He wonders distantly if even Lalafell are from the same world, based on Tataru's manner of speaking... But he doesn't spare much thought for this, his attention distracted by the mere quality of Emet-Selch's voice, how even that's enough to give him a heady warmth of pleasure.
What he does come away with is that he had an original form, as he wondered. One with entirely white hair. He has to prioritize information after that, try to regain his composure meanwhile.]
White hair... I'd say I see it. But this— this isn't what you used to... appear as...
[And he has a feeling Emet-Selch prefers his original form, not this one. Feeling Emet-Selch shifting closer yet, as they always do to each other, has him shuddering.]
[The delay in reply is entirely congenial to Emet-Selch; every reaction has him transfixed, his own body tightening in reflexive sympathy. Barely pushing back his own moan, he clings that much harder at Mettaton when he squirms, wanting to feel every motion, as closely as he could.
The sound he made, the way Mettaton cried out was particularly arresting; even the memory of it sets him shivering, a feeling encouraged further by Mettaton's own hold on him. Leaving that bitten place on his neck with a kiss that contains more than a suggestion of teeth, Emet-Selch nuzzles roughly back up to the puca's jaw, scraping sharply along the edge of it with a soft, almost eager noise. Pressing the side of his face firmly against Mettaton's, his eyes are tightly closed.
And from there he tries to think. He swallows, ignoring the lifting of his pulse, the way his breath wanted to quicken with it. His voice, when he finally manages to use it on words, is soft and deep, rumbling against the side of Mettaton's face.]
...I was taller. At least- twice so. [Amaurotines were incredibly tall.] My eyes are the same. And something- something of the same build. Structure.
[With all of the squirming and shifting, as though if they kept trying, they could eliminate all space between them whatsoever, the Ascian is not remotely surprised to feel that he's gotten hard once more. Even the realization has him shudder faintly along Mettaton's body.]
[For some reason, being gripped onto more tightly sends a response like adrenaline through the Puca's body, one that demands he writhe harder or freeze still. It's primal, and he recognizes as much, finding it unusually satisfying when he chooses by will to still and give in. He shudders in the Ascian's grip and lets him keep him, allowing his eye to shut in turn. Giving in, but he's glad to be doing it: he wouldn't want to leave this. Each move against his neck has Mettaton making a sound as if his next word's caught in his throat.
When Emet-Selch begins speaking, Mettaton leans into him. His ears roll forward with interest, for content but largely for sound. That he would find somebody else's voice so captivating is a welcome surprise, but perhaps not so shocking when he considers that these tones on Emet-Selch's voice are carried mostly in intimate proximity: with his familiarity with them, then, he's grown to find it attractive. Dreadfully so: speaking to him like this would be enough to change the very context of his surroundings, he feels. Mettaton gently rubs his cheek against his Bonded's. He hears his description, but is finding it so difficult not to just kiss him already.]
Your eyes...
[He's not entirely sure where he was going with that. Repeating it? Trying to express that he likes his eyes, maybe. (He was tall, very, white of hair, yellow eyes, humanoid in build... In a sensible part of Mettaton's mind, he wants to know why he lost this original form. He thinks he might already be able to piece that answer together, but he's a bit dazed.)
Arcing into Emet-Selch eagerly, Mettaton turns his head to kiss him, his manner suggesting his long-standing want. More shifting of his body leads to discovering his erect cock, this time with no need for him to remove any clothes to access him. His body jolts at the sensation, and he moans into the kiss.]
[Though he'd felt no inclination on Mettaton's part towards escape, the way his body almost... surrendered to the Ascian's grip has his breathing catch, startled by the rush of possessiveness he felt in response. And though the grip of his arm doesn't slack, his hand turns gentle, as it moves up to the back of Mettaton's head once more. Stroking his hair, petting his ears, feeling that desire to contain him, to have him for himself, to not let himself be abandoned this time, as he always, always was--
Finally, finally the kiss arrives, Emet-Selch feeling the force of Mettaton's want and responding in kind. Nor does he hesitate to slip his tongue past the other man's lips, to taste and take what he can for the moment, already feeling out of breath and knowing he would soon need to break it. How inconvenient, his body was at times....
Hearing his name uttered in that way provokes an answering moan, soft but sharp, and poorly smothered by the kiss. Brushing his lips repeatedly over Mettaton's, he feels a peculiar sort of neediness. He was aroused yes, the stiffness of the cock pressing to Mettaton's body attested to that, but there were other needs alongside it. To claim and possess, as much as to be claimed, held, reassured--
He couldn't stand how emotional he was sometimes. It was painful. But it was either this or indifference, all or nothing. How had it flipped over? Was this the result of the Bond? How meaningless this was, but yet....
Tangling a leg with Mettaton's, he shivers at the extra bit of friction against his erection, taking a breath and kissing him harder once more.]
[It's thrilling, to feel so taken. Something he'd feel less inclined toward regularly — being contained, being stuck — becomes a fascinating thing in the context of this bed and even their Bond, especially without knowing the sheer depth of Emet-Selch's possessiveness. That might have daunted him, even as somebody who loves to be desired. It would be impossible to fathom it without knowing it first-hand. The robot nestles into him, yet ends up wanting to take him for himself right back.
Emet-Selch's gentleness touches Mettaton, then. His ears are blazing hot, functioning well with the energy-expending needs of his body, and he hums, leaning into him with a smile. He likes this. There was hardly a doubt that he would, but he likes this vulnerability, soft and deliberate, but fervent and wanting, and he loves it on Emet-Selch. Even feeling it for himself is a rush, not having any experiences with its emotional opposites. For him, it's pure, pleasurable feeling, no pain.
The more frantic his Bondmate grows, the softer it makes Mettaton in turn. He holds tight, leaning his upper body into the Ascian, and kisses him back just as much and as hard as he kisses him. They're making a mess of it, Mettaton doing anything in his power to steal away Emet-Selch's chances at breathing beyond what's necessary. He even slides against his erection, hoping to make him pant.
With a soft moan into Emet-Selch's lips, Mettaton leans forward farther yet, placing his hand against his hip to guide him onto his back. Of the things he fantasized about earlier, it had been difficult to choose between his ardent attentions on his arousal or the desire to take more of his body, and this is an opportunity for the latter. It works well that his leg's already tangled with his, giving him leverage onto the other man... But he still has to see if he can tolerate his weight. All he can do is surrender some of the other man's breathing rights back, and the robot sighs.
Mettaton ends their deep kissing and glances at him for only a moment, his gaze fiery intense.]
Not too heavy, am I...?
[He's heavier than he looks, made of metal and flesh and parts enough for three forms. With that, he presses his lips to Emet-Selch's throat. He wants to claim him, all right, and if there's no protest, he'll kiss down his throat and end it by capturing him between his lips, sucking hard.]
[The differences between Mettaton and a normal body remained interesting to note, and Emet-Selch appreciated the feeling of the heat evident in those ears, his fingers smoothing through fur, scratching gently at the base of them. That along with the more familiar sounds of excitement and pleasure, there were also things like unusually hot rabbit ears to take advantage of.
But in contrast to the touch to said ears, Emet-Selch returns Mettaton's kisses with more fervor than grace, snapping up what breath he can take between them, resenting even that much of a pause. The graze against his cock has him shudder again, panting, and even though he desperately needs the air, he wastes it on a noise of protest when Mettaton pulls back from the kiss.
But there's no reluctance to being encouraged onto his back, arms adjusting to wrap around Mettaton in turn. It was a heavier body than he was used to, and perhaps more than Emet-Selch was expecting, but it was within acceptable limits. The added weight felt only like a boon, the pressure of his body holding the Ascian in place, pushing him into the mattress a little- a comforting sensation. Perhaps it would occasionally make it that much harder to breathe, but it wasn't as though he was doing a very good job of breathing regularly anyway.]
Not--
[See, one word and already out of air. With effort, he gives it another go.]
...not at all.
[Like Mettaton, being at all contained like this wasn't something he'd want in his everyday life- but in this place, and more particularly with this person- it was hard for him to desire anything else. And in the brief meeting of gazes- another breath stolen by the look to Mettaton's eye- his own expression is similarly intense, wanting. Demanding, expectant, lonely.
This time it's the Ascian who bares his throat to him; swallowing hard against the sensation, a low groan vibrating through his neck as his eyes squeeze shut again.]
[This is dangerous. Even seeing Emet-Selch beneath him, panting and with his shoulders bare, the promise of skin flush to his metallic figure (which he feels, so much softer than he is, his body sinking into Emet-Selch's, but he can't feel it enough even still), intoxicates him, his once impassioned gaze unfocused and lustful.
He can tell that he's heavier than he expected. He laughs once, something more like a breath than an actual laugh, and speaks in close quarters, low and smooth — but there's an edge in his normally regulated tone, an impatience.]
Good. Because looking like this... I can't begin to... describe to you, what seeing you does to me.
[It would make him breathless in turn, if that were possible. No, instead, Mettaton thinks of it in terms of how hard Emet-Selch would make him, something to rival the Ascian. If that isn't a thought to make Mettaton shudder. Instead, he's restless and wanting- he goes for his neck.
Mettaton doesn't have a frame of reference for putting it into practice, but he's seen it plenty enough, where someone steals a love interest aside, slides kisses along their neck, only to mark them after a particularly long one. He hadn't figured out how that worked until he felt Emet-Selch doing something similar to his synthetic body. And he knows that sucking upon his skin is the right choice when he feels the other man groan beneath his lips, enough to make Mettaton dizzy with greed. Upon successful replication, he tenses, stares at the mark he's made upon Emet-Selch's skin, and leans forward to press his tongue into it with a gratified hum.
If he really wanted to make sure everyone knew he was his... Hungrily, Mettaton takes more of his neck between teeth, closer to his shoulder this time, and sucks until it's purple. Like this, Mettaton adjusts the placement of his lower body until he feels Emet-Selch's cock slide against his inner thigh — a disastrous move on his part. The very moment he has his length between his thighs, he's clearly craved enough by the idol to have him collapsing into Emet-Selch's neck with a shuddering moan.]
[It was strange how annoying Mettaton's voice could be sometimes (if due to his words rather than the actual sound), and yet hearing him talk like this now was incredibly arresting. He wouldn't have been surprised if the sound alone would've been enough to arouse him, to set his pulse speeding. Emet-Selch wondered distantly if these experiences would leave him with a more permanently positive impression of his voice, even in more mundane contexts. Hopefully that wouldn't become awkward, he thinks, as his hands stroke slowly over Mettaton's sides, with far more gentleness than the need in his body would seem to indicate.
The brush of a tongue against newly claimed skin sets off a smaller shiver. And when Mettaton's lips close over him again, feeling that tighter suction near his neck marring his skin, the Ascian can only gasp, feeling an immediate rush of warmth. These would be much better marks, even in their impermanence, much better than unwanted scars. Though he couldn't see them for himself, Emet-Selch can well imagine the shades his skin must have turned, even the thought having him moan, short and intense, between breaths. Would he be aroused at the sight of them later, he also wondered....
Pressed down as he is, his hips can do no more than twitch upwards against Mettaton's thighs, taking what small friction he could from it, even if it were against metal rather than skin. His cock seemed entirely undaunted by its less-than-organic surroundings. And not being able to do more than writhe and shudder was nearly exhilarating to the Ascian in how unusual it felt; what should've been alarm converted wholly into a desire for more of it. As though being so wonderfully and slowly crushed was an outcome to wish for.
To feel and especially hear Mettaton's own responses, to know he was not unaffected- has his breath hitch, his hands interrupting their exploration of his Bonded's sides to clutch at him, in reassurance or encouragement, he's not certain. Likely both. Clearly reveling in being so wanted, and wanting Mettaton ever more in return.]
[Eye closed and face against his neck, Emet-Selch's hands clutching his sides is pleasant. Any time he's gripped and manhandled by the Ascian he finds it to be a thrill, revitalizing; it's no different in bringing him his composure here, when he's found himself fallen against his body from being overwhelmed. Go figure. He laughs softly, nuzzling into the Ascian's neck with the softness of his cheek.
Given his comparative freedom to do as he likes, Mettaton takes his regained composure and continues to adjust his body to his liking with a pleased hum, all while pressing kiss after greedy kiss to the Ascian's neck. Each one's open-mouthed and sloppy, the occasional one lingering as he sucks another mark into him. If he has the monopoly over doing as he'd like by virtue of weight, he may as well mark him, thoroughly. There's something frenzied in the way he moves, desperate for some kind of satisfaction as he situates his body closer to Emet-Selch.
The android finally presses atop Emet-Selch's erection, trembling at the mere closeness and implication of it... but the robot lacks any parts that would allow this intimate connection to continue any further. He makes a sighing sound, moving to press a kiss hard against Emet-Selch's lips, tender but covetous. When he pulls away, he remains close enough to kiss him all over again.]
Hades...
[It's something like a whine, something like a sigh, and Mettaton's scarcely able to keep from squirming against the sensation of his arousal between his legs. In fact, he does, curving his back and exhaling sharply.
His mind's hazy, imagination getting the better of him, and he moans some more at the thought of having Emet-Selch's cock deep inside of him. With no small resistance his hips rock, the curve of his body flush against his arousal. Mettaton presses another sloppy kiss to Emet-Selch's lips, losing himself to his cravings that can't be realized.]
I want... [He kisses him again, heady and uncoordinated in the face of his desire. It seems like he never has enough of it.] Hades, what I would do to... Have you... Hades...
[He shudders, the idol unable to maintain his poise given such intensity. Emet-Selch's lips are taken by his, deep and passionate; he sucks on his lower lip slightly before allowing his tongue to press in, unable to sate his own wants.]
[The Ascian's neck felt both damp and tender from all the attention it was receiving, and he looked forward to witnessing the results of that labor afterward, and in the days to come. Some physical memory of this experience, to know that it wasn't only an intensely bizarre erotic dream. This had happened. This was still happening, in fact.
The weight holding him in place, the stiffness of the erection between his legs, the softness of lips against his own. The sound of his name.
His eyes open, but struggle to focus on Mettaton, the Ascian's voice lost again to a choked-sounding moan, as the other man moves against his cock. But he needed to reply.]
I know...
[It's whispered almost harshly between kisses, between breaths.
This was... immensely frustrating, and not something any spell of his could really rectify. He wanted all of it; to bury himself so deeply within his body, to be taken by Mettaton in turn. To feel connected with him, as fully and completely as possible--
How comparatively dissatisfying, to merely be rubbed up against his thighs; Emet-Selch can only imagine what it must be like for Mettaton to not even have that much, but to still clearly be capable of this much desire for it. He presses into the kiss, lapping back at his tongue, the contact between mouths damp, breathless on his part.
Mettaton had three forms, yet none of them were anatomically complete; a terrible oversight on the part of his builder. It reminded Emet-Selch of their time in the kissing booth, only worse; to go this much further, and yet remain limited after all.
He still needed to reply, despite the kiss, despite everything.]
If you only could... I-- [Distracted in turn by the nearness of Mettaton's lips, pressing up into another kiss. A restless hand moves to grip the back of the puca's head, fingers tense along his scalp, his other arm tight around his lower back.] Gods, I'd want you to....
[He can't even finish that thought before delving into Mettaton's mouth again, yet feeling no less frustrated for the experience.]
[Mettaton takes that kiss like a lifeline, breath for something which doesn't breathe, Emet-Selch's energy contagious and mingling with his own insatiable appetite. Hearing his voice alone, deep and wanting, causes Mettaton to shiver.
His raw desires shared with Emet-Selch, the ones he can't possibly fulfill, Mettaton reminds himself that there's much else he could do to please and be pleased in turn. That Emet-Selch should want him with such fervor, reciprocating his need for more, it's dizzying. Whether that's having him inside of him or vice versa, it's all enough to make Mettaton forget how to kiss for a moment. As soon as he regains his wit, the Monster only deepens that kiss eagerly.
Mettaton wanted to drown in this experience, and he comes about as close as limitations allow, he supposes. Demonstrated his desperation for it, anyway. Isn't that why he'd hoped for something that could bypass the limitations of his body? It's clear that he'd benefit greatly from such adjustments, if only it were possible. He'd do it simply to gratify himself, to feel the Ascian sit atop his length and sink into him, to take him for himself... and more.
A lot of desire and imagining happening right here, as he runs through appealing mental images: Emet-Selch's lips closed around his arousal, pushed in deep enough to edge dangerously with the back of his throat. Another approach to seeing the Ascian rendered breathless, and he craves that in this moment, humming against Emet-Selch's lips. The Puca's made to withdraw his hand for a moment just to wipe away at errant drool at the corner of his lip, mid-kiss. He's a very covetous-sort; he lets his weight sink into his Bondmate. Any time he hears the other man's voice it's an invitation to give himself; it's becoming second nature to lean in when he hears him, to grow amorous and wanting just at the mere sound of it. A similar thought strikes him: how will that affect him in other situations?
The only fortune is the uptick in nerve sensitivity his inner thighs have. He presses his thighs gently into each other around Emet-Selch's cock, stuttering yet another gasp and finding it warm, thick, and firm against his touch. At the very least it provides him with a nice surprise, and he hums at what he feels, imagining the feeling of his cock deep in his throat again.
Mettaton kisses Emet-Selch religiously, making sure that he knows he's his. Where one kiss is deep and involves his tongue, another is a series of shorter ones; here and there, he kisses along his jaw, or finds fascination with the one earring he wears with his teeth.]
[Whenever Mettaton pressed down on him, Emet-Selch can't help but shudder in response, body trying and failing to writhe up against him, the position leaving him little opportunity but to accept however the robot chose to move. A comforting (if not always comfortable) thing. Did this mean he trusted the puca? To some degree, he supposed; a belated thing to realize.
And though it did little to ease his frustrations, the Ascian also found himself considering what it would be like, were Mettaton's body complete- the textures, the tastes. His mouth was unusual enough of a flavor- though it was quickly nearing familiarity- but what of his come? Would his body be somehow fully organic, or continue its mix of metal, artificial skin, unnatural fur and tissue? Would there be unexpected angles or curves, would his cock harden due to metal, blood, or something unidentifiable?
What a strange thing to find himself aching for. To hold the other man's erection in his mouth, as deeply as he could. To feel Mettaton over him like this, taking the full length of him within his body. To possess him completely in turn.... What sounds would he make then, how would he move? If everything was so intense now--
Why was literally everything the Ascian wanted- even something like this, indulging in acts completely unrelated to his eternal task- unattainable? It was probably the passion of the moment, the encouragement of the Bond to desiring this end, but- he didn't think that made it any less real.
The gentle squeeze of thighs around his cock brings some small relief, pulling a low, ragged moan from his throat, hips jerking to try and rub himself against the puca. Even if it wasn't the same as being buried inside him, it was still good, still sets him aching and shivering for more of it. He pants between kisses, returning them haphazardly, but with no less devotion, hand stroking intermittently at the puca's hair, his ears. Swiping his tongue against Mettaton's, nipping at his lip, his chin and jaw; the kisses were something of a mess, but Emet-Selch was beyond caring about that. He watches Mettaton occasionally, unfocused and too-close with his good eye, but mostly keeps them closed, listening to the sounds they both were making, the noises that came with the shifting of bodies against one another. Though he doesn't feel or hear breath against his ear when Mettaton toys with his earring, the sound of him there is loud anyway, a sensation that has him humming breathlessly in response.]
[Mettaton's own gaze appears unfocused at times, clouded over with his thirst for more that worsens with each passing minute, but he has the advantageous position where he can get a good view of the Ascian beneath him — an opportunity he could hardly pass up. He's positive he'll see him in such states in the future, undone and breathless and his, but this is right now, and he wants to savor it. So for all it's unfocused, Mettaton's stare is also appraising and and intense, taking in the result of their collective passion with an easy smile. He uses his weight to his advantage, pressing into his Bonded with obvious deliberation. His intention, his stake of claim on Emet-Selch, is clear.
He can't ignore the Ascian's response to his legs; in response to his moan, Mettaton takes to his neck again, hungrily pressing his lips to his throat so that he might feel even the sounds of his moans. He sucks, kisses, continuing to mark Emet-Selch up significantly. ...Being so obvious about his possession of his Bonded wasn't his intention, but now that it's panned out, his desire for closeness clearly won over any reason that might've told him to hold back. Now it's for all to see, and what a rush that is.
He has to give it to himself, really. It's impressive to behold, and he smirks at it through his broken composure.
Close to his ear, Mettaton plants a firm kiss against his neck, humming at the sensation of Emet-Selch taking advantage of his thighs. It's feels good, and for all things that feel so sensual, it impacts him harder and harder the longer they go on. It flavors his kissing, giving him the same urgency that Emet-Selch shows him: without fail, each time Emet-Selch bites at his lip, Mettaton overtakes him with a moan of his own and catches him in a kiss deeper than before, pressing into him and adding pressure to the squeeze of his thighs around his cock, bit by bit.
When Mettaton presses down against Emet-Selch's arousal with his thighs for variation in pressure, oddly enough, there's a feeling of genuine muscle beneath the synthetic skin that grows more obvious with increasing pressure: he presses with more firmness and as he's affected by the sensation, he twitches and tenses. His legs are firm and toned thanks to his transformation into a Puca, but muscle is far more forgiving than metal. It's the only place on his body that has developed such an attribute, save perhaps the ability for his ears to move organically.
He sighs; presses his fingers into Emet-Selch's skin; deliberately exerts his weight into his body; nips at his ear again. His voice is at a slow, low rhythm, intimate and broken where he can't help but hum in satisfaction.]
You are... a sight to behold, beautiful. It... It might be enough to drive me... crazy. Just looking at you, like this.
[How undignified it probably was, to let himself be so marked, as though his skin or himself was something that even could be claimed. It was incredibly presumptuous on Mettaton's part, but the Ascian could only find himself a bit charmed by it (and intensely aroused). But, one of the benefits of unhealthy self-assurance and a complete lack of shame was not being remotely bothered at the thought of anyone catching a glimpse of these... designations of possession. It was for them to enjoy; other people might as well not exist. If anything, Emet-Selch was likely to feel some small regret as they faded, in the days to come, as though the memory could slip away with it.
Of significantly more vulnerability was each display of response- every unrestrained moan, each twinge and shudder, the way the Ascian's body fought to arch up underneath him. To be so immediate, responding without thought, even wanting Mettaton to know, to feel every effect he was exerting on him. It was too raw of a thing to maintain for very long, too exposed- but oh, how it appealed....
...Was that muscle? Emet-Selch is almost certain he can feel a sensation of tensing around his cock, not only a flat increasing pressure. It was unexpected, but he wasn't about to question it, soft cries escaping with his breath as he feels his length progressively squeezed. His body shifts, twitches, struggles up underneath Mettaton, to stroke himself that bit more against his thighs, to feel more of that near-living tension, encouraged ever deeper by every sign of the other man's own pleasure.
The sound of Mettaton's voice, so low and close to his ear, feels as though it's being spoken directly into his head. It helped- bit by bit- to block out all else. To focus on this moment as if it were all that needed to exist. The sound is like a current, running through him, sets his breath shuddering in response, and he swallows hard. How could voice alone have such a profound effect on him?
It takes considerable effort to answer, his tone a low rumble, a moan lurking somewhere just behind it. The satisfaction of the pressure Mettaton was using, holding him down, made it that much more difficult.]
...Is that- so...? I can only imagine... what it must look like. What you've done to me....
[The Ascian interrupts himself, as even that much composure falters, a sharper pang of need running through him, setting him shivering anew.]
--ah, Mettaton....
[It was hard not to plead, feeling ever more desperate for more of him.]
[Hearing his own name on Emet-Selch's voice, especially with his break in composure, clearly affects Mettaton, who reflexively squirms with few other outlets for his delight, a soft whine in his throat. He presses, rubs his thighs together, startles himself with the sensation and twitches, before readjusting again. Everybody says his name, but it never stops him from the thrill of hearing it, especially on Emet-Selch's desperation.
His head lolls, dizzied, and he presses his forehead to Emet-Selch's temple to pull himself together.]
Ah—
[He thought he'd reached the ceiling for how overwhelmed he could be, and it disappointed him that his body would impose so many restrictions on his pleasure. He's thrilled that it could surpass that yet, and it's good enough to distract him from his earlier longing for a more conventional body. Now, he can't bring himself to focus on any one source of undeniable pleasure. It's his cock between his legs and the way that Emet-Selch tries to shift his hips to drag along his body; the sound of his Bonded's voice, low and familiar and betraying his dissolving composure; the way he looks because he really can't get enough of the Ascian; and above much else, the sound of him rapt with pleasure, moans and stutters and gasps.
The whole experience, then, is what he slips into, and Mettaton moans, loud and ended by the sound of him pressing his teeth together. As his entire body shudders, he unconsciously presses his thighs together as his muscle tenses significantly. Just as Mettaton feels he could find himself missing the feeling of having his throat full of Emet-Selch, he distinctly notes how badly he'll feel he's missing something more from between his legs, were he to pull away.
He doesn't want that; the idol gives Emet-Selch a number of deliberate squeezes between his thighs and while he has control over the pressure, he can't stop from tensing or trembling. He wants to feel Emet-Selch always; the robot presses a feverish kiss to Emet-Selch's jaw and lingers there, swallowing down another noise.
Opening his eye, seeing his Bonded's face, pulling back enough to appreciate him, and Mettaton can't help raising a hand to run his fingers through the shock of white hair. It reminds him of what he told of himself earlier, who he is beyond the body he sees, even while he appreciates its form. Drinking in his neck, his expression, and his unfocused gaze, Mettaton returns to his neck, his voice deep and playful.]
What you look like... Is only ahh— a reflection of wh-what you've done to me, Hades...
[So he deserves it. Eye for an eye. With another good squeeze of his cock between his thighs and the deliberate roll of his hips, Mettaton moves to press his lips to Emet-Selchs in one of their many impassioned kisses.]
[Hearing that moan on Mettaton's part has the Ascian silent for a few seconds, a bit enraptured by it, the feeling slowly settling into a deeper sort of longing. To hear more of him like that in future, to find what else he could provoke from the idol, to see that composure fail him. To bury himself in another's responses, for what brief refuge it brought him.
Each rub of his cock between the other man's thighs has Emet-Selch gasping, but never getting even remotely enough air. Even when his mouth wasn't being taken by Mettaton's, it felt as though he were slowly suffocating. From the weight of the other's body, from how every act or even word has him lose what little breath he manages to collect in some desperate noise.
The deliberate squeezing was good, but the uncontrolled twinges and shivers of muscle were better, the clear signs of Mettaton's own reactions to him- as though they weren't already obvious. The Ascian's pulse was so fast that it hurt, muscles taut and trembling from the strength of it, completely overwhelmed, as though battered by pure experience. Was their Bond bleeding together again...? Or had it ever stopped?
The touch to his hair has Emet-Selch struggling to focus on the look to the man over him, his expressions, just the sight of Mettaton, with very mixed success. His answer is softly uttered, nearly distraught, as his eyes close again.]
How could you, I... please, Mettaton, I don't--
[What he's asking for, he doesn't know.
When his climax finally comes, it almost startles him- breath ever more frantic until it stills entirely for a stretch of seconds, the sound he makes strangled and sharp and prolonged, and not fully swallowed up by their kiss. It's not as pained a sound as the first time, but that darker, near-stricken emotion still lurks in the shadows of it. Uncontrolled and no less needy- if only for company rather than relief- Emet-Selch clings to Mettaton's body even as the moment passes.]
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Still, Emet-Selch forces himself to focus (or at least, to share focuses), since this was something he'd become curious about. And definitely a better topic than his own (very assured) non-death from overbond.]
So choosy... that you placed a bet with a complete stranger over it...?
[...Perhaps discussion could be combined with affection(?). Tilting his head this time, he runs his tongue along the underside of Mettaton's jaw before continuing, voice soft.]
Not that I'm criticizing your choice, of course. [A trace smug; Emet-Selch held the contradictory conviction that he was the finest choice someone could make, as well as an absolutely terrible one.] And I admit to being a bit flattered... but why?
[Not just why him, but why no one else before him? How could he be choosy and seemingly arbitrary? The Ascian had seen a bit of what a lack of Bond does to people, at least to witches, and he can't imagine a monster having a better time of it. He wasn't sure how long Mettaton had been in the city, though- but judging from his rabbitine features, he estimated it was at least as long as himself, if not more. Long enough to feel the lack.]
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You... Trying to fluster me so soon?
[He taps his finger against Emet-Selch's back like an extension of his warning, not that there appears to be any repercussions.
For all others, Mettaton has a perfect number of reasons he Bonded with Emet-Selch: "He needs somebody positive and charming like me in his life!! Don't you agree??" "What's winning a bet if it has no consequence for the loser...? I'm perfectly suited to being dreamy, AND nightmarish." And, his favorite ridiculous line: "Simple. He has nice eyebrows." These kinds of superficial replies would be enough to satisfy others, or at least to shock them into acceptance. They're not... false, eccentric as Mettaton's tastes are, but they're not his reasons.
Two arrogant personalities in one bed.]
Winning my exclusive attentions... Feeling flattered is natural! But it's your own fault, beautiful. I can't Bond with somebody who can't figure me out on their own! Which you did, in one conversation. I like how sharp you are, in more than just your wit. [Good thing that Emet-Selch can't see the way he still looks around uncomfortably in the dark, even though he already knows.] I'd hate for some mechanic of a Bond to be the reason somebody knows I'm a ghost. I can't have others knowing, whether they're a human, artificial intelligence, or... a miqo'te. [That's what Irhya called herself.] That's my secret.
[One reason. There are many, but a lot of them have come up during their Bond; he'll focus on the motivating factors. He holds tight.]
Besides. Even I can be a little sentimental, and find comfort in the familiar. ...Your stubborn resignation and melancholy are... nostalgic. Don't get me wrong. You're not at all like anybody I've met. But I'm accustomed to such company. You're much my opposite, and I like that.
[Those are all true, and far more of the reasons he felt compelled to Bond with Emet-Selch over mere whim alone. Though that did play a part. Mettaton obeys his intuition many times, and he enjoys the result of it.]
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When he'd formed his other Bonds, Emet-Selch had asked them the why of it beforehand. Had wanted to satisfy any suggestion that it had involved anything like pity or desperation. Their reasons had been acceptable, so he agreed.
It was a bit backwards to hear Mettaton's explanation- both for why the Ascian had felt an appropriate choice, as well as why he'd avoided Bonding so deliberately- long after the fact, but even that felt natural somehow. Nothing else about their combination was conventional; why not go from torture, to the tying of souls together- and only then get into the tragic backstories and explanations for why?
But comfort in the familiar is something Emet-Selch could entirely understand. To find an echo of a similar dynamic in some foreign place....]
Hm... so you're used to attracting the despairing and dissatisfied? You do seem accustomed to dealing with us.
[And even though he'd had little say in choosing this Bond to start, the Ascian can also understand not wanting personal details to come out because of some sort of tether. Though he'd yet to experience it for himself even with his older Bonds, he'd heard that beyond the sharing of emotions, there was the sharing of memories. So Emet-Selch was a bit relieved to have found Mettaton to be more congenial for long-term associations than first impressions had provided. He would've despised someone learning of Amaurot or his name without having a choice in the matter.
So while he still didn't understand why Mettaton was so reticent about being a ghost, he could understand that it was something he wanted to hide. That it was a private detail, not information anyone deserved access to. Shifting a hand, the Ascian's fingers rub slowly at the back of the puca's neck as he considers this. To have guessed at something so personal... Mettaton hadn't seemed offended or upset when he'd figured it out. Was it because he was something of a ghost himself?]
Still, I suppose we balance one another to a degree... [A low sigh, warm against his neck.] You'll soon have me convinced this was a good idea.
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I fancy myself a pleasure for all personality types. But... Yes. Those I grew closest to trend gloomy, against all odds. I might even call it comfortable for me.
[Claiming that it was Emet-Selch's personality that drove him to want to pursue a Bond with him sounds awfully sentimental... Much more so than the practicality of not wanting people to see his memories, he realizes. But he's being candid.
He imagines many people would find having their memories shared to be uncomfortable, no matter how inconsequential. He couldn't tell when the possibility of memory-sharing might begin in a Bond, and it wasn't something he was about to risk with those he associated with, in case they caught a glimpse of something beyond his new robotic life and had their view of him altered. He didn't think they'd understand much of anything about it.
Though he got after him for amorous advances against his neck, the sigh isn't faulted. It's still a reminder of his closeness, and Mettaton closes his eye with a short, pleasant hum, bowing his head forward just a touch to express his appreciation for the Ascian's fingers against his neck. His long ears flatten again, though purely in relaxation. This seems to startle him for a moment, before relaxing again; he's still not used to the feeling of having long rabbit ears emote for him. Mettaton smiles, twirling his finger in Emet-Selch's hair to make short spirals between combing through it. His hand wanders just so that he's able to curl his fingers about Emet-Selch's waist, which he does with a slight pressure.]
I recall having suggested that this dynamic of ours would be part of the allure! I'm glad you've come to share my perspective. [He kisses the top of his head with a grin.] Opposites attract, and all. Haha.
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--I imagine we can be quite restful, if one can accept the more depressive aspects. ...Although, I'll say that I've experienced the same phenomena. In reverse, obviously- but those I knew best were the obnoxiously sociable type.
[He says it like it's a bad thing, even as his hand continues its exploration of Mettaton's neck. There's an alternation of pressures; the light drag of a nail, a firmer rubbing with the pads of his fingers, a gentle stroke with the whole of his hand, from the top of his neck down towards his shoulder. Even as he notes the puca's responses, Emet-Selch wondered about seeking this sort of dynamic, on either side of it. It was one thing to speak of balance, but it seemed as though it should bring nothing but frustration.
Not that frustration didn't exist, but it wasn't the whole of it.
Though possessing just a cheerful demeanor wasn't enough, Emet-Selch was certain of that much. Plenty of people were friendly with no substance. A superficial shell that covered far worse traits- or nothing at all. The Ascian had no patience for that. That there was something there besides a teasing chattiness- that was crucial, annoying, and appealing.
He still huffs a little on general principle at the kiss to his head; such an affectionate sort of gesture, and what were those for? Nevermind that they'd been cuddling for some time. Or the quietly pleased noise he finds himself making at the attention to his hair, the small grip to his waist.]
I wouldn't go so far as to call it allure... but you're occasionally more tolerable than I initially believed.
[High... praise?]
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He should have expected more action against his neck, but the redoubling of his efforts has Mettaton's grip tightening as he bites his lower lip, eye blowing wide in mind-numbing shock against the teeth then his mouth against his throat. Even though it surprises him and bears some resemblance to pain, he ends up exposing his neck all the same on reflex. It means Mettaton's reeling from it while Emet-Selch gives his reply, anyway.
...Restful, all right. The amount of sleeping/fake sleeping/lying around these types do... Emet-Selch is the perfect example of it. Trying to regain some of his composure with a clear of his throat, that effort's lost when he focuses on the experimental sensations of his fingers against his neck. Their variance feels like he's checking his reaction for each, but it all ends up feeling pleasant; he finds himself sinking into his Bonded with a contented note.
He tries to smooth himself over, both from Emet-Selch's mouth and his fingers against his neck. Mettaton does his very best to reply through that.]
It's almost part of some design, that you'd be stuck with people like me.
[Some more affection: he sighs, burying his nose into Emet-Selch's hair. ...Suddenly, something strikes him.]
Say, Hades. This body of yours... Did you take it like this, in all of its loveliness...? Or do you alter your host to your liking?
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And the sound of his name still carried with it a small pang of nostalgia each time the Ascian heard it, further reassuring him that it probably had been the right decision to share it with Mettaton. The question that follows surprises him somewhat, and the logistics of it have him pause for a few seconds. Technically, the original version of this host he'd kept until its natural mortal death in his late 80s. Then he'd slept, been woken up, and decided to use the same shape as before, though at its current apparent age. His grandson having used his mortal shell as a cloning project had been incentive; plenty of nice, empty hosts for the taking.
--But none of that felt technically relevant to what Mettaton was actually asking, so he decides to not complicate matters further.]
This current shape... 'tis mostly unaltered from its original version, though I may have- tweaked a few details. Nothing that would cause him to stand out among his people, but... well, I find it far easier to use a host that feels familiar.
[From Mettaton's neck, Emet-Selch's hand drifts to explore the robot's upper back, half-kneading for the sake of touching him, half-helping to keep him pressed close. The feeling of a sigh disturbing his hair was a little... endearing, almost; the Ascian wasn't certain, but he thought that was what that emotion was.]
...It's not advisable for us to change bodies on a frequent basis. While some of my brethren chose to ignore this to their ultimate detriment, I keep my hosts for as long as possible. Ensuring they're comfortable is essential.
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He has the task of trying to pay attention through this, now. Another swallow, and he goes back to burying his face into Emet-Selch's hair. Hearing of some change that might not be too intrusive, he wonders if it's the shock of white — whatever that implies for a familiar attribute. He guesses that having had so many bodies, this familiarity must have come gradually: commonalities between bodies that defined him, despite the difference in shape. Unless, of course, this familiarity was something that came from an original form.
The hand he has against his skin slides along his waist to his side, feeling for the curve of his body. The one in his hair rubs his scalp. He feels he's collected enough to speak, at least.]
... Is the white in his hair your doing? [His inquiry expresses that he'd like to know what's familiar to him. Whatever it is, it must be a commonality between his forms, something Emet-Selch liked to have as a feature that defined him.] Or maybe, whatever that is on your forehead...
[He doesn't know what a Garlean is, but even after he says it, he seems to doubt that; it would cause him to stand out, if it weren't a normal thing. Emet-Selch's fingers against his back are nice, and they encourage him to shift his body close. Closer.]
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...Having to continually pull himself back a little from his actions in order to speak was- an interesting experience, more than a bit testing. The Ascian remained bemused at how much temptation there could be just from remaining in Mettaton's presence, having to take the time to collect himself again as his lips release his neck and he thinks on his answer.]
The white... [Emet-Selch interrupts himself, not intentionally; the hand sliding to his side was distracting, pleasant. The muscles underneath Mettaton's hand tense faintly. He takes a breath. The touch to his hair helped him focus, somehow.] In the original world, my hair was entirely white. Garleans- that is, the group this host belongs to- do possess white hair as well, but 'tis not as commonplace.
[Combining the two did probably stand out more, but it was within acceptable limits, he felt.]
This third eye, [Because technically that thing is an eye, apparently, for all that he can see little more out of it than his ruined one.] is a strictly Garlean trait, so no, that was already there when I claimed this form. And there it must remain.
[A form that was contently melding itself to the puca's, in response to his shifting, fingers kept firm to the other's back.]
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So this level of contact and the sheer amount he feels from it causes his body to jerk and his legs to squirm. He cries out, and it fails to sound much like he's entirely in pain so much as in pleasure. He sees stars, the feeling of his neck being sucked on as a follow-up equally delightful, so much so that he fails to notice the moan that slips from his throat in response. The robot's neck slackens and his fingers press into Emet-Selch's side some more, while he pets the back of his head — all automatically, encouraging.
It'll take a moment for Mettaton to catch up with any talk after this as well, and he won't do it as effectively. Be patient, Emet-Selch: it's all he can do, and as if to demonstrate how it takes him, he hums gently in response to the sound of his Bonded's voice.
He gets the picture: his body's a Garlean, and it seems like there are so many kinds of creatures where he comes from. He wonders distantly if even Lalafell are from the same world, based on Tataru's manner of speaking... But he doesn't spare much thought for this, his attention distracted by the mere quality of Emet-Selch's voice, how even that's enough to give him a heady warmth of pleasure.
What he does come away with is that he had an original form, as he wondered. One with entirely white hair. He has to prioritize information after that, try to regain his composure meanwhile.]
White hair... I'd say I see it. But this— this isn't what you used to... appear as...
[And he has a feeling Emet-Selch prefers his original form, not this one. Feeling Emet-Selch shifting closer yet, as they always do to each other, has him shuddering.]
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The sound he made, the way Mettaton cried out was particularly arresting; even the memory of it sets him shivering, a feeling encouraged further by Mettaton's own hold on him. Leaving that bitten place on his neck with a kiss that contains more than a suggestion of teeth, Emet-Selch nuzzles roughly back up to the puca's jaw, scraping sharply along the edge of it with a soft, almost eager noise. Pressing the side of his face firmly against Mettaton's, his eyes are tightly closed.
And from there he tries to think. He swallows, ignoring the lifting of his pulse, the way his breath wanted to quicken with it. His voice, when he finally manages to use it on words, is soft and deep, rumbling against the side of Mettaton's face.]
...I was taller. At least- twice so. [Amaurotines were incredibly tall.] My eyes are the same. And something- something of the same build. Structure.
[With all of the squirming and shifting, as though if they kept trying, they could eliminate all space between them whatsoever, the Ascian is not remotely surprised to feel that he's gotten hard once more. Even the realization has him shudder faintly along Mettaton's body.]
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When Emet-Selch begins speaking, Mettaton leans into him. His ears roll forward with interest, for content but largely for sound. That he would find somebody else's voice so captivating is a welcome surprise, but perhaps not so shocking when he considers that these tones on Emet-Selch's voice are carried mostly in intimate proximity: with his familiarity with them, then, he's grown to find it attractive. Dreadfully so: speaking to him like this would be enough to change the very context of his surroundings, he feels. Mettaton gently rubs his cheek against his Bonded's. He hears his description, but is finding it so difficult not to just kiss him already.]
Your eyes...
[He's not entirely sure where he was going with that. Repeating it? Trying to express that he likes his eyes, maybe. (He was tall, very, white of hair, yellow eyes, humanoid in build... In a sensible part of Mettaton's mind, he wants to know why he lost this original form. He thinks he might already be able to piece that answer together, but he's a bit dazed.)
Arcing into Emet-Selch eagerly, Mettaton turns his head to kiss him, his manner suggesting his long-standing want. More shifting of his body leads to discovering his erect cock, this time with no need for him to remove any clothes to access him. His body jolts at the sensation, and he moans into the kiss.]
Ah— Hades...
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Finally, finally the kiss arrives, Emet-Selch feeling the force of Mettaton's want and responding in kind. Nor does he hesitate to slip his tongue past the other man's lips, to taste and take what he can for the moment, already feeling out of breath and knowing he would soon need to break it. How inconvenient, his body was at times....
Hearing his name uttered in that way provokes an answering moan, soft but sharp, and poorly smothered by the kiss. Brushing his lips repeatedly over Mettaton's, he feels a peculiar sort of neediness. He was aroused yes, the stiffness of the cock pressing to Mettaton's body attested to that, but there were other needs alongside it. To claim and possess, as much as to be claimed, held, reassured--
He couldn't stand how emotional he was sometimes. It was painful. But it was either this or indifference, all or nothing. How had it flipped over? Was this the result of the Bond? How meaningless this was, but yet....
Tangling a leg with Mettaton's, he shivers at the extra bit of friction against his erection, taking a breath and kissing him harder once more.]
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Emet-Selch's gentleness touches Mettaton, then. His ears are blazing hot, functioning well with the energy-expending needs of his body, and he hums, leaning into him with a smile. He likes this. There was hardly a doubt that he would, but he likes this vulnerability, soft and deliberate, but fervent and wanting, and he loves it on Emet-Selch. Even feeling it for himself is a rush, not having any experiences with its emotional opposites. For him, it's pure, pleasurable feeling, no pain.
The more frantic his Bondmate grows, the softer it makes Mettaton in turn. He holds tight, leaning his upper body into the Ascian, and kisses him back just as much and as hard as he kisses him. They're making a mess of it, Mettaton doing anything in his power to steal away Emet-Selch's chances at breathing beyond what's necessary. He even slides against his erection, hoping to make him pant.
With a soft moan into Emet-Selch's lips, Mettaton leans forward farther yet, placing his hand against his hip to guide him onto his back. Of the things he fantasized about earlier, it had been difficult to choose between his ardent attentions on his arousal or the desire to take more of his body, and this is an opportunity for the latter. It works well that his leg's already tangled with his, giving him leverage onto the other man... But he still has to see if he can tolerate his weight. All he can do is surrender some of the other man's breathing rights back, and the robot sighs.
Mettaton ends their deep kissing and glances at him for only a moment, his gaze fiery intense.]
Not too heavy, am I...?
[He's heavier than he looks, made of metal and flesh and parts enough for three forms. With that, he presses his lips to Emet-Selch's throat. He wants to claim him, all right, and if there's no protest, he'll kiss down his throat and end it by capturing him between his lips, sucking hard.]
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But in contrast to the touch to said ears, Emet-Selch returns Mettaton's kisses with more fervor than grace, snapping up what breath he can take between them, resenting even that much of a pause. The graze against his cock has him shudder again, panting, and even though he desperately needs the air, he wastes it on a noise of protest when Mettaton pulls back from the kiss.
But there's no reluctance to being encouraged onto his back, arms adjusting to wrap around Mettaton in turn. It was a heavier body than he was used to, and perhaps more than Emet-Selch was expecting, but it was within acceptable limits. The added weight felt only like a boon, the pressure of his body holding the Ascian in place, pushing him into the mattress a little- a comforting sensation. Perhaps it would occasionally make it that much harder to breathe, but it wasn't as though he was doing a very good job of breathing regularly anyway.]
Not--
[See, one word and already out of air. With effort, he gives it another go.]
...not at all.
[Like Mettaton, being at all contained like this wasn't something he'd want in his everyday life- but in this place, and more particularly with this person- it was hard for him to desire anything else. And in the brief meeting of gazes- another breath stolen by the look to Mettaton's eye- his own expression is similarly intense, wanting. Demanding, expectant, lonely.
This time it's the Ascian who bares his throat to him; swallowing hard against the sensation, a low groan vibrating through his neck as his eyes squeeze shut again.]
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He can tell that he's heavier than he expected. He laughs once, something more like a breath than an actual laugh, and speaks in close quarters, low and smooth — but there's an edge in his normally regulated tone, an impatience.]
Good. Because looking like this... I can't begin to... describe to you, what seeing you does to me.
[It would make him breathless in turn, if that were possible. No, instead, Mettaton thinks of it in terms of how hard Emet-Selch would make him, something to rival the Ascian. If that isn't a thought to make Mettaton shudder. Instead, he's restless and wanting- he goes for his neck.
Mettaton doesn't have a frame of reference for putting it into practice, but he's seen it plenty enough, where someone steals a love interest aside, slides kisses along their neck, only to mark them after a particularly long one. He hadn't figured out how that worked until he felt Emet-Selch doing something similar to his synthetic body. And he knows that sucking upon his skin is the right choice when he feels the other man groan beneath his lips, enough to make Mettaton dizzy with greed. Upon successful replication, he tenses, stares at the mark he's made upon Emet-Selch's skin, and leans forward to press his tongue into it with a gratified hum.
If he really wanted to make sure everyone knew he was his... Hungrily, Mettaton takes more of his neck between teeth, closer to his shoulder this time, and sucks until it's purple. Like this, Mettaton adjusts the placement of his lower body until he feels Emet-Selch's cock slide against his inner thigh — a disastrous move on his part. The very moment he has his length between his thighs, he's clearly craved enough by the idol to have him collapsing into Emet-Selch's neck with a shuddering moan.]
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The brush of a tongue against newly claimed skin sets off a smaller shiver. And when Mettaton's lips close over him again, feeling that tighter suction near his neck marring his skin, the Ascian can only gasp, feeling an immediate rush of warmth. These would be much better marks, even in their impermanence, much better than unwanted scars. Though he couldn't see them for himself, Emet-Selch can well imagine the shades his skin must have turned, even the thought having him moan, short and intense, between breaths. Would he be aroused at the sight of them later, he also wondered....
Pressed down as he is, his hips can do no more than twitch upwards against Mettaton's thighs, taking what small friction he could from it, even if it were against metal rather than skin. His cock seemed entirely undaunted by its less-than-organic surroundings. And not being able to do more than writhe and shudder was nearly exhilarating to the Ascian in how unusual it felt; what should've been alarm converted wholly into a desire for more of it. As though being so wonderfully and slowly crushed was an outcome to wish for.
To feel and especially hear Mettaton's own responses, to know he was not unaffected- has his breath hitch, his hands interrupting their exploration of his Bonded's sides to clutch at him, in reassurance or encouragement, he's not certain. Likely both. Clearly reveling in being so wanted, and wanting Mettaton ever more in return.]
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Given his comparative freedom to do as he likes, Mettaton takes his regained composure and continues to adjust his body to his liking with a pleased hum, all while pressing kiss after greedy kiss to the Ascian's neck. Each one's open-mouthed and sloppy, the occasional one lingering as he sucks another mark into him. If he has the monopoly over doing as he'd like by virtue of weight, he may as well mark him, thoroughly. There's something frenzied in the way he moves, desperate for some kind of satisfaction as he situates his body closer to Emet-Selch.
The android finally presses atop Emet-Selch's erection, trembling at the mere closeness and implication of it... but the robot lacks any parts that would allow this intimate connection to continue any further. He makes a sighing sound, moving to press a kiss hard against Emet-Selch's lips, tender but covetous. When he pulls away, he remains close enough to kiss him all over again.]
Hades...
[It's something like a whine, something like a sigh, and Mettaton's scarcely able to keep from squirming against the sensation of his arousal between his legs. In fact, he does, curving his back and exhaling sharply.
His mind's hazy, imagination getting the better of him, and he moans some more at the thought of having Emet-Selch's cock deep inside of him. With no small resistance his hips rock, the curve of his body flush against his arousal. Mettaton presses another sloppy kiss to Emet-Selch's lips, losing himself to his cravings that can't be realized.]
I want... [He kisses him again, heady and uncoordinated in the face of his desire. It seems like he never has enough of it.] Hades, what I would do to... Have you... Hades...
[He shudders, the idol unable to maintain his poise given such intensity. Emet-Selch's lips are taken by his, deep and passionate; he sucks on his lower lip slightly before allowing his tongue to press in, unable to sate his own wants.]
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The weight holding him in place, the stiffness of the erection between his legs, the softness of lips against his own. The sound of his name.
His eyes open, but struggle to focus on Mettaton, the Ascian's voice lost again to a choked-sounding moan, as the other man moves against his cock. But he needed to reply.]
I know...
[It's whispered almost harshly between kisses, between breaths.
This was... immensely frustrating, and not something any spell of his could really rectify. He wanted all of it; to bury himself so deeply within his body, to be taken by Mettaton in turn. To feel connected with him, as fully and completely as possible--
How comparatively dissatisfying, to merely be rubbed up against his thighs; Emet-Selch can only imagine what it must be like for Mettaton to not even have that much, but to still clearly be capable of this much desire for it. He presses into the kiss, lapping back at his tongue, the contact between mouths damp, breathless on his part.
Mettaton had three forms, yet none of them were anatomically complete; a terrible oversight on the part of his builder. It reminded Emet-Selch of their time in the kissing booth, only worse; to go this much further, and yet remain limited after all.
He still needed to reply, despite the kiss, despite everything.]
If you only could... I-- [Distracted in turn by the nearness of Mettaton's lips, pressing up into another kiss. A restless hand moves to grip the back of the puca's head, fingers tense along his scalp, his other arm tight around his lower back.] Gods, I'd want you to....
[He can't even finish that thought before delving into Mettaton's mouth again, yet feeling no less frustrated for the experience.]
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His raw desires shared with Emet-Selch, the ones he can't possibly fulfill, Mettaton reminds himself that there's much else he could do to please and be pleased in turn. That Emet-Selch should want him with such fervor, reciprocating his need for more, it's dizzying. Whether that's having him inside of him or vice versa, it's all enough to make Mettaton forget how to kiss for a moment. As soon as he regains his wit, the Monster only deepens that kiss eagerly.
Mettaton wanted to drown in this experience, and he comes about as close as limitations allow, he supposes. Demonstrated his desperation for it, anyway. Isn't that why he'd hoped for something that could bypass the limitations of his body? It's clear that he'd benefit greatly from such adjustments, if only it were possible. He'd do it simply to gratify himself, to feel the Ascian sit atop his length and sink into him, to take him for himself... and more.
A lot of desire and imagining happening right here, as he runs through appealing mental images: Emet-Selch's lips closed around his arousal, pushed in deep enough to edge dangerously with the back of his throat. Another approach to seeing the Ascian rendered breathless, and he craves that in this moment, humming against Emet-Selch's lips. The Puca's made to withdraw his hand for a moment just to wipe away at errant drool at the corner of his lip, mid-kiss. He's a very covetous-sort; he lets his weight sink into his Bondmate. Any time he hears the other man's voice it's an invitation to give himself; it's becoming second nature to lean in when he hears him, to grow amorous and wanting just at the mere sound of it. A similar thought strikes him: how will that affect him in other situations?
The only fortune is the uptick in nerve sensitivity his inner thighs have. He presses his thighs gently into each other around Emet-Selch's cock, stuttering yet another gasp and finding it warm, thick, and firm against his touch. At the very least it provides him with a nice surprise, and he hums at what he feels, imagining the feeling of his cock deep in his throat again.
Mettaton kisses Emet-Selch religiously, making sure that he knows he's his. Where one kiss is deep and involves his tongue, another is a series of shorter ones; here and there, he kisses along his jaw, or finds fascination with the one earring he wears with his teeth.]
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And though it did little to ease his frustrations, the Ascian also found himself considering what it would be like, were Mettaton's body complete- the textures, the tastes. His mouth was unusual enough of a flavor- though it was quickly nearing familiarity- but what of his come? Would his body be somehow fully organic, or continue its mix of metal, artificial skin, unnatural fur and tissue? Would there be unexpected angles or curves, would his cock harden due to metal, blood, or something unidentifiable?
What a strange thing to find himself aching for. To hold the other man's erection in his mouth, as deeply as he could. To feel Mettaton over him like this, taking the full length of him within his body. To possess him completely in turn.... What sounds would he make then, how would he move? If everything was so intense now--
Why was literally everything the Ascian wanted- even something like this, indulging in acts completely unrelated to his eternal task- unattainable? It was probably the passion of the moment, the encouragement of the Bond to desiring this end, but- he didn't think that made it any less real.
The gentle squeeze of thighs around his cock brings some small relief, pulling a low, ragged moan from his throat, hips jerking to try and rub himself against the puca. Even if it wasn't the same as being buried inside him, it was still good, still sets him aching and shivering for more of it. He pants between kisses, returning them haphazardly, but with no less devotion, hand stroking intermittently at the puca's hair, his ears. Swiping his tongue against Mettaton's, nipping at his lip, his chin and jaw; the kisses were something of a mess, but Emet-Selch was beyond caring about that. He watches Mettaton occasionally, unfocused and too-close with his good eye, but mostly keeps them closed, listening to the sounds they both were making, the noises that came with the shifting of bodies against one another. Though he doesn't feel or hear breath against his ear when Mettaton toys with his earring, the sound of him there is loud anyway, a sensation that has him humming breathlessly in response.]
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He can't ignore the Ascian's response to his legs; in response to his moan, Mettaton takes to his neck again, hungrily pressing his lips to his throat so that he might feel even the sounds of his moans. He sucks, kisses, continuing to mark Emet-Selch up significantly. ...Being so obvious about his possession of his Bonded wasn't his intention, but now that it's panned out, his desire for closeness clearly won over any reason that might've told him to hold back. Now it's for all to see, and what a rush that is.
He has to give it to himself, really. It's impressive to behold, and he smirks at it through his broken composure.
Close to his ear, Mettaton plants a firm kiss against his neck, humming at the sensation of Emet-Selch taking advantage of his thighs. It's feels good, and for all things that feel so sensual, it impacts him harder and harder the longer they go on. It flavors his kissing, giving him the same urgency that Emet-Selch shows him: without fail, each time Emet-Selch bites at his lip, Mettaton overtakes him with a moan of his own and catches him in a kiss deeper than before, pressing into him and adding pressure to the squeeze of his thighs around his cock, bit by bit.
When Mettaton presses down against Emet-Selch's arousal with his thighs for variation in pressure, oddly enough, there's a feeling of genuine muscle beneath the synthetic skin that grows more obvious with increasing pressure: he presses with more firmness and as he's affected by the sensation, he twitches and tenses. His legs are firm and toned thanks to his transformation into a Puca, but muscle is far more forgiving than metal. It's the only place on his body that has developed such an attribute, save perhaps the ability for his ears to move organically.
He sighs; presses his fingers into Emet-Selch's skin; deliberately exerts his weight into his body; nips at his ear again. His voice is at a slow, low rhythm, intimate and broken where he can't help but hum in satisfaction.]
You are... a sight to behold, beautiful. It... It might be enough to drive me... crazy. Just looking at you, like this.
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Of significantly more vulnerability was each display of response- every unrestrained moan, each twinge and shudder, the way the Ascian's body fought to arch up underneath him. To be so immediate, responding without thought, even wanting Mettaton to know, to feel every effect he was exerting on him. It was too raw of a thing to maintain for very long, too exposed- but oh, how it appealed....
...Was that muscle? Emet-Selch is almost certain he can feel a sensation of tensing around his cock, not only a flat increasing pressure. It was unexpected, but he wasn't about to question it, soft cries escaping with his breath as he feels his length progressively squeezed. His body shifts, twitches, struggles up underneath Mettaton, to stroke himself that bit more against his thighs, to feel more of that near-living tension, encouraged ever deeper by every sign of the other man's own pleasure.
The sound of Mettaton's voice, so low and close to his ear, feels as though it's being spoken directly into his head. It helped- bit by bit- to block out all else. To focus on this moment as if it were all that needed to exist. The sound is like a current, running through him, sets his breath shuddering in response, and he swallows hard. How could voice alone have such a profound effect on him?
It takes considerable effort to answer, his tone a low rumble, a moan lurking somewhere just behind it. The satisfaction of the pressure Mettaton was using, holding him down, made it that much more difficult.]
...Is that- so...? I can only imagine... what it must look like. What you've done to me....
[The Ascian interrupts himself, as even that much composure falters, a sharper pang of need running through him, setting him shivering anew.]
--ah, Mettaton....
[It was hard not to plead, feeling ever more desperate for more of him.]
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His head lolls, dizzied, and he presses his forehead to Emet-Selch's temple to pull himself together.]
Ah—
[He thought he'd reached the ceiling for how overwhelmed he could be, and it disappointed him that his body would impose so many restrictions on his pleasure. He's thrilled that it could surpass that yet, and it's good enough to distract him from his earlier longing for a more conventional body. Now, he can't bring himself to focus on any one source of undeniable pleasure. It's his cock between his legs and the way that Emet-Selch tries to shift his hips to drag along his body; the sound of his Bonded's voice, low and familiar and betraying his dissolving composure; the way he looks because he really can't get enough of the Ascian; and above much else, the sound of him rapt with pleasure, moans and stutters and gasps.
The whole experience, then, is what he slips into, and Mettaton moans, loud and ended by the sound of him pressing his teeth together. As his entire body shudders, he unconsciously presses his thighs together as his muscle tenses significantly. Just as Mettaton feels he could find himself missing the feeling of having his throat full of Emet-Selch, he distinctly notes how badly he'll feel he's missing something more from between his legs, were he to pull away.
He doesn't want that; the idol gives Emet-Selch a number of deliberate squeezes between his thighs and while he has control over the pressure, he can't stop from tensing or trembling. He wants to feel Emet-Selch always; the robot presses a feverish kiss to Emet-Selch's jaw and lingers there, swallowing down another noise.
Opening his eye, seeing his Bonded's face, pulling back enough to appreciate him, and Mettaton can't help raising a hand to run his fingers through the shock of white hair. It reminds him of what he told of himself earlier, who he is beyond the body he sees, even while he appreciates its form. Drinking in his neck, his expression, and his unfocused gaze, Mettaton returns to his neck, his voice deep and playful.]
What you look like... Is only ahh— a reflection of wh-what you've done to me, Hades...
[So he deserves it. Eye for an eye. With another good squeeze of his cock between his thighs and the deliberate roll of his hips, Mettaton moves to press his lips to Emet-Selchs in one of their many impassioned kisses.]
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Each rub of his cock between the other man's thighs has Emet-Selch gasping, but never getting even remotely enough air. Even when his mouth wasn't being taken by Mettaton's, it felt as though he were slowly suffocating. From the weight of the other's body, from how every act or even word has him lose what little breath he manages to collect in some desperate noise.
The deliberate squeezing was good, but the uncontrolled twinges and shivers of muscle were better, the clear signs of Mettaton's own reactions to him- as though they weren't already obvious. The Ascian's pulse was so fast that it hurt, muscles taut and trembling from the strength of it, completely overwhelmed, as though battered by pure experience. Was their Bond bleeding together again...? Or had it ever stopped?
The touch to his hair has Emet-Selch struggling to focus on the look to the man over him, his expressions, just the sight of Mettaton, with very mixed success. His answer is softly uttered, nearly distraught, as his eyes close again.]
How could you, I... please, Mettaton, I don't--
[What he's asking for, he doesn't know.
When his climax finally comes, it almost startles him- breath ever more frantic until it stills entirely for a stretch of seconds, the sound he makes strangled and sharp and prolonged, and not fully swallowed up by their kiss. It's not as pained a sound as the first time, but that darker, near-stricken emotion still lurks in the shadows of it. Uncontrolled and no less needy- if only for company rather than relief- Emet-Selch clings to Mettaton's body even as the moment passes.]
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