[He can only snort, shaking his head at Mettaton's reply. He knew he wasn't offering the usual intensity the idol could usually draw out from him without even trying. Interest was there, wanting was there, but it was hard to imagine being consumed by it, no matter how close Mettaton squirmed to him, against him.
And then those rabbit senses were tested. Emet-Selch waits for the verdict, without daring to hope that more would amount from this beyond the sensation of being kissed. And the touches were nice, pleasing and intimate... but he sighs anyway at the expected conclusion. Though he holds back from pointing out that having more places to touch didn't matter if Mettaton couldn't feel anything from them, it doesn't keep the disappointed tone from him.]
'Tis a familiar look, if nothing else.
[A full rabbit shapeshift... no. He might appreciate holding Mettaton like that at another point, but it was not sexy. Even the mention of it deflates him a little; was that really the best hope his lover had to feel anything? As a literal animal?
Claws dig into him, and Emet-Selch bites a sound back, not wanting to make things worse, but equally not wanting to pretend that he was content with what they had left to them. Without even their Bond, their souls and moods connected, they couldn't blend that way either- and no matter how close Mettaton pressed to him, they remained more distant than ever. Separate, in a way he didn't know how to reach past.
...The Bond really had been something of a crutch, when it came to expressing himself. Like this, he felt muted in a different way, even as he feels Mettaton shudder against his back, and he didn't know how or what to reassure him with. He takes a breath.]
It's fine. We'll manage.
[It's not enthusiasm, but it's a little better. A wanting to try, even if it made all the aches worse. And Mettaton's hands did feel good on him, claws and all, especially when they trail to his abdomen.]
You can... move lower than that.
[Voice lowering to a murmur, he pushes himself back against Mettaton's body, as if in an insistence to being held tighter, and his legs spread slightly.]
[Part of the pleasure they drew from their combinings as of late had pivoted heavily over how Mettaton was feeling about it, with his acquired ability to sense and feel. Even if he weren't being directly touched, the threat—or more accurately, the treat—of it loomed, as they knew that if he had Emet-Selch bound to his whims, set before him for touch and enjoyment... Even if he were the one groping and handling the mage, the monster would have his own display of arousal to show for it. He would press his cock against the smaller of the two, and they'd feel sparks fly as they enjoyed the heavy presence that needed tending. Emet-Selch had often put his own arousal in as an afterthought in comparison—and that was something fine by them.
It hurt, to feel his lover's interest faded. That his body failed at something, and there was no peacocking he could do to make up for that sheer lack. But Mettaton still felt himself worth arousal, for all he is, and his frustration exists alongside desire. Even without the anatomy of it, Mettaton desires Emet-Selch, after it all. He truly wanted his intimacy, his control, his love and his vulnerability. He wanted everything Emet-Selch was, and wanted Emet-Selch to treat him to the same deliberation he ever had.
Emet-Selch's words do reach Mettaton. He smiles; he presses his lips to his shoulder, and gives him a gentle nuzzle. He could tell that those simple words conveyed more than met the eye, a desire to hold his heart and reassure him.]
We will. ...Thank you.
[Earnestly, he speaks, soft and low. He even feels tension drain from him just through his own gratitude expressed—and in reflecting over his own warmth, it takes him off-guard as he feels Emet-Selch push back, his thighs pushing against Mettaton's as he spreads his legs encouragingly.
Mettaton exhales, eager and focused. He can't help himself as he presses ever tighter to Emet-Selch's body, winding arms squeezing his victim in his excitement for the presentation of Emet-Selch's body. His fingers drift low, claws a gentle scratch as he charts a path lower upon request.]
Hades...
[It's awe and want that tinges his voice, deep and tense. His ears are sprung, though they lean for the man in front of him, if at an akimbo splay. Emet-Selch's waistband remains an obstacle, his pants still there—but that doesn't stop Mettaton as he greedily makes for the front of his pants, immediately palming the prominence to be found between thighs.
Wracked with a bout of shudders, Mettaton exhales, covetous and hungry.]
Ah... You. You never fail to impress... I wouldn't have your response to me any other way.
[He couldn't help but be flattered just at the way Emet-Selch reacted to his presence, and all of the history they had behind them. Even when they'd first taken to intimacy, even when they stood together in a kissing booth... he remembers the grief in parting then, and how he just knew Emet-Selch was aroused. Any time he knew, it never failed to spark delight and desire in him. Fingers dance along the firm line trapped under fabric, rolling in a gentle pinch over the fullness of the tip.]
[Mettaton was certainly worth his arousal. He knew the other man could inspire it without even touching him, that the right look might suffice. Conversation, certainly, as both voice and specific content were an effective tease. And though he knew he was biased, Mettaton was an attractive man besides. Moreover, he loved him.
And still, a part of that arousal was the knowledge and memory of how touch would follow, that the robot took his own pleasure from seeing him hard as well. If he was wanting, it was difficult to imagine Mettaton turning him away.
All of that was true. And with the way Mettaton pressed to him now, with the way he spoke, Emet-Selch knew he was still desired too. Nudging his head against the other man's as best he could, it was a wordless request for closeness. The splay of his legs was a welcoming gesture too, even though they were still clothed.
...Even so. Even so, Emet-Selch knew he wasn't as drawn in as he should be, when Mettaton handled his body. There were limits now that he couldn't escape thinking about. The robot could get him off with ease, but... that was it.
But his breath takes on a shuddered note all the same, a whisper of Mettaton's name, as his body certainly knew what to do when he was being touched by him. Not as directly as it might like, but with the sort of tease that could be made good on. Fabric could be parted, removed entirely, and the strength of his reaction made explicitly visible. A shameless display he'd ever enjoyed pressing to Mettaton's body in an appeal for attention or appreciation- or just friction.
(And so often too did he go relatively neglected- brought to pleasure and relief both through some application of Mettaton's own erection. Through Mettaton's climax, he was lured to his own- when permitted. And even when he was allowed to come first, it was often to enhance the robot's own release, which of course enhanced his own....
Tantalizing imagery. Memories. If ones he tries to not dwell on too closely, in favor of the expert, familiar way he could watch Mettaton handle him now, along a length that filled for him.)]
You never fail to inspire. Too much so, at times...
[It's not a real grumble, but the show of one. From their first (technically second) kiss, and the interest that came with it, they'd both been aroused that afternoon, and so suddenly. But they maintained decency (beyond whatever they lost from making out behind a kissing booth), even as the prospect of taking to each other right then had been... attractive.
Just as he was attracted now to what they were doing- and with far more experience together behind them. Knowledgeably touched, rather than curiously, though they'd never known hesitation once they'd begun. His own fingers grip at the side of the bed, and his thighs tense with the desire to press up, to roll his hips into Mettaton's hand. But he didn't want to move away from his body either.]
[Escapism is Mettaton's forte. He knew it was a difficult order, given that the escape would be from recalling that he is a robot who natively possessed no sexual organs with which to penetrate Emet-Selch with, but he would show him how much he wanted him without. How much of him he'd take, at that, greedily consuming Emet-Selch and his body, a gateway to his heart.
The mage responds to the monster readily, practiced and primed. Memories and dreams strike them both, as the former-puca recalls the way that Emet-Selch could be made to fill out for him, even before he'd shapeshifted anything concrete to busy himself with. Mettaton sighs, pressing his hand firmly and fully to trap his cock against his body, stuck between clothes and hand and with pressure applied. There was so much they loved to do with a point of pleasure like this—and Mettaton focuses on all he could do to Emet-Selch, to deprive and overwhelm, to restrain or demand.
Needy, Emet-Selch's hips jerk, and Mettaton hums an ascending note of interest at his show. He can't help but chuckle lowly at the accusation that he hears and knows isn't deeply felt, insofar as its delivery. Past fabric, he continues to appreciate his firm and filling arousal, working from pinching the tip to groping him down toward his root with a possessive, commanding confidence. Mettaton viewed Emet-Selch's body as his own, and this was his cock to touch and treat, to deny and to please.]
But I like that. To inspire dreams beyond the constraints of sense... [His voice, a soft purr, is pressed to the side of Emet-Selch's neck, where he brushes soft, silicone lips.] And to captivate you, and draw you into my own dreams. I'd argue it, Hades... that you're a bit of an inspiration yourself, love.
[An inspiration to Mettaton specifically, whether it was the solid basis of his shapeshifts, or the desire to reach for more and more. He sighs, working his way down, down, fingers pinching the shape of his cock beneath fabric, until he bites at his lower lip and fully grips him. His fingers slide between thighs, the motion to grab both his balls and cock in a gesture of ownership, all before sighing warmly against skin.
He remembers the way he'd felt back then, when he was first exploring Emet-Selch's body. And somehow... somehow, it even paled to this kind of intensity, Mettaton realizes with a start. The ache he feels is somehow acute, even without muscles, without veins. He gasps, fingers squeezing and handling his balls as his palm is nudged firmly against his root, and Mettaton lets him go only so that his hand can quickly chart a path straight to his waistband. It was a sort of psychological ache, something that set his body to heating, electricity to course fast in his body—and even behind Emet-Selch, the robot shifts with pent-up need to move.
That gasp is released in a sigh that is utter heat. Not burning nor scalding, but hot air, void of damp. He could feel Emet-Selch keep from thrusting, and as Mettaton takes to the fastening of his trousers with a deft hand, he gives Emet-Selch a brief nip to the side of his neck.]
Mm. Stay still for me, now. I want to appraise what I've done to you... since you think it too much.
[And even here, even though he was sorely lacking a crucial part to their passion play... Mettaton is too focused on their collective arousal to dwell on it right now.]
If you weren't inspired, I'd think you weren't paying me close enough attention.
[Smoothly arrogant, but emotionally touched all the same, he felt an appreciation for all that they did inspire in each other. Though he knew Mettaton's consideration of his body had both its practical and personal aspects, the addiction to their combining was something they'd fostered together. It was inescapable, which was its own problem.
Was it even possible to escape from past escapes? Emet-Selch didn't know, but his swift pulse and filling cock spoke of a reason to try. Though he doubted his own ability to be pulled under completely, for Mettaton to take him to a depth that could briefly sate him- he thought it likely that it would feel good, anyway. Tempering expectations, but appreciating being touched at all- he could do that much.
The robot's fingers were a convincing argument in themselves, and he shivers as the attention to his tip turns to a groping for his girth. Even through fabric, it was nicely possessive, the way Mettaton grabbed for both balls and shaft. And he responds with a soft groan, escaping with an exhale of breath. Not as warm as the robot behind him, but heated all the same, and a touch damp as an organic entity would be. For all that it was forgiving material, it was beginning to feel quite constrictive, with the way Mettaton was grasping him, with as hard as he was getting.
Or he was just eager to be touched directly. Which is why he can't complain too far, when Mettaton abandons that hold in favor of slipping to the fastenings, anticipation warming him through. The nip to his neck has him tilting his head in offering, a soft gasp preceding his reply.]
A call to remain still... you do know how to appeal to me.
[A touch wry. Even if Mettaton was also good at giving him reasons to move, for all that he ever remained not as inclined in that direction as the robot. But for the point of appraising, of attention- yes. He could remain as still as desired. How obedient he felt otherwise was yet to be decided.]
[Mettaton smiles, simple and pleased, for he does pay Emet-Selch close attention. He kisses over his shoulder, open-mouthed and-- if failing in the dampness, it's full and passionate, and soft thanks to his lack of saliva. That's what follows his nip, as though in gratitude for Emet-Selch's agreement: he would still, because it was in line with what he wanted. Not an act of obedience. Mettaton could read between the lines.
Because even wound up, bound and tied, Emet-Selch would be stubborn and defiant. Mettaton smiles wider- almost maddened, hungered. The quickness of his fingers stumble, fumbling to free what lies beneath cloth, and the robot coaxes his pants to part for him with another gentle nibble of the Ascian's neck.]
Hades... [Is all he finds himself saying, voice a low purr. For the moment, he's transfixed on his prize—and Mettaton lifts his head so that he's on alert, ears leaning far enough that they're surely making their way into Emet-Selch's vision. Clawed fingertips push deep between folds, and the puca-like robot fondles his mate, gasping softly at the sensation of his filled, filling erection, pushing at restraint of fabric. And now, at the grip of his hand.
With a soft groan, Mettaton could sympathetically feel the rigidity as though it were his own. He doesn't even need to close his eyes, wrapping fingertips around Emet-Selch's root as he pushes and parts fabric further to properly free his cock with a roll of his wrist, fighting his trousers to pull free his erection. And once free, Mettaton only barely manages to lift his hand from skin, just to give him a look, to appraise him as he'd promised.]
How you always manage to be a delightful presentation, I'll never know. [Mettaton sighs, stroking a finger along his length, the underside of the root all the way up until he gives the tip a firm press, causing him to bob.] If you want more things to do for me... Won't you lay back on the bed, darling? I want to... better appreciate you.
[Better appreciate, punctuated with another nip to his shoulder, ardent yet gentle. In spite of his condition, Mettaton's mind races with all he wanted to do, whether he could manage it in his current state or not. He wanted to lay him down, to spread his legs, to stuff his own cock between his thighs and describe how good he looked full him and erect; he wanted to lay him down and kiss him from neck to ankles, to leave him bitten and sensitive. He wanted to straddle his hips and push their cocks together, to grip them both until they oozed, slick and sticky and perfect to jerk off in tandem... Mettaton shivers with a sigh, pressing bodily against Emet-Selch.
But he similarly tugs at him, encouraging him to climb deeper onto the mattress. He would be more than supportive in helping him into place. He smirks against his neck, lips grazing along skin until he's just beneath his ear, able to nip at his earring.]
And by appreciate... I want the full spread of your body, Hades.
[His breath catches, hips twitching against the bed at the first sensation of fingers reaching his cock, in touching him directly. Emet-Selch could tell Mettaton was no less taken by this contact, an appeal they were drawn to together. If there was any filling left to be done, watching and feeling his lover fondle him underneath fabric was enough to do it. And then he was free, exposed to the air, and to sight, an appropriately rigid vision for them both. The brief relief of no longer being trapped gave way almost immediately to a sharper pang of want, as they admired his fullness together.
Even though it was for the sake of observation, which in itself he enjoyed, he can't quite stifle the small protesting sound when Mettaton unhands his erection, for even a moment.]
If we're to talk of presentation, I've always found your hand to be an appropriate accessory.
[A hint, delivered. Though it was more than his hand that appealed, as the sight of his cock pressed to any part of Mettaton's body was an attractive one. Framed between his thighs, taken into his mouth, pressed firm and thick against Mettaton's own cock, where they could stroke each other off into a sticky mess- they were only a few of the ways he loved to see himself.
But he's provided a tease of a touch, his cock made to wobble in the open air, and given another simple task.]
--Once more, you appeal to my expertise.
[It was often enough that he ended upon his back, in bed... but he wasn't inclined to argue over this request either, aligned to his own desires and nature as it was. A tug deeper onto their modest bed is accepted, though there's a bit of wriggling involved to make sure that his pants didn't come with him. With all fabric slid off to gather unceremoniously on the floor, Emet-Selch shifts the small distance into the center of the bed, and lays down, head aligned with their pillows.
Shivering a little from being so uncovered, the air feeling far cooler than the heat of his body, the warmth of arousal, he glances down at himself, his erection even more of a sight this way, swollen and gently curved. Though his body had a few bruises left, healing sores and scrapes, they were all a result of wolfhood rather than loving ardor.
Exhaling a shaking breath, his gaze soon returned to Mettaton. Unlike the robot, he wasn't so naturally inclined towards posing, or conscious display, but the mage was comfortable, at ease with his casual sprawl, legs slightly parted. A languid wave towards himself completes the appeal(?).]
[What a provocative sentiment. Mettaton fixes his eye upon Emet-Selch's erection, his fingers a ring upon its girth. Overcome by the notion, his lashes curtain his gaze, a tight shudder wracking metal.
...He realizes suddenly that he's been drawn right back into gripping him, at the description of him as an accessory. He wanted to see it. When Mettaton couldn't feel as acutely, vision was a provocative show, and he ends up pumping over Emet-Selch's fullness in a deliberate, slow movement, admiring the sight of him touching him.
But he knows he wants more. Once again, his hand parts from the upright arch of his cock, though not without petting over him, letting him bob back to the air.]
You're right. [He sounds breathless. Mettaton sighs, nuzzling against the side of Emet-Selch's neck.] You do look best with something of me on you.
[If it wasn't his own come, it would be his body. Sandwiched between his lovely thighs, head gently rest between his lips, or encircled by fingers, Mettaton squirms just to consider the possibilities, each inciting enough that he aches. How far could he bring himself to ache...? (And how on earth would he manage to soothe that ache, given how much it manages to burn him, to heat him? It didn't feel the same as the delectable filling of his thighs, the way fluid pooled low in his body, but it felt increasingly hot, and inescapable.)
It's almost in a daze that he relinquishes his hold on Emet-Selch, permitting him the chance to shuck his pants. And fully exposed to the air, Mettaton watches, rapt, as he lays himself comfortably back in a manner appropriate for him. Lazy, easygoing, his casualness was part of his demeanor—and even that wave was just so him that it charms as well as excites. Mettaton smiles silly, brimming with warmth as he crawls to his own spot.
Taking up post between the Ascian's legs, he decides to examine him with his upright poise. Mettaton's movements are elegance, flowing as he lifts a finger to his lower lip and thoughtfully pours over his husband, over the planes of his body, the lack of his bruises, the hardness of nipples and the way air chilled him over. And of course, to the attractive, swollen member between thighs—which Mettaton decides to focus on, as his hands move quickly, fluidly, to his legs.]
Spread wider. [With his hands, Mettaton encourages Emet-Selch's thighs apart. It could disrupt the casual ease of his sprawl... but Mettaton also felt sure that Emet-Selch would still make a full demonstration look casual.] I see myself between them, as more than an accessory...
[... Sure. He also could envision himself fitting his girth between his cheeks, spreading Emet-Selch's legs and stuffing him full just like so. To bind him up, to keep him spread and unable to move save for writhing... But he keeps that fantasy to himself, and focuses instead on leaning closer, watching Emet-Selch's face as he dips nearer to his cock. With a sultry smile, he fits just the tip of him against his lips, leaving him with a warm, soft kiss.]
[Provocative for them both. And Emet-Selch felt reasonably rewarded when his words got him a fleeting, if sure touch, a firm pump along a cock that invited touching. The sight too was a reward for them both, of a four-fingered hand applied to him, a rigidity that was there because of the robot's work. Even so, his eyes half-slip shut for a moment, letting the rush of arousal flood him for that handful of seconds. But there was no chance of looking away entirely.
And he doesn't protest again when Mettaton has to let go of him for the opportunity to situate himself. Though it wasn't a touch that could tide him over... it helped, and gave reason to shuffle himself into a better position.]
And you've been so generous with me, in the past....
[Decorated with his come, with bruises and bites, with jewelry and ropes. Marked suggestively, aesthetically, possessively (with not all of that available, possible now; he swallows back a sigh even as he settles into place on the bed), Mettaton always knew how to apply himself to his body.
And it was an application he ached for, his skin showing the beginning of a flush as he lay as an offering against covers and blankets, even as he wondered what Mettaton could feel in turn. Was there internal pressure as there had been as a puca, somehow? Was there any sense of heat? But Mettaton's expressions, the way he exhaled in some sort of need- he tried to take some reassurance there, that his husband was assuredly aroused with him, in some form.
Was it possible to look casual with legs more explicitly spread? The mage makes as good an attempt at it as might be possible, nearly languid despite being so hard, as though it were nothing to expose himself so vulnerably. But his pulse surely moves quicker to see Mettaton between them, to feel hands on his thighs, encouraging their parting.
He allows a low, pleased hum to escape from his own lips, at the feeling of Mettaton's kiss placed to his tip, and to the look of him there, soft silicone against swollen, sensitive flesh. Though he doesn't moan, it would be an easy thing to provoke out of him, and one of his thighs trembles in expectant pleasure.]
Now there's an even better sight.
[...He tries not to think on how Mettaton couldn't feel how warm he was, against his lips. Could he even feel him as clearly as he usually seemed to?]
--And more than an accessory. Yes, you might just manage it.
[They both avoid thoughts of what Mettaton couldn't do. A delicate balance to strike; an errant thought could set either of them on a downward spiral, resenting what was lost or aching for it. Most likely, both. And should it happen—as it's not ruled out as something that could strike—Mettaton would be hurt by it, the raw vulnerability he showed to Emet-Selch making the discomfort a sharp pang of upset.
He felt pleased that Emet-Selch was so pliant. So willing, so obviously heated, senses he could drink in with his eyes and the press of his fingertips. He could see the Ascian's warmth in the flush of his features, from his cheeks to his fingertips to the swell of his cock. He looked so warm... Mettaton wanted to grope him head to toe, to feel soft flesh give under his touch and to hear the sound of Emet-Selch's breath hitching, his groans and cries and sighs as he brought pressure into his groin. He licks his lips, hovering so close to the glans that he could flick out his tongue and lap at the slit if he pleased.
He grins, unable to help himself. He gingerly laps at the tip, a brush of silicone over the swell of soft skin.]
I imagine I'm a breathtaker. But you, too, Hades... If we're going to talk abut generosity, you've so much to offer me in visuals alone!
[The sight of him, everything he could consume as he is. He's always loved seeing him, loved drinking in the sights of him reflected back in mirrors; loved seeing the state of his arousal and the flush of well-bitten lips, the stickiness of him having come. He dreams of all the things he could see, and in the moment, he forgets about the senses he has that are dulled in favor of his pleasure in sight.
He manages to make it easy, laying back so spread. The shamelessness in showing off the full of his arousal has Mettaton unable to resist dipping low, sucking a small kiss to Emet-Selch's inner thigh.
Raw suction, rather than the damp environment created by the aid of saliva, yields a quicker result more than anything: without involving teeth, the robot's kiss is warm and soft and full, as he hums into the vulnerability of skin he can't help but palpate. Pressing into him with touches markedly more firm than he might normally, Mettaton is attracted to the way his body gives, and whatever he could feel is comparatively just as much as he can manage.
As ever, he wants more. As ever, he would endlessly crave more and more and more. After one kiss, Mettaton groans, stooping in for another, firm pressure applied briefly and without the relief of slippery saliva. Drawing back, two bright, deep marks are quick to form, making this more effective at bruising him.
With a sigh, Mettaton thumbs the marks, glancing up toward Emet-Selch. He knew his kisses should feel different, and he checks in with his lover—despite feeling fully confident that a kiss from him should make it worthwhile, no matter how different.]
Such deep marks... You really are wide open to me. [A press of his clawed thumb, Mettaton rubs a circle into his upper thigh, glancing down at his cock.] How does it feel, darling?
[There was no damp. That was notable, for all that the contact itself was pleasant. Of course it would be, to feel soft silicone stroking against such a sensitive part of him. He liked it, though there was an edge of dissonance that went with it, as the expectation of damp heat was missing one particular component, and there would be no sheen of spit left from wherever Mettaton teased him with his mouth. The sight otherwise, though, appealed greatly, as it was more than suggestive to watch his lover with lips and tongue against his cock. It was nearly more effective than the sensation.
Visuals alone it was, but he doesn't say it. He only hums a small, breathless sound of assent, as though in full agreement, rather than some modified sense of it. The visuals were powerful, after all, from the way he knew he looked, spread out like this in aroused anticipation (rather than the enticing aftermath, where he was more of a mess, undone and panting), to Mettaton's presence between his legs. That sight itself could get him hard from nothing, the robot an undeniably attractive addition (leaning bunny ears and all).
And from the head of his cock, Mettaton graces his thigh with his lips instead, and with a pressure that causes his breath to catch, and his muscles to tighten.
Raw suction, he quickly realized, was a different sensation from what Mettaton used to inflict on him. It was something sharper, more pinching, more quickly reaching a point where he knew dark bruises would be left behind. It hurt, more than expected. Not strictly unpleasant, no- and the throb of his erection helped in appreciating the sensation for what it was- but it was different.
(To see those bruises, and feel that suction... to even feel himself prodded more firmly than usual by fingers, it all led to a certain hesitation when it came to the idea of being sucked off. Ending up with a bruised cock might be intense, but he wasn't sure he would actually like it.)
Everything about his touch seemed firmer than usual, and Emet-Selch didn't think he was imagining it. But he doesn't complain, or even mention it, assuming that this would just... be how it was, now, and if this was what Mettaton needed to do to feel him, then he would get used to it.
Gaze casting down to the deep colors that now graced his skin (with no damp sheen that usually accompanied the sight), he considers it.]
Hmm... I can see you're making up for lost time. I have been going quite undecorated.
[Which wasn't quite the same as expressing what it felt like, but the visual effect, at least, was unreservedly attractive. The full firmness of his erection seemed to indicate a continued approval.]
[Though not like the sharp pinch a vacuum pressed directly to skin, Mettaton's mouth without saliva ends up suctioning to him with a delicate flick of his tongue, with the press of his lips tight to his thighs. Spit would've made him slide, slippery against skin. But there's none of that, nor any substituting fluid, and Mettaton can just tell that he has a better hold on Emet-Selch's thigh.
Which explains why he knew to let him go- and why he's not as surprised at the resulting depth in his mark. But the sight of Emet-Selch's eye on him has Mettaton's ears lifting, the robot's interest only increasingly stoked. Emet-Selch's a splendid view, with his body flush and on display for Mettaton... but Mettaton feels sparks alight in his body at the thought of being watched from Emet-Selch's end, his every kiss and movement to be recorded by an exclusive, privileged audience.
Sight and vision was Mettaton's crutch. A part of him ached. Any time he felt the want for more, any time he felt his fingertips pressing firm into skin only to see how he was denting Emet-Selch's thigh, a press more than he thought, he can't help but ache. Had he never been granted the stronger ability for sensation, he would've never known what he was missing. Mettaton EX was his perfect body, and it failed in no ways. In itself, he could do everything save for taste, and that, he'd been content to imagine. He'd been content to imagine a lot of the things he didn't understand, and as for the senses and physicality he'd gained... it fulfilled completely, having not realized that there was more he could gain.
And then he got more. And then he found Emet-Selch; and then they dove head-first into the depths of experience and intensity, and it left Mettaton feeling for those sensations again. So he presses, and presses harder, not realizing just how hard he pressed. A once-delicate hand is delicate in movement, but every touch is firmer. He hasn't gotten used to the way he used to be after spending years as a puca.
The cock before him stood tall and swollen; Emet-Selch doesn't explicitly answer how it feels. Only one of Mettaton's ears makes any indication of his notice, swiveling in curiosity at the omission before deciding he knew already why it was being omitted. For the same reason Mettaton ached.
And the reason it's omitted, too, is because of their love. His smile gentles, and he sinks low to the mage's crotch. With a sigh, his eye's drawn to Emet-Selch's arousal before pressing his face there, burying himself against the full heat of his cock with a soft groan. Nuzzling against him, Mettaton can't bring himself to close his eye even this close up, when he enjoyed the sight of his mate's body flush to his face.]
I like it when you wear accessories provided by me.
[He's muffled by the root of Emet-Selch's cock, which he talks flush to. Burying himself deeper, his lips are pressed to his balls, pursed in a kiss and treated to a nuzzle. A hand moves along Emet-Selch's thigh to grip at his cock, steadying it enough so that he can give the full length of him kisses from beneath, applied so sloppy that he'd definitely be glistening with saliva if the idol could produce it.
Because if visuals were what they had, if Emet-selch was soaking him in with as much intensity as he did him, the robot wanted to make sure he inspired.]
And... I concede. When I am an accessory of yours, too. [He plants a firm kiss to the tip of his erection, giving him just a gentle pet with his tongue.]
[Had he likewise never encountered Mettaton with a sensation-enhanced body (and eventual shapeshifting potential), he wouldn't have known that there was as much to miss. As Mettaton was clearly affected by what they were doing, involved and incited, leaving bruises and tending to his cock, in something that wasn't a one-sided show for his sake. Their pleasure would be and had been mutual.
(Even then, he knew they would dream for more, at least in the sense of having more avenues for penetration, and especially the ability to come, just as they had in their earliest encounters with Mettaton as a puca. But the amount they were lacking on top of an absent cock, wouldn't be felt so keenly. The baseline would be different; Mettaton being able to touch and hold and feel at all would be delightful.
It still was. But they both knew better.)
Emet-Selch was still aware that for all that he missed what Mettaton was missing, that Mettaton would be in a far sorrier state, in having all this arousal, but no way to show it through a hard cock, no way of filling him with seed. When they'd briefly shared a body as god, he'd felt something of the puca-ized robotic experience, the way pressure and fluid had pooled in them, as they fascinated over their combined form. The utter relief when Mettaton had shapeshifted an erection for them to handle was something he wouldn't forget.
So he tries now to not think too far, too openly, on what he wished Mettaton still had. Neither of them were any less interested in one another sexually- which of course was its own problem, the reason it was difficult to not ache over what they no longer had.
But Mettaton's groan is echoed by a soft moan on his part, when the taller man returns to his erection, the press of his face and brush of his lips sending a jolt of wanting through him. He shudders at the sight, of his own length flush and full to his lover's face, a warmth that the mage could feel, at least.]
Is there any I would turn down wearing, if it came from you?
[Whether it was a pattern of bruises, or pieces of jewelry. Though when it came to more intimate items, was there anywhere here they could even buy cock rings from....
For that matter, was there any place to buy lubrication. It would get expensive, fast, if they had to beg the Crystal for a new bottle every time they ran out. And with Mettaton being a very dry robot, they would still need it for a lot of things. Was there any sort of sex shop in town?
But he tries to not think too far in that vein; it would be easy enough to bitterly question the point of it, even if it was there. He breathes another moan instead, as though he weren't distracted, watching his cock be treated to a series of kisses, messy in sight, if not in residue. Held steady by Mettaton's hand, it was a vision to get caught up in, and one that he tries to, thighs tense on either side of his head.
Pushing himself up to lean back on his elbows to better watch him, he exhales slowly.]
[Cheekily, and with a stupid, MTT-Brand smile (of the goofy and vulnerable variety), Mettaton nuzzles his cock, cheek against its side as he locks eyes with Emet-Selch.]
Oh, I'm sure I could find some you'd turn down, with your discerning eye. Haha.
[...Because their tastes ran different, and Mettaton knew that. Especially as Emet-Selch had griped and denied his assistance back when he'd fully lost his sight, the terror of Mettaton's decision-making for his daily wardrobe making him choose nudity or robes. Heaven forbid that his idol of a husband go wild and dress him in something he wouldn't like. They had their own tastes, even when Mettaton thought his tastes were always good. He still respected it, and even enjoyed it, when Emet-Selch's opinion differed from his own.
With a sigh, the cheeky grin dissipates into something sultry and hot, as he turns toward Emet-Selch's erection to further kiss it. If he kisses him sloppily, suction is not made in any bruising way; he latches onto him only to release, silicone lips drifting up, down, and around his shaft, pressed close to his own face by a clawed hand. His silver, black-tipped ears lean forward once more, entirely drawn in by Emet-Selch's body.
And his attention, as Mettaton couldn't help but glance up at him, eager to see his eyes on him. Each time he does, his ears spring up, then nearly flop forward in overcome, electricity coursing hot within the limits of his body... (And he wonders: just where is he to put all of this energy? He squirms; it'd be hard to tell at this angle, but possible, when Mettaton presses his legs tightly together and gasps, his imagination running wild just to envision the heaviness of the cock he'd have...)]
I trust that you'd decorate me impeccably, darling. Any time. I look good in anything, but... [A nearly-sucking kiss right to the tip has Mettaton prodding him with a pink tongue, but not too much: without fluid, he knew too much rubbing would just tug and irritate.] Whatever you choose to adorn me with... will surely catch both our eyes.
[Rings, jewelry, clothes... his come. Mettaton exhales over his cock, kissing him back down his shaft so that he's buried at the root, as Mettaton compresses his stiff cock against his own face for a nuzzle. (He's so rigid, he thought, admiring the firmness that coupled arousal. And firm in addition to that was the spread of his thighs, as a quick glance to the side shows him the way his legs tense under obscene attentions.
(Where would they get lube from? It seemed that with an absence of human residents, so too was there an absence for sex shops... Unless they had just managed to evade Mettaton's notice. How many bottles of lube could they get from how many shards... He'd have to budget for that, while trying to similarly get Emet-Selch's creation powers back, which would solve all the problems.)
With a smirk, and a half-open glance of Emet-Selch's sprawled body before him, Mettaton presses another series of kisses, from his balls to his root, before speaking flush to his body.]
As for you... There's also the appeal in just seeing you totally bare of anything. So much real estate, for jewelry and kisses...
[He doesn't mention the come he'd love to leave him messy with. He closes his eye instead, humming and continuing to lave Emet-Selch's erection with kisses.]
I would try to. [And where Mettaton smiles, the Ascian gives a heavier sigh, as though the robot were just too much to deal with, accompanied with a long-suffering look. It remains mostly intact despite the slight flush to him. Though aroused, he wasn't particularly discomposed.] And yet, you've a talent for convincing me into your nonsense.
[Or he was weak to persistence (and Mettaton's pleasure). (Of course, he could be contrary too, or just stubborn, but he felt as though Mettaton could get him to do things more often than not.)
As the robot returns to sultry suggestion, laving the stiff length nudged against his face with attention, Emet-Selch returns to watching him- not that he'd ever truly stopped.
He mostly trusted that Mettaton would remember to not suck too hard at any part of his cock, when there was nothing to soften (or slicken) the pressure. A trace of guardedness did remain, though, due to the familiar unfamiliarity of the situation. But it was a tension that was not unlike the rest of his; an attentiveness that would've been there regardless.
And while all these kisses would've normally been enough to tease him into asking, needing something fuller, however that manifested, that sort of desperation felt far on the horizon- if he reached it at all. Partially because there was nothing to beg for.
But it was pleasant to look at, to see Mettaton with his lips on his balls, to watch the other man nearly squirm in his arousal, and he wondered if the idol was enjoying this more than he was. Which wasn't a problem, to him, though he did find it ironic. But he hums a soft noise, deliberately nudging his cock against Mettaton's face. An assent of some kind, either to Mettaton's ability to wear anything at all, or that his own taste was perfect when it came to selecting something for the robot.
The wedding rings he'd picked for him brought a sentimental ache to think of- and a comfort to remember that Mettaton had been given back one of them. A memory that went right to his cock were all the times where he saw his come on his body, whether it was against Mettaton's waist, or between thighs, or at his lips. Anywhere it smeared or dripped... was a compelling argument for its presence.]
If you would have me bare... I would have a hard time arguing against the convenience. [Anything about his condition could be visible from a glance, from bruises to arousal.] However, I would miss those times when you disrobe me, whether in full or only part.
[He loves him. Mettaton's grin turns sillier for reasons other than telling a joke, almost melting against his cock at the sight of Emet-Selch sighing in spite of his ardent flush. Even if he were capable of easily convincing his husband of his nonsense, Mettaton knew Emet-Selch could convince him of a great many things himself. ...Such as: the merit in not having a fully human body after all, against the odds, and for reasons beyond the human body's inclination to deteriorate. He felt fully, truly loved, his body part of something they adored together.
Aside from its lack of a cock, its lack of tactile input. But they were managing.
Mettaton's since stolen his own wedding ring back off of his remaining, torn limb and slipped it neatly upon the finger of the hand that cradles his cock, his left cheek with its smooth, warm paneling pressed to his shaft as he gazes up at Emet-Selch. He knew well that Emet-Selch would often be quick to ask for the fullness of him, given that it would be the end result- and so much toying around agitated Emet-Selch, who wanted the sweetness of absolute overcome, for as long as he could have it. As they are, though, all they had was something akin to foreplay: Mettaton wouldn't suck Emet-Selch off, couldn't taste his come, lacked the saliva or any sort of lubricant to make use of his mouth in any comfortable fashion, and absolutely had nothing to penetrate or penetrate with.
Even without words, this is simply fact. Mettaton had himself; he had the push of his thighs, the tension in his hips, the way he curled close to Emet-Selch and fondled his erection, and all of the desire he always had with none of the same outlets they were used to. He had Emet-Selch's body to work, and much in the way of persuasion. With a smile, he imagined that his own flush would mirror Emet-Selch if his body were capable of conveying it.]
I'm sure you can feel it... The climb of my body temperature. [The heat of it on his words, the warmth of his cheek that exceeded a human's temperature. Even if he couldn't produce heat in the same way he could as a glorified heater, he still warmed, and he still shifted with the need to expel some of that temperature.] ... I'll confess, darling. I did wake from that dream of you... and in much of my dream, you were totally naked for me, and so lovingly kissed. Convenient indeed.
[As ever, kissed = bruised. The psyche of Mettaton, which involved more than nudity and massage and costumes. Utter nonsense, but Mettaton confesses it with heat and heart, because he loved the sight of Emet-Selch like this. His dreams could mirror reality, as he made dreams come true...
But he had to agree with something, as Mettaton lets his free hand run along Emet-Selch's inner thigh. Where one presses his cock to his cheek, the other reaches for his balls, giving them a firm fondle; a finger drifts lower, his palm against his balls, as he prods close to his entrance, flirts with his body.]
I would have to agree, though. Disrobing you, like opening a present... I'd miss it too much as well. [Closing his eye, he shifts closer as he imagines the recent sight of parting his trousers, of releasing his cock to the air—and shudders, wanting, despite having him right against his cheek.] And to see you present yourself before me... It never fails to tease me, beautiful.
[He presses close to his cock, pressure against his shaft and his balls enough to communicate possession of him. Lovestruck, he gazes up at Emet-Selch, watching the flush upon his face that came of a heightened pulse, of love and arousal.]
[It had ceased to be strange to see something as rigid and unforgiving as a robot melt, but in his company, Mettaton seemed to do so, sometimes. An expressiveness that he would have a hard time ever matching, but which touched him to see.]
You're warm. [He admits, voice quiet. A heat that beat out his erection, though that was nothing unusual. Mettaton was a hot robot, and that surely went unchanged. Wherever he touched him, he was warm, and invitingly so, whether that was fingers along his shaft, fondling his balls, or lips and tongue melding to an erection firm.
It had never been off-putting or even that strange, to feel his cock rubbed up against metal paneling, of what comprised that part of his lover's cheek. And that remained true even when he was more conscious overall of Mettaton's composition, and where it was less than accommodating when it came to most varieties of sex.
A tease alone. Foreplay without advancement. Emet-Selch wondered if neither of them would end up coming, when it came down to it... with Mettaton left to ache, and himself to become oversensitive and annoyed. But he holds back a genuine sigh in favor of a show of one.]
I would think that a dream of me both covered and unbruised would be the more remarkable one, Mettaton. Your unconscious state isn't terribly creative.
[But he could see how much this dream seemed to have meant to his husband, which touched him as well. To be dreamt of so fondly (so erotically), if idealistically... it was flattering. If also not, and he was almost in the mind to complain about what perfect circumstance Mettaton had fantasized about, as though the real him weren't sufficient.
But his breath unwillingly catches at the sensation of a touch slipping lower yet- though he knew well enough that Mettaton couldn't finger him either, even if he dispelled his claws. Lubrication was a necessity there, and while in the scheme of things that didn't matter, in the circumstance it felt like one more disappointment, that Mettaton couldn't be inside him even like this.
Nor did he feel particularly possessed despite the grip on his balls; it was an enjoyable sensation, but his manner remained one of permittance rather than submission. It's almost an afterthought, remembering to answer him.]
Mm... if that's what it takes for you to not argue with my habit of dressing myself, then so be it.
[He pouts. It's not a sincere upset at all, even when he huffs against his cock. His lips part momentarily, as he animatedly engulfs the tip of him with a hum, bobbing gently over the very head and tightening just enough, until he's caught just over the ridge. There's no saliva, but Mettaton's touch isn't so rough that it pulls or tugs; he knew Emet-Selch was sensitive enough, and a lighter touch would be better, rather than the tearing of skin. When he lets him go, it's with a full kiss, right over the slit.
He's smiling wide, playful, enamored.]
I'll tell you about creativity!
[And it would be about dressing. Mettaton departs from the Ascian's crotch, lifting himself up with the push of his hands upon the bed—this time, with his arms flanking Emet-Selch's hips. He crawls atop the bed, a near slip as he curves and arches to surreptitiously graze along Emet-Selch's entire body with warm metal and soft silicone—sensations Emet-Selch was all accustomed to, out of his metal husband. Knees still pressed to the insides of Emet-Selch's thighs, the way the idol presses his legs together emphasizes the swell of his hips—full, broad, just as they were when he'd transformed into a Puca, and even furred. Mettaton's shapshift was still in full effect, save for the amethyst of his eye, save for... the much-coveted sensation.
Slinking along Emet-Selch's body, MTT only stops once he's made it even with his face. But along the way he kisses, as warmly and fully as he can, along his chest. His nipple's treated to a flick of his tongue, but just next to it, Mettaton takes a nibble of flesh between teeth and clamps down around it, ears splaying as he settles for just long enough to kiss it into a deep blue. Relinquishing that point of intensity, he rocks his hips; he has Emet-Selch's erection arched up just between his thighs, as he keeps the Ascian's legs spread wide.
And here, Mettaton leans down to nudge his nose against Emet-Selch's, pushing him back down against the pillow.]
You know... I'd love to see you in clothes that leave nothing to my imagination, all while inspiring me to no end. And I had you in a lovely little get-up so short, that I could catch glimpses of my prize as you leaned for me... [Detailing his fantasy, one of Mettaton's long, flexible arms reaches lower, grabbing as much of Emet-Selch's ass as he can with the smaller man laying face-up on the bed. All the while, he leverages his weight down, until Emet-Selch's pressed down by the full of his weight. As for Mettaton's legs...
The robot straddles Emet-Selch's cock, slipping it between silicone thighs still plush from the "muscular" definition he'd shapeshifted for himself. He shudders, squeezing his legs together as he nudges himself low enough that he could feel his arousal at its deepest point between his legs, flush to his body—and Mettaton can't help the way his voice rises in a crescendo, a silky note carried on a moan to feel his husband so aroused.
Because even though he lacked sensation, this was the most he's had in a maddening month. It was a strange vacuum that felt like a dream in itself—and when his actual dream gave him the memory of intensity, when it broke for him to find his husband slipping into bed with him, he finds himself overcome from that alone.]
Hades... Ah, you're so...
[He was handsome nude. He was handsome in a maid dress, short enough that Mettaton could grope him at any opportunity where he so much as slouched. (Which was always.) ...That's not very creative either, only horny.]
[Mettaton's protest, whether serious or not, has Emet-Selch respond with a dubious look- one that he maintains even past a small, tight sound when the whole head of his cock is carefully sucked on. A carefulness he could feel, as the pressure exerted could've easily become painful, but it doesn't. His exhale is still mostly one of relief when Mettaton lets up, even if his heart was pounding.
And his frown continues even as his whole body is encroached on again, Mettaton rising from his place and crawling upwards, while ensuring that the Ascian's legs remained spread. And his nipples teased, his chest given its own fresh bruising. And of course, no saliva left to cool in its wake.
Pushed properly back, he huffs into his face after listening to Mettaton's fantasies.]
Is it creative when it's all along the same theme?
[A very horny theme.]
And how do you expect to engineer me into any of these outfits? [He tries to sideeye him, which is difficult when Mettaton's face was that close.] Both their creation and especially my willingness to don them for you.
[Ignoring that he'd already confessed to Mettaton being persuasive. This was contrary territory; he would be convinced of nothing now.
Even if, at another time, he knew he might not only be convinced, but interested. Clothing meant to appeal, that offered some pretense of being covered, while permitting more than a hint of his availability. To sight, to touch- and with the way Mettaton's arm snaked around to find his ass, that was clearly one area that would be readily on display.
And the more he thought about it, the more he ached, without even knowing what all went in to the designs that Mettaton imagined him in. But it was an ache that frustrated, unable to forget that even if they somehow realized the aesthetics for his lover's dream, what good would they be able to make of it beyond more teasing? It wouldn't improve Mettaton's sensation any.
He's squeezed between thighs that are as furry as he remembers them once being, with a shape that was also as he recalled. He knew it was different, but he closes his eyes, wraps his arms around the robot's body. If he tried, could he pretend it was a different time?]
Was it... truly so appealing.
[He tries to rock his hips up against his body; tries to dwell on the sound of Mettaton's moan, and all the times he'd heard similar sounds from him, and what they all meant when they came to his pleasure.]
[A heavy sigh, as MTT gathers his bearings with little success. The Ascian pushes into him and Mettaton curls close, settling into his arms comfortably, with a pronounced squirm. Fur. That was about all that could help Emet-Selch slide along his body now, as silicone without wetness wasn't very forgiving. But the softness of fur, at least, was more permitting of some kind of slide.
And the rocking of Emet-Selch's hips is provocative and definitely inspiring, even more than a dream. Maddening, too. It reminds him of those times he'd craved something more all over again, as if he hasn't been craving it all along. But this time, it was in that same desperate sense as ever, when he'd wanted something he couldn't begin to fathom. And here, now, his mind races for something that would suit to express his deepest ache, only for his lips to part, for him to gasp in almost a pitiful way, before he groans again.
And he breaks again for a single laugh.]
You're appealing! [GOTTEMMMMM] If you don't think it creative... it's because I want you, plain and simple. Hades...
[He wanted to fill him, to claim him, to stuff him full of himself, and for that Mettaton groans, Mettaton shifts, burying his face into Emet-Selch's neck. He nuzzles deep before kissing him, nipping him, gasping with hot air and none of the same dampness his body had once produced. He could have a fantasy of any kind, and no matter how vanilla, he'd find it arousing, attractive.
Which is why even if he couldn't take Emet-Selch the way he wanted deepest of all, this still does it for him. Mettaton couldn't come; he couldn't be teased into coming. His would be a maddening spiral into deeper and deeper ache, a craving for sensation he can never quite attain, but he'd try against all sense.
The feeling of Emet-Selch's arms around his waist is a reassurance Mettaton thought might render him into putty. Though one hand still grips onto his ass, Mettaton's other works itself around Emet-Selch's shoulder in a half-embrace, clinging to him.
Emet-Selch rocks into him, and Mettaton squeezes his legs together rhythmically while doing just the same. The movement of thrusting is tied to the memory of satisfaction, and he groans just beneath Emet-Selch's ears. Even if he lacked the same sensitivity and raw arousal that came from a body that could perform as desired, memory and psychology were powerful tools, and the affect of Emet-Selch's body beneath his own, his cock hard between his legs, his arms tight around his slight waist, are potent.]
Appealing... Oh, the glances I stole, of- of you dripping down your thighs, Hades... [He kisses him with teeth.] Of your cock peeking out from your short skirts, just because you couldn't keep your hands from me.
[skirts, yes. and yet he still hasn't admitted that it was a maid outfit... But with imagery like that, it was no wonder Mettaton presses deeply against Emet-Selch, no matter how impotent his body is in the moment. He was still a man who desires his husband, no matter what limitations were posed upon him.]
[This wasn't the first time he'd made do with fur as a place to glide his cock along. And in general, he knew he'd gotten off to meager, or otherwise unforgiving friction (such as all the times he'd come with the head of his cock pushed into the glowing glass of Mettaton's waist, while being fucked). It wasn't the threat of rawness that was the issue... but he'd never considered any of those times before, whether Mettaton could manifest an erection or not, as making do. But he says nothing about it, humming breathlessly instead.]
With you... is anything plain or simple.
[He had no real problem with Mettaton's 'creativity', or lack thereof. A fantasy didn't have to be elaborate or strange to be worthwhile. And given the opportunity, there would be plenty that could be delved into, when it came to what Mettaton had dreamt of. Even if, right now, it was an imagining that only ached more bitterly to him. What was the point of trying anything new?
But he forces a moan instead, as Mettaton squeezes him between thighs. It's not faked, exactly, but it would've been something he would've otherwise held back. But he could hear the sounds the robot himself made, gasps and groans that accompanied this version of 'thrusting', so he had some duty to add to it, for as long as Mettaton sought to ache.
So he lets his breath to shudder, for smaller sounds to escape with it, as Mettaton attended to his neck. Consciously, his fingers dig at Mettaton's body, to hold onto him as he moved. Listens as the other man describes what he'd seen in his dream, an explicit fantasy that causes him to tense in mingled want and frustration.
Skirts? The word registers, but he doesn't have the space to consider it thoroughly, or to ask what exactly Mettaton had imagined him wearing. He'll return to it eventually. More important were the other details, dressed in something that still left him on display, in the aftermath of having been repeatedly fucked and filled. Filled to the point where he couldn't take it all, where rivulets of milky semen made a mess between his thighs- and with his own cock firmed up, peering out from beneath skirts(?), a sure sign of how he was enjoying himself. How he wanted more, no matter how many times he'd already been used.
But he couldn't drip now, not with Mettaton's seed. There was only the mess his come alone could manage, which wasn't the same at all. He could only empty himself; he couldn't be made full.
Emet-Selch chokes back a sharper whine, knowing that it would be too blatantly upset. Mettaton's dream was too potent, and it was impossible, but for once he didn't want to complain, if it would mean drawing his lover out from it. Even if he didn't understand why Mettaton would torture himself like this, unable to find some conclusion at all, even an unsatisfying one, as the Ascian expected for himself, at best.
So he ignores it, as much as he could, instead, holding back any sound beyond some appropriately unsteady breathing. The best he could think to do in the moment, was to not respond to what he said at all, and move past it instead.]
Keep- squeezing me between your thighs, Mettaton. Just like that....
[He wasn't as close as he would've liked, but he tries to force it, to rub himself off between furry legs.]
[It was true. Mettaton's dreams carried him toward impossibilities, but they were impossibilities that he so dearly wanted. Where it frustrates, tortures Emet-Selch in a direction unsatisfying, it tortures Mettaton all the same, but in one he finds wistful and worth fierce arousal. Fantasy, to him, was a powerful drive, and a persuasive force toward something that would totally drown him.
Instead of the pleasure of satisfaction pulling him under, Mettaton opted for torture, for utter lack, as he reminded himself of all he wanted. And he wanted so much. So, so much.
And he writhes, losing himself to thought, to the deep rumble of Emet-Selch's voice. Ears lean enough to make contact with the pillow, and Mettaton shivers with a short cry, pressing his thighs together to squeeze Emet-Selch's cock between them. If he pressed down, arching his back into the rigidity of his husband, Mettaton could feel his shaft riding along his own crotch—and in sympathy he could almost dream of it as his own, a heavy, thick erection nestled between his thighs. He wanted him so badly, and all of that wanting, that ache, is converted into a sharp cry.
Keep squeezing. Mettaton could do that, and he feels his cock, firm and hard, held between the supple silicone of his legs. Lost in the vivid nature of his dream, and so pleasantly close to the man he loves, Mettaton groans against his neck—even as he feels no relief at bay.
He couldn't. He would ache, and ache, and ache, and it would grow and intensify... until he could lay quietly and let it go down. He had no battery, and couldn't sleep. He had only all of the energy in his legs that needed release, tension that provokes him to thrust and to dream of slipping his cock between Emet-Selch's legs...
As he is, he shivers and clings to Emet-Selch, appreciative of the fingers that dig into him, of the arms that hold him close. Perhaps it was only torture, in the end, but Mettaton had so much want that he couldn't find anything to do with it all, save for sympathize with Emet-Selch's release as though it were his own. He was breathless, his voice breaking as he chants Emet-Selch's name quiet against his neck, begging for him to spill without coherent words.]
[That it was as torturous as this, Emet-Selch hadn't expected. But in retrospect, he realizes he shouldn't have been surprised. Neither that they wouldn't have chosen to try anyway (and that Mettaton especially would seek to drown himself in this ache, an ache he presumed to be entirely mental, relying on fantasy rather than what they were actually doing), but that it would have this result. More than unsatisfying, it was unpleasant, but as Mettaton cries out, writhing against his body with his face pressed to his neck, he forces back any sound of his own, not trusting that they wouldn't dip towards distress.
He tries not to think instead, something of a difficult ask. But to not linger on memories they couldn't replicate, as the frustration in them weighed heavier than the arousal they offered. To just rub himself off between the firmness of thighs, a tight space Mettaton offered against his body. His cock was provided friction, attention; that would have to be enough. It wasn't as though this were the first time in his life he'd been called on to perform, though the problem was usually indifference rather than too much investment, too much longing....
It was the work of effort, rather than any natural desperation. Mechanical, almost detached- and if he'd given himself the choice, something he would've preferred to not reach at all. Even if it was a quicker way of getting rid of an erection and the resulting tension in his body, it wasn't an enjoyable method. But with a sharp tightening of muscles and catch of breath, he unceremoniously reaches climax.
And if he was honest to himself, it wasn't wholly terrible, to leave pumps of seed between his husband's thighs. But the relief he felt had more to do with the release of physical tension, rather than anything more. There was no excitement in marking him, in leaving a mess behind, only a distant thought of what they'd have to clean up now, and what more of a hassle that would be. And as that tension drained from him with his come, in the end he felt lonelier than before.
And then it was over, Emet-Selch's experience of it near silent, beyond the quickness of his breath.]
[Somehow, the deepest part of their sex had taken a twist, and Mettaton wasn't immune to that. He could tell it was forced on Emet-Selch's part by the lack of sound, as he tamps himself down. And he couldn't even feel upset at him for it.
If anything, he just felt self-conscious. Upset, but a lot of it pointed toward himself. Emet-Selch is performing for his sake, or just to get through this and be done with it, and Mettaton felt his heart sink as the Ascian spills over in search of relief from his condition.
Even on his end, though, he found the pinpricks of pleasure in feeling Emet-Selch's load left between his thighs. Had he not been mourning the lack of something, aware that it was leaving Emet-Selch stuck between the rift of reality and fantasy. He could just feel the way Emet-Selch distanced himself, and as the mess is left behind, Mettaton closes his eye, burying himself in his lover's scent for a moment longer to pretend anything was the way it should be, him capable of performing as desired.
But with that moment passed, Mettaton felt no more relieved for it. Electricity courses, a livewire in his body that impels him to move and squirm, though he tries to still himself. Biting his lower lip, it was the most akin to arousal this body could manage—but there was no oversensitivity, no relief, and no end to it save for quiet despondency. It was too sorrowful, and a longing without reprieve, this particular session. It frustrated.
So Mettaton puts his energy toward lifting himself from Emet-Selch's body. His vision skirts over his waist, remaining downcast as he lifts himself from the bed. He doesn't regard the come between his own thighs as he wanders toward a neatly folded hand towel, placed here from the days of injury behind them, and then returns to Emet-Selch's side. Tucking his legs neatly underneath himself, he sits at about hip-level to Emet-Selch and moves in to carefully and effectively clean him, wanting to leave him more comfortable than before.]
.....
[But he can't find words. He felt almost near tears with his own longing, but he didn't even have his own magic. He couldn't cry.
It's his cock, first, that Mettaton quickly tidies. A thorough, but gentle wrap of his fist encased in towel, which then moves down to anywhere else that needed cleaning. With Emet-Selch relieved of that, Mettaton lifts his gaze to meet Emet-Selch's with heat, with electricity, with longing still alight in them, legs shifting in place despite his natural poise.
And he shifts himself to be closer to Emet-Selch's upper body. Towel set aside, Mettaton releases his shapeshift, back-folded ears disappearing as he places a hand just below the scar left over Emet-Selch's chest.]
I got ahead of myself. [And Emet-Selch, in the process. He wasn't sure whether to apologize over it. It simply felt unfortunate, but if he'd only the right anatomy... this wouldn't be an issue.]
[The best he could do was stay quiet, for all that he knew it was unnatural between them. To that end, they're both silent, and he regretted bitterly that he'd found climax at all. He couldn't feel how Mettaton felt, but it seemed clear that he wasn't enjoying it, and in his own aftermath there was only grief.
It startled him to feel Mettaton lift so immediately from his body, and he wondered if he'd somehow repulsed him, that he hadn't expected or wanted him to come- and when the other man moves to claim a towel, that doesn't do anything to dispel the impression. Apart from Mettaton not using it to wipe himself clean... so he considered instead whether it was just some means of getting a small bit of energy out. His lover always was the sort to take action.
He keeps his thoughts to himself though, expression stoic as the robot returns to clean him, though he glances aside, not observing the process. Removing himself from it, though the discomfort of the moment remained.
All in silence, beyond the small creak of the bed as Mettaton moved to and from it, along with the rustle of fabric. Even his own breath wasn't that loud, as it was already settling, the mage having not needed to exert himself that far. As 'afterglows' went, this was one of the more disconcerting ones, and he wished again that he'd avoided it entirely.
With his own body cleaner of the mess he'd unfortunately made, and Mettaton shifting closer, he looks back up to him when he finally speaks, when he feels the hand at his chest. His own expression remains neutral, his manner lethargic. But he shakes his head after a moment.]
We would have tried sooner or later.
[With the same result. They were too ardent, each other's company something that so frequently included sex. There had been nothing particularly wrong about this moment, nothing that he saw that they could've done differently. This was their reality now, he supposed. And for all that he knew desire would remain... it was hard to imagine trying again.]
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And then those rabbit senses were tested. Emet-Selch waits for the verdict, without daring to hope that more would amount from this beyond the sensation of being kissed. And the touches were nice, pleasing and intimate... but he sighs anyway at the expected conclusion. Though he holds back from pointing out that having more places to touch didn't matter if Mettaton couldn't feel anything from them, it doesn't keep the disappointed tone from him.]
'Tis a familiar look, if nothing else.
[A full rabbit shapeshift... no. He might appreciate holding Mettaton like that at another point, but it was not sexy. Even the mention of it deflates him a little; was that really the best hope his lover had to feel anything? As a literal animal?
Claws dig into him, and Emet-Selch bites a sound back, not wanting to make things worse, but equally not wanting to pretend that he was content with what they had left to them. Without even their Bond, their souls and moods connected, they couldn't blend that way either- and no matter how close Mettaton pressed to him, they remained more distant than ever. Separate, in a way he didn't know how to reach past.
...The Bond really had been something of a crutch, when it came to expressing himself. Like this, he felt muted in a different way, even as he feels Mettaton shudder against his back, and he didn't know how or what to reassure him with. He takes a breath.]
It's fine. We'll manage.
[It's not enthusiasm, but it's a little better. A wanting to try, even if it made all the aches worse. And Mettaton's hands did feel good on him, claws and all, especially when they trail to his abdomen.]
You can... move lower than that.
[Voice lowering to a murmur, he pushes himself back against Mettaton's body, as if in an insistence to being held tighter, and his legs spread slightly.]
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It hurt, to feel his lover's interest faded. That his body failed at something, and there was no peacocking he could do to make up for that sheer lack. But Mettaton still felt himself worth arousal, for all he is, and his frustration exists alongside desire. Even without the anatomy of it, Mettaton desires Emet-Selch, after it all. He truly wanted his intimacy, his control, his love and his vulnerability. He wanted everything Emet-Selch was, and wanted Emet-Selch to treat him to the same deliberation he ever had.
Emet-Selch's words do reach Mettaton. He smiles; he presses his lips to his shoulder, and gives him a gentle nuzzle. He could tell that those simple words conveyed more than met the eye, a desire to hold his heart and reassure him.]
We will. ...Thank you.
[Earnestly, he speaks, soft and low. He even feels tension drain from him just through his own gratitude expressed—and in reflecting over his own warmth, it takes him off-guard as he feels Emet-Selch push back, his thighs pushing against Mettaton's as he spreads his legs encouragingly.
Mettaton exhales, eager and focused. He can't help himself as he presses ever tighter to Emet-Selch's body, winding arms squeezing his victim in his excitement for the presentation of Emet-Selch's body. His fingers drift low, claws a gentle scratch as he charts a path lower upon request.]
Hades...
[It's awe and want that tinges his voice, deep and tense. His ears are sprung, though they lean for the man in front of him, if at an akimbo splay. Emet-Selch's waistband remains an obstacle, his pants still there—but that doesn't stop Mettaton as he greedily makes for the front of his pants, immediately palming the prominence to be found between thighs.
Wracked with a bout of shudders, Mettaton exhales, covetous and hungry.]
Ah... You. You never fail to impress... I wouldn't have your response to me any other way.
[He couldn't help but be flattered just at the way Emet-Selch reacted to his presence, and all of the history they had behind them. Even when they'd first taken to intimacy, even when they stood together in a kissing booth... he remembers the grief in parting then, and how he just knew Emet-Selch was aroused. Any time he knew, it never failed to spark delight and desire in him. Fingers dance along the firm line trapped under fabric, rolling in a gentle pinch over the fullness of the tip.]
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And still, a part of that arousal was the knowledge and memory of how touch would follow, that the robot took his own pleasure from seeing him hard as well. If he was wanting, it was difficult to imagine Mettaton turning him away.
All of that was true. And with the way Mettaton pressed to him now, with the way he spoke, Emet-Selch knew he was still desired too. Nudging his head against the other man's as best he could, it was a wordless request for closeness. The splay of his legs was a welcoming gesture too, even though they were still clothed.
...Even so. Even so, Emet-Selch knew he wasn't as drawn in as he should be, when Mettaton handled his body. There were limits now that he couldn't escape thinking about. The robot could get him off with ease, but... that was it.
But his breath takes on a shuddered note all the same, a whisper of Mettaton's name, as his body certainly knew what to do when he was being touched by him. Not as directly as it might like, but with the sort of tease that could be made good on. Fabric could be parted, removed entirely, and the strength of his reaction made explicitly visible. A shameless display he'd ever enjoyed pressing to Mettaton's body in an appeal for attention or appreciation- or just friction.
(And so often too did he go relatively neglected- brought to pleasure and relief both through some application of Mettaton's own erection. Through Mettaton's climax, he was lured to his own- when permitted. And even when he was allowed to come first, it was often to enhance the robot's own release, which of course enhanced his own....
Tantalizing imagery. Memories. If ones he tries to not dwell on too closely, in favor of the expert, familiar way he could watch Mettaton handle him now, along a length that filled for him.)]
You never fail to inspire. Too much so, at times...
[It's not a real grumble, but the show of one. From their first (technically second) kiss, and the interest that came with it, they'd both been aroused that afternoon, and so suddenly. But they maintained decency (beyond whatever they lost from making out behind a kissing booth), even as the prospect of taking to each other right then had been... attractive.
Just as he was attracted now to what they were doing- and with far more experience together behind them. Knowledgeably touched, rather than curiously, though they'd never known hesitation once they'd begun. His own fingers grip at the side of the bed, and his thighs tense with the desire to press up, to roll his hips into Mettaton's hand. But he didn't want to move away from his body either.]
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The mage responds to the monster readily, practiced and primed. Memories and dreams strike them both, as the former-puca recalls the way that Emet-Selch could be made to fill out for him, even before he'd shapeshifted anything concrete to busy himself with. Mettaton sighs, pressing his hand firmly and fully to trap his cock against his body, stuck between clothes and hand and with pressure applied. There was so much they loved to do with a point of pleasure like this—and Mettaton focuses on all he could do to Emet-Selch, to deprive and overwhelm, to restrain or demand.
Needy, Emet-Selch's hips jerk, and Mettaton hums an ascending note of interest at his show. He can't help but chuckle lowly at the accusation that he hears and knows isn't deeply felt, insofar as its delivery. Past fabric, he continues to appreciate his firm and filling arousal, working from pinching the tip to groping him down toward his root with a possessive, commanding confidence. Mettaton viewed Emet-Selch's body as his own, and this was his cock to touch and treat, to deny and to please.]
But I like that. To inspire dreams beyond the constraints of sense... [His voice, a soft purr, is pressed to the side of Emet-Selch's neck, where he brushes soft, silicone lips.] And to captivate you, and draw you into my own dreams. I'd argue it, Hades... that you're a bit of an inspiration yourself, love.
[An inspiration to Mettaton specifically, whether it was the solid basis of his shapeshifts, or the desire to reach for more and more. He sighs, working his way down, down, fingers pinching the shape of his cock beneath fabric, until he bites at his lower lip and fully grips him. His fingers slide between thighs, the motion to grab both his balls and cock in a gesture of ownership, all before sighing warmly against skin.
He remembers the way he'd felt back then, when he was first exploring Emet-Selch's body. And somehow... somehow, it even paled to this kind of intensity, Mettaton realizes with a start. The ache he feels is somehow acute, even without muscles, without veins. He gasps, fingers squeezing and handling his balls as his palm is nudged firmly against his root, and Mettaton lets him go only so that his hand can quickly chart a path straight to his waistband. It was a sort of psychological ache, something that set his body to heating, electricity to course fast in his body—and even behind Emet-Selch, the robot shifts with pent-up need to move.
That gasp is released in a sigh that is utter heat. Not burning nor scalding, but hot air, void of damp. He could feel Emet-Selch keep from thrusting, and as Mettaton takes to the fastening of his trousers with a deft hand, he gives Emet-Selch a brief nip to the side of his neck.]
Mm. Stay still for me, now. I want to appraise what I've done to you... since you think it too much.
[And even here, even though he was sorely lacking a crucial part to their passion play... Mettaton is too focused on their collective arousal to dwell on it right now.]
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[Smoothly arrogant, but emotionally touched all the same, he felt an appreciation for all that they did inspire in each other. Though he knew Mettaton's consideration of his body had both its practical and personal aspects, the addiction to their combining was something they'd fostered together. It was inescapable, which was its own problem.
Was it even possible to escape from past escapes? Emet-Selch didn't know, but his swift pulse and filling cock spoke of a reason to try. Though he doubted his own ability to be pulled under completely, for Mettaton to take him to a depth that could briefly sate him- he thought it likely that it would feel good, anyway. Tempering expectations, but appreciating being touched at all- he could do that much.
The robot's fingers were a convincing argument in themselves, and he shivers as the attention to his tip turns to a groping for his girth. Even through fabric, it was nicely possessive, the way Mettaton grabbed for both balls and shaft. And he responds with a soft groan, escaping with an exhale of breath. Not as warm as the robot behind him, but heated all the same, and a touch damp as an organic entity would be. For all that it was forgiving material, it was beginning to feel quite constrictive, with the way Mettaton was grasping him, with as hard as he was getting.
Or he was just eager to be touched directly. Which is why he can't complain too far, when Mettaton abandons that hold in favor of slipping to the fastenings, anticipation warming him through. The nip to his neck has him tilting his head in offering, a soft gasp preceding his reply.]
A call to remain still... you do know how to appeal to me.
[A touch wry. Even if Mettaton was also good at giving him reasons to move, for all that he ever remained not as inclined in that direction as the robot. But for the point of appraising, of attention- yes. He could remain as still as desired. How obedient he felt otherwise was yet to be decided.]
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Because even wound up, bound and tied, Emet-Selch would be stubborn and defiant. Mettaton smiles wider- almost maddened, hungered. The quickness of his fingers stumble, fumbling to free what lies beneath cloth, and the robot coaxes his pants to part for him with another gentle nibble of the Ascian's neck.]
Hades... [Is all he finds himself saying, voice a low purr. For the moment, he's transfixed on his prize—and Mettaton lifts his head so that he's on alert, ears leaning far enough that they're surely making their way into Emet-Selch's vision. Clawed fingertips push deep between folds, and the puca-like robot fondles his mate, gasping softly at the sensation of his filled, filling erection, pushing at restraint of fabric. And now, at the grip of his hand.
With a soft groan, Mettaton could sympathetically feel the rigidity as though it were his own. He doesn't even need to close his eyes, wrapping fingertips around Emet-Selch's root as he pushes and parts fabric further to properly free his cock with a roll of his wrist, fighting his trousers to pull free his erection. And once free, Mettaton only barely manages to lift his hand from skin, just to give him a look, to appraise him as he'd promised.]
How you always manage to be a delightful presentation, I'll never know. [Mettaton sighs, stroking a finger along his length, the underside of the root all the way up until he gives the tip a firm press, causing him to bob.] If you want more things to do for me... Won't you lay back on the bed, darling? I want to... better appreciate you.
[Better appreciate, punctuated with another nip to his shoulder, ardent yet gentle. In spite of his condition, Mettaton's mind races with all he wanted to do, whether he could manage it in his current state or not. He wanted to lay him down, to spread his legs, to stuff his own cock between his thighs and describe how good he looked full him and erect; he wanted to lay him down and kiss him from neck to ankles, to leave him bitten and sensitive. He wanted to straddle his hips and push their cocks together, to grip them both until they oozed, slick and sticky and perfect to jerk off in tandem... Mettaton shivers with a sigh, pressing bodily against Emet-Selch.
But he similarly tugs at him, encouraging him to climb deeper onto the mattress. He would be more than supportive in helping him into place. He smirks against his neck, lips grazing along skin until he's just beneath his ear, able to nip at his earring.]
And by appreciate... I want the full spread of your body, Hades.
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Even though it was for the sake of observation, which in itself he enjoyed, he can't quite stifle the small protesting sound when Mettaton unhands his erection, for even a moment.]
If we're to talk of presentation, I've always found your hand to be an appropriate accessory.
[A hint, delivered. Though it was more than his hand that appealed, as the sight of his cock pressed to any part of Mettaton's body was an attractive one. Framed between his thighs, taken into his mouth, pressed firm and thick against Mettaton's own cock, where they could stroke each other off into a sticky mess- they were only a few of the ways he loved to see himself.
But he's provided a tease of a touch, his cock made to wobble in the open air, and given another simple task.]
--Once more, you appeal to my expertise.
[It was often enough that he ended upon his back, in bed... but he wasn't inclined to argue over this request either, aligned to his own desires and nature as it was. A tug deeper onto their modest bed is accepted, though there's a bit of wriggling involved to make sure that his pants didn't come with him. With all fabric slid off to gather unceremoniously on the floor, Emet-Selch shifts the small distance into the center of the bed, and lays down, head aligned with their pillows.
Shivering a little from being so uncovered, the air feeling far cooler than the heat of his body, the warmth of arousal, he glances down at himself, his erection even more of a sight this way, swollen and gently curved. Though his body had a few bruises left, healing sores and scrapes, they were all a result of wolfhood rather than loving ardor.
Exhaling a shaking breath, his gaze soon returned to Mettaton. Unlike the robot, he wasn't so naturally inclined towards posing, or conscious display, but the mage was comfortable, at ease with his casual sprawl, legs slightly parted. A languid wave towards himself completes the appeal(?).]
How spread is full enough for you?
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...He realizes suddenly that he's been drawn right back into gripping him, at the description of him as an accessory. He wanted to see it. When Mettaton couldn't feel as acutely, vision was a provocative show, and he ends up pumping over Emet-Selch's fullness in a deliberate, slow movement, admiring the sight of him touching him.
But he knows he wants more. Once again, his hand parts from the upright arch of his cock, though not without petting over him, letting him bob back to the air.]
You're right. [He sounds breathless. Mettaton sighs, nuzzling against the side of Emet-Selch's neck.] You do look best with something of me on you.
[If it wasn't his own come, it would be his body. Sandwiched between his lovely thighs, head gently rest between his lips, or encircled by fingers, Mettaton squirms just to consider the possibilities, each inciting enough that he aches. How far could he bring himself to ache...? (And how on earth would he manage to soothe that ache, given how much it manages to burn him, to heat him? It didn't feel the same as the delectable filling of his thighs, the way fluid pooled low in his body, but it felt increasingly hot, and inescapable.)
It's almost in a daze that he relinquishes his hold on Emet-Selch, permitting him the chance to shuck his pants. And fully exposed to the air, Mettaton watches, rapt, as he lays himself comfortably back in a manner appropriate for him. Lazy, easygoing, his casualness was part of his demeanor—and even that wave was just so him that it charms as well as excites. Mettaton smiles silly, brimming with warmth as he crawls to his own spot.
Taking up post between the Ascian's legs, he decides to examine him with his upright poise. Mettaton's movements are elegance, flowing as he lifts a finger to his lower lip and thoughtfully pours over his husband, over the planes of his body, the lack of his bruises, the hardness of nipples and the way air chilled him over. And of course, to the attractive, swollen member between thighs—which Mettaton decides to focus on, as his hands move quickly, fluidly, to his legs.]
Spread wider. [With his hands, Mettaton encourages Emet-Selch's thighs apart. It could disrupt the casual ease of his sprawl... but Mettaton also felt sure that Emet-Selch would still make a full demonstration look casual.] I see myself between them, as more than an accessory...
[... Sure. He also could envision himself fitting his girth between his cheeks, spreading Emet-Selch's legs and stuffing him full just like so. To bind him up, to keep him spread and unable to move save for writhing... But he keeps that fantasy to himself, and focuses instead on leaning closer, watching Emet-Selch's face as he dips nearer to his cock. With a sultry smile, he fits just the tip of him against his lips, leaving him with a warm, soft kiss.]
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And he doesn't protest again when Mettaton has to let go of him for the opportunity to situate himself. Though it wasn't a touch that could tide him over... it helped, and gave reason to shuffle himself into a better position.]
And you've been so generous with me, in the past....
[Decorated with his come, with bruises and bites, with jewelry and ropes. Marked suggestively, aesthetically, possessively (with not all of that available, possible now; he swallows back a sigh even as he settles into place on the bed), Mettaton always knew how to apply himself to his body.
And it was an application he ached for, his skin showing the beginning of a flush as he lay as an offering against covers and blankets, even as he wondered what Mettaton could feel in turn. Was there internal pressure as there had been as a puca, somehow? Was there any sense of heat? But Mettaton's expressions, the way he exhaled in some sort of need- he tried to take some reassurance there, that his husband was assuredly aroused with him, in some form.
Was it possible to look casual with legs more explicitly spread? The mage makes as good an attempt at it as might be possible, nearly languid despite being so hard, as though it were nothing to expose himself so vulnerably. But his pulse surely moves quicker to see Mettaton between them, to feel hands on his thighs, encouraging their parting.
He allows a low, pleased hum to escape from his own lips, at the feeling of Mettaton's kiss placed to his tip, and to the look of him there, soft silicone against swollen, sensitive flesh. Though he doesn't moan, it would be an easy thing to provoke out of him, and one of his thighs trembles in expectant pleasure.]
Now there's an even better sight.
[...He tries not to think on how Mettaton couldn't feel how warm he was, against his lips. Could he even feel him as clearly as he usually seemed to?]
--And more than an accessory. Yes, you might just manage it.
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He felt pleased that Emet-Selch was so pliant. So willing, so obviously heated, senses he could drink in with his eyes and the press of his fingertips. He could see the Ascian's warmth in the flush of his features, from his cheeks to his fingertips to the swell of his cock. He looked so warm... Mettaton wanted to grope him head to toe, to feel soft flesh give under his touch and to hear the sound of Emet-Selch's breath hitching, his groans and cries and sighs as he brought pressure into his groin. He licks his lips, hovering so close to the glans that he could flick out his tongue and lap at the slit if he pleased.
He grins, unable to help himself. He gingerly laps at the tip, a brush of silicone over the swell of soft skin.]
I imagine I'm a breathtaker. But you, too, Hades... If we're going to talk abut generosity, you've so much to offer me in visuals alone!
[The sight of him, everything he could consume as he is. He's always loved seeing him, loved drinking in the sights of him reflected back in mirrors; loved seeing the state of his arousal and the flush of well-bitten lips, the stickiness of him having come. He dreams of all the things he could see, and in the moment, he forgets about the senses he has that are dulled in favor of his pleasure in sight.
He manages to make it easy, laying back so spread. The shamelessness in showing off the full of his arousal has Mettaton unable to resist dipping low, sucking a small kiss to Emet-Selch's inner thigh.
Raw suction, rather than the damp environment created by the aid of saliva, yields a quicker result more than anything: without involving teeth, the robot's kiss is warm and soft and full, as he hums into the vulnerability of skin he can't help but palpate. Pressing into him with touches markedly more firm than he might normally, Mettaton is attracted to the way his body gives, and whatever he could feel is comparatively just as much as he can manage.
As ever, he wants more. As ever, he would endlessly crave more and more and more. After one kiss, Mettaton groans, stooping in for another, firm pressure applied briefly and without the relief of slippery saliva. Drawing back, two bright, deep marks are quick to form, making this more effective at bruising him.
With a sigh, Mettaton thumbs the marks, glancing up toward Emet-Selch. He knew his kisses should feel different, and he checks in with his lover—despite feeling fully confident that a kiss from him should make it worthwhile, no matter how different.]
Such deep marks... You really are wide open to me. [A press of his clawed thumb, Mettaton rubs a circle into his upper thigh, glancing down at his cock.] How does it feel, darling?
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Visuals alone it was, but he doesn't say it. He only hums a small, breathless sound of assent, as though in full agreement, rather than some modified sense of it. The visuals were powerful, after all, from the way he knew he looked, spread out like this in aroused anticipation (rather than the enticing aftermath, where he was more of a mess, undone and panting), to Mettaton's presence between his legs. That sight itself could get him hard from nothing, the robot an undeniably attractive addition (leaning bunny ears and all).
And from the head of his cock, Mettaton graces his thigh with his lips instead, and with a pressure that causes his breath to catch, and his muscles to tighten.
Raw suction, he quickly realized, was a different sensation from what Mettaton used to inflict on him. It was something sharper, more pinching, more quickly reaching a point where he knew dark bruises would be left behind. It hurt, more than expected. Not strictly unpleasant, no- and the throb of his erection helped in appreciating the sensation for what it was- but it was different.
(To see those bruises, and feel that suction... to even feel himself prodded more firmly than usual by fingers, it all led to a certain hesitation when it came to the idea of being sucked off. Ending up with a bruised cock might be intense, but he wasn't sure he would actually like it.)
Everything about his touch seemed firmer than usual, and Emet-Selch didn't think he was imagining it. But he doesn't complain, or even mention it, assuming that this would just... be how it was, now, and if this was what Mettaton needed to do to feel him, then he would get used to it.
Gaze casting down to the deep colors that now graced his skin (with no damp sheen that usually accompanied the sight), he considers it.]
Hmm... I can see you're making up for lost time. I have been going quite undecorated.
[Which wasn't quite the same as expressing what it felt like, but the visual effect, at least, was unreservedly attractive. The full firmness of his erection seemed to indicate a continued approval.]
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Which explains why he knew to let him go- and why he's not as surprised at the resulting depth in his mark. But the sight of Emet-Selch's eye on him has Mettaton's ears lifting, the robot's interest only increasingly stoked. Emet-Selch's a splendid view, with his body flush and on display for Mettaton... but Mettaton feels sparks alight in his body at the thought of being watched from Emet-Selch's end, his every kiss and movement to be recorded by an exclusive, privileged audience.
Sight and vision was Mettaton's crutch. A part of him ached. Any time he felt the want for more, any time he felt his fingertips pressing firm into skin only to see how he was denting Emet-Selch's thigh, a press more than he thought, he can't help but ache. Had he never been granted the stronger ability for sensation, he would've never known what he was missing. Mettaton EX was his perfect body, and it failed in no ways. In itself, he could do everything save for taste, and that, he'd been content to imagine. He'd been content to imagine a lot of the things he didn't understand, and as for the senses and physicality he'd gained... it fulfilled completely, having not realized that there was more he could gain.
And then he got more. And then he found Emet-Selch; and then they dove head-first into the depths of experience and intensity, and it left Mettaton feeling for those sensations again. So he presses, and presses harder, not realizing just how hard he pressed. A once-delicate hand is delicate in movement, but every touch is firmer. He hasn't gotten used to the way he used to be after spending years as a puca.
The cock before him stood tall and swollen; Emet-Selch doesn't explicitly answer how it feels. Only one of Mettaton's ears makes any indication of his notice, swiveling in curiosity at the omission before deciding he knew already why it was being omitted. For the same reason Mettaton ached.
And the reason it's omitted, too, is because of their love. His smile gentles, and he sinks low to the mage's crotch. With a sigh, his eye's drawn to Emet-Selch's arousal before pressing his face there, burying himself against the full heat of his cock with a soft groan. Nuzzling against him, Mettaton can't bring himself to close his eye even this close up, when he enjoyed the sight of his mate's body flush to his face.]
I like it when you wear accessories provided by me.
[He's muffled by the root of Emet-Selch's cock, which he talks flush to. Burying himself deeper, his lips are pressed to his balls, pursed in a kiss and treated to a nuzzle. A hand moves along Emet-Selch's thigh to grip at his cock, steadying it enough so that he can give the full length of him kisses from beneath, applied so sloppy that he'd definitely be glistening with saliva if the idol could produce it.
Because if visuals were what they had, if Emet-selch was soaking him in with as much intensity as he did him, the robot wanted to make sure he inspired.]
And... I concede. When I am an accessory of yours, too. [He plants a firm kiss to the tip of his erection, giving him just a gentle pet with his tongue.]
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(Even then, he knew they would dream for more, at least in the sense of having more avenues for penetration, and especially the ability to come, just as they had in their earliest encounters with Mettaton as a puca. But the amount they were lacking on top of an absent cock, wouldn't be felt so keenly. The baseline would be different; Mettaton being able to touch and hold and feel at all would be delightful.
It still was. But they both knew better.)
Emet-Selch was still aware that for all that he missed what Mettaton was missing, that Mettaton would be in a far sorrier state, in having all this arousal, but no way to show it through a hard cock, no way of filling him with seed. When they'd briefly shared a body as god, he'd felt something of the puca-ized robotic experience, the way pressure and fluid had pooled in them, as they fascinated over their combined form. The utter relief when Mettaton had shapeshifted an erection for them to handle was something he wouldn't forget.
So he tries now to not think too far, too openly, on what he wished Mettaton still had. Neither of them were any less interested in one another sexually- which of course was its own problem, the reason it was difficult to not ache over what they no longer had.
But Mettaton's groan is echoed by a soft moan on his part, when the taller man returns to his erection, the press of his face and brush of his lips sending a jolt of wanting through him. He shudders at the sight, of his own length flush and full to his lover's face, a warmth that the mage could feel, at least.]
Is there any I would turn down wearing, if it came from you?
[Whether it was a pattern of bruises, or pieces of jewelry. Though when it came to more intimate items, was there anywhere here they could even buy cock rings from....
For that matter, was there any place to buy lubrication. It would get expensive, fast, if they had to beg the Crystal for a new bottle every time they ran out. And with Mettaton being a very dry robot, they would still need it for a lot of things. Was there any sort of sex shop in town?
But he tries to not think too far in that vein; it would be easy enough to bitterly question the point of it, even if it was there. He breathes another moan instead, as though he weren't distracted, watching his cock be treated to a series of kisses, messy in sight, if not in residue. Held steady by Mettaton's hand, it was a vision to get caught up in, and one that he tries to, thighs tense on either side of his head.
Pushing himself up to lean back on his elbows to better watch him, he exhales slowly.]
Though I appreciate decorating you as well.
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Oh, I'm sure I could find some you'd turn down, with your discerning eye. Haha.
[...Because their tastes ran different, and Mettaton knew that. Especially as Emet-Selch had griped and denied his assistance back when he'd fully lost his sight, the terror of Mettaton's decision-making for his daily wardrobe making him choose nudity or robes. Heaven forbid that his idol of a husband go wild and dress him in something he wouldn't like. They had their own tastes, even when Mettaton thought his tastes were always good. He still respected it, and even enjoyed it, when Emet-Selch's opinion differed from his own.
With a sigh, the cheeky grin dissipates into something sultry and hot, as he turns toward Emet-Selch's erection to further kiss it. If he kisses him sloppily, suction is not made in any bruising way; he latches onto him only to release, silicone lips drifting up, down, and around his shaft, pressed close to his own face by a clawed hand. His silver, black-tipped ears lean forward once more, entirely drawn in by Emet-Selch's body.
And his attention, as Mettaton couldn't help but glance up at him, eager to see his eyes on him. Each time he does, his ears spring up, then nearly flop forward in overcome, electricity coursing hot within the limits of his body... (And he wonders: just where is he to put all of this energy? He squirms; it'd be hard to tell at this angle, but possible, when Mettaton presses his legs tightly together and gasps, his imagination running wild just to envision the heaviness of the cock he'd have...)]
I trust that you'd decorate me impeccably, darling. Any time. I look good in anything, but... [A nearly-sucking kiss right to the tip has Mettaton prodding him with a pink tongue, but not too much: without fluid, he knew too much rubbing would just tug and irritate.] Whatever you choose to adorn me with... will surely catch both our eyes.
[Rings, jewelry, clothes... his come. Mettaton exhales over his cock, kissing him back down his shaft so that he's buried at the root, as Mettaton compresses his stiff cock against his own face for a nuzzle. (He's so rigid, he thought, admiring the firmness that coupled arousal. And firm in addition to that was the spread of his thighs, as a quick glance to the side shows him the way his legs tense under obscene attentions.
(Where would they get lube from? It seemed that with an absence of human residents, so too was there an absence for sex shops... Unless they had just managed to evade Mettaton's notice. How many bottles of lube could they get from how many shards... He'd have to budget for that, while trying to similarly get Emet-Selch's creation powers back, which would solve all the problems.)
With a smirk, and a half-open glance of Emet-Selch's sprawled body before him, Mettaton presses another series of kisses, from his balls to his root, before speaking flush to his body.]
As for you... There's also the appeal in just seeing you totally bare of anything. So much real estate, for jewelry and kisses...
[He doesn't mention the come he'd love to leave him messy with. He closes his eye instead, humming and continuing to lave Emet-Selch's erection with kisses.]
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[Or he was weak to persistence (and Mettaton's pleasure). (Of course, he could be contrary too, or just stubborn, but he felt as though Mettaton could get him to do things more often than not.)
As the robot returns to sultry suggestion, laving the stiff length nudged against his face with attention, Emet-Selch returns to watching him- not that he'd ever truly stopped.
He mostly trusted that Mettaton would remember to not suck too hard at any part of his cock, when there was nothing to soften (or slicken) the pressure. A trace of guardedness did remain, though, due to the familiar unfamiliarity of the situation. But it was a tension that was not unlike the rest of his; an attentiveness that would've been there regardless.
And while all these kisses would've normally been enough to tease him into asking, needing something fuller, however that manifested, that sort of desperation felt far on the horizon- if he reached it at all. Partially because there was nothing to beg for.
But it was pleasant to look at, to see Mettaton with his lips on his balls, to watch the other man nearly squirm in his arousal, and he wondered if the idol was enjoying this more than he was. Which wasn't a problem, to him, though he did find it ironic. But he hums a soft noise, deliberately nudging his cock against Mettaton's face. An assent of some kind, either to Mettaton's ability to wear anything at all, or that his own taste was perfect when it came to selecting something for the robot.
The wedding rings he'd picked for him brought a sentimental ache to think of- and a comfort to remember that Mettaton had been given back one of them. A memory that went right to his cock were all the times where he saw his come on his body, whether it was against Mettaton's waist, or between thighs, or at his lips. Anywhere it smeared or dripped... was a compelling argument for its presence.]
If you would have me bare... I would have a hard time arguing against the convenience. [Anything about his condition could be visible from a glance, from bruises to arousal.] However, I would miss those times when you disrobe me, whether in full or only part.
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Aside from its lack of a cock, its lack of tactile input. But they were managing.
Mettaton's since stolen his own wedding ring back off of his remaining, torn limb and slipped it neatly upon the finger of the hand that cradles his cock, his left cheek with its smooth, warm paneling pressed to his shaft as he gazes up at Emet-Selch. He knew well that Emet-Selch would often be quick to ask for the fullness of him, given that it would be the end result- and so much toying around agitated Emet-Selch, who wanted the sweetness of absolute overcome, for as long as he could have it. As they are, though, all they had was something akin to foreplay: Mettaton wouldn't suck Emet-Selch off, couldn't taste his come, lacked the saliva or any sort of lubricant to make use of his mouth in any comfortable fashion, and absolutely had nothing to penetrate or penetrate with.
Even without words, this is simply fact. Mettaton had himself; he had the push of his thighs, the tension in his hips, the way he curled close to Emet-Selch and fondled his erection, and all of the desire he always had with none of the same outlets they were used to. He had Emet-Selch's body to work, and much in the way of persuasion. With a smile, he imagined that his own flush would mirror Emet-Selch if his body were capable of conveying it.]
I'm sure you can feel it... The climb of my body temperature. [The heat of it on his words, the warmth of his cheek that exceeded a human's temperature. Even if he couldn't produce heat in the same way he could as a glorified heater, he still warmed, and he still shifted with the need to expel some of that temperature.] ... I'll confess, darling. I did wake from that dream of you... and in much of my dream, you were totally naked for me, and so lovingly kissed. Convenient indeed.
[As ever, kissed = bruised. The psyche of Mettaton, which involved more than nudity and massage and costumes. Utter nonsense, but Mettaton confesses it with heat and heart, because he loved the sight of Emet-Selch like this. His dreams could mirror reality, as he made dreams come true...
But he had to agree with something, as Mettaton lets his free hand run along Emet-Selch's inner thigh. Where one presses his cock to his cheek, the other reaches for his balls, giving them a firm fondle; a finger drifts lower, his palm against his balls, as he prods close to his entrance, flirts with his body.]
I would have to agree, though. Disrobing you, like opening a present... I'd miss it too much as well. [Closing his eye, he shifts closer as he imagines the recent sight of parting his trousers, of releasing his cock to the air—and shudders, wanting, despite having him right against his cheek.] And to see you present yourself before me... It never fails to tease me, beautiful.
[He presses close to his cock, pressure against his shaft and his balls enough to communicate possession of him. Lovestruck, he gazes up at Emet-Selch, watching the flush upon his face that came of a heightened pulse, of love and arousal.]
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You're warm. [He admits, voice quiet. A heat that beat out his erection, though that was nothing unusual. Mettaton was a hot robot, and that surely went unchanged. Wherever he touched him, he was warm, and invitingly so, whether that was fingers along his shaft, fondling his balls, or lips and tongue melding to an erection firm.
It had never been off-putting or even that strange, to feel his cock rubbed up against metal paneling, of what comprised that part of his lover's cheek. And that remained true even when he was more conscious overall of Mettaton's composition, and where it was less than accommodating when it came to most varieties of sex.
A tease alone. Foreplay without advancement. Emet-Selch wondered if neither of them would end up coming, when it came down to it... with Mettaton left to ache, and himself to become oversensitive and annoyed. But he holds back a genuine sigh in favor of a show of one.]
I would think that a dream of me both covered and unbruised would be the more remarkable one, Mettaton. Your unconscious state isn't terribly creative.
[But he could see how much this dream seemed to have meant to his husband, which touched him as well. To be dreamt of so fondly (so erotically), if idealistically... it was flattering. If also not, and he was almost in the mind to complain about what perfect circumstance Mettaton had fantasized about, as though the real him weren't sufficient.
But his breath unwillingly catches at the sensation of a touch slipping lower yet- though he knew well enough that Mettaton couldn't finger him either, even if he dispelled his claws. Lubrication was a necessity there, and while in the scheme of things that didn't matter, in the circumstance it felt like one more disappointment, that Mettaton couldn't be inside him even like this.
Nor did he feel particularly possessed despite the grip on his balls; it was an enjoyable sensation, but his manner remained one of permittance rather than submission. It's almost an afterthought, remembering to answer him.]
Mm... if that's what it takes for you to not argue with my habit of dressing myself, then so be it.
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[He pouts. It's not a sincere upset at all, even when he huffs against his cock. His lips part momentarily, as he animatedly engulfs the tip of him with a hum, bobbing gently over the very head and tightening just enough, until he's caught just over the ridge. There's no saliva, but Mettaton's touch isn't so rough that it pulls or tugs; he knew Emet-Selch was sensitive enough, and a lighter touch would be better, rather than the tearing of skin. When he lets him go, it's with a full kiss, right over the slit.
He's smiling wide, playful, enamored.]
I'll tell you about creativity!
[And it would be about dressing. Mettaton departs from the Ascian's crotch, lifting himself up with the push of his hands upon the bed—this time, with his arms flanking Emet-Selch's hips. He crawls atop the bed, a near slip as he curves and arches to surreptitiously graze along Emet-Selch's entire body with warm metal and soft silicone—sensations Emet-Selch was all accustomed to, out of his metal husband. Knees still pressed to the insides of Emet-Selch's thighs, the way the idol presses his legs together emphasizes the swell of his hips—full, broad, just as they were when he'd transformed into a Puca, and even furred. Mettaton's shapshift was still in full effect, save for the amethyst of his eye, save for... the much-coveted sensation.
Slinking along Emet-Selch's body, MTT only stops once he's made it even with his face. But along the way he kisses, as warmly and fully as he can, along his chest. His nipple's treated to a flick of his tongue, but just next to it, Mettaton takes a nibble of flesh between teeth and clamps down around it, ears splaying as he settles for just long enough to kiss it into a deep blue. Relinquishing that point of intensity, he rocks his hips; he has Emet-Selch's erection arched up just between his thighs, as he keeps the Ascian's legs spread wide.
And here, Mettaton leans down to nudge his nose against Emet-Selch's, pushing him back down against the pillow.]
You know... I'd love to see you in clothes that leave nothing to my imagination, all while inspiring me to no end. And I had you in a lovely little get-up so short, that I could catch glimpses of my prize as you leaned for me... [Detailing his fantasy, one of Mettaton's long, flexible arms reaches lower, grabbing as much of Emet-Selch's ass as he can with the smaller man laying face-up on the bed. All the while, he leverages his weight down, until Emet-Selch's pressed down by the full of his weight. As for Mettaton's legs...
The robot straddles Emet-Selch's cock, slipping it between silicone thighs still plush from the "muscular" definition he'd shapeshifted for himself. He shudders, squeezing his legs together as he nudges himself low enough that he could feel his arousal at its deepest point between his legs, flush to his body—and Mettaton can't help the way his voice rises in a crescendo, a silky note carried on a moan to feel his husband so aroused.
Because even though he lacked sensation, this was the most he's had in a maddening month. It was a strange vacuum that felt like a dream in itself—and when his actual dream gave him the memory of intensity, when it broke for him to find his husband slipping into bed with him, he finds himself overcome from that alone.]
Hades... Ah, you're so...
[He was handsome nude. He was handsome in a maid dress, short enough that Mettaton could grope him at any opportunity where he so much as slouched. (Which was always.) ...That's not very creative either, only horny.]
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And his frown continues even as his whole body is encroached on again, Mettaton rising from his place and crawling upwards, while ensuring that the Ascian's legs remained spread. And his nipples teased, his chest given its own fresh bruising. And of course, no saliva left to cool in its wake.
Pushed properly back, he huffs into his face after listening to Mettaton's fantasies.]
Is it creative when it's all along the same theme?
[A very horny theme.]
And how do you expect to engineer me into any of these outfits? [He tries to sideeye him, which is difficult when Mettaton's face was that close.] Both their creation and especially my willingness to don them for you.
[Ignoring that he'd already confessed to Mettaton being persuasive. This was contrary territory; he would be convinced of nothing now.
Even if, at another time, he knew he might not only be convinced, but interested. Clothing meant to appeal, that offered some pretense of being covered, while permitting more than a hint of his availability. To sight, to touch- and with the way Mettaton's arm snaked around to find his ass, that was clearly one area that would be readily on display.
And the more he thought about it, the more he ached, without even knowing what all went in to the designs that Mettaton imagined him in. But it was an ache that frustrated, unable to forget that even if they somehow realized the aesthetics for his lover's dream, what good would they be able to make of it beyond more teasing? It wouldn't improve Mettaton's sensation any.
He's squeezed between thighs that are as furry as he remembers them once being, with a shape that was also as he recalled. He knew it was different, but he closes his eyes, wraps his arms around the robot's body. If he tried, could he pretend it was a different time?]
Was it... truly so appealing.
[He tries to rock his hips up against his body; tries to dwell on the sound of Mettaton's moan, and all the times he'd heard similar sounds from him, and what they all meant when they came to his pleasure.]
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[A heavy sigh, as MTT gathers his bearings with little success. The Ascian pushes into him and Mettaton curls close, settling into his arms comfortably, with a pronounced squirm. Fur. That was about all that could help Emet-Selch slide along his body now, as silicone without wetness wasn't very forgiving. But the softness of fur, at least, was more permitting of some kind of slide.
And the rocking of Emet-Selch's hips is provocative and definitely inspiring, even more than a dream. Maddening, too. It reminds him of those times he'd craved something more all over again, as if he hasn't been craving it all along. But this time, it was in that same desperate sense as ever, when he'd wanted something he couldn't begin to fathom. And here, now, his mind races for something that would suit to express his deepest ache, only for his lips to part, for him to gasp in almost a pitiful way, before he groans again.
And he breaks again for a single laugh.]
You're appealing! [GOTTEMMMMM] If you don't think it creative... it's because I want you, plain and simple. Hades...
[He wanted to fill him, to claim him, to stuff him full of himself, and for that Mettaton groans, Mettaton shifts, burying his face into Emet-Selch's neck. He nuzzles deep before kissing him, nipping him, gasping with hot air and none of the same dampness his body had once produced. He could have a fantasy of any kind, and no matter how vanilla, he'd find it arousing, attractive.
Which is why even if he couldn't take Emet-Selch the way he wanted deepest of all, this still does it for him. Mettaton couldn't come; he couldn't be teased into coming. His would be a maddening spiral into deeper and deeper ache, a craving for sensation he can never quite attain, but he'd try against all sense.
The feeling of Emet-Selch's arms around his waist is a reassurance Mettaton thought might render him into putty. Though one hand still grips onto his ass, Mettaton's other works itself around Emet-Selch's shoulder in a half-embrace, clinging to him.
Emet-Selch rocks into him, and Mettaton squeezes his legs together rhythmically while doing just the same. The movement of thrusting is tied to the memory of satisfaction, and he groans just beneath Emet-Selch's ears. Even if he lacked the same sensitivity and raw arousal that came from a body that could perform as desired, memory and psychology were powerful tools, and the affect of Emet-Selch's body beneath his own, his cock hard between his legs, his arms tight around his slight waist, are potent.]
Appealing... Oh, the glances I stole, of- of you dripping down your thighs, Hades... [He kisses him with teeth.] Of your cock peeking out from your short skirts, just because you couldn't keep your hands from me.
[skirts, yes. and yet he still hasn't admitted that it was a maid outfit... But with imagery like that, it was no wonder Mettaton presses deeply against Emet-Selch, no matter how impotent his body is in the moment. He was still a man who desires his husband, no matter what limitations were posed upon him.]
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With you... is anything plain or simple.
[He had no real problem with Mettaton's 'creativity', or lack thereof. A fantasy didn't have to be elaborate or strange to be worthwhile. And given the opportunity, there would be plenty that could be delved into, when it came to what Mettaton had dreamt of. Even if, right now, it was an imagining that only ached more bitterly to him. What was the point of trying anything new?
But he forces a moan instead, as Mettaton squeezes him between thighs. It's not faked, exactly, but it would've been something he would've otherwise held back. But he could hear the sounds the robot himself made, gasps and groans that accompanied this version of 'thrusting', so he had some duty to add to it, for as long as Mettaton sought to ache.
So he lets his breath to shudder, for smaller sounds to escape with it, as Mettaton attended to his neck. Consciously, his fingers dig at Mettaton's body, to hold onto him as he moved. Listens as the other man describes what he'd seen in his dream, an explicit fantasy that causes him to tense in mingled want and frustration.
Skirts? The word registers, but he doesn't have the space to consider it thoroughly, or to ask what exactly Mettaton had imagined him wearing. He'll return to it eventually. More important were the other details, dressed in something that still left him on display, in the aftermath of having been repeatedly fucked and filled. Filled to the point where he couldn't take it all, where rivulets of milky semen made a mess between his thighs- and with his own cock firmed up, peering out from beneath skirts(?), a sure sign of how he was enjoying himself. How he wanted more, no matter how many times he'd already been used.
But he couldn't drip now, not with Mettaton's seed. There was only the mess his come alone could manage, which wasn't the same at all. He could only empty himself; he couldn't be made full.
Emet-Selch chokes back a sharper whine, knowing that it would be too blatantly upset. Mettaton's dream was too potent, and it was impossible, but for once he didn't want to complain, if it would mean drawing his lover out from it. Even if he didn't understand why Mettaton would torture himself like this, unable to find some conclusion at all, even an unsatisfying one, as the Ascian expected for himself, at best.
So he ignores it, as much as he could, instead, holding back any sound beyond some appropriately unsteady breathing. The best he could think to do in the moment, was to not respond to what he said at all, and move past it instead.]
Keep- squeezing me between your thighs, Mettaton. Just like that....
[He wasn't as close as he would've liked, but he tries to force it, to rub himself off between furry legs.]
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Instead of the pleasure of satisfaction pulling him under, Mettaton opted for torture, for utter lack, as he reminded himself of all he wanted. And he wanted so much. So, so much.
And he writhes, losing himself to thought, to the deep rumble of Emet-Selch's voice. Ears lean enough to make contact with the pillow, and Mettaton shivers with a short cry, pressing his thighs together to squeeze Emet-Selch's cock between them. If he pressed down, arching his back into the rigidity of his husband, Mettaton could feel his shaft riding along his own crotch—and in sympathy he could almost dream of it as his own, a heavy, thick erection nestled between his thighs. He wanted him so badly, and all of that wanting, that ache, is converted into a sharp cry.
Keep squeezing. Mettaton could do that, and he feels his cock, firm and hard, held between the supple silicone of his legs. Lost in the vivid nature of his dream, and so pleasantly close to the man he loves, Mettaton groans against his neck—even as he feels no relief at bay.
He couldn't. He would ache, and ache, and ache, and it would grow and intensify... until he could lay quietly and let it go down. He had no battery, and couldn't sleep. He had only all of the energy in his legs that needed release, tension that provokes him to thrust and to dream of slipping his cock between Emet-Selch's legs...
As he is, he shivers and clings to Emet-Selch, appreciative of the fingers that dig into him, of the arms that hold him close. Perhaps it was only torture, in the end, but Mettaton had so much want that he couldn't find anything to do with it all, save for sympathize with Emet-Selch's release as though it were his own. He was breathless, his voice breaking as he chants Emet-Selch's name quiet against his neck, begging for him to spill without coherent words.]
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He tries not to think instead, something of a difficult ask. But to not linger on memories they couldn't replicate, as the frustration in them weighed heavier than the arousal they offered. To just rub himself off between the firmness of thighs, a tight space Mettaton offered against his body. His cock was provided friction, attention; that would have to be enough. It wasn't as though this were the first time in his life he'd been called on to perform, though the problem was usually indifference rather than too much investment, too much longing....
It was the work of effort, rather than any natural desperation. Mechanical, almost detached- and if he'd given himself the choice, something he would've preferred to not reach at all. Even if it was a quicker way of getting rid of an erection and the resulting tension in his body, it wasn't an enjoyable method. But with a sharp tightening of muscles and catch of breath, he unceremoniously reaches climax.
And if he was honest to himself, it wasn't wholly terrible, to leave pumps of seed between his husband's thighs. But the relief he felt had more to do with the release of physical tension, rather than anything more. There was no excitement in marking him, in leaving a mess behind, only a distant thought of what they'd have to clean up now, and what more of a hassle that would be. And as that tension drained from him with his come, in the end he felt lonelier than before.
And then it was over, Emet-Selch's experience of it near silent, beyond the quickness of his breath.]
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If anything, he just felt self-conscious. Upset, but a lot of it pointed toward himself. Emet-Selch is performing for his sake, or just to get through this and be done with it, and Mettaton felt his heart sink as the Ascian spills over in search of relief from his condition.
Even on his end, though, he found the pinpricks of pleasure in feeling Emet-Selch's load left between his thighs. Had he not been mourning the lack of something, aware that it was leaving Emet-Selch stuck between the rift of reality and fantasy. He could just feel the way Emet-Selch distanced himself, and as the mess is left behind, Mettaton closes his eye, burying himself in his lover's scent for a moment longer to pretend anything was the way it should be, him capable of performing as desired.
But with that moment passed, Mettaton felt no more relieved for it. Electricity courses, a livewire in his body that impels him to move and squirm, though he tries to still himself. Biting his lower lip, it was the most akin to arousal this body could manage—but there was no oversensitivity, no relief, and no end to it save for quiet despondency. It was too sorrowful, and a longing without reprieve, this particular session. It frustrated.
So Mettaton puts his energy toward lifting himself from Emet-Selch's body. His vision skirts over his waist, remaining downcast as he lifts himself from the bed. He doesn't regard the come between his own thighs as he wanders toward a neatly folded hand towel, placed here from the days of injury behind them, and then returns to Emet-Selch's side. Tucking his legs neatly underneath himself, he sits at about hip-level to Emet-Selch and moves in to carefully and effectively clean him, wanting to leave him more comfortable than before.]
.....
[But he can't find words. He felt almost near tears with his own longing, but he didn't even have his own magic. He couldn't cry.
It's his cock, first, that Mettaton quickly tidies. A thorough, but gentle wrap of his fist encased in towel, which then moves down to anywhere else that needed cleaning. With Emet-Selch relieved of that, Mettaton lifts his gaze to meet Emet-Selch's with heat, with electricity, with longing still alight in them, legs shifting in place despite his natural poise.
And he shifts himself to be closer to Emet-Selch's upper body. Towel set aside, Mettaton releases his shapeshift, back-folded ears disappearing as he places a hand just below the scar left over Emet-Selch's chest.]
I got ahead of myself. [And Emet-Selch, in the process. He wasn't sure whether to apologize over it. It simply felt unfortunate, but if he'd only the right anatomy... this wouldn't be an issue.]
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It startled him to feel Mettaton lift so immediately from his body, and he wondered if he'd somehow repulsed him, that he hadn't expected or wanted him to come- and when the other man moves to claim a towel, that doesn't do anything to dispel the impression. Apart from Mettaton not using it to wipe himself clean... so he considered instead whether it was just some means of getting a small bit of energy out. His lover always was the sort to take action.
He keeps his thoughts to himself though, expression stoic as the robot returns to clean him, though he glances aside, not observing the process. Removing himself from it, though the discomfort of the moment remained.
All in silence, beyond the small creak of the bed as Mettaton moved to and from it, along with the rustle of fabric. Even his own breath wasn't that loud, as it was already settling, the mage having not needed to exert himself that far. As 'afterglows' went, this was one of the more disconcerting ones, and he wished again that he'd avoided it entirely.
With his own body cleaner of the mess he'd unfortunately made, and Mettaton shifting closer, he looks back up to him when he finally speaks, when he feels the hand at his chest. His own expression remains neutral, his manner lethargic. But he shakes his head after a moment.]
We would have tried sooner or later.
[With the same result. They were too ardent, each other's company something that so frequently included sex. There had been nothing particularly wrong about this moment, nothing that he saw that they could've done differently. This was their reality now, he supposed. And for all that he knew desire would remain... it was hard to imagine trying again.]
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