[Emet-Selch was already hard, but Mettaton swore he felt the rush of arousal that pulsed through him at the combination of slick semen pressed to his lips, mixed with the hardness he was forced to ride over. A cock they both saw fit to set him atop, as the robot envisioned their mutual pleasure at stuffing him full, enough that Emet-Selch would comfortably sit in his lap.
Comfort mattered, after all, because Mettaton valued Emet-Selch's well-being. And... even if it were technically possible for the stubborn Ascian to find relief in being stretched too far, too dry, Mettaton wouldn't enjoy an encounter that wasn't made appropriately slippery. Even that growl couldn't convince him of that, though he couldn't help it:]
God, you're so hot. [Mettaton nearly growls back, stooping in to take Emet-Selch in another kiss: this one more heated than the last, with teeth to answer the smaller man's bite.] All you have to do is keep doing what you're doing, and you'll have me hard enough to fuck in no time, sweetheart.
[Emet-Selch knew the drill. With the robot made totally rigid, and beneath Emet-Selch as he is, he wouldn't be able to even stop him from maneuvering over his lap and seating himself on his cock- and from there, Mettaton would be helpless in the face of pleasure, incapable of keeping from toppling him back and stealing him up.
With a heated sigh, Mettaton wraps his husband up tight in his arm, though he doesn't keep him so restrained that he couldn't move- because the way Emet-Selch was slipping forward, settling his weight deeper onto his root, is enough to have Mettaton groan.]
Though you know... Ha. It won't take much.
[He'd be a ridiculously easy lay, and Emet-Selch would have no trouble coaxing him into his fullest arousal, erection filled enough to be agonizingly rigid. And though he knew he looked impressive now, he knew he had some stiffness to regain- even though everything the smaller man did encouraged him in that direction, from the sounds on his voice to the eager brightness of his eyes. He doesn't need to try to explain the safety of his ejaculate, because he knew Emet-Selch would swallow it regardless of it all, given that it reminded him of all else he'd ever been able to produce. The tint and glitter is a non-issue- but the robot didn't mind Emet-Selch's ability to complain about it all.
Gripping his ass, squeezing and kneading cheeks, Mettaton urges Emet-Selch deeper onto his lap, kissing at his neck.]
Why don't you... come close, Hades, and tell me what it would take to get me to fuck you. What do you think?
[Emet-Selch would agree that he felt harder, both in response to the semen given to his lips for a taste, and to everything else the other man did. From the near-growl on the robot's own part, and especially to the heat of their next kiss- something that felt nearly sloppy, rough, given the deliberate involvement of teeth- it all sharpened his need. His hips thrust forward, rolling hard against the taller man he was sitting on, in less impatience and more demand. An expectation for Mettaton to get properly and completely erect for him, a fullness warranting of his complete attention- impressive as he already was.
As there was no hope to keep from moaning at the slick way Mettaton's length slid against his body, a tease of his heat, and one he trembled to experience fully. It was exasperating (thrilling) at how firm his lover could remain between climaxes, how reliable his virility was now that he had a proper outlet for it again- and there would be little stopping the mage from encouraging him to his end, over and over.]
What do I think....
[With the order to come closer, he might've complained over how he was close enough already, riding on the robot's root, the mage's own cock nudging against his body. Wrapped up in a winding arm that left him feeling safe, in some softer way. But of course that wasn't enough, there was nothing that was ever enough, for one thing- and they knew exactly how they might be closer still. For all that he was in Mettaton's lap, he could be there more... securely, with more than his legs stretched around his body.
But comfort did matter- to some degree. To the degree where it still seemed valuable to bother with some sort of preparation at all, but not so far where he would defer full penetration at all due to the lack of real lubrication. He was hard; he hadn't been fucked by Mettaton in ages, and there was plenty of their ejaculate around. That all added up to being good enough.
With one arm bracing himself around the idol's body, the other, already messy hand, scoops up more semen onto his fingers, coating them properly in glittery slickness. An attractive substance, somehow (and the reminder of the taste of it at his lips felt stronger, and he swallows unconsciously), but he doesn't let himself be distracted by it.
Without waiting to be told, or for Mettaton to take that initiative, he brings his arm behind himself, to trace a cloudy finger around his entrance, smearing tight muscle with their seed. Automatically his breath hitches, body twitching at the sensation, the suggestiveness of what he was doing- but he doesn't delay long before beginning to work a single digit inside himself.]
Must I- do everything for you? Mettaton. [He exhales it heavily against Mettaton's neck, before pressing his face there. Kisses him; his breath was already leaving silicone damp.] You'll be ready as soon as I am.
[...Already, it was a reminder that come wasn't a real replacement for lube, no matter how glittery- but it was slick and it was something, and for all his wanting, he knew how to untense, how to make this as easy a process as possible for himself. Anticipation and arousal helped a great deal, and it would be difficult for him to have any more of either of those things.]
[Mettaton giggles. Emet-Selch earns a kiss: when he nudges into his neck, Mettaton smooches his hair. But as soon as Emet-Selch threatens that he'd be ready as soon as he was...]
Ohhhh...!
[He knew what was happening. Emet-Selch was hiking himself up, arm slung around MTT as he uses glittery, sticky fingers, probing his entrance, prodding increasingly slick muscle and coating it with his seed, from his cock. It's been... too long since he's been able to provide. Too long since he's been able to demonstrate himself in this way so erotic, and Mettaton shudders, back arching as though attempting to lean into the pleasure his husband felt.
Emet-Selch had already slipped further over his cock, forcing his member to lay against his abdomen. And how sizable he looked, even juxtaposed against Emet-Selch's upward-arching cock, slick and ready... Looking down, he shudders to behold the sight of Emet-Selch positively thick- and himself, ready to be made rigid once more. His cock wouldn't say so nicely against his abdomen when fully filled, he knew.
And there were plenty of reasons to find himself filling, from the sound of Emet-Selch's voice to the way he took such forward initiative. Even though Mettaton would've been next to prepare the smaller man, it was even more arousing to feel Emet-Selch do it himself out of haste, the need to fill himself up with urgency spurring MTT into filling, heady enough to warrant a groan. He squeezes his prize, snugging Emet-Selch close while he prepares himself, imagining the sight, the feeling of that finger against his entrance, a digit slick enough to begin something in preparation for more. The way he twitches and tenses, thighs taut just enough to keep him poised for fingering, Mettaton soaks in every facet of the Ascian's preparation, though his gaze returns to Emet-Selch's face: the glow of his eyes, and the flush of his lips.]
You should know... how tempting you are like this. [He nearly pants, squirming beneath the other man. With Emet-Selch buried once more into his neck, the robot shifts, his hips rocking in answer to the swing of Emet-Selch's.] I think you're right. Ah... You'll have me ready shortly.
[He really would be hard before he knew it. If he had a brain, it might leave him light-headed to be made so rapidly aroused, and so quickly after exertion. But as he is, he was quick to recover, and with his temperament, even quicker to be tempted. Were he the one aching for relief as badly as Emet was, the robot knew he would be shifting them around, crowding out his lover's fingers- and the thought alone has his breath hitch, jerking against Emet-Selch's crotch with a groan.
...How could he be made so hard, so quick? Part of it was his own imagination, his own perception. But the other parts were so much more, from Emet-Selch's actions that kept him alert and entranced, to the sensations of heat settled over his lap, the pressure of weight over his thighs, and the firmness of Emet-Selch's erection, plus his body laying heavily over his swiftly firming cock.]
You're... fingering- ah... I want to... [He pants, thrusting. He wanted them both to be ready and soon, but he similarly enjoyed this moment, the feeling of Emet-Selch readying himself for something thicker.] Tell me... how you imagine I'll feel, spreading you.
[Mettaton's reaction to what he was doing was everything he could've hoped for, and he smiles briefly against his neck, before his lips part for another moan, soft and low.
He would have enjoyed it, had Mettaton gotten there first- and Emet-Selch assumed such a direction had been immanent, given the way their desires seemed to align. The intimacy of the robot preparing him with his own come, produced not just for this purpose, but something they could both appreciate making use of- would he have been able to last through that? His erection felt like it throbbed, aching and hot, reflecting the mage's swiftened pulse.
Like this, Emet-Selch had better control over the sensation, could avoid toying with himself any more than he wanted to- but instead, he had the redirected pleasure of knowing Mettaton was observing him. That he could tell exactly what he was up to and why, which was a strange thrill in itself, even though this was hardly the first time, and even if Mettaton couldn't actually see him do it. Not directly. (They really needed to invest in some more mirrors.)
The unavoidable catch to his breath, the deliberate spread of his legs and shivering tension in his thighs, the position of his arm and flushed concentration to his manner- every corresponding indication was there. None of it he attempts to hide.
Where Mettaton thrust, his body tries to thrust back, to grind against him. Groaning a rough note, he couldn't help the way he tensed up around his own finger, imagining that it was a cock instead. It didn't hurt, at least, not with a lone digit spreading semen, even when he has it pressed past the knuckles, as deep as he could reach. Which was nothing at all compared to how deep Mettaton could go, and a quick glance down to the swell of his cock was an unnecessary but arousing reminder of it. But there was not only length but especially girth to prepare for- something that his own finger was hardly even a tease of.
And yet, even this he had to adjust to. Something so modest was still an insertion, and he wanted to give to Mettaton something that was a comfortably tight fit- as comfortable as he had the patience for, anyway....
So he thrusts that finger inside of himself, eyes mostly closed as he nuzzled at Mettaton's jaw, his pulse pounding.]
How... you're always hotter than I remember. Each... and every time. And you'll feel my warmth right back, surrounding you. While you're thicker than I- than I....
[His words are interrupted as his thoughts encourage his hand to make good on what he was imagining, which was how his body would be made to stretch around a full erection. It's not rushed, exactly, he doesn't force it immediately deep, but spends these next moments tugging firmly, slickly, at his entrance with two fingers, the slightly greater presence inside himself an inspiration.
Bringing his head up, he kisses at Mettaton's jaw, trailing nearly to his lips, before leaning back just enough to look out his eye, to watch his husband's own expression, his own hazy and flushed. Desperate... but enjoying this both, the anticipation that filled him, and the thick cock he was pressed to filling on its own, with a stiffness he didn't think he was imagining.
He still manages a frown, a show of dismay.]
--Whatever force endowed you did not take my comfort into account. [He complains... even as they knew from experience that he loved Mettaton's size, his shape- everything about him. And what he was eager to ride, what he was preparing himself for was strikingly similar to what Mettaton had chosen for himself, in the past. A thickness they both found fitting... and which did fit, no matter how much Emet-Selch might protest it.] But I imagine you'll find me--
[Even that show of contrariness isn't something he can maintain for long, not when he works his fingers deeper, coaxing his body to accept them with small, contained thrusts. He'd wanted this... to be doing this for him, to be looking forward to servicing Mettaton's erection by fitting it deep in his body, to feel themselves joined. He ached, with more than his cock- but that too, as a part of his fantasy, to find climax once more with Mettaton filling him out, in the other man's arms, each of them caught up in the other's heat. His gaze falls to the side, voice nearly mumbled.]
[He knew that no matter how they got around to preparing Emet-Selch, it would've been an intimate affair. But there was an advantage to letting Emet-Selch do it, he would've thought with greater clarity if he had that. And that was that he knew he would've been exploratory, testing the heat of his body with his fingertips, tugging at muscle and crooning over the tension he could exert. Would Emet-Selch be able to last through all of Mettaton's fondling, his enthusiastic petting and stroking?
Perhaps it was for the best. Especially because no matter which way they approached the task, MTT was still being aroused... though it may be rousing in two different directions. With Emet-Selch nuzzling him, kissing his neck and panting against silicone, the robot nearly groans, growls, as his legs shift and his hips jerk, becoming swiftly full- and covetous of the space Emet-Selch had occupied, enough that his squirming jostles the smaller man above him, as Mettaton curls with the unconscious intent to prod him with his cock.]
You want to talk about my heat...
[Yet Emet-Selch is an obviously warm body in the waiting, an aspect to their sex that he hadn't as much experience with. With that prize waiting for him, the idol all but whines, his silky voice high yet breathless as it peters out as soon as he feels lips against his jaw.
He was intensely aroused, and insanely quick. The only way he knows what Emet-Selch's doing is by the sensation of muscles moving in his arm, and Mettaton could imagine all of the intricate slips of his fingers, all of the gentle pulls and slick rubs and the fullness he could never imitate, but was all too aware of. Mettaton's voice hitches in the midst of a groan, tipping his head to permit Emet-Selch a trail of kisses that served only to intensify his ache. His every ache, including the same ones he felt with Emet-Selch that reached deep and gripped their hearts.
He knew this wasn't too big for Emet-Selch. He knew it was just right, that the Ascian enjoyed riding something thick. And to hear him complain, before following up with the acceptance of accommodation, only inspires the imagining of his entrance stretched about a thick, full root- a sight in his mind's eye that is enough to have Mettaton moaning some more, squirming in his anticipation.]
No matter what you say, dearest, I... I know what you find preferential to comfort. [He turns his head enough to kiss Emet-Selch's cheek.] Pleasure, of course. And you...
[... Have a thing for something thick, he wants to say. But overeager as he's increasingly becoming, he squirms; he thrusts, as if his body sought to declare its readiness without words. With one hand he spreads Emet-Selch some more, and the arm he has trapping him, wrapped around his body, tugs him deeper unto his lap.]
Won't you... Ohh, Hades... Tell me, how thick you're anticipating me. [And how thick he's preparing himself, to that end. Emet-Selch would only be able to do so much, but he knew they'd work him into comfort eventually, even if it took patience. And practice. Mettaton grinds his root against Emet-Selch's crotch, greedily collecting him, dragging his weight over his root.] And how you know it'll feel, to take me...?
[It was nearly that he whined with him, feeling as though their arousals were joined- but weren't they, in a way, always fed off of each other's? Even when their souls weren't directly linked (something he would forever miss), to see their lover in rising (and peaking) pleasure was one of the most inciting things of all.
It was a limitation of his body only that took Emet-Selch longer to show off his wanting, but he felt as though he'd been swollen for some time now. Where bringing him to climax could've served to encourage Mettaton back into a completely engorged state (Rather than the... partially? mostly? firmed condition that seemed to be his default; could the robot ever be completely flaccid? It would make his new condition of Pants Wearing somewhat difficult, if not.), this was a time where he had to wait, no matter how he yearned for touch, for relief. Not that Mettaton would keep him waiting long; he knew that from experience. No, it was his own body once again that required more time.
But he still didn't feel quite frustrated either, as the pain (and expectation) of a rigid cock was worth enduring, was a pleasure in its own right. But by the same token he sorely wanted to proceed, even if it meant being made more sore than he otherwise might have been. And while he works his fingers as deep as they could go, spreading them and what slickness he could give himself, it was a slower process than he would have liked.
He still finds it in him to huff at Mettaton's reply, though he nudges into the kiss to his cheek anyway. He could guess what else his lover might've said about him, and appreciated it not being directly called out....
Of course, his preference lied most of all in Mettaton; anyone else's thickness wouldn't do.]
How thick. [He repeats, tilting his head to seek out the other man's lips again. Another attempt of a kiss.] How thick can you give me? All that and- more, until you've filled me out completely.
[...He could probably use more time, even another finger, especially as their lubrication situation wasn't ideal. But it was growing more difficult to wait, and harder to judge his own readiness with anything like objectivity. He... could take him, he thought, with only a reasonable amount of trouble. And with Mettaton spreading him, grinding his erection against his body, how was he meant to resist?
But he tries for a few moments longer, unable to keep from whining though, soft and keen as he pushes back into his own hand, into the thrust of fingers that couldn't begin to satisfy him.]
How- do you think you'll feel? Fit- fitted tight inside of me? Tell me how much- how much you want this.
[The more the seconds stretch on, the more MTT wanted Emet-Selch stretched instead, and soon. It wasn't impatience but anticipation, as the injustice of their months spent without sex was starting to wear, as though it already hadn't. It wasn't right! They wanted their bodily union, and with no avenue for it, the two of them had been left with swollen hearts and an ache that they each saw in each other's eyes... but that they longed to relieve with the stroke of a cock, the filling and emptying of their bodies. This is how they're made to express themselves.
Emet-Selch wanted him thick, and it spurs him toward a heavier arousal, it felt like. His body, shaped this way by the power of Emet-Selch's prayer, responded to him and him alone- and were he privy to the notion that it was Mettaton Emet-Selch thought himself most swayed by (and he'd agree, this wasn't news to him), he'd have to sweetly and softly concur that Emet-Selch himself is a special man- and uniquely capable of arousing Mettaton in a way unlike any other. His responses, his willingness to offer himself up, his servitude- all of it combined to leave Mettaton willing and wanting to pounce, to ravish him and hear his voice soar.
It... felt like enough time to be reasonably prepared, MTT thought. How much time did it take to prep with something that was only relatively similar to lubricant? Emet-Selch whines, and Mettaton answers with a similarly keening note, nudging the smaller man with the underside of his root in short, small thrusts. He wanted to take over the duties of his fingers as they stretched and spread...
With a sigh partnered with a kiss to his cheek, Mettaton's voice hitches, the closest he could get to a gasp for air.]
Doesn't this feel like a temptation enough, size-wise? [Is he not thick enough for something to promise a fuller filling? Mettaton squirms, thighs positively aching.] I'm giving you the promise of my size... and you, the promise of- of such warmth, unlike anything I've experienced in this body...
[It was the first thing he looked forward to: his lover's warmth, and his specifically. Sure, sure, other bodies were warm- but he wanted Emet-Selch, and he wanted him stretched and tight around his girth, slipping gradually down his length until he was agonizingly settled around his root. Mettaton imagined that sight like a dream, moaning with a closed eye as he envisions Emet-Selch suggestively hiding a thick cock, stuck to his lover's lap and secured in his spot. Aside from his nudity, it would only be obvious by the flush of his nude body, and the upright length between them that would be painfully swollen...
Mettaton shifts again, pulling Emet-Selch even closer. That's because he's maneuvering himself, arching his back first, then squirming just enough to force Emet-Selch over his lap- until his cock springs up, let to curve along Emet-Selch's backside, between spread cheeks and against slicked fingers. Mettaton growls, though it's mostly a moan: even though he was deeply wanting of penetration, he was still patient enough to wait for Emet-Selch to ready himself. After all, he did say MTT would be ready only as soon as Emet-Selch was, and he agreed with that]
Hades... Don't you think? That... That this will satisfy? How do you feel?
[In all truth, at the end of the day, Mettaton didn't want to do something Emet-Selch would regret. ...If the smaller man was willing to endure pain, he was willing, too. He knew their appetite, and the gentle rolls of his hips are firm, controlled: he demonstrates that he could be with a deliberate pace, enough that any lack of preparation should be able to be worked through with kneading force.]
[Mettaton was more than a temptation, but someone that had already drawn him in, captured him down to his core, where he had no desire left but to claim all he was offering. There were a lot of things he loved about this, but notable amongst them was this anticipated sharing of warmth. Warmth that Mettaton would be able to feel, both around his cock and pressed to his body, anywhere that they touched. They'd had tastes of it so far, of the heat each of them could produce, but this was inviting it further, literally deep, in a way that they just hadn't been able to perform in months.
It was a wonder that they were as relatively restrained as they were, Emet-Selch distantly mused. He was trying to prepare himself at all; Mettaton hadn't dragged his hand out of the way and replaced it with himself. The shift of their bodies, the slip of the robot's erection to the mage's backside was more than a hint of his wants, however- of his promise, both in heat and size, of something that could fill the smaller man when he'd been so empty. Moaning after him, Emet-Selch's hips jerk back- even if his own hand was in the way, and they weren't aligned properly. He swallows.]
You'll... know how I feel, soon enough.
[Physically, emotionally; in both he felt hot. Desperate but... controlled, yes; he decided this would be good enough, that he'd given his body enough time. It had better be, because it's moments later that his fingers are pulled hastily from himself, without even the farewell of a tease. What was there for him to tease (especially when Mettaton couldn't watch him), when he had what he actually wanted nudging against his ass? Their patience had been remarkable already, he thought....
His feelings felt as taut as his body, and hopefully rawer- though he expected and accepted this wouldn't be entirely comfortable. Not at first, and not afterward, if his body ended up as well-rubbed as he wanted it to be.
But he was more than willing, and knew that Mettaton was similarly interested, even if the less-slick entry wouldn't be as easy for him either. Nudging the side of his face against his (nearly a scenting gesture- not that Emet-Selch had ever possessed those instincts, but it felt like something they just did, regardless), the mage then sits up properly, onto his knees. Bracing himself with one hand at Mettaton's shoulder, the other- newly liberated from fingering himself- feels behind him for the other man's erection.
Still somewhat slick, and already hotter than remembered, and thicker even to feel than to see (and that was already plentily thick), it was too tempting to not squeeze up his shaft, to fondle the swollen tip while imagining how it would feel stretching him. But it's a delay that barely counts as one, because why imagine it when he could have it? Guiding his tip to the right place, even as he expects it, the sharp draw of breath was inescapable, and his heart beat fast enough to dizzy him.
And having the plush tip against his entrance was too much to consider resisting, and with Mettaton's erection held steady (and the other man more than rigid enough to be worth sitting on), he rolls his hips back, onto him. With a forced breath he keeps from tensing up to start with- and with more patience than he thought he had left, he keeps from pressing down hard, from driving Mettaton inside completely.
But just the act of kneading them both has him cry out, if softly, and his body to shudder. They were so close, and every second now when they weren't combined was torture- it's too soon, probably, but yearning has him act without thought, and firm kneading gives way to harder jerks of his hips. Forcing himself downward, he doesn't stop until the full swell of the head was pushed inside of him. Yet being made to stretch over something suddenly so thick has him choke on a gasp, and his whole body to tremble, huddling as close to Mettaton as he could with a sharper whine. Unwillingly he tenses up; it hurt, but it wasn't unbearable. Wasn't even unpleasant, probably. Emet-Selch wasn't analyzing it that far.]
M... Mettaton- I- you're....
[His thoughts are no more coherent than his words, and he leans for him, head nudging against him with a smaller, pleading sound.]
[Without language they agree that this should suffice, if not the most optimal of preparations. But in a world that was bizarrely without lubricant, it would have to suffice. Atop that, Emet-Selch is dangerously aroused... and Mettaton was quickly hurdling in that direction. It made it much easier to think with their cocks, and to prioritize getting Emet-Selch where he could lose himself to bliss.
As soon as the tip of his still-filling erection is aligned with the help of Emet-Selch's guidance, Mettaton lets go of his ass. But that's just to brace himself against his hip, fingers wrapped around his brand-new tattoo that connected them if not spiritually (and did it? it warranted testing, or patience), bodily. He could even feel it in its way, an electric current that came of two people bound together, as though these markings linked up the energy that coursed through their bodies most of all. He answers that nuzzle against his cheek with an answering nudge, metal paneling against warm, soft skin that gave pronouncedly against him. He would salivate if he could, he knew... There's something about this tender figure that has him starving, nearly envious for its softness but similarly pleased at just experiencing it.
Even though he was still filling, god was he erect, firm already. But still filling indeed, and he could just feel that push of pressure swim deep in his body, an agonizing ache that he'd agree felt torturous, as soon as Emet-Selch pumps his length, from base to tip. And from there, Mettaton jerks and shudders to feel Emet-Selch knead him against his entrance, trying his very best to keep his hips from stuffing his length inside. He babbles, fingers twitching against skin.]
You're, y-you're, [It's static. Even his voice is impacted, skipping slightly. He may have his very own voice, none of it regulated by any robotic device, but the body itself is the interference it needs to sound like a skipping record.] Give me, give me--!
[He doesn't realize what he's saying, how positively greedy he sounds. But despite his words MTT is mostly polite, his hips restrained, thighs taut with inertia and desire restricted to his heart, giving Emet-Selch time and space to determine the pace that his body should receive a thick intrusion. If Emet-Selch had the good sense for it, why, it could've even been a smooth insertion mostly painless, he's being so good.
But of course, neither of them are anything less than frantic and overheated. The sound of Emet-Selch's voice is music, and Mettaton nuzzles him hard as the Ascian sits himself, skillfully relaxing just enough to take the bulbous swell of his tip until he's fitted over his glans completely. Mettaton's back arches, his breath, his voice, lost.]
I...! Ohhhhhh, yeees, H... Hades!!
[Euphoric, Mettaton idly kneads at his hip, where his other hand braces the top of Emet-Selch's back, cuddling him close to his body. Trembling still, he only shimmies his hips from side-to-side, testing the tension around his tip and shifting in ecstasy. The small nudge to his face is met with a responding nudge.
Yes... somehow, Mettaton could feel the physical sensation Emet-Selch endured. Not quite as though it were his own... but it was there, the edges of pain and pleasure twisted together in some kind of harmony. It doesn't alarm him for any reason: Emet-Selch could handle this, for one. But he knew similarly that this was required of them. They need this contact, this depth, and at any cost.
(That they might be able to feel each other through the magic of this tattoo doesn't exactly settle in, in any coherent way. He felt some of Emet-Selch's experience, but not overmuch; it felt normal, if anything.)
Utter heat envelopes his tip. He needed more of it, and he grips his hip, tension in his wrist to slam the smaller man down on his lap. Of course he doesn't listen to these baser instincts, too in love with the smaller man to move him if he knew it meant hurting him, guaranteed. Instead, Mettaton continues to slowly gyrate his hips, a circular working of slick, hot muscle. He smiles against his cheek, hopelessly in love.]
Y... You've done it, dearest. You've... Oh, I have you, I need more...
[An apt summary of Mettaton's feelings. He had him; he wanted more, always.]
[Hands clutch his hips, one unadorned, and one newly inscribed- and sensitive still, as the Ascian writhes sharply in place as it's handled, a near-voiceless keen escaping his lips. It didn't hurt to be touched there, but it was reactive, and given his current awkward position, perched over another man's cock, partly inside him already- it causes his muscles to seize up again. Which probably hurt; he does nothing to escape what he was taking. That it was caused by Mettaton touching his tattoo escapes him entirely, as he'd forgotten that it was there at all.
But his eyes squeeze shut, breath coming in a shallower pant, his hand clawing at the robot's shoulder. His other hand whips upward to mirror it on his opposite shoulder, now that he no longer needed to align Mettaton's erection with him- but it's an act mostly unconscious, reflexive, needing to brace himself most of all with his legs spread and condition compromised. Though he felt the sound of his own heart might deafen him, Mettaton's cries reached louder than that, sound he willingly drowns in. More than ever, it felt like he'd reached him--
Mettaton was being so polite, that he would be surprised about it in a calmer moment. And while the Ascian was well aware, even fixated on his lover's response, he doesn't have the capacity to think about the way Mettaton hadn't thrusted, hadn't dragged him down with the strength he knew he possessed. He was allowed, for the moment, to take the yet-filling erection at his own pace. But what choice of pace was there?
Emet-Selch had the head of Mettaton's cock lodged in his body, with the rest of his length to follow, as quickly as possible, whatever it did to them in the process: that was all he knew.
So after that brief, trembling pause, his body clenched tight around the full glans of him, he tries to lower himself. Intensity, most of all, rushes through him, as every hard jerk of his hips sent sensation through him, sharp enough to stun him, but not to stop him. Mettaton wanted more, demanded it- which was the only thing worth hearing, worth listening.
It was definitely too much to take as quickly as this, even with his best attempts at preparation, and their use of drying come in place of lube. If he'd been slower, it might have well been possible to do with minimal discomfort, his body coaxed into the sort of pliability that required time to achieve. But he wasn't thinking of what could've been, only the sound his lover made at being held only this deep, and the need to take him the rest of the way.
As it really was a need, something that couldn't be argued with, that reflected what he'd missed so horribly these months. And what did their old intimacy and passions express but his longing for closeness and company? The feeling of being a little less alone, if only for moments at a time.
So it hurt. Not as much as it could have, but enough that it would've normally been worth slowing down, to give him more time and especially more lube. But with Mettaton's hips slowly moving, he had to move more, forcing more of his shaft into him, until he was buried nearly halfway deep. It dragged more as it went on, as in his insistence he tenses more than he otherwise would have, but it doesn't stop him. Clinging to Mettaton's body, he nuzzles helplessly against his cheek, unable to speak, only to whine again, soft and sharply.]
[Emet-Selch is erect and determined, and MTT sees it clear as day, with dazed awe. And with moans to boot, as he slides his way stubbornly down his cock, enveloping him in muscle that seizes and tightens erratically.
What comes of having fucked a lot is experience with different sensations, Mettaton's discovered. Even though this feeling of heat, processed by this specific body of his, was enough to swallow him in delight, the uniqueness of sensation dizzying... he recognized the tension as Emet-Selch slips down fractions of an inch at a time. To him, it doesn't hurt; his erection is made up of a rigid core, and already he is full, thick, and ready. However, come isn't a perfect lubricant, not even his, despite its seemingly otherworldly composition (and was it too much to ask for, for a robot to ejaculate a lubricant-like substance?? maybe Emet-Selch just needed more!). And as his husband silently cries out, awash in intensity, Mettaton finds himself bombarded by so much the same; his own voice sings, loud enough to eclipse the silence in his pleasure.
There's no worry or much in the way of real thought to this, when Mettaton feels Emet-Selch nuzzling him quietly. His whine is soft most of all... and Mettaton finds himself doting on the smaller man, admiring his determination in spite of the challenges. But there was something more than that, in the way that tense thighs forced him into a tense body, into a tense squeeze around his cock- as the smaller man could've done with lingering around just the tip of him for a bit longer, couldn't he? But there was a reason he couldn't, and between the lines, the idol understood it. Mettaton hugs him tight, nearly lifting him just to block him from sinking any lower.]
Oh, darling... You're... fabulous, ah...
[How did it feel to be truly together? There wasn't any time for patience with this reward ahead of them, a togetherness brought by being properly pinioned atop his cock, to have his erection sheathed by his warm body, and to know that they were experiencing each other in this intimate way. Of course he wanted more, a deeper plunge; Mettaton recognized Emet-Selch's efforts, and the affection he felt from him reached so far that it left him raw, tender.
Arm unwinding just enough to grasp his shoulder, Mettaton twists, kisses his ear, and presses their chests together. He stops Emet-Selch, holding him tight to his body- all before shifting, folding his legs up and beneath him, as his robotic strengths works to keep Emet-Selch stable. He knew the smaller man would tense some more, but that wasn't much different from what he was doing now.
In a silky voice, he smiles close to his ear.]
Let me... take care of you, Hades. You are tense. [Which was something to avoid, but understandable all the same. He clicks his tongue.] I want you... Ahh... on your back.
[A movement swift and decisive, so as not to stretch it out- and to prevent Emet-Selch's maintained tension when he should be adjusting to this stretch. Taking it at a moderated pace wasn't doable as they are... but there were ways to help guide Emet-Selch into pliant softness by robbing him of things to do, by making his singular task receiving him.
Swinging the Ascian against the bedsheets, Mettaton presses into him lovingly, kissing up his jaw, brushing their lips together with a sharp exhale. And from there, he asserts his weight, he shifts his thighs, and he grips Emet-Selch's hips: the smaller man would rest with his ass against Mettaton's lap, as he curled around him, settled deep between his thighs. And as they are, Mettaton draws back just slightly- where he gives Emet-Selch short, but rhythmic thrusts, a change to adjust shallowly to this thick intrusion. Speaking close to the corner of his lips, Mettaton first lifts enough to make eye contact, violet bright despite its darkness.]
I can't have you doing everything for me, as you said b... before...
[Eyes closed, blocking out everything but the need to move lower, to obtain what they both wanted in its entirety, no matter how much it hurt him to do- the tightness of the embrace Mettaton put him in was at first a comfort. A way of steadying him, even encouragement, supporting him while his body was wracked with intermittent clenching that he couldn't properly control. (Experience, of course, told him to slow down or stop what he was doing; all the familiarity in the world couldn't prevent him from tensing completely in response to pain like this, and desperation like this.)
But it's soon enough that he realizes that it was an embrace so tight that it kept him from moving lower. If anything, it was a hug that lifted him slightly from the erection he was claiming by hard-fought degrees. Not immediately understanding it was intentional, given Mettaton's praise and evident pleasure in what he was doing, he pushes at his body, trying to get him to release him.]
Let- Mettaton, you're--
[In case his squirming wasn't clear enough, he tries to inform the taller man that his affection, though loved, wasn't helping him to impale himself fully on his cock. Voice as tight as his body, it's not very complete as a statement- but he's not thinking of that or much else, trusting that his intent would make it through regardless.
But while Mettaton unwinds his arm somewhat, it's not for the sake of letting him go- and it's then that Emet-Selch realizes that he was being actively stopped. Mettaton's words further confirm it, and for a moment he freezes- before writhing more desperately against his chest, not responding to his attention except to fight it, twitching away from it, but unable to escape being manhandled entirely away from his position atop the other man. Snarling in his panic, it turns into something closer to a whine, sharper still as his hands claw at him, as though he could scrape himself back to where he wanted to be.]
Stop it! I was--
[Of course he tenses; any jostling of the cock he had partially buried within him would have him tensing, but he writhes more than that, the protest in the sound he makes as desperate as it was hurt. Frustrated, he fights him, snaps at his lips when Mettaton tries to kiss him, and as he realizes he was being trapped on his back, he hooks his legs around him, and attempts to force him closer, to give him the rest of himself.
Too upset to even try not to tense, he continues trying to arch his back, to buck his hips- to do anything to force the taller man's erection deeper, these more modest thrusts nothing at all like what he was after. When their eyes meet, his are open again, vividly bright and irrationally furious, betrayed.]
I was managing.
[He spits it out, doing absolutely nothing to make this any easier on himself.]
[He should have expected that this would've been Emet-Selch's reaction, but for some reason he doesn't. Not in the moment. But Emet-Selch's possessiveness reached far, far enough that interruption at taking his robotic husband, even when posed by the robot himself for any reason, would not be tolerated. Even as he sets him down, he doesn't quite register his writhing; even as Emet-Selch snaps at him with his teeth, he doesn't register that, either.
Especially when the way he links his legs around his hips is... horribly, terribly erotic. Mettaton can't help the way he moans, and the way his moan intensifies when Emet-Selch exerts pressure, fighting the 'gradual and safe' method he has in mind, all of the best intentions of sparing Emet-Selch lasting pain.
...And this is apparently consulting Emet-Selch on the position change, to which Emet-Selch has fierce disagreement. Mettaton blinks widely at him, still smiling- before his vision's glazed over and he groans, feeling the way the smaller man attempts to reclaim the length of his shaft he's lost. Mettaton's arms wobble, succumbing to Emet-Selch's grip.]
Hades, oh--
[To be buried deep and connected entirely to Emet-Selch is a sirensong hard to resist. Especially when he was decided, stubbornly clawing for their deepest connection despite the pain Mettaton could tell he was in, and when he declares it to be managing. The right thing to do was probably to hold his ground and remind Emet-Selch that they couldn't keep fucking if his body were hurt, taking a girth too much for him to handle. But... what was the right thing, if it went against Emet-Selch's will?
And he was aggressively persuasive. Mettaton can't help it when his thrusts firm up, when he curls deep over his husband with the want to mate him- easily convinced as he is, it doesn't take much for him to be as deep as Emet-Selch had him, but this time with the work of his own thrusting. There's no more holding Emet-Selch back anymore from what he wished to claim of him, the attempt something that came from a Mettaton moments before whose sanity rather than insatiability worked with his heart- where now, his insatiability left him lovestruck and wanting.
But he manages some words, foreheads close together.]
You were... Oh, you're a cassanova, sweetheart... [Wwwwhich is to say that even this show of ferocity, a determination to claim the cock he was sitting on, is a convincing argument that the pain was worth the gain. Mettaton strokes himself firmly on taut muscle, though he keeps eye contact with the bright eyes of the Ascian before him.] You took half of me in almost one go... Can't I give you the rest?
[On his terms, yes. But it was clear that Mettaton wasn't trapping him enough to keep him from moving his hips, even if he had the other man pinned. The brightness in the idol's gaze is a maddening thirst, a smile that won't leave the corners of his lips. He could pin Emet-Selch back, and, like this, stroke him into fullness. Emet-Selch's assertion was greater reassurance that this was not only wanted, but required... and even MTT knew it was, even should pain be a feature.]
[Mettaton moans, and Emet-Selch still snarls between pants, feeling that his long-coveted solace was being denied him. That he was reacting with anger towards the same person he was desiring so terribly, for the cruelty of preventing him from hurting himself further- that was irrelevant. The anger was there, and the more he fought and failed to take back what he was after, the hotter it grew.
Mettaton taking his fury with good humor, of course, did nothing to ease it. To maneuver him onto his back with casual ease, smiling and looking at him as if everything was well, deciding for them both what he was willing to take- insulted. That he was still being fucked at all wasn't consolation, and the usual comfort he found in this position was entirely missing, as he hadn't wanted to be there.
(So he'd desired earlier to give everything to Mettaton, to devote everything to him- that was, in its way, still in play. Operational. Emet-Selch was going to take his cock, and he was doing to do so on his lap to his own detriment. This was his devotion and he'd fight Mettaton to achieve it.
Except he'd failed in this too, Mettaton's responses as good as mockery in his ears.)]
You'll have to. [He snaps back at him, his tenseness as much about agitation as discomfort- though there was plenty of both.] We would have been joined by now, if you hadn't interfered.
[But if it was going to be on Mettaton's terms, he wasn't going to help at all, his body seemed to indicate. Though his legs remain tight around him, he gives up fighting him- stops trying to force himself onto his length. His fit had been intense enough to tire him, for one thing; he could also feel it wasn't getting him anywhere.
From staring at him with the same unmoving anger as before, he turns his head to the side, demonstrably away from him as he felt his body worked to the same depth that he already had. Incessant rocking that he doesn't relax any more for, impatient in a way that had nothing to do with the want for release.]
I should have... when I still had the chance....
[It's muttered, barely audible, speaking more to himself than to Mettaton. If he'd known the other man was going to take it upon himself to change their position, he would've driven him down to the root before he had a chance to stop him. Even if it might've damaged him; even if it would've hurt, more than it did already. He was spiteful and needy, in ways beyond what his cock was asking for- as arousal was barely even a thought at this point, a background irritation, for all that it had helped to drive him to this point.]
[Emet-Selch often did enjoy this position... and the more the moment's disagreement dawns on Mettaton, with spite and continued frustration, right down to the way that Emet-Selch quits participating and even turns away, the more Mettaton realizes he'd really insulted Emet-Selch. There'd be moments later when the naturally-dominating and authoritative idol would realize just what he should have stopped to do (ask, as was often the issue, when Mettaton thought he understood the language of their bodies perfectly), but he's met with a frigid curtain that belies a heated core of anger.
And not of the heated kind. Yes, he knew Emet-Selch's devotion- but there was something different in its key. It rattles Mettaton; it interrupts his momentum.]
... I don't want you to injure yourself, darling. [His voice is easier; softer than his moans, more intimate in pitch.] I know some of it is inevitable... A bit of discomfort, for excellent gain. But I...
[He reaches out to him, brushing at long, white hair. They would've been joined by now; they could've been hasty, and Emet-Selch could've been seated on his root. But here they are, half-way together, with much left to go and much more than than between them, too much unsaid (especially on Mettaton's part, who acted before asking).
Mettaton soaks in that warmth of their bodies, the chill of Emet-Selch's heat into agitation rather than arousal. He wanted Emet-Selch's satisfaction too... and without thinking, he'd interrupted it. The satisfaction of claiming what's rightfully his, and from continuing to work them both into a mess: yes, Emet-Selch had been more than capable, even when Mettaton had felt he could somehow do better at keeping the smaller man more comfortable, to the same end. He traces his cheek, craning his upper body enough to try to watch his face.]
Hey... Hades. Would you grant me the chance to try again? To ask you... if you were alright like that, instead of... trying to keep from hurting you? And maybe, to find a way to keep you as comfortable as we can?
[He knew Emet-Selch's devotion. They wanted closeness; this was counterproductive to it, everything Mettaton did, because they were a couple who acted irrationally, who combined passionately- and Mettaton had been the one to step out of line, concerned too far about the day where Emet-Selch got too hurt, when their actions had repercussions more than they already have. His finger's trail along his jaw; his attenton is bright, if soft, erection stuffed just where Emet-Selch had left off.]
[His look narrows further, but the mage still refrains from regarding him. He'd injure himself if he wished to, if he felt it was worth it. And if Mettaton admitted that pain was a guarantee, then what did it matter that the Ascian was willing to take the next step into risking injury?
It's only when his hair is touched that his gaze snaps back to him, and though Emet-Selch doesn't flinch from it, he doesn't appear at all soothed by it either. He knew Mettaton had likely only been trying to look out for him, but he didn't want to be looked out for.]
It's a bit late to ask, isn't it? At what point do we return to? What's left to try again?
[With his momentum disrupted, even if he were put back on top, it was hard for him to imagine going at it in the same way as before. He'd finish taking him all the way... and then just sit there, unsatisfied and uncompromising but grimly successful. Not that he thought Mettaton would go so far as to change their positioning- and it would feel its own sort of mockery if he did, as though he were no more than a doll being patronizingly indulged.
--Which was different from wanting him to pull off or stop, even if climax were no longer a sought-after priority. He'd waited months for this; he'd been alone for far longer than that. But the thought of enjoying anything was far from him, the smaller man willing to spite everything because he'd been interrupted.]
...I would have preferred injury. [Staring for a moment longer, his gaze slips to the side again, expression turning into something more stoic, guarded.] Go at whatever pace you prefer. The pain is inevitable. I wouldn't have started this if it mattered.
[So he assumed he'd be hurt by their coupling. They didn't have real lubrication, and with Mettaton's considerable size, he knew an unpleasant amount of drag was inevitable. So why do more than the barest amount of mitigation? Even so- it had been only when he'd had the tip of his cock against him that he'd realized that he wasn't willing to wait, despite the consequence it meant for himself.
And yet, now waiting he was, for moments that stretched on for too long, while his body was only half-full, stretched and barely adapting to what he contained. For all that prior desperation, he makes no appeal towards convincing Mettaton to give him the rest, as it was clear their paces were unaligned. Disgruntled where Mettaton was soft, he clings to agitation and upset- more reliable companions than any others he'd made in his life.]
[It was a bit late to ask now that the moment passed. But Mettaton asked at all; he realizes he should have from the start, now that he's done it. He contemplates this; he nods, agreeing with Emet-Selch for his own failure to do better over an issue they've been dealing with often in their recent history.
Body-altering magic or no, it seemed this was a common thread: Mettaton charging ahead with all of his optimism and enthusiasm, trying for something he idealized; Emet-Selch not on the same page, in another (often more agonizing, despairing) zone.
That it had to become clearer to him in this moment isn't something Mettaton rues, though he settles closer to Emet-Selch, watching as the other man turns away and puts up his guard. Selfishness could be his own turn; Emet-Selch was even enabling it, telling him to do as he liked. He could be entirely self-indulging, while Emet-Selch caved into misery. Spite was easy, and so was ignorance.
Mettaton quiets, gaze clear and fixed, his own erection taking less of a precedence. What mattered to each of them was closeness; what mattered most of all was the companionship of their sex. It could be achieved by depth, but also by vulnerability. Mettaton had known all along that vulnerability could've been achieved even before he had the anatomy to have penetrative sex with... Emet-Selch had been reluctant to try. It wounded him. It still wounds him. In this way, a wounded heart matches with a wounded body.
He reaches for Emet-Selch's face, longing to keep him company alongside agitation, upset. He could say a great many things: that it wasn't all about his preference (his actions said otherwise, he realizes), that he wanted to avoid injury (it was unavoidable without proper lubricant, and Emet-Selch could heal besides), that preserving his body still mattered to Mettaton, but not as much as their intimacy did. He could tell that closeness was imporant to Emet-Selch at any cost, and yet his impulse was to... stop him, to come at another angle, to relieve him from the tension of supporting himself in case it offered the barest bit of ease.
Mettaton presses his palm to Emet-Selch's cheek. The metal of his ring is a prominent sensation like this, against actual, warm skin. Against Emet-Selch. ...He could feel another ring around his cock, and that Emet-Selch's body was scarcely adjusting to his girth. He could sigh; why were inconveniences so stacked against them...]
No... I couldn't undo my rashness. [Nor did he expect to try again in regards to undoing his actions, but rather, the ability to ask.] I'm sorry, Hades. For not consulting you, about my thoughts.
[He wanted their closeness too. They both wanted that most of all. Sometimes, closeness came most of all in vulnerability; Mettaton's not often the sort to admit wrong, but when he knew there was wrong to admit, he would admit it freely to the man he loves.
This time, he remains where he is, not moving any more.]
[Emet-Selch had come to believe that intimacy and vulnerability- if not impossible in their prior bodily configurations, too bitter a thing to consider. But it increasingly seemed as though 'fixing' that problem didn't fix anything at all; the problem now wasn't a lack of lubrication.
And while he should have known as much, it felt especially bitter to realize, to experience. They would always be like this. Whatever they did, something would break down between them. And this time they'd been expecting different things, he guessed... and he didn't adapt when Mettaton decided on what course they should take. And rather than give in, Emet-Selch would spite them both, the penalty for trying to look after him when he was determined to wound himself.
Mettaton touches his face; he twitches, displeased, not in the mood to accept kindness and unwilling to face his lover's regrets. The show of it only left him feeling worse, somewhere between guilt and resentment.]
Stop that. [Comes the quick, sharp reply, eyes briefly flashing to him before closing entirely. He doesn't clarify what the 'that' is, whether it was his apologies, his being reasonable in the aftermath while the Ascian wasn't prepared to be, or anything else.] At least finish what you started, I'm not becoming any less sore.
[Or rather, it would only grow more noticeable the less aroused he became, and where he hadn't been thinking of it at the time, he was conscious of it now. While he'd been stuffing him inside himself, it had hurt, in a way that he knew it wasn't supposed to, but he had been stiff enough to counter it, the pleasure greatly increasing his tolerance. But now, though he hadn't yet gone soft, he could tell that fullness was depleting as rapidly as it could.
Of course, he knew he wasn't presenting Mettaton with a very appealing prospect: fucking a tense, upset man who was bound to be hurt by it. Nor did he know how to change things or fix that, to give in and deny his nature for long enough to convince him to continue. It wasn't dutiful, the way Emet-Selch regarded him or this; he wanted this combination still, if in a way entirely removed from the pleasure of sex. He missed him. Too much to tolerate going slowly, it seemed.
Aware of the irony of his reaction bringing things to a halt instead, it doesn't do anything to make him feel any better about the situation, his upset something that could feed on itself, indefinitely.]
[Meanwhile, of course, Mettaton's outlook is far more optimistic. They wouldn't always be like this. But perhaps there was carryover, each moment different from the next... and he would be the first to admit that he was overeager to try the myriad of positions they enjoyed. Possessed by the desire to feel Emet-Selch writhe under his body just as much as he was to feel him seated on his lap, Mettaton got carried away and pounced.
Finish what he started. Mettaton gives him a sideways look. He did not seem up to continuing what they started, and he wasn't about to exacerbate that.]
What I started? This was us. [He's not chastising, his voice soft if emphatic. A reminder; a protest.] Despite my actions, in taking charge... I didn't mean for it to upset what we started together.
[Which meant that if he couldn't, it was time to back down. Emet-Selch wasn't the only one who was losing steam from the clash, arousal petering, and Mettaton was the one less frantic or pressured for release. Even so, he sympathized with Emet-Selch's ache, and regret flashes on his face for having been the responsible action for depriving the smaller man of that... as this is just how Emet-Selch is. Even if the mage dwelled over how he was the responsible party for halting their ardor, Mettaton knew better than to think he'd react any differently.
Mettaton lets his hand drift closer to Emet-Selch's hairline, where he lets his fingers twine through strands. Scooting his body so that he was in something more of a seated position (rather than hovering over Emet-Selch), he doesn't quite withdraw- but from the position change, he does just a bit.]
And because it's for us both... you know it wouldn't be as enjoyable to either of us, at this rate.
[Because whenever either of them was upset, it just wouldn't be appealing, that much was true. And with the added bonus of bodily tension, it would even hurt more than it would please. Mettaton plants either of his hands against the mattress, waiting patiently. He settles close, though not enough to crush.]
... I want us to be as close as possible, too. [Soft like an admission.] I do.
[It stung in a way that felt more pointed to him due to how quickly relief had surged, how fierce their feelings had been now that Mettaton had his enhanced body. A desperation to reach out that had been cut brutally short. It also wasn't comfortable to be brought to the Ascian's level of arousal and have it be subsumed by something furious and sick and bleak. Had disappointment ever struck him this way?]
What you started- [He reiterates, as sharp as the other man was soft.] I wasn't the one who took us into this position, when I had everything well in hand.
[Of course, then he made it worse himself by not emotionally adjusting to the change, which frustrated him another time, as though he weren't allowed to react poorly. Weren't meant to be frustrated, or have control over what he was willing to endure. Whether he was on his back or not, it was up to his husband's whim, and for all the roles that they took on, it irked to have it presented so plainly--
With his hair continuing to be touched, and the robot's body shifting to give him even less of his length, Emet-Selch finally regards him again. His gaze is as defensive as it is guarded, protecting a core that felt far more wounded than what little his body had been given to work with. Mettaton spoke of closeness- but wouldn't give it to him, and all because neither of them would enjoy it.]
Do I look as though I care whether it's enjoyable or not?
[For either of them, though he would be the only one in more active discomfort. With his hands fallen from him, his legs half follow, as he was coming to the sinking conclusion that Mettaton wouldn't be pressing on and indulging his misery. And where the sensible thing might have been to accept that unfortunate conclusion gracefully, to accept his company as it was, Emet-Selch hadn't made it this far in life by making the right decisions, and he wasn't going to start now.
Not when his upset hadn't bled from him; not when he had an available target.]
So if you're not- if you're not going to let us be close- why are you still here at all? I'd suggest leaving myself but I'm hardly in the position for it.
[He frowns, Emet-Selch's words suggesting something grim.
Walls erected, Emet-Selch returns to his guarded nature, a wounded core easy for someone like Mettaton to spot. He knows him; he loves him. This situation wasn't a far cry from what they've been encountering for months, where Mettaton attempted to act cheerily despite his lover's deep-seated upset; when his optimism seemed to rub Emet-Selch the wrong way, as he attempted to let Emet-Selch feel how he felt without letting it sink him too. Was he being guarded in his own way? Yes, and even Mettaton's belatedly realizing it. They were too invested in each other to not let the other feel their feelings; it was hard, when the feeling was sour versus sweet, when their disparate natures battled and grated.
And the only way they could apparently connect... Mettaton's frown deepens.]
Why, because I don't want to leave you, Hades. Because I believe we can be close, even if we're not fucking. I have believed that for months... for months, every time you shut me out.
[Because it hurt; because Mettaton wanted physical closeness too, and it was hard to accept that they couldn't have it in the same way. But he wanted it all the same, and surely they were capable of it...
Here, they have that ability for physical intimacy. He'd been so eager to pin Emet-Selch back, and to see his reaction to a beloved position- given that he was also preventing Emet-Selch from rushing them, and hurting himself. He hadn't been prepared for that reaction to be spite and frustration, and restoring him to that position hadn't occurred to Mettaton. Now, it was being left all in his ballpark, and when Emet-Selch didn't want a part, he was performing on his own. He could... but he preferred performing together.
MTT closes his eye before opening it again, no pretense of performance. He sheds the effusive optimism for a hopefulness that just comes naturally to him. Both of his arms shift, hands shimmying their way beneath Emet-Selch's neck, to gently embrace him around his shoulders.]
My depth inside you... isn't the only way I feel your heart. When you're upset, I want to be there for you... and if I've caused it, I want to do right by you. But really. Heavens, darling, you can't expect me to blissfully and ignorantly keep pounding you, all to achieve bodily closeness that you're only tolerating. [Which hadn't been the case before Mettaton had taken charge of Emet-Selch's self-destructiveness, attempting to avert a future of any torn tissue... If he'd stopped him just to ask, would Emet-Selch have disregarded his concerns? It was hard to say. Mettaton sighs.]
[This was exactly like what they'd been going through these past months, as Emet-Selch turned away from the choice of accepting intimacy that was insufficient or otherwise unbearable, in his eyes. Even if, this time, they'd had every opportunity for the bodily connection he longed for- but it wasn't right. He'd made it not right over a single upset, and clung to his offense in place of the company he'd wished for.]
Ever the optimist. [He mutters it, as dry as he could manage. It remains laced with bitterness instead, for all that he makes some attempt to smother it.] While I'm left alone, dealing with the reality we're in. All this proves is that naught can change from a wish.
[He knew the depth Mettaton reached inside him didn't have to be physical- that they hadn't had the option of it being physical until now on this world. Vulnerability didn't have to come from fucking, but he still felt that it had been expected of him, even when he'd be performing alone. This restoration of Mettaton's sensitivity and sexual endowment had been meant to level that field again, to allow them to meet on the stage they were accustomed to. And it had worked initially, but--
Whatever the underlying issue was, Emet-Selch didn't like it. Didn't want to search for it especially when he was still so raw from their sex having gone so far askew- and not even raw in the way he expected. Forcing a breath, he shakes his head. Tries, if poorly, to measure his response without pretending that he was better off than he was.]
You've apologized. In case you're unaware, that doesn't solve anything. I could apologize for my dislike of your commandeering, but it wouldn't change what I did. [Emet-Selch also didn't feel sorry.] You'll still refuse to continue, whether out of a lack of interest or some misguided sense of concern, and I--
[He pauses, making a sound that's more unhappy than even annoyed, and something he tries to bite back.]
Besides. [He looks askance at the taller man- as much as he can in his position.] Do you think I haven't realized that it wouldn't be blissful for either of us? You're the one barely tolerating me--
[Which hurt; no one liked being rejected, in the end.]
It's not grudgingly that I would take you.
[But he doesn't try to move, not to drag him closer or encourage him to continue with their sex. When he shifts- it's in some small acceptance of the other man's hold though, reluctant as it is.]
[Muttered. It's a Classic Mettaton Aside, knowable but barely audible, barely even mouthed, but spoken all the same, as though a thought making itself known in a way beyond words. He doesn't see his thoughts as optimism but just neutrality, the understanding that he could connect with Emet-Selch even without sex.
The Ascian isn't alone in not wanting to search for the root of their issues, complex as they are, and Mettaton takes the slightest hint of acceptance of his closeness to make a small sound, collapsing into the man beneath him. He buries his face deep in the crook of Emet-Selch's neck, squeezing his eye shut and breathing in his warmth, a tight frown pulling his lips.
He remembers again how Emet-Selch disliked the thought of one-sided performance of vulnerability, when Mettaton couldn't reciprocate those sensations of highs and lows; he makes a small sound again, nearly snarling as he resents being unable to perform. And now that he could, Emet-Selch wanted him to keep going—as MTT perceived him as more than disinterested, but upset enough to want to call it off before the commandeering idol could figure out how he'd erred, much less how he could make things better, if not right.
...Which is proven untrue, when Emet-Selch claims that it isn't grudgingly he would take him. Another misunderstanding on MTT's part. The monster stills, blinking slowly in the Emet-Selch-darkness, safe at his neck. When he lifts his head, his gaze is clear, inquisitive.]
Not grudgingly... So. Had I kept going... leaving how I upset you unaddressed. You would have preferred that?
[That's easy for MTT to do, if he were dealing with most anyone else. But not for Emet-Selch; no, apparently there was no toleration to be found, not that MTT sees that clearly. There was still so much they weren't seeing eye-to-eye on, and Mettaton isn't equipped with the same mindset Emet-Selch has to see it; he is ever the optimist, after all, and what would he do if his wavelength wasn't matched? Himself ahead, Emet-Selch lagging behind... To leave Emet-Selch behind seems like it goes against even their vows--
But the relief in being bodily accepted, even reluctantly, is obvious. Calming. Despite not having muscle, the robot practically pushes into Emet-Selch, defensive tension leaving him that must have come around the time that he'd been called out on his blunder. He still felt his apology truly; he knows that once again, he'd taken action after failing to ask Emet-Selch first. ...They were just severely lacking in lubricant, and that sucked. And yet times before, Emet-Selch had taken more than he could seemingly handle...
Contemplative, Mettaton wonders- only retrospectively- if he was overreaching, just in case. A, as he'd put it, misguided sense of concern. He's come to learn too much of bodily frailties... but perhaps this wouldn't have been one? As far as his body relaxes, Mettaton allows himself to think briefly on this, all while similarly shifting just to get closer to Emet-Selch. (Was this where his toleration required flexibility, too...? Yet the Ascian would be the first to serve himself up for dinner if Mettaton had ever hungered (for blood and flesh)- He sighs just thinking about it, fond and exasperated.)]
[It was hard to tell exactly what he would have wanted, what would have 'worked', in a moment that no longer existed. (He wondered too, how he would've reacted had Mettaton voiced his concerns while he had still been on his lap. If the robot hadn't tried to hinder what he was doing, he liked to think that he would have listened- or at least, slowed down enough to argue his need to take him aggressively. He didn't know which of them would be convinced in the end, but as long as the choice wasn't taken from him, he thought it would have gone better.)
He'd already been furious, as soon as his back had hit the covers, Mettaton patronizingly deciding what he was able to take. There was no coming back from that; even recalling it now set him on edge, flooded him with resentment that made it more difficult to tolerate the embrace Mettaton had sunk into. The paltry pretense of closeness- it wasn't anything like the collapses they found themselves in, in the aftermath of their sex.
But he lives with it, not wanting to push him away either, though the hand he places on him in return is limp, passive.]
Mettaton. I would still prefer that. [Though he's speaking directly to him, it's more of a mutter, frustration clear in it, even if it's not quite as sharp as before.] If you're not going to continue, then pull out.
[It was true that he'd gotten used to Mettaton lingering within his body after climax, even if he'd found it strange at first. But now there had been no climax; Mettaton wasn't even fully inside of him, not even close. It didn't qualify as a tease, as there wasn't any pleasure surrounding it, any anticipation for more, for the greater heights (and depths) they had to look forward to- it was just uncomfortable. A reminder of the fullness denied him, his body made sore with nothing to show for it.
But if Mettaton had continued fucking him, while he'd been at the height of his fury- it depended on how quickly the other man had deigned to fill him, he supposed. He still wouldn't have enjoyed it; that chance had been ruined in an instant. He probably would have resented it. The aftermath wouldn't have been pleasant, most likely. But at least he would have had him physically. As it was, there was nothing.
But he didn't see it as Mettaton charging ahead while leaving him behind, unable to catch up. There had been nothing to catch up to, nothing to regain. They were on different tracks entirely. If anything, he'd been the one pushing ahead of the robot, before being forced to derail....
Rumination that causes him to twitch, unsettled and unhappy. He didn't see the problem in being willing to injure himself for this. What difference was there between that, and all the times Mettaton had bitten and bled him into anemia and scarring? (The only difference was that Emet-Selch had control over it. Where before, he hadn't been willing to stop him, even if it led to grievous injury or death.)]
[(Need for control might well be the best summary for it all. From his lack of consultation, to the desire to prevent Emet-Selch from hurting himself, when he had done so liberally in the past. There were other memories, traumas, justifications riddled between... but when scrutinized, a need to control was a common denominator, a core trait of the robot's that he thought he had a good handle on. The man who'd killed Emet-Selch lacked control over his mental faculties; and when he'd bled him to unconsciousness, it had also been a slip, and lack, of control. If he had the choice, the good sense, and the requisite understanding of what could hurt Emet-Selch, it seemed right to keep from hurting him- it was in the fabric of his heart.
Intent isn't magic, though, and Mettaton has a long way to go.)
The damage had already been done. Emet-Selch tells him to pull out, or go- and it shakes the idol, who may well be the one who is stumbling behind without realizing it, thinking of Emet-Selch as the one who needs it. Patronizing him. But the authority with which the Ascian commands his action, the sureness with which he still wanted his depth. Of course he would've ultimately preferred having been asked before Mettaton changed their position entirely, but that too was water under the bridge- and something for MTT to consider, to reflect on. A hand is draped over him, but it's not with any warmth.
Mettaton closes his eye. Emet-Selch had said he was leaving it up to Mettaton, since the robot was taking charge... It felt hypocritical to really fill him out with wild abandon, and the physical sensation wasn't great, either, even if he hadn't yet enjoyed the nuance of heat slipped over his body.
And yet, despite the hurt on his features, Mettaton stolidly remains. And even pushes. There's no physical hurt on his features, no wincing or grimacing, but the knit of his brow at the frustration and misunderstanding, of the sudden veer of emotions—of realizing his mistake, and wanting to do better. Intent isn't magic even still, no matter what. But he sighs, steeling himself, meeting Emet-Selch's eyes.]
... I promised you my length. I said that. [In some manner of words, he'd offered his length in trade for Emet-Selch's heat. He pushes, his hips nudging forward.] If you say you still prefer it, then I'll commit. Even if it's uncomfortable.
[It's not easy for Mettaton to make that choice, preferring the bliss of their most ardent combinings. Preferring the situations where he could have it perfectly—and if not perfect, he could make it that way, or pretend it was. He's the same sort of person who would pick off people who disagreed with him—and though nowhere as severe as that as he currently is, the trait remains. He wanted control.
He doesn't want this, though. It was uncomfortable to him in his heart to push forward, to continue filling Emet-Selch out. To sit with Emet-Selch's upset, and let him be without trying to smother it. But he moves nonetheless, tensing his hips, pushing forward into Emet-Selch after once denying him of this manually. But Emet-Selch had said that this wasn't of concern. And at that, he would press onward and give him his physicality. Meeting his eyes, he presses forward, but non-verbally seeks out his consent—or rather, his dissent, if he had objections.]
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Comfort mattered, after all, because Mettaton valued Emet-Selch's well-being. And... even if it were technically possible for the stubborn Ascian to find relief in being stretched too far, too dry, Mettaton wouldn't enjoy an encounter that wasn't made appropriately slippery. Even that growl couldn't convince him of that, though he couldn't help it:]
God, you're so hot. [Mettaton nearly growls back, stooping in to take Emet-Selch in another kiss: this one more heated than the last, with teeth to answer the smaller man's bite.] All you have to do is keep doing what you're doing, and you'll have me hard enough to fuck in no time, sweetheart.
[Emet-Selch knew the drill. With the robot made totally rigid, and beneath Emet-Selch as he is, he wouldn't be able to even stop him from maneuvering over his lap and seating himself on his cock- and from there, Mettaton would be helpless in the face of pleasure, incapable of keeping from toppling him back and stealing him up.
With a heated sigh, Mettaton wraps his husband up tight in his arm, though he doesn't keep him so restrained that he couldn't move- because the way Emet-Selch was slipping forward, settling his weight deeper onto his root, is enough to have Mettaton groan.]
Though you know... Ha. It won't take much.
[He'd be a ridiculously easy lay, and Emet-Selch would have no trouble coaxing him into his fullest arousal, erection filled enough to be agonizingly rigid. And though he knew he looked impressive now, he knew he had some stiffness to regain- even though everything the smaller man did encouraged him in that direction, from the sounds on his voice to the eager brightness of his eyes. He doesn't need to try to explain the safety of his ejaculate, because he knew Emet-Selch would swallow it regardless of it all, given that it reminded him of all else he'd ever been able to produce. The tint and glitter is a non-issue- but the robot didn't mind Emet-Selch's ability to complain about it all.
Gripping his ass, squeezing and kneading cheeks, Mettaton urges Emet-Selch deeper onto his lap, kissing at his neck.]
Why don't you... come close, Hades, and tell me what it would take to get me to fuck you. What do you think?
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As there was no hope to keep from moaning at the slick way Mettaton's length slid against his body, a tease of his heat, and one he trembled to experience fully. It was exasperating (thrilling) at how firm his lover could remain between climaxes, how reliable his virility was now that he had a proper outlet for it again- and there would be little stopping the mage from encouraging him to his end, over and over.]
What do I think....
[With the order to come closer, he might've complained over how he was close enough already, riding on the robot's root, the mage's own cock nudging against his body. Wrapped up in a winding arm that left him feeling safe, in some softer way. But of course that wasn't enough, there was nothing that was ever enough, for one thing- and they knew exactly how they might be closer still. For all that he was in Mettaton's lap, he could be there more... securely, with more than his legs stretched around his body.
But comfort did matter- to some degree. To the degree where it still seemed valuable to bother with some sort of preparation at all, but not so far where he would defer full penetration at all due to the lack of real lubrication. He was hard; he hadn't been fucked by Mettaton in ages, and there was plenty of their ejaculate around. That all added up to being good enough.
With one arm bracing himself around the idol's body, the other, already messy hand, scoops up more semen onto his fingers, coating them properly in glittery slickness. An attractive substance, somehow (and the reminder of the taste of it at his lips felt stronger, and he swallows unconsciously), but he doesn't let himself be distracted by it.
Without waiting to be told, or for Mettaton to take that initiative, he brings his arm behind himself, to trace a cloudy finger around his entrance, smearing tight muscle with their seed. Automatically his breath hitches, body twitching at the sensation, the suggestiveness of what he was doing- but he doesn't delay long before beginning to work a single digit inside himself.]
Must I- do everything for you? Mettaton. [He exhales it heavily against Mettaton's neck, before pressing his face there. Kisses him; his breath was already leaving silicone damp.] You'll be ready as soon as I am.
[...Already, it was a reminder that come wasn't a real replacement for lube, no matter how glittery- but it was slick and it was something, and for all his wanting, he knew how to untense, how to make this as easy a process as possible for himself. Anticipation and arousal helped a great deal, and it would be difficult for him to have any more of either of those things.]
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Ohhhh...!
[He knew what was happening. Emet-Selch was hiking himself up, arm slung around MTT as he uses glittery, sticky fingers, probing his entrance, prodding increasingly slick muscle and coating it with his seed, from his cock. It's been... too long since he's been able to provide. Too long since he's been able to demonstrate himself in this way so erotic, and Mettaton shudders, back arching as though attempting to lean into the pleasure his husband felt.
Emet-Selch had already slipped further over his cock, forcing his member to lay against his abdomen. And how sizable he looked, even juxtaposed against Emet-Selch's upward-arching cock, slick and ready... Looking down, he shudders to behold the sight of Emet-Selch positively thick- and himself, ready to be made rigid once more. His cock wouldn't say so nicely against his abdomen when fully filled, he knew.
And there were plenty of reasons to find himself filling, from the sound of Emet-Selch's voice to the way he took such forward initiative. Even though Mettaton would've been next to prepare the smaller man, it was even more arousing to feel Emet-Selch do it himself out of haste, the need to fill himself up with urgency spurring MTT into filling, heady enough to warrant a groan. He squeezes his prize, snugging Emet-Selch close while he prepares himself, imagining the sight, the feeling of that finger against his entrance, a digit slick enough to begin something in preparation for more. The way he twitches and tenses, thighs taut just enough to keep him poised for fingering, Mettaton soaks in every facet of the Ascian's preparation, though his gaze returns to Emet-Selch's face: the glow of his eyes, and the flush of his lips.]
You should know... how tempting you are like this. [He nearly pants, squirming beneath the other man. With Emet-Selch buried once more into his neck, the robot shifts, his hips rocking in answer to the swing of Emet-Selch's.] I think you're right. Ah... You'll have me ready shortly.
[He really would be hard before he knew it. If he had a brain, it might leave him light-headed to be made so rapidly aroused, and so quickly after exertion. But as he is, he was quick to recover, and with his temperament, even quicker to be tempted. Were he the one aching for relief as badly as Emet was, the robot knew he would be shifting them around, crowding out his lover's fingers- and the thought alone has his breath hitch, jerking against Emet-Selch's crotch with a groan.
...How could he be made so hard, so quick? Part of it was his own imagination, his own perception. But the other parts were so much more, from Emet-Selch's actions that kept him alert and entranced, to the sensations of heat settled over his lap, the pressure of weight over his thighs, and the firmness of Emet-Selch's erection, plus his body laying heavily over his swiftly firming cock.]
You're... fingering- ah... I want to... [He pants, thrusting. He wanted them both to be ready and soon, but he similarly enjoyed this moment, the feeling of Emet-Selch readying himself for something thicker.] Tell me... how you imagine I'll feel, spreading you.
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He would have enjoyed it, had Mettaton gotten there first- and Emet-Selch assumed such a direction had been immanent, given the way their desires seemed to align. The intimacy of the robot preparing him with his own come, produced not just for this purpose, but something they could both appreciate making use of- would he have been able to last through that? His erection felt like it throbbed, aching and hot, reflecting the mage's swiftened pulse.
Like this, Emet-Selch had better control over the sensation, could avoid toying with himself any more than he wanted to- but instead, he had the redirected pleasure of knowing Mettaton was observing him. That he could tell exactly what he was up to and why, which was a strange thrill in itself, even though this was hardly the first time, and even if Mettaton couldn't actually see him do it. Not directly. (They really needed to invest in some more mirrors.)
The unavoidable catch to his breath, the deliberate spread of his legs and shivering tension in his thighs, the position of his arm and flushed concentration to his manner- every corresponding indication was there. None of it he attempts to hide.
Where Mettaton thrust, his body tries to thrust back, to grind against him. Groaning a rough note, he couldn't help the way he tensed up around his own finger, imagining that it was a cock instead. It didn't hurt, at least, not with a lone digit spreading semen, even when he has it pressed past the knuckles, as deep as he could reach. Which was nothing at all compared to how deep Mettaton could go, and a quick glance down to the swell of his cock was an unnecessary but arousing reminder of it. But there was not only length but especially girth to prepare for- something that his own finger was hardly even a tease of.
And yet, even this he had to adjust to. Something so modest was still an insertion, and he wanted to give to Mettaton something that was a comfortably tight fit- as comfortable as he had the patience for, anyway....
So he thrusts that finger inside of himself, eyes mostly closed as he nuzzled at Mettaton's jaw, his pulse pounding.]
How... you're always hotter than I remember. Each... and every time. And you'll feel my warmth right back, surrounding you. While you're thicker than I- than I....
[His words are interrupted as his thoughts encourage his hand to make good on what he was imagining, which was how his body would be made to stretch around a full erection. It's not rushed, exactly, he doesn't force it immediately deep, but spends these next moments tugging firmly, slickly, at his entrance with two fingers, the slightly greater presence inside himself an inspiration.
Bringing his head up, he kisses at Mettaton's jaw, trailing nearly to his lips, before leaning back just enough to look out his eye, to watch his husband's own expression, his own hazy and flushed. Desperate... but enjoying this both, the anticipation that filled him, and the thick cock he was pressed to filling on its own, with a stiffness he didn't think he was imagining.
He still manages a frown, a show of dismay.]
--Whatever force endowed you did not take my comfort into account. [He complains... even as they knew from experience that he loved Mettaton's size, his shape- everything about him. And what he was eager to ride, what he was preparing himself for was strikingly similar to what Mettaton had chosen for himself, in the past. A thickness they both found fitting... and which did fit, no matter how much Emet-Selch might protest it.] But I imagine you'll find me--
[Even that show of contrariness isn't something he can maintain for long, not when he works his fingers deeper, coaxing his body to accept them with small, contained thrusts. He'd wanted this... to be doing this for him, to be looking forward to servicing Mettaton's erection by fitting it deep in his body, to feel themselves joined. He ached, with more than his cock- but that too, as a part of his fantasy, to find climax once more with Mettaton filling him out, in the other man's arms, each of them caught up in the other's heat. His gaze falls to the side, voice nearly mumbled.]
...Accommodating.
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Perhaps it was for the best. Especially because no matter which way they approached the task, MTT was still being aroused... though it may be rousing in two different directions. With Emet-Selch nuzzling him, kissing his neck and panting against silicone, the robot nearly groans, growls, as his legs shift and his hips jerk, becoming swiftly full- and covetous of the space Emet-Selch had occupied, enough that his squirming jostles the smaller man above him, as Mettaton curls with the unconscious intent to prod him with his cock.]
You want to talk about my heat...
[Yet Emet-Selch is an obviously warm body in the waiting, an aspect to their sex that he hadn't as much experience with. With that prize waiting for him, the idol all but whines, his silky voice high yet breathless as it peters out as soon as he feels lips against his jaw.
He was intensely aroused, and insanely quick. The only way he knows what Emet-Selch's doing is by the sensation of muscles moving in his arm, and Mettaton could imagine all of the intricate slips of his fingers, all of the gentle pulls and slick rubs and the fullness he could never imitate, but was all too aware of. Mettaton's voice hitches in the midst of a groan, tipping his head to permit Emet-Selch a trail of kisses that served only to intensify his ache. His every ache, including the same ones he felt with Emet-Selch that reached deep and gripped their hearts.
He knew this wasn't too big for Emet-Selch. He knew it was just right, that the Ascian enjoyed riding something thick. And to hear him complain, before following up with the acceptance of accommodation, only inspires the imagining of his entrance stretched about a thick, full root- a sight in his mind's eye that is enough to have Mettaton moaning some more, squirming in his anticipation.]
No matter what you say, dearest, I... I know what you find preferential to comfort. [He turns his head enough to kiss Emet-Selch's cheek.] Pleasure, of course. And you...
[... Have a thing for something thick, he wants to say. But overeager as he's increasingly becoming, he squirms; he thrusts, as if his body sought to declare its readiness without words. With one hand he spreads Emet-Selch some more, and the arm he has trapping him, wrapped around his body, tugs him deeper unto his lap.]
Won't you... Ohh, Hades... Tell me, how thick you're anticipating me. [And how thick he's preparing himself, to that end. Emet-Selch would only be able to do so much, but he knew they'd work him into comfort eventually, even if it took patience. And practice. Mettaton grinds his root against Emet-Selch's crotch, greedily collecting him, dragging his weight over his root.] And how you know it'll feel, to take me...?
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It was a limitation of his body only that took Emet-Selch longer to show off his wanting, but he felt as though he'd been swollen for some time now. Where bringing him to climax could've served to encourage Mettaton back into a completely engorged state (Rather than the... partially? mostly? firmed condition that seemed to be his default; could the robot ever be completely flaccid? It would make his new condition of Pants Wearing somewhat difficult, if not.), this was a time where he had to wait, no matter how he yearned for touch, for relief. Not that Mettaton would keep him waiting long; he knew that from experience. No, it was his own body once again that required more time.
But he still didn't feel quite frustrated either, as the pain (and expectation) of a rigid cock was worth enduring, was a pleasure in its own right. But by the same token he sorely wanted to proceed, even if it meant being made more sore than he otherwise might have been. And while he works his fingers as deep as they could go, spreading them and what slickness he could give himself, it was a slower process than he would have liked.
He still finds it in him to huff at Mettaton's reply, though he nudges into the kiss to his cheek anyway. He could guess what else his lover might've said about him, and appreciated it not being directly called out....
Of course, his preference lied most of all in Mettaton; anyone else's thickness wouldn't do.]
How thick. [He repeats, tilting his head to seek out the other man's lips again. Another attempt of a kiss.] How thick can you give me? All that and- more, until you've filled me out completely.
[...He could probably use more time, even another finger, especially as their lubrication situation wasn't ideal. But it was growing more difficult to wait, and harder to judge his own readiness with anything like objectivity. He... could take him, he thought, with only a reasonable amount of trouble. And with Mettaton spreading him, grinding his erection against his body, how was he meant to resist?
But he tries for a few moments longer, unable to keep from whining though, soft and keen as he pushes back into his own hand, into the thrust of fingers that couldn't begin to satisfy him.]
How- do you think you'll feel? Fit- fitted tight inside of me? Tell me how much- how much you want this.
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Emet-Selch wanted him thick, and it spurs him toward a heavier arousal, it felt like. His body, shaped this way by the power of Emet-Selch's prayer, responded to him and him alone- and were he privy to the notion that it was Mettaton Emet-Selch thought himself most swayed by (and he'd agree, this wasn't news to him), he'd have to sweetly and softly concur that Emet-Selch himself is a special man- and uniquely capable of arousing Mettaton in a way unlike any other. His responses, his willingness to offer himself up, his servitude- all of it combined to leave Mettaton willing and wanting to pounce, to ravish him and hear his voice soar.
It... felt like enough time to be reasonably prepared, MTT thought. How much time did it take to prep with something that was only relatively similar to lubricant? Emet-Selch whines, and Mettaton answers with a similarly keening note, nudging the smaller man with the underside of his root in short, small thrusts. He wanted to take over the duties of his fingers as they stretched and spread...
With a sigh partnered with a kiss to his cheek, Mettaton's voice hitches, the closest he could get to a gasp for air.]
Doesn't this feel like a temptation enough, size-wise? [Is he not thick enough for something to promise a fuller filling? Mettaton squirms, thighs positively aching.] I'm giving you the promise of my size... and you, the promise of- of such warmth, unlike anything I've experienced in this body...
[It was the first thing he looked forward to: his lover's warmth, and his specifically. Sure, sure, other bodies were warm- but he wanted Emet-Selch, and he wanted him stretched and tight around his girth, slipping gradually down his length until he was agonizingly settled around his root. Mettaton imagined that sight like a dream, moaning with a closed eye as he envisions Emet-Selch suggestively hiding a thick cock, stuck to his lover's lap and secured in his spot. Aside from his nudity, it would only be obvious by the flush of his nude body, and the upright length between them that would be painfully swollen...
Mettaton shifts again, pulling Emet-Selch even closer. That's because he's maneuvering himself, arching his back first, then squirming just enough to force Emet-Selch over his lap- until his cock springs up, let to curve along Emet-Selch's backside, between spread cheeks and against slicked fingers. Mettaton growls, though it's mostly a moan: even though he was deeply wanting of penetration, he was still patient enough to wait for Emet-Selch to ready himself. After all, he did say MTT would be ready only as soon as Emet-Selch was, and he agreed with that]
Hades... Don't you think? That... That this will satisfy? How do you feel?
[In all truth, at the end of the day, Mettaton didn't want to do something Emet-Selch would regret. ...If the smaller man was willing to endure pain, he was willing, too. He knew their appetite, and the gentle rolls of his hips are firm, controlled: he demonstrates that he could be with a deliberate pace, enough that any lack of preparation should be able to be worked through with kneading force.]
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It was a wonder that they were as relatively restrained as they were, Emet-Selch distantly mused. He was trying to prepare himself at all; Mettaton hadn't dragged his hand out of the way and replaced it with himself. The shift of their bodies, the slip of the robot's erection to the mage's backside was more than a hint of his wants, however- of his promise, both in heat and size, of something that could fill the smaller man when he'd been so empty. Moaning after him, Emet-Selch's hips jerk back- even if his own hand was in the way, and they weren't aligned properly. He swallows.]
You'll... know how I feel, soon enough.
[Physically, emotionally; in both he felt hot. Desperate but... controlled, yes; he decided this would be good enough, that he'd given his body enough time. It had better be, because it's moments later that his fingers are pulled hastily from himself, without even the farewell of a tease. What was there for him to tease (especially when Mettaton couldn't watch him), when he had what he actually wanted nudging against his ass? Their patience had been remarkable already, he thought....
His feelings felt as taut as his body, and hopefully rawer- though he expected and accepted this wouldn't be entirely comfortable. Not at first, and not afterward, if his body ended up as well-rubbed as he wanted it to be.
But he was more than willing, and knew that Mettaton was similarly interested, even if the less-slick entry wouldn't be as easy for him either. Nudging the side of his face against his (nearly a scenting gesture- not that Emet-Selch had ever possessed those instincts, but it felt like something they just did, regardless), the mage then sits up properly, onto his knees. Bracing himself with one hand at Mettaton's shoulder, the other- newly liberated from fingering himself- feels behind him for the other man's erection.
Still somewhat slick, and already hotter than remembered, and thicker even to feel than to see (and that was already plentily thick), it was too tempting to not squeeze up his shaft, to fondle the swollen tip while imagining how it would feel stretching him. But it's a delay that barely counts as one, because why imagine it when he could have it? Guiding his tip to the right place, even as he expects it, the sharp draw of breath was inescapable, and his heart beat fast enough to dizzy him.
And having the plush tip against his entrance was too much to consider resisting, and with Mettaton's erection held steady (and the other man more than rigid enough to be worth sitting on), he rolls his hips back, onto him. With a forced breath he keeps from tensing up to start with- and with more patience than he thought he had left, he keeps from pressing down hard, from driving Mettaton inside completely.
But just the act of kneading them both has him cry out, if softly, and his body to shudder. They were so close, and every second now when they weren't combined was torture- it's too soon, probably, but yearning has him act without thought, and firm kneading gives way to harder jerks of his hips. Forcing himself downward, he doesn't stop until the full swell of the head was pushed inside of him. Yet being made to stretch over something suddenly so thick has him choke on a gasp, and his whole body to tremble, huddling as close to Mettaton as he could with a sharper whine. Unwillingly he tenses up; it hurt, but it wasn't unbearable. Wasn't even unpleasant, probably. Emet-Selch wasn't analyzing it that far.]
M... Mettaton- I- you're....
[His thoughts are no more coherent than his words, and he leans for him, head nudging against him with a smaller, pleading sound.]
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As soon as the tip of his still-filling erection is aligned with the help of Emet-Selch's guidance, Mettaton lets go of his ass. But that's just to brace himself against his hip, fingers wrapped around his brand-new tattoo that connected them if not spiritually (and did it? it warranted testing, or patience), bodily. He could even feel it in its way, an electric current that came of two people bound together, as though these markings linked up the energy that coursed through their bodies most of all. He answers that nuzzle against his cheek with an answering nudge, metal paneling against warm, soft skin that gave pronouncedly against him. He would salivate if he could, he knew... There's something about this tender figure that has him starving, nearly envious for its softness but similarly pleased at just experiencing it.
Even though he was still filling, god was he erect, firm already. But still filling indeed, and he could just feel that push of pressure swim deep in his body, an agonizing ache that he'd agree felt torturous, as soon as Emet-Selch pumps his length, from base to tip. And from there, Mettaton jerks and shudders to feel Emet-Selch knead him against his entrance, trying his very best to keep his hips from stuffing his length inside. He babbles, fingers twitching against skin.]
You're, y-you're, [It's static. Even his voice is impacted, skipping slightly. He may have his very own voice, none of it regulated by any robotic device, but the body itself is the interference it needs to sound like a skipping record.] Give me, give me--!
[He doesn't realize what he's saying, how positively greedy he sounds. But despite his words MTT is mostly polite, his hips restrained, thighs taut with inertia and desire restricted to his heart, giving Emet-Selch time and space to determine the pace that his body should receive a thick intrusion. If Emet-Selch had the good sense for it, why, it could've even been a smooth insertion mostly painless, he's being so good.
But of course, neither of them are anything less than frantic and overheated. The sound of Emet-Selch's voice is music, and Mettaton nuzzles him hard as the Ascian sits himself, skillfully relaxing just enough to take the bulbous swell of his tip until he's fitted over his glans completely. Mettaton's back arches, his breath, his voice, lost.]
I...! Ohhhhhh, yeees, H... Hades!!
[Euphoric, Mettaton idly kneads at his hip, where his other hand braces the top of Emet-Selch's back, cuddling him close to his body. Trembling still, he only shimmies his hips from side-to-side, testing the tension around his tip and shifting in ecstasy. The small nudge to his face is met with a responding nudge.
Yes... somehow, Mettaton could feel the physical sensation Emet-Selch endured. Not quite as though it were his own... but it was there, the edges of pain and pleasure twisted together in some kind of harmony. It doesn't alarm him for any reason: Emet-Selch could handle this, for one. But he knew similarly that this was required of them. They need this contact, this depth, and at any cost.
(That they might be able to feel each other through the magic of this tattoo doesn't exactly settle in, in any coherent way. He felt some of Emet-Selch's experience, but not overmuch; it felt normal, if anything.)
Utter heat envelopes his tip. He needed more of it, and he grips his hip, tension in his wrist to slam the smaller man down on his lap. Of course he doesn't listen to these baser instincts, too in love with the smaller man to move him if he knew it meant hurting him, guaranteed. Instead, Mettaton continues to slowly gyrate his hips, a circular working of slick, hot muscle. He smiles against his cheek, hopelessly in love.]
Y... You've done it, dearest. You've... Oh, I have you, I need more...
[An apt summary of Mettaton's feelings. He had him; he wanted more, always.]
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But his eyes squeeze shut, breath coming in a shallower pant, his hand clawing at the robot's shoulder. His other hand whips upward to mirror it on his opposite shoulder, now that he no longer needed to align Mettaton's erection with him- but it's an act mostly unconscious, reflexive, needing to brace himself most of all with his legs spread and condition compromised. Though he felt the sound of his own heart might deafen him, Mettaton's cries reached louder than that, sound he willingly drowns in. More than ever, it felt like he'd reached him--
Mettaton was being so polite, that he would be surprised about it in a calmer moment. And while the Ascian was well aware, even fixated on his lover's response, he doesn't have the capacity to think about the way Mettaton hadn't thrusted, hadn't dragged him down with the strength he knew he possessed. He was allowed, for the moment, to take the yet-filling erection at his own pace. But what choice of pace was there?
Emet-Selch had the head of Mettaton's cock lodged in his body, with the rest of his length to follow, as quickly as possible, whatever it did to them in the process: that was all he knew.
So after that brief, trembling pause, his body clenched tight around the full glans of him, he tries to lower himself. Intensity, most of all, rushes through him, as every hard jerk of his hips sent sensation through him, sharp enough to stun him, but not to stop him. Mettaton wanted more, demanded it- which was the only thing worth hearing, worth listening.
It was definitely too much to take as quickly as this, even with his best attempts at preparation, and their use of drying come in place of lube. If he'd been slower, it might have well been possible to do with minimal discomfort, his body coaxed into the sort of pliability that required time to achieve. But he wasn't thinking of what could've been, only the sound his lover made at being held only this deep, and the need to take him the rest of the way.
As it really was a need, something that couldn't be argued with, that reflected what he'd missed so horribly these months. And what did their old intimacy and passions express but his longing for closeness and company? The feeling of being a little less alone, if only for moments at a time.
So it hurt. Not as much as it could have, but enough that it would've normally been worth slowing down, to give him more time and especially more lube. But with Mettaton's hips slowly moving, he had to move more, forcing more of his shaft into him, until he was buried nearly halfway deep. It dragged more as it went on, as in his insistence he tenses more than he otherwise would have, but it doesn't stop him. Clinging to Mettaton's body, he nuzzles helplessly against his cheek, unable to speak, only to whine again, soft and sharply.]
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What comes of having fucked a lot is experience with different sensations, Mettaton's discovered. Even though this feeling of heat, processed by this specific body of his, was enough to swallow him in delight, the uniqueness of sensation dizzying... he recognized the tension as Emet-Selch slips down fractions of an inch at a time. To him, it doesn't hurt; his erection is made up of a rigid core, and already he is full, thick, and ready. However, come isn't a perfect lubricant, not even his, despite its seemingly otherworldly composition (and was it too much to ask for, for a robot to ejaculate a lubricant-like substance?? maybe Emet-Selch just needed more!). And as his husband silently cries out, awash in intensity, Mettaton finds himself bombarded by so much the same; his own voice sings, loud enough to eclipse the silence in his pleasure.
There's no worry or much in the way of real thought to this, when Mettaton feels Emet-Selch nuzzling him quietly. His whine is soft most of all... and Mettaton finds himself doting on the smaller man, admiring his determination in spite of the challenges. But there was something more than that, in the way that tense thighs forced him into a tense body, into a tense squeeze around his cock- as the smaller man could've done with lingering around just the tip of him for a bit longer, couldn't he? But there was a reason he couldn't, and between the lines, the idol understood it. Mettaton hugs him tight, nearly lifting him just to block him from sinking any lower.]
Oh, darling... You're... fabulous, ah...
[How did it feel to be truly together? There wasn't any time for patience with this reward ahead of them, a togetherness brought by being properly pinioned atop his cock, to have his erection sheathed by his warm body, and to know that they were experiencing each other in this intimate way. Of course he wanted more, a deeper plunge; Mettaton recognized Emet-Selch's efforts, and the affection he felt from him reached so far that it left him raw, tender.
Arm unwinding just enough to grasp his shoulder, Mettaton twists, kisses his ear, and presses their chests together. He stops Emet-Selch, holding him tight to his body- all before shifting, folding his legs up and beneath him, as his robotic strengths works to keep Emet-Selch stable. He knew the smaller man would tense some more, but that wasn't much different from what he was doing now.
In a silky voice, he smiles close to his ear.]
Let me... take care of you, Hades. You are tense. [Which was something to avoid, but understandable all the same. He clicks his tongue.] I want you... Ahh... on your back.
[A movement swift and decisive, so as not to stretch it out- and to prevent Emet-Selch's maintained tension when he should be adjusting to this stretch. Taking it at a moderated pace wasn't doable as they are... but there were ways to help guide Emet-Selch into pliant softness by robbing him of things to do, by making his singular task receiving him.
Swinging the Ascian against the bedsheets, Mettaton presses into him lovingly, kissing up his jaw, brushing their lips together with a sharp exhale. And from there, he asserts his weight, he shifts his thighs, and he grips Emet-Selch's hips: the smaller man would rest with his ass against Mettaton's lap, as he curled around him, settled deep between his thighs. And as they are, Mettaton draws back just slightly- where he gives Emet-Selch short, but rhythmic thrusts, a change to adjust shallowly to this thick intrusion. Speaking close to the corner of his lips, Mettaton first lifts enough to make eye contact, violet bright despite its darkness.]
I can't have you doing everything for me, as you said b... before...
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But it's soon enough that he realizes that it was an embrace so tight that it kept him from moving lower. If anything, it was a hug that lifted him slightly from the erection he was claiming by hard-fought degrees. Not immediately understanding it was intentional, given Mettaton's praise and evident pleasure in what he was doing, he pushes at his body, trying to get him to release him.]
Let- Mettaton, you're--
[In case his squirming wasn't clear enough, he tries to inform the taller man that his affection, though loved, wasn't helping him to impale himself fully on his cock. Voice as tight as his body, it's not very complete as a statement- but he's not thinking of that or much else, trusting that his intent would make it through regardless.
But while Mettaton unwinds his arm somewhat, it's not for the sake of letting him go- and it's then that Emet-Selch realizes that he was being actively stopped. Mettaton's words further confirm it, and for a moment he freezes- before writhing more desperately against his chest, not responding to his attention except to fight it, twitching away from it, but unable to escape being manhandled entirely away from his position atop the other man. Snarling in his panic, it turns into something closer to a whine, sharper still as his hands claw at him, as though he could scrape himself back to where he wanted to be.]
Stop it! I was--
[Of course he tenses; any jostling of the cock he had partially buried within him would have him tensing, but he writhes more than that, the protest in the sound he makes as desperate as it was hurt. Frustrated, he fights him, snaps at his lips when Mettaton tries to kiss him, and as he realizes he was being trapped on his back, he hooks his legs around him, and attempts to force him closer, to give him the rest of himself.
Too upset to even try not to tense, he continues trying to arch his back, to buck his hips- to do anything to force the taller man's erection deeper, these more modest thrusts nothing at all like what he was after. When their eyes meet, his are open again, vividly bright and irrationally furious, betrayed.]
I was managing.
[He spits it out, doing absolutely nothing to make this any easier on himself.]
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Especially when the way he links his legs around his hips is... horribly, terribly erotic. Mettaton can't help the way he moans, and the way his moan intensifies when Emet-Selch exerts pressure, fighting the 'gradual and safe' method he has in mind, all of the best intentions of sparing Emet-Selch lasting pain.
...And this is apparently consulting Emet-Selch on the position change, to which Emet-Selch has fierce disagreement. Mettaton blinks widely at him, still smiling- before his vision's glazed over and he groans, feeling the way the smaller man attempts to reclaim the length of his shaft he's lost. Mettaton's arms wobble, succumbing to Emet-Selch's grip.]
Hades, oh--
[To be buried deep and connected entirely to Emet-Selch is a sirensong hard to resist. Especially when he was decided, stubbornly clawing for their deepest connection despite the pain Mettaton could tell he was in, and when he declares it to be managing. The right thing to do was probably to hold his ground and remind Emet-Selch that they couldn't keep fucking if his body were hurt, taking a girth too much for him to handle. But... what was the right thing, if it went against Emet-Selch's will?
And he was aggressively persuasive. Mettaton can't help it when his thrusts firm up, when he curls deep over his husband with the want to mate him- easily convinced as he is, it doesn't take much for him to be as deep as Emet-Selch had him, but this time with the work of his own thrusting. There's no more holding Emet-Selch back anymore from what he wished to claim of him, the attempt something that came from a Mettaton moments before whose sanity rather than insatiability worked with his heart- where now, his insatiability left him lovestruck and wanting.
But he manages some words, foreheads close together.]
You were... Oh, you're a cassanova, sweetheart... [Wwwwhich is to say that even this show of ferocity, a determination to claim the cock he was sitting on, is a convincing argument that the pain was worth the gain. Mettaton strokes himself firmly on taut muscle, though he keeps eye contact with the bright eyes of the Ascian before him.] You took half of me in almost one go... Can't I give you the rest?
[On his terms, yes. But it was clear that Mettaton wasn't trapping him enough to keep him from moving his hips, even if he had the other man pinned. The brightness in the idol's gaze is a maddening thirst, a smile that won't leave the corners of his lips. He could pin Emet-Selch back, and, like this, stroke him into fullness. Emet-Selch's assertion was greater reassurance that this was not only wanted, but required... and even MTT knew it was, even should pain be a feature.]
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Mettaton taking his fury with good humor, of course, did nothing to ease it. To maneuver him onto his back with casual ease, smiling and looking at him as if everything was well, deciding for them both what he was willing to take- insulted. That he was still being fucked at all wasn't consolation, and the usual comfort he found in this position was entirely missing, as he hadn't wanted to be there.
(So he'd desired earlier to give everything to Mettaton, to devote everything to him- that was, in its way, still in play. Operational. Emet-Selch was going to take his cock, and he was doing to do so on his lap to his own detriment. This was his devotion and he'd fight Mettaton to achieve it.
Except he'd failed in this too, Mettaton's responses as good as mockery in his ears.)]
You'll have to. [He snaps back at him, his tenseness as much about agitation as discomfort- though there was plenty of both.] We would have been joined by now, if you hadn't interfered.
[But if it was going to be on Mettaton's terms, he wasn't going to help at all, his body seemed to indicate. Though his legs remain tight around him, he gives up fighting him- stops trying to force himself onto his length. His fit had been intense enough to tire him, for one thing; he could also feel it wasn't getting him anywhere.
From staring at him with the same unmoving anger as before, he turns his head to the side, demonstrably away from him as he felt his body worked to the same depth that he already had. Incessant rocking that he doesn't relax any more for, impatient in a way that had nothing to do with the want for release.]
I should have... when I still had the chance....
[It's muttered, barely audible, speaking more to himself than to Mettaton. If he'd known the other man was going to take it upon himself to change their position, he would've driven him down to the root before he had a chance to stop him. Even if it might've damaged him; even if it would've hurt, more than it did already. He was spiteful and needy, in ways beyond what his cock was asking for- as arousal was barely even a thought at this point, a background irritation, for all that it had helped to drive him to this point.]
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And not of the heated kind. Yes, he knew Emet-Selch's devotion- but there was something different in its key. It rattles Mettaton; it interrupts his momentum.]
... I don't want you to injure yourself, darling. [His voice is easier; softer than his moans, more intimate in pitch.] I know some of it is inevitable... A bit of discomfort, for excellent gain. But I...
[He reaches out to him, brushing at long, white hair. They would've been joined by now; they could've been hasty, and Emet-Selch could've been seated on his root. But here they are, half-way together, with much left to go and much more than than between them, too much unsaid (especially on Mettaton's part, who acted before asking).
Mettaton soaks in that warmth of their bodies, the chill of Emet-Selch's heat into agitation rather than arousal. He wanted Emet-Selch's satisfaction too... and without thinking, he'd interrupted it. The satisfaction of claiming what's rightfully his, and from continuing to work them both into a mess: yes, Emet-Selch had been more than capable, even when Mettaton had felt he could somehow do better at keeping the smaller man more comfortable, to the same end. He traces his cheek, craning his upper body enough to try to watch his face.]
Hey... Hades. Would you grant me the chance to try again? To ask you... if you were alright like that, instead of... trying to keep from hurting you? And maybe, to find a way to keep you as comfortable as we can?
[He knew Emet-Selch's devotion. They wanted closeness; this was counterproductive to it, everything Mettaton did, because they were a couple who acted irrationally, who combined passionately- and Mettaton had been the one to step out of line, concerned too far about the day where Emet-Selch got too hurt, when their actions had repercussions more than they already have. His finger's trail along his jaw; his attenton is bright, if soft, erection stuffed just where Emet-Selch had left off.]
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It's only when his hair is touched that his gaze snaps back to him, and though Emet-Selch doesn't flinch from it, he doesn't appear at all soothed by it either. He knew Mettaton had likely only been trying to look out for him, but he didn't want to be looked out for.]
It's a bit late to ask, isn't it? At what point do we return to? What's left to try again?
[With his momentum disrupted, even if he were put back on top, it was hard for him to imagine going at it in the same way as before. He'd finish taking him all the way... and then just sit there, unsatisfied and uncompromising but grimly successful. Not that he thought Mettaton would go so far as to change their positioning- and it would feel its own sort of mockery if he did, as though he were no more than a doll being patronizingly indulged.
--Which was different from wanting him to pull off or stop, even if climax were no longer a sought-after priority. He'd waited months for this; he'd been alone for far longer than that. But the thought of enjoying anything was far from him, the smaller man willing to spite everything because he'd been interrupted.]
...I would have preferred injury. [Staring for a moment longer, his gaze slips to the side again, expression turning into something more stoic, guarded.] Go at whatever pace you prefer. The pain is inevitable. I wouldn't have started this if it mattered.
[So he assumed he'd be hurt by their coupling. They didn't have real lubrication, and with Mettaton's considerable size, he knew an unpleasant amount of drag was inevitable. So why do more than the barest amount of mitigation? Even so- it had been only when he'd had the tip of his cock against him that he'd realized that he wasn't willing to wait, despite the consequence it meant for himself.
And yet, now waiting he was, for moments that stretched on for too long, while his body was only half-full, stretched and barely adapting to what he contained. For all that prior desperation, he makes no appeal towards convincing Mettaton to give him the rest, as it was clear their paces were unaligned. Disgruntled where Mettaton was soft, he clings to agitation and upset- more reliable companions than any others he'd made in his life.]
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Body-altering magic or no, it seemed this was a common thread: Mettaton charging ahead with all of his optimism and enthusiasm, trying for something he idealized; Emet-Selch not on the same page, in another (often more agonizing, despairing) zone.
That it had to become clearer to him in this moment isn't something Mettaton rues, though he settles closer to Emet-Selch, watching as the other man turns away and puts up his guard. Selfishness could be his own turn; Emet-Selch was even enabling it, telling him to do as he liked. He could be entirely self-indulging, while Emet-Selch caved into misery. Spite was easy, and so was ignorance.
Mettaton quiets, gaze clear and fixed, his own erection taking less of a precedence. What mattered to each of them was closeness; what mattered most of all was the companionship of their sex. It could be achieved by depth, but also by vulnerability. Mettaton had known all along that vulnerability could've been achieved even before he had the anatomy to have penetrative sex with... Emet-Selch had been reluctant to try. It wounded him. It still wounds him. In this way, a wounded heart matches with a wounded body.
He reaches for Emet-Selch's face, longing to keep him company alongside agitation, upset. He could say a great many things: that it wasn't all about his preference (his actions said otherwise, he realizes), that he wanted to avoid injury (it was unavoidable without proper lubricant, and Emet-Selch could heal besides), that preserving his body still mattered to Mettaton, but not as much as their intimacy did. He could tell that closeness was imporant to Emet-Selch at any cost, and yet his impulse was to... stop him, to come at another angle, to relieve him from the tension of supporting himself in case it offered the barest bit of ease.
Mettaton presses his palm to Emet-Selch's cheek. The metal of his ring is a prominent sensation like this, against actual, warm skin. Against Emet-Selch. ...He could feel another ring around his cock, and that Emet-Selch's body was scarcely adjusting to his girth. He could sigh; why were inconveniences so stacked against them...]
No... I couldn't undo my rashness. [Nor did he expect to try again in regards to undoing his actions, but rather, the ability to ask.] I'm sorry, Hades. For not consulting you, about my thoughts.
[He wanted their closeness too. They both wanted that most of all. Sometimes, closeness came most of all in vulnerability; Mettaton's not often the sort to admit wrong, but when he knew there was wrong to admit, he would admit it freely to the man he loves.
This time, he remains where he is, not moving any more.]
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And while he should have known as much, it felt especially bitter to realize, to experience. They would always be like this. Whatever they did, something would break down between them. And this time they'd been expecting different things, he guessed... and he didn't adapt when Mettaton decided on what course they should take. And rather than give in, Emet-Selch would spite them both, the penalty for trying to look after him when he was determined to wound himself.
Mettaton touches his face; he twitches, displeased, not in the mood to accept kindness and unwilling to face his lover's regrets. The show of it only left him feeling worse, somewhere between guilt and resentment.]
Stop that. [Comes the quick, sharp reply, eyes briefly flashing to him before closing entirely. He doesn't clarify what the 'that' is, whether it was his apologies, his being reasonable in the aftermath while the Ascian wasn't prepared to be, or anything else.] At least finish what you started, I'm not becoming any less sore.
[Or rather, it would only grow more noticeable the less aroused he became, and where he hadn't been thinking of it at the time, he was conscious of it now. While he'd been stuffing him inside himself, it had hurt, in a way that he knew it wasn't supposed to, but he had been stiff enough to counter it, the pleasure greatly increasing his tolerance. But now, though he hadn't yet gone soft, he could tell that fullness was depleting as rapidly as it could.
Of course, he knew he wasn't presenting Mettaton with a very appealing prospect: fucking a tense, upset man who was bound to be hurt by it. Nor did he know how to change things or fix that, to give in and deny his nature for long enough to convince him to continue. It wasn't dutiful, the way Emet-Selch regarded him or this; he wanted this combination still, if in a way entirely removed from the pleasure of sex. He missed him. Too much to tolerate going slowly, it seemed.
Aware of the irony of his reaction bringing things to a halt instead, it doesn't do anything to make him feel any better about the situation, his upset something that could feed on itself, indefinitely.]
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Finish what he started. Mettaton gives him a sideways look. He did not seem up to continuing what they started, and he wasn't about to exacerbate that.]
What I started? This was us. [He's not chastising, his voice soft if emphatic. A reminder; a protest.] Despite my actions, in taking charge... I didn't mean for it to upset what we started together.
[Which meant that if he couldn't, it was time to back down. Emet-Selch wasn't the only one who was losing steam from the clash, arousal petering, and Mettaton was the one less frantic or pressured for release. Even so, he sympathized with Emet-Selch's ache, and regret flashes on his face for having been the responsible action for depriving the smaller man of that... as this is just how Emet-Selch is. Even if the mage dwelled over how he was the responsible party for halting their ardor, Mettaton knew better than to think he'd react any differently.
Mettaton lets his hand drift closer to Emet-Selch's hairline, where he lets his fingers twine through strands. Scooting his body so that he was in something more of a seated position (rather than hovering over Emet-Selch), he doesn't quite withdraw- but from the position change, he does just a bit.]
And because it's for us both... you know it wouldn't be as enjoyable to either of us, at this rate.
[Because whenever either of them was upset, it just wouldn't be appealing, that much was true. And with the added bonus of bodily tension, it would even hurt more than it would please. Mettaton plants either of his hands against the mattress, waiting patiently. He settles close, though not enough to crush.]
... I want us to be as close as possible, too. [Soft like an admission.] I do.
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What you started- [He reiterates, as sharp as the other man was soft.] I wasn't the one who took us into this position, when I had everything well in hand.
[Of course, then he made it worse himself by not emotionally adjusting to the change, which frustrated him another time, as though he weren't allowed to react poorly. Weren't meant to be frustrated, or have control over what he was willing to endure. Whether he was on his back or not, it was up to his husband's whim, and for all the roles that they took on, it irked to have it presented so plainly--
With his hair continuing to be touched, and the robot's body shifting to give him even less of his length, Emet-Selch finally regards him again. His gaze is as defensive as it is guarded, protecting a core that felt far more wounded than what little his body had been given to work with. Mettaton spoke of closeness- but wouldn't give it to him, and all because neither of them would enjoy it.]
Do I look as though I care whether it's enjoyable or not?
[For either of them, though he would be the only one in more active discomfort. With his hands fallen from him, his legs half follow, as he was coming to the sinking conclusion that Mettaton wouldn't be pressing on and indulging his misery. And where the sensible thing might have been to accept that unfortunate conclusion gracefully, to accept his company as it was, Emet-Selch hadn't made it this far in life by making the right decisions, and he wasn't going to start now.
Not when his upset hadn't bled from him; not when he had an available target.]
So if you're not- if you're not going to let us be close- why are you still here at all? I'd suggest leaving myself but I'm hardly in the position for it.
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Walls erected, Emet-Selch returns to his guarded nature, a wounded core easy for someone like Mettaton to spot. He knows him; he loves him. This situation wasn't a far cry from what they've been encountering for months, where Mettaton attempted to act cheerily despite his lover's deep-seated upset; when his optimism seemed to rub Emet-Selch the wrong way, as he attempted to let Emet-Selch feel how he felt without letting it sink him too. Was he being guarded in his own way? Yes, and even Mettaton's belatedly realizing it. They were too invested in each other to not let the other feel their feelings; it was hard, when the feeling was sour versus sweet, when their disparate natures battled and grated.
And the only way they could apparently connect... Mettaton's frown deepens.]
Why, because I don't want to leave you, Hades. Because I believe we can be close, even if we're not fucking. I have believed that for months... for months, every time you shut me out.
[Because it hurt; because Mettaton wanted physical closeness too, and it was hard to accept that they couldn't have it in the same way. But he wanted it all the same, and surely they were capable of it...
Here, they have that ability for physical intimacy. He'd been so eager to pin Emet-Selch back, and to see his reaction to a beloved position- given that he was also preventing Emet-Selch from rushing them, and hurting himself. He hadn't been prepared for that reaction to be spite and frustration, and restoring him to that position hadn't occurred to Mettaton. Now, it was being left all in his ballpark, and when Emet-Selch didn't want a part, he was performing on his own. He could... but he preferred performing together.
MTT closes his eye before opening it again, no pretense of performance. He sheds the effusive optimism for a hopefulness that just comes naturally to him. Both of his arms shift, hands shimmying their way beneath Emet-Selch's neck, to gently embrace him around his shoulders.]
My depth inside you... isn't the only way I feel your heart. When you're upset, I want to be there for you... and if I've caused it, I want to do right by you. But really. Heavens, darling, you can't expect me to blissfully and ignorantly keep pounding you, all to achieve bodily closeness that you're only tolerating. [Which hadn't been the case before Mettaton had taken charge of Emet-Selch's self-destructiveness, attempting to avert a future of any torn tissue... If he'd stopped him just to ask, would Emet-Selch have disregarded his concerns? It was hard to say. Mettaton sighs.]
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Ever the optimist. [He mutters it, as dry as he could manage. It remains laced with bitterness instead, for all that he makes some attempt to smother it.] While I'm left alone, dealing with the reality we're in. All this proves is that naught can change from a wish.
[He knew the depth Mettaton reached inside him didn't have to be physical- that they hadn't had the option of it being physical until now on this world. Vulnerability didn't have to come from fucking, but he still felt that it had been expected of him, even when he'd be performing alone. This restoration of Mettaton's sensitivity and sexual endowment had been meant to level that field again, to allow them to meet on the stage they were accustomed to. And it had worked initially, but--
Whatever the underlying issue was, Emet-Selch didn't like it. Didn't want to search for it especially when he was still so raw from their sex having gone so far askew- and not even raw in the way he expected. Forcing a breath, he shakes his head. Tries, if poorly, to measure his response without pretending that he was better off than he was.]
You've apologized. In case you're unaware, that doesn't solve anything. I could apologize for my dislike of your commandeering, but it wouldn't change what I did. [Emet-Selch also didn't feel sorry.] You'll still refuse to continue, whether out of a lack of interest or some misguided sense of concern, and I--
[He pauses, making a sound that's more unhappy than even annoyed, and something he tries to bite back.]
Besides. [He looks askance at the taller man- as much as he can in his position.] Do you think I haven't realized that it wouldn't be blissful for either of us? You're the one barely tolerating me--
[Which hurt; no one liked being rejected, in the end.]
It's not grudgingly that I would take you.
[But he doesn't try to move, not to drag him closer or encourage him to continue with their sex. When he shifts- it's in some small acceptance of the other man's hold though, reluctant as it is.]
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[Muttered. It's a Classic Mettaton Aside, knowable but barely audible, barely even mouthed, but spoken all the same, as though a thought making itself known in a way beyond words. He doesn't see his thoughts as optimism but just neutrality, the understanding that he could connect with Emet-Selch even without sex.
The Ascian isn't alone in not wanting to search for the root of their issues, complex as they are, and Mettaton takes the slightest hint of acceptance of his closeness to make a small sound, collapsing into the man beneath him. He buries his face deep in the crook of Emet-Selch's neck, squeezing his eye shut and breathing in his warmth, a tight frown pulling his lips.
He remembers again how Emet-Selch disliked the thought of one-sided performance of vulnerability, when Mettaton couldn't reciprocate those sensations of highs and lows; he makes a small sound again, nearly snarling as he resents being unable to perform. And now that he could, Emet-Selch wanted him to keep going—as MTT perceived him as more than disinterested, but upset enough to want to call it off before the commandeering idol could figure out how he'd erred, much less how he could make things better, if not right.
...Which is proven untrue, when Emet-Selch claims that it isn't grudgingly he would take him. Another misunderstanding on MTT's part. The monster stills, blinking slowly in the Emet-Selch-darkness, safe at his neck. When he lifts his head, his gaze is clear, inquisitive.]
Not grudgingly... So. Had I kept going... leaving how I upset you unaddressed. You would have preferred that?
[That's easy for MTT to do, if he were dealing with most anyone else. But not for Emet-Selch; no, apparently there was no toleration to be found, not that MTT sees that clearly. There was still so much they weren't seeing eye-to-eye on, and Mettaton isn't equipped with the same mindset Emet-Selch has to see it; he is ever the optimist, after all, and what would he do if his wavelength wasn't matched? Himself ahead, Emet-Selch lagging behind... To leave Emet-Selch behind seems like it goes against even their vows--
But the relief in being bodily accepted, even reluctantly, is obvious. Calming. Despite not having muscle, the robot practically pushes into Emet-Selch, defensive tension leaving him that must have come around the time that he'd been called out on his blunder. He still felt his apology truly; he knows that once again, he'd taken action after failing to ask Emet-Selch first. ...They were just severely lacking in lubricant, and that sucked. And yet times before, Emet-Selch had taken more than he could seemingly handle...
Contemplative, Mettaton wonders- only retrospectively- if he was overreaching, just in case. A, as he'd put it, misguided sense of concern. He's come to learn too much of bodily frailties... but perhaps this wouldn't have been one? As far as his body relaxes, Mettaton allows himself to think briefly on this, all while similarly shifting just to get closer to Emet-Selch. (Was this where his toleration required flexibility, too...? Yet the Ascian would be the first to serve himself up for dinner if Mettaton had ever hungered (for blood and flesh)- He sighs just thinking about it, fond and exasperated.)]
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He'd already been furious, as soon as his back had hit the covers, Mettaton patronizingly deciding what he was able to take. There was no coming back from that; even recalling it now set him on edge, flooded him with resentment that made it more difficult to tolerate the embrace Mettaton had sunk into. The paltry pretense of closeness- it wasn't anything like the collapses they found themselves in, in the aftermath of their sex.
But he lives with it, not wanting to push him away either, though the hand he places on him in return is limp, passive.]
Mettaton. I would still prefer that. [Though he's speaking directly to him, it's more of a mutter, frustration clear in it, even if it's not quite as sharp as before.] If you're not going to continue, then pull out.
[It was true that he'd gotten used to Mettaton lingering within his body after climax, even if he'd found it strange at first. But now there had been no climax; Mettaton wasn't even fully inside of him, not even close. It didn't qualify as a tease, as there wasn't any pleasure surrounding it, any anticipation for more, for the greater heights (and depths) they had to look forward to- it was just uncomfortable. A reminder of the fullness denied him, his body made sore with nothing to show for it.
But if Mettaton had continued fucking him, while he'd been at the height of his fury- it depended on how quickly the other man had deigned to fill him, he supposed. He still wouldn't have enjoyed it; that chance had been ruined in an instant. He probably would have resented it. The aftermath wouldn't have been pleasant, most likely. But at least he would have had him physically. As it was, there was nothing.
But he didn't see it as Mettaton charging ahead while leaving him behind, unable to catch up. There had been nothing to catch up to, nothing to regain. They were on different tracks entirely. If anything, he'd been the one pushing ahead of the robot, before being forced to derail....
Rumination that causes him to twitch, unsettled and unhappy. He didn't see the problem in being willing to injure himself for this. What difference was there between that, and all the times Mettaton had bitten and bled him into anemia and scarring? (The only difference was that Emet-Selch had control over it. Where before, he hadn't been willing to stop him, even if it led to grievous injury or death.)]
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Intent isn't magic, though, and Mettaton has a long way to go.)
The damage had already been done. Emet-Selch tells him to pull out, or go- and it shakes the idol, who may well be the one who is stumbling behind without realizing it, thinking of Emet-Selch as the one who needs it. Patronizing him. But the authority with which the Ascian commands his action, the sureness with which he still wanted his depth. Of course he would've ultimately preferred having been asked before Mettaton changed their position entirely, but that too was water under the bridge- and something for MTT to consider, to reflect on. A hand is draped over him, but it's not with any warmth.
Mettaton closes his eye. Emet-Selch had said he was leaving it up to Mettaton, since the robot was taking charge... It felt hypocritical to really fill him out with wild abandon, and the physical sensation wasn't great, either, even if he hadn't yet enjoyed the nuance of heat slipped over his body.
And yet, despite the hurt on his features, Mettaton stolidly remains. And even pushes. There's no physical hurt on his features, no wincing or grimacing, but the knit of his brow at the frustration and misunderstanding, of the sudden veer of emotions—of realizing his mistake, and wanting to do better. Intent isn't magic even still, no matter what. But he sighs, steeling himself, meeting Emet-Selch's eyes.]
... I promised you my length. I said that. [In some manner of words, he'd offered his length in trade for Emet-Selch's heat. He pushes, his hips nudging forward.] If you say you still prefer it, then I'll commit. Even if it's uncomfortable.
[It's not easy for Mettaton to make that choice, preferring the bliss of their most ardent combinings. Preferring the situations where he could have it perfectly—and if not perfect, he could make it that way, or pretend it was. He's the same sort of person who would pick off people who disagreed with him—and though nowhere as severe as that as he currently is, the trait remains. He wanted control.
He doesn't want this, though. It was uncomfortable to him in his heart to push forward, to continue filling Emet-Selch out. To sit with Emet-Selch's upset, and let him be without trying to smother it. But he moves nonetheless, tensing his hips, pushing forward into Emet-Selch after once denying him of this manually. But Emet-Selch had said that this wasn't of concern. And at that, he would press onward and give him his physicality. Meeting his eyes, he presses forward, but non-verbally seeks out his consent—or rather, his dissent, if he had objections.]
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