[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.]
[At first, Emet-Selch didn't understand what the delay was. His request was straightforward, and it was clear to him that being inside him wasn't bringing the other man any pleasure. What point, then, was there in remaining in this less-than-half-filled point, something uncomfortable for them both? So in the silence between them, the mage didn't immediately understand what he was feeling, when the dry, tight drag within him felt worse, rather than better.
And so it surprised, to hear Mettaton... agree to continuing? Emet-Selch stills, not really believing he heard or understood correctly, even as he feels more of what was an unmistakable push forward. A slow, uncomfortable grind into his body, reclaiming ground previously abandoned. And with far more to go than that. And he's silent, uncertain of what to make of this, having resigned himself to emptiness.
But this was notably not that. It was also notably something that would take... an interminable amount of time given Mettaton's current least-destructive pace. But the smaller man says nothing; beyond that first hint of surprise and moment of startle, he doesn't react. His body twinges but he doesn't fight it, even though there was no way he could describe this as pleasant. ...In some small way, he was touched that Mettaton would try at all, even when he clearly didn't want to, on top of not enjoying it.
After several too-long moments, in something too clinical to be called sex, he sighs slowly, glancing aside.]
...Never mind. It's clear that you despise this. I'll survive going without.
[He could indulge his misery on his own time, rather than dragging Mettaton down into all of it. It was hard to imagine anything less appealing than this... and in the moment, hard to imagine ever wanting to be in this position again. But he knew habit would get to him eventually. Hopefully there would be some better lube available, so that they could more readily ignore everything that went wrong this time, he considered cynically.]
[He wasn't sure how he felt about a lot of this, but he knew that with such certainty that he spits it out first. His voice is still soft, his guard totally dropped, revealing that hurt core of his that struggled in situations uncomfortable. Uncomfortable in ways that went beyond the sensation of pressing past tight muscle, lubricated only by drying semen... Emet-Selch isn't yielding, and their ejaculate isn't the slickest substance after all, not when compared to proper lubricant. No, his pace isn't hasty; at this rate, he wasn't sure what haste would yield them, given that it wasn't as though Emet-Selch was very pliant, and neither of them had any glide to offer.
Mettaton deliberately ignores Emet-Selch's dismissal when he tells him not to mind. Just as he didn't listen before—but this time, it's having heard him deny him that he continues. But it's because this was a denial rooted in Mettaton's feelings that he continues, feelings that... weren't so severe as despise, much less hate. And the more that moments pass, the more he realizes that it didn't even stray into not wanting this, as much as not wanting the discomfort of the surrounding feelings... but wanting to face it all anyway.
With that in mind, he meets Emet-Selch's eyes again, this time with a brighter light to them. A spark of determination, it could be called, as though a monster were capable of it... (Who really defined that about monsters, anyway? Proper determination was a stupid word for what it was that they really lacked, when Mettaton showed more often than anything that he had the flame of ambition in him.)
It's... a bit less clinical, the way he curls into Emet-Selch, as though he felt better even for hearing Emet-Selch dismiss him out of consideration for his feelings. Still carefully, he shakes his head no, and continues, slow rolls of his hips the answer to their mutual resistance.]
But I want to show you that I do care about what you want, Hades. And that whatever it is that you set your heart on... I want it, too. Even if I can't let go, or act like I know better than you.
[And even if the thought of it makes him uncomfortable. The thought of letting Emet-Selch hurt himself had clearly done that, for some reason... when the hypocrisy of him hurting Emet-Selch was somehow different. Or suddenly stopping, suddenly controlling the minutia of the situation in thinking he knew how to dictate what Emet-Selch was enjoying and had well in hand... Mettaton smiles a little just to consider it, as he'd enjoyed his enjoyment even when he sought to... derail it.
That suggested, Mettaton squeezes Emet-Selch's shoulder.]
[He frowns at Mettaton's refutation, but he doesn't argue against it, no matter his own skepticism. Perhaps despise had been too strong of a word; it seemed evident, to him, that the other man didn't like this and would rather not do it. And that his dislike was rooted enough that even in the mage's upset, he didn't want Mettaton to persist past it. He was a spiteful sort, but not quite in that way.
But more of a surprise yet, was the conclusion that Mettaton seemed to come to, and that it wasn't to give up and withdraw. For a moment, all Emet-Selch could do was blink, on realizing that the other man wasn't pulling out, permitting that part of their encounter to come to its emotionally uncomfortable and unsatisfying end. The Ascian had thought he'd been as neutral, honest as he could be; it was a genuine permission for Mettaton to stop, rather than a trap to foster further resentment.
Staring at him without entirely realizing he was doing it, he's briefly at a loss for how to react. He wasn't going to insist that the robot stop for his own sake, if he was determined to press on for him- but it was hard to accept that he was, given how previously reluctant he'd been to hurt him. And this would certainly hurt, even with the care Mettaton took in the way he pushed forward, kneading the Ascian's body into what compliance it could give him. Which was a limited amount, even when he was trying not to tense.
Hesitantly, he reaches up with his other arm, taking him into a loose sort of embrace. A non-verbal acceptance of Mettaton's decision, before he can entirely find the words for it. Fingers press gently into metal, as though it were something new to him- or precious, in some intangible way. He still ached to remember what things had been like so recently, when they'd both been so aroused, so desperate. This felt like a sad echo of that moment, but he wanted him all the same.]
...If you're willing, how could I refuse you?
[It already felt a little less clinical at least, a form of intimacy that wasn't comfortable in any regard- but intimacy all the same. Absently adjusting his grip on him, he meets his eye. Takes in the familiar details of his face- the familiar resolution to him as well. He didn't see him as the sort to give up; neither of them were, even if it sometimes manifested differently. And it was one of the many things he loved about him. Sighing more softly yet, he watches him, gold into brilliant violet.]
[The way he looks at him, unguarded and exploring, entrances Mettaton. His lips part slightly, his own unguarded gaze roaming Emet-Selch's features, from the fading flush of exertion to the glow of his brilliant eyes. There's a tight frown on Emet-Selch's features, but no words to deny him, no dismissal of his desire... and the more the moments pass without pressure to continue, the more he warms to the notion of wanting to do this for the sake of that romantic connection.
An arm's slung around his person, and Mettaton sinks into it some more, sighing at the tactile comfort of it that he could feel so vividly, from the warmth of his limb to the softness of his skin. ...It did feel like a sad echo of what they just had, and MTT, too, ached for it. And even wanted him, despite it all, as he always had.
So when he suggests his willingness, Mettaton nods. Transfixed by his look alone, he could make the claim that his willingness to obey was induced by some kind of hypnotism, if he weren't sincerely endeared to the thought of kissing him after so simple a request. But Mettaton smiles, thumb stroking between his shoulder and neck as he mounts him.]
Would I ever. [An enthused reply, never wanting to shirk the opportunity.] I'm glad you asked.
[Because he wanted to kiss him too. If Emet-Selch hadn't asked, it was likely that MTT would've closed in, tested the emotional connection between their bodies—but just like this he closes in, curling around his husband's body as he works his length into him the best he can, all while locking lips.
Mettaton tenderly takes to kissing his lower lip, a soft union of them where he sucks gently, nuzzling against Emet-Selch's lips with a hum. He was so warm, so soft, so damp... All of the normal things that would welcome a kiss, but bits that Mettaton coveted, a touch that inspires him into wanting. Details of Emet-Selch that, sure, all other bodies would share—but Mettaton's transfixed on him uniquely, for all of his softness, his welcoming of a kiss, his welcoming of his body. Though his advance is tender, it belies a heat that manages to be a continuation of where they left off—a hunger for not only for the sensations he could experience, but the responses, the actions of the man beneath him.
And most importantly, the ardor he harbored for him, a heated affection that wouldn't be so easily quelled. He loved him all the same, wanted him all the same, and felt safe with him always.]
[He knew, with all certainty, that Mettaton would be amenable to his request. That he would've been likely to kiss him regardless, given their position and the turn of the mood being permissive of gestures like that. Saying it aloud was as much an affirmation of his willingness, his desire for the taller man's touch- not only that of his cock, but in other ways too. But Emet-Selch looks a little relieved all the same, to see Mettaton's reaction to his ask, the clear enthusiasm something that he now wanted to see (rather than finding it grating, when Mettaton's humor was maintained while he was contrastingly upset).
And when their lips meet, and his eyes take the opportunity to slip shut, Emet-Selch finds himself for the first time since he'd been placed on his back... not disliking this position. Relaxing a little bit into it, beyond the deliberate way he tries to relax around the robot's length, it was too much to say that he enjoyed it, yet- but it was better. The kiss, though, he was immediately enamored with.
It was pleasant, affectionate- romantic, even, as so many of their touches were. But he felt especially attuned to it now- or at least, felt more of a longing in that direction, for something that would make up for the recently renewed disconnect. Even if it had taken time to even be able to reach for this much, a willingness to accept some sort of reassurance after they'd both been wounded, Emet-Selch soaks it in as though he'd been starved for it for far longer than these minutes.
Though it was a different softness than his own, he could feel the slight give to Mettaton's lips, the texture something to ever fascinate over just as the other man could with his skin. His own mouth providing enough saliva to keep the contact effectively moist, he makes a small noise into the gentle suck of his lip, something appreciative.
It wasn't at all the same as the ardor they might have shared in their more familiar couplings, even the ones where they took a slower pace- but Emet-Selch could feel Mettaton's love for him no less. If anything, it felt a touch rawer than usual, due to that lingering emotional disturbance, as anything sentimental settled close as vulnerabilities were restored. More open again to his lover's heart- of course it would hurt to be close to it.
All of it, though, he would take as some distraction to the gradual way Mettaton worked himself deeper. Not to the idea, the awareness of being slowly filled- but the drag that would have to be endured to get there. That much wasn't so nice, but it was warm too, warmer than their kiss even (the warmth of skin raw...), and he gasps softly against his lips. Arms tightening around him, he buries one hand in dark hair, while his legs readjust to more actively lock around Mettaton's hips. It wasn't the same as being properly aroused, but the more he was able to let go of his distress, the easier it was to remember the abject pleasure that was usually found in this position. In this configuration, with their lips together, and their bodies in the process of joining, Mettaton a welcomed force above him.
(He could be exasperated in himself, at how quickly his mood there could change- but it didn't surprise him. They had too much history like this, too many times the robot had nestled himself just like this between his legs, atop his body, lovingly mounting him. Given the slightest crack in his defensive resolve, and he'd crumble just like this...and he was grateful, then, that Mettaton had neither withdrawn nor left him.)]
[Even though he could tell that Emet-Selch had once more welcomed this commonplace position between them, he knew that it wasn't proof of anything they didn't mutually acknowledge. Of course he normally liked this. But this time, the reason he welcomed it was because this was a mutual ambition, a rejoined wavelength they shared. If anything... it was proof that they would like any position, as long as they wanted each other in a given moment. Which was most often.
A gentler romance rather than the electrifying heat that singed them before accompanies this combining of bodies. Mettaton felt similarly grateful and humbled that he didn't leave, that he fought his usual impulse to let Emet-Selch fester in his feelings just because he didn't find him in a productive state. That he could sit with him, and let him be upset... That Emet-Selch never pushed him away only served as a reminder of the time when the Ascian cried out for him despite his righteous, blind fury. Then... then, in all of the electric insanity, he'd rather have his teeth in his throat, his neck snapped up by sharp incisors. Being together could be destructive, but it could remain a wonderful thing, even as they were gradually working at inevitably doing harm to Emet-Selch's body.
Not because that was the intent, of course. Kissing him soft, that appreciative sound is met with a lower, almost groan on MTT's part. He couldn't help the heat that burned low in his body at feeling Emet-Selch succumbed beneath his weight... even after all else, it was an insane, and instant, attraction. No, he wouldn't say that feeling himself slipping past somewhat-slick muscle was particularly pleasant, even if it wasn't bad... nor was he in any impressive state of arousal.
But what he was, was smitten. Emet-Selch's body tries to receive him, relaxing and bending around him, holding him and trying at pliance. Too much to say he enjoyed it either- but he couldn't help but find it innately attractive, to have his mate naked, beneath him, receiving his cock.
So he kneads his way deeper, a gradual thing that still makes strides. Their lips slide against each other's in their kiss that just keeps going, little moments here and there for Emet-Selch to breathe- but the priority was their kiss, as Mettaton takes any opportunity he can to capture him back up, to rob him of his next gulp of air. Just like this he fills him, gradually rolling his hips to stuff his girth in Emet-Selch's deserving body.
His words are a mumble, spoken against Emet-Selch's lips, damp from kisses tender.]
If you need me to pause at any point... say so. Though I doubt you'll need that.
[Because he figured that Emet-Selch would determinedly, stubbornly maintain himself, even if it hurt. But the floor was open if he had anything to say, just in case he defeated his expectations. In case he did have input.
With a good nudge, Mettaton restores the depth Emet-Selch had found once- but no more than that. He exhales, letting the pressure of heat expel from his body- because he couldn't deny, he was getting the "better" end of the bargain. Emet-Selch was still squeezing 'round his cock- and even though the insertion wasn't the most comfortable, they'd done it before... and the mood struck him as just vulnerable, just exposed enough that it managed still to make him horny, and in love.]
[(Even when he'd suggested that he leave, or demanded that he be left to himself, it wasn't because Emet-Selch actually wanted to be alone. In its own way, it was another method of hurting himself (and Mettaton with him, in his spite), to choose to malinger in his grief and unwanted but familiar solitude. Sometimes it was still the better option, his agitation of the sort that refused to be moved.
More direct, and more honest had been his desperation to give his throat, his life to Mettaton. Anything to ease his lover's madness; anything to keep from being alone. Mettaton had hurt him terribly by abandoning him instead- and though he knew it had been for the best, it was difficult for his emotions to agree. Even now, some part of him would have preferred to have the memory instead of teeth tearing him apart. (He already had that memory, of times when another sort of insanity had prevailed.)
One way or another, remaining in each other's company could be destructive. He was relieved to be spared that much now, to feel Mettaton's presence and company impressing on him still, a distraction from himself.)
To hear a groan from the other man was its own pleasure, as any sign of anything other than clinical resolution... helped. Not only when it came to enduring the more uncomfortable sensory aspects of their combining, but in continuing to sooth the parts of his temper that remained ruffled, disturbed.
And devoted kissing helped, taking and giving one after another- if they could ever be properly divided into distinct 'kisses', given how reluctant they were to pause in them once started. But the Ascian occasionally required breath, and Mettaton graciously permitted him a little, for all that neither of them seemed inclined to give him opportunity for much. Being out of breath, searching out that faint, familiar dizziness, the accompanying quickness of his heart- it helped too, as his body reluctantly was made to take progressively more of his husband's thickness again.
Being properly aroused would've made this easier still... but he didn't have his hopes raised that far, for all that his mood had improved somewhat. Emet-Selch could tell (after all, he was in a rather specific position to feel it directly) that Mettaton was similarly not nearly as full as he had been, not as rigid as he could be, the kind of stiffness that he could ache to observe. But he was still somewhat hard, and naturally so, given that his cock was receiving some manner of treatment, even if it wasn't exactly pleasant. (And the robot seemed aspected towards arousal as a default.)
And their position was, now that Emet-Selch was no longer as upset, undoubtedly an attractive one. That much he would agree with. Closely pressed and gently rolling together, they would make a visibly erotic sight, even when more than their hearts were tender. Lips frequently locked and sounds blended, he embraced the less-uncomfortable tension that his body made some attempt to feel, as the simple concept of what they were doing was worth every bit of attraction.
Shivering when he's allowed a little more air as Mettaton speaks, their lips remain close, damp, heated. Even with breath, it was difficult to reply, distracted as he was by wanting to kiss him, by the pleasure he could take in this, soft and wanting both.]
You know- just as well as I do, that I'd never ask for that.
[Calling himself out... but they both recognized his stubbornness. Especially now, when there was additional baggage around his being willingness to be hurt if it meant being filled by Mettaton's cock, he was absolutely not going to ask him to slow down or stop. His fingers tense against him at even the idea, as he felt a mix of apprehension and anticipation on guessing that the robot was only about halfway in... which meant there was still plenty to go. Reminding himself to give in past every protesting twinge of his body, he manages to nudge his hips upward with a small noise that wasn't entirely pained.]
If there's anything I need, it's for you not to- to stop.
[Naturally, they still wanted each other even after a bout of upset... Even MTT could nearly sigh at their effectiveness on one another. Even though the possibility of them being as insanely erect and painfully needy was unlikely, their moods too tenderized for that brand of madness, it was swift how readily he felt them turn to each other with abject fondness and accompanying want. Defenses dropped, it was easier and easier to find himself with sparks of warmth that settled low in his body, as MTT is easily aspected toward arousal, it's true.
Which he knew would please. And in knowing that it would please, it served to arouse... That's why they were so effective on each other! If they were talking about it, he'd laugh outright.
Their efforts unite toward filling Emet-Selch up, as Mettaton gasps to feel Emet-Selch nudging back into the press of his hips. Like a light switch flicked, he feels heat course through his body, fierce and shocking; there's no way a reading like that couldn't be felt through that psychic connection they've gained, through the help of their little dragon bites. The involuntary jerk of his hips, a somatic response to his mate asking for his cock, might be enough to demonstrate his animalistic desire, a want for Emet-Selch that ran carnal and monstrous, that he couldn't deny. Easy to tap into, regardless of position...
He has no rabbit ears. But the way they'd spring and lean would've been 100% guaranteed.
The heat that seeps from past his lips might be evidence enough of his excitement, as his voice slips his throat in a soft exhale of a groan. To not stop... His fingers flex against Emet-Selch's shoulders, reaffirming his grip on the smaller man beneath him as he further mounts him. Curling around him, he presses a firmer kiss, a heated breath.]
Then don't blame me, if I really start to... get into it...
[He knew Emet-Selch wouldn't hold it against him if he were deriving physical pleasure from something that wasn't as pleasant to him. Mettaton hadn't wanted Emet-Selch to have to hurt, no matter how it was applied... but the result of their blows is that Mettaton understood that Emet-Selch was ready for it, had committed to it. Just as they'd both committed, at least, to filling him, to finding themselves deep. He helps to lift Emet-Selch's hips, curling around his body, a wordless promise that he would remain steady in his insertion.
And his thrusts firm, his presses shorter, gradual. He tries for the least painful insertion, even though he knew it inevitable, a low rumble in his throat.]
[Desire between them was, at most, only deferred. There had been the distress and hurt of these past few months together, and there had been this sharper frustration and fury of just now, but nothing erased that desire. Which felt an absurdity, to be this basely enamored of someone, where nearly any emotional state could translate smoothly into some manner of wanting for sex. For intimacy, rather; he didn't think they could perform together at all, without feeling being attached to it.
Mettaton's hips jerk, and Emet-Selch gasps against his lips, body reflexively tensing around his erection in a way that wasn't at all comfortable- but not a terrible feeling either. His hands similarly tense, fingers dragging over the robot's body, not entirely understanding the source of what seemed closer to actual pleasure. Arousal, that was both his and wasn't, as the mage's cock was still mostly soft by this point. But he was grateful for it, as while he found the discomfort worthwhile, the discomfort wasn't the point. He would take every bit of hurt and damage, but the more of it he could ignore in favor of more pleasurable sensations, the better.
Even aside from what seemed shared in a way impossible, it was inspiring, the way Mettaton reacted with such immediacy to those signs of his wanting for his body, his desire for his mate's sex. Something that was, indeed, a bit animalistic- and something that Emet-Selch was immensely attracted to receiving, and for being responsible for. And with reactions like that, how couldn't he be moved to try and work his hips upward, legs spread and tense about Mettaton's body, in similarly wordless but clear desire for him? A plead for more, even as he accepted his lover's pace for them, as his body struggled to accommodate the thickness he was receiving.
Little by little, could this pain be something he could be aroused by too? It wasn't the same as being bitten or scratched, being grasped so tightly he was bruised, left with marks of semi-permanence (or definite permanence). But it wasn't without the potential for pleasure- or rather, he couldn't separate it from the satisfaction and sensitivity of being filled this intimately, of having his husband's cock rubbing inside of him. Shakily, he whispers something close to a moan of the other man's name, nuzzling against his lips as he listened to his voice, as he absorbed his heat.
Whatever physical pleasure he could grasp himself he knew would help, but it wasn't a requirement. It dampened not at all his desire for the taller man, and his breath comes quicker between the solidity of Mettaton's kiss, a contact he responds to with something like hunger. Held more securely yet by Mettaton's hands, the other man's body surrounding and grasping and mounting him in a way that felt both possessive and loving, he felt safer by degrees, calmed (while enticed) and reassured.]
I'll only blame you if you- don't. Mettaton....
[--At first, he'd hoped for nothing more than to feel Mettaton buried down to his root, their bodies as joined and as close as they could be. Given the limited arousal between them to start, he hadn't wished for his climax, his come- but as the robot's thrusts firmed, his suggestion of getting into it sending a shiver of anticipatory pleasure through him- he found himself coveting the sensation of him reaching that particular height.
...His body still tenses now and again, despite his best efforts, reflexive flinching in response to being dryly kneaded by something thick and stiff. But he rocks to meet his thrusts all the same, as if to show that his body wouldn't stop him- that everything that Mettaton was giving him was exactly what he wanted, that the ache for more outstripped the pain it left him in.]
[Oh, how those ears would spring again. Instead his body tenses, alertness manifesting in the tighter curl around his nude figure, the tops of white silicone thighs pressed against Emet-Selch's skin. They'd committed far enough that one way or another Mettaton would fit his cock inside of Emet-Selch's body for the sake of the intimacy of it, but of course any sign of Emet-Selch wanting him would coax Mettaton into a proper erection. When Mettaton scoops him close, Emet-Selch's only amenable, leaning into him- and the idol sighs in his pleasure of it, nuzzling the man underneath him.
His name, moaned like that... is enough to guarantee a proper filling, he thinks in all ways other than words. Mettaton groans right back, pressing Emet-Selch down with his upper body while still keeping his hips free, permitting him the continued arching into his thrusts. All combined with the sensation of pressing him down into the mattress, which gives Mettaton a rush to feel in combination with that sound that slips past his lips. Emet-Selch's fingertips dig into MTT's back, pressing into metal and demanding he stay. The potential for blame, if he didn't enjoy himself- that only pulls from him a lower groan, a firmer thrust.]
You... won't have a thing to worry about blaming me for, then... Hades.
[As usual: robots can't be breathless. Yet Mettaton sounds that way, unable to grasp for his voice; when he does, it's an airy rendition of it. It's shaping up to be an engagement far, far more productive than clinical, as even when Emet-Selch tenses in pain, Mettaton knows for fact that the rest of him enjoys every bit of this. Psychologically, he knew that pleasure could do wonders.
Thicker and stiffer he gets with each push, as it wasn't very comfortable to him, either. Come wasn't the best of lubricants... and it wasn't as though it was dry even now, but it wasn't slippery enough. Slipping Emet-Selch over his shaft's made into an easier affair with the Ascian participating, and Mettaton grips onto Emet-Selch's shoulders, using him as leverage to press deeper. And indeed, Emet-Selch slips further down his girth, their cravings for each other making it that bit easier to perform.]
Would you... let those fingers of yours wander to the sides of my chest? [A curiosity: Mettaton kisses the corner of Emet-Selch's lips, feeling a strange intensity coursing through him at any accidental touch of his tattoo. But he smiles, kissing him firmer, longer.] You have such an attractive grip, when you're losing yourself to me... Mmm.
[A stiffer, fuller insertion didn't exactly make things any easier on the mage's part, but he would want nothing less. (Though the solidity of Mettaton wasn't the worst thing to happen, in a purely practical sense, as he assumed that a softer cock would require more force to be pushed deep, while something appropriately firm was literally made for this purpose.) It meant that his lover was taking some pleasure in this, at least physically, and hadn't that been the greatest thing lacking, in the months leading up to this? Why Emet-Selch couldn't bring himself to react as he usually did to Mettaton, because his husband's duller senses wouldn't experience it with him....
So he embraces every bit of it now, as Mettaton coaxed their bodies together, and Emet-Selch did what he could to meet and receive him. He could guess that this wasn't the most delightful of sensations either for the robot, and that they wouldn't make a habit of fucking like this once they obtained an actual source of lubrication... but he found himself relieved that his husband could visibly (and audibly) become reasonably aroused by it still.
And that could dizzy him (along with his more genuine breathlessness, as he either forgets to take in air, or loses the chance through kisses, or expends it on sounds of his own). Altogether it... helped, and if he wasn't enjoying himself by now, it was near enough to make little difference.
Even if it wasn't the same kind of enjoyment as he'd been having before, when he'd been painfully erect, and lost to a different sort of desperate madness. But the more he sank into this (and the more Mettaton sank into him, however uncomfortably), the more pleasure there was. The more arousal there was, as it wasn't as though his body had been made exhausted of its potential for it.
But he wasn't really thinking of that, beyond an understanding that he... liked this, with less reluctance in each moment. Even if his body couldn't give in as readily to being entered like this, it mattered less even as it hurt more. Nearly every twinge of pain was followed by a firmer, decided roll of his hips upward, in defiance of his own limitations. And where his gasps weren't wholly free of signs of hurt, they demonstrated even more pleasure than that, warmth increasing each time Mettaton groaned with him, and with each bit more of his girth he felt pressed deep.
Mettaton's request draws a smaller sound from him- assent, probably. Though he'd mostly forgotten about their dragon bites in the wake of all else they'd been through and were doing, he doesn't question what his lover was asking for. His back felt the most natural to grasp onto, but there were other places he could reach, and none that he was opposed to touching. So his hands slip to his sides and drag upwards, the tips of his fingers firm against metal- but nowhere near as firm as what he was stroking.
Where Mettaton didn't need breath to speak, and didn't have to be hindered either by the act of kissing unless he wished to be, Emet-Selch had to operate under both of those constraints. Especially when he'd rather snap Mettaton's lips up in another kiss, forever caught up in answering, leaning for each one the taller man gives him. The scrape of his fingers tries to pull him closer somehow.]
If- you want that, then keep- what you're doing....
[It's mumbled with middling coherence, but it's all Mettaton's going to get, so long as Emet-Selch had his lips to claim.]
[(Indeed, if this remained a clinical transaction with an objective to reach, it wouldn't have been easy. Mettaton could've remained stiff enough but it would've been difficult for a full, satisfying insertion.
The nature of insertion, however, is enough to rile him up... And with his husband, increasingly pliant and goading him on, Mettaton was bound to get into it.)
It wasn't bad. It was easier than when they were in the house of mirrors, especially the more erect he got; trying to use spit at that time was... something. This was a material slicker, and there was plenty of it, thanks especially to Mettaton's abnormally productive releases. As he found himself stiffer, he could only become moreso with the eagerness of their bodies and the sensation of filling Emet-Selch out, and of the deliberate welcoming the Ascian willed out of his body for MTT's insertion. That he liked this was mirrored: Mettaton liked it, too, and he went from reluctance to eagerness readily.
He knew it was hurting Emet-Selch. But where his gasps weren't free from pain, neither did they seem separate from pleasure.
Neither of them consciously thought about their dragon bites, but each time he incidentally found his arm brushing over his side, Mettaton couldn't help but feel something sharp—but not unpleasant, which fueled this request. Even though he adored the feeling of fingers raking and pressing direly into his back, he was compelled to ask for this—and his request fulfilled jars him, causing him to gasp for sound, for thought.]
Ah...! Ohhh...!
[This close to its partnering tattoo, it was as good as an erogenous zone. A touch intimate, the circular markings linked the two lovers and did much to enhance the pleasure between them. Mettaton squirms under the rake of fingers that urge him close, a firm, harsh thrust of his hips the answer to his own hardening ache.
And though he hears Emet-Selch and comprehends him, it felt as though he spoke directly into his mind, hearing occupied with the sound of his own moaning as he curls hard around Emet-Selch, stuffing him deep. His thrusts aren't the sort that draw back and push in as they might enjoy, more cyclical and deliberate, small lengths of himself pulled then pushed to (as gradually as he can) ease Emet-Selch around him. But his thrusts, spirited as they are, plunge that bit deeper, that bit more uncontrollably, as he answers Emet-Selch's answer with a kiss more hot than damp.
But damp all the same, with how involved Emet-Selch's made to be. And Mettaton takes advantage of that, kissing him hard, interrupting his speech with a low, heady groan. Shifting his hands away from Emet-Selch's shoulders, Mettaton decides to grip him by the hips—not because of the marking there, but because he wanted to impress upon the smaller man that he had him well in hand, and would fill him. Nearly a growl, possessive and low, slips between their lips in the midst of a kiss as Mettaton wraps his fingers around Emet-Selch's hips, drawing the Ascian close and holding him steady for his gradual penetration.]
Oh, I'll... I'll keep doing you, is what I'm doing.
[Obvious. But he's impassioned, voice low and husky. The monster shifts his knees closer, forcing Emet-Selch into an even tighter curl as he rocks his hips—as he forces him into riding down his shaft, practically down to the root.]
[Emet-Selch did find himself briefly comparing it to their experience in the house of mirrors, the only other time they'd gone completely without lubrication. That had hurt more; he'd also been more sharply aroused (and emotionally disturbed, but in a different direction from now), so it had somewhat balanced out. Mettaton's thrusts had been rougher, harder on him, as he'd pinned the smaller man against a wall, as he'd had no frame of reference as to what that insertion was supposed to be like- and Emet-Selch hadn't bothered to explain until afterward.
This wasn't as difficult as that; as copious as Mettaton's drool had been then (mixed with the mage's blood), his semen was even moreso (mixed with the mage's semen). And this time, Emet-Selch had prepared himself somewhat (rather than telling the robot to have at it, and... having him do just that).
This hurt; this was horniness and other neediness prevailing over sense. He would be sore afterward. But it was also increasingly good.
And what unintentionally helped too, was the reaction he got while dragging his hands down the robot's sides. The way his partner nearly jolted, moved as though it were his cock being electrified, causes his own body to twitch, to jerk up into his length. It was something sensitive- and in the heat of the moment, he couldn't distinguish between what Mettaton was feeling, and what he was feeling too, or whether he was just that taken by his lover's reaction to being scratched that way.
Whatever the cause, it was good, it got him harder, as his body responded to all this stimulus in the most natural way it knew: by filling out his cock.
A prime factor in that hardening, though, was the way Mettaton filled him out, in reliable pushes that gave him as much chance as he could to adapt. (Far more than he would've given himself, and where he still would have chosen that outcome if he thought about it- he's not thinking of it now, given in to what they had like this. The familiarity and comfort of being laid down, Mettaton wrapped around him as much as he could, securing him against his hips.) And even if the deeper he went, the more he stretched him, and the more it hurt- the more it inevitably aroused him too. Both in the consciousness of what they were doing, the erotic truth of Mettaton fitting him with his cock, but the way it rubbed him wasn't entirely about the rawness.
Crying out against his lips, it's made breathless and partially swallowed by the way their lips continued to meet. Ardor and kisses that he struggles to meet, though it's effort clumsier, damper now, as he nearly pants against him. A warm shiver courses through him to hear Mettaton growling, his body instinctively excited by the sound, and by the way the taller man mounted him with it.]
Keep- keep going, Mettaton--
[It's less demand and more of a plea, whispered in a tight voice near his lips, which he continues trying to kiss- even as his own keep parting to vocalize less coherently than that, with soft groans and cries. Gasps from sharper twinges of pain, as his body took more and more of a hard, thick cock- but sounds that trailed off into shaky, outright moans. It was entirely removed from how clinical it had been to start, and far more than he thought was achievable, from the way his legs lock around him, to how he scrapes his hands down the robot's sides, tensely groping and holding on. If not the most desperate he'd ever been, he was committed- and openly affected.]
[This tattoo is the strangest-placed and -sourced direct line to his cock. When it was Emet-Selch handling him, their bodies close, the sensation of his fingertips grazing over his sides or gripping onto him for dear life have him arching his back, squirming and writhing against Emet-Selch's body with all of his energetic over-sensitivity. And the more he was touched, the more he was dragged against Emet-Selch, the deeper and more pronounced his thrusts. He was helpless to stop himself, and though the drag of muscle 'round his girth wasn't silky smooth... it felt good to be embedded in him, bodies connected through their effort.
Gripping down on Emet-Selch's hips, he draws the smaller man close enough to his hips that any space he had left to cover of his erection was readily patched. His length is pressed deep, right down to the root. The sound of Emet-Selch's voice urged him there, a need to... soothe, perhaps, that tightness of voice by filling out the tightness of body. He would not only keep going, but make good on settling Emet-Selch down on his root—effectively and totally penetrating him.]
Ah... For you...
[For him, he'd not only fit him in this blissful, if intense in many directions, union. He'd also keep going. Gripping firmly his hips, Mettaton would be sinking claws into skin if he had them as his grasp steels, holding Emet-Selch steady to be worked down with that thick cock he finally fit.
They were both committed to this end, and Mettaton's voice is a rumble of a groan as he mounts him tight, continuing to swing his hips, pressing him back against the mattress. Short, full kneading, rolling his tip deep inside of Emet-Selch, the sensation of erotic pleasure after months with out quickly blinds him, as Mettaton's groans soon join with Emet-Selch's moans. Just as he promised, he can't stop himself: he's really getting into it, even as he sympathizes with the hurt Emet-Selch's enduring, and even as he feels some of that drag for himself. It felt too good, and he felt too spirited to let it get him down anymore.
With the two of them busy giving voice to their vocalizations, kisses are even sloppier and less coordinated than before. Mettaton gives the Ascian a firm thrust to emphasize how he's buried down to the root, before moaning at the contact, at the acknowledgement that they were finally joined.
Soft and low, his voice wouldn't be audible to anyone beyond Emet-Selch.]
This... is more than I could have wished for, Hades...
[Even the circumstance, because Emet-Selch is alive and real and not an idealized version of a man he's married to. He is responsive and reactive, and even if they came to blows, even if their mood had soured, Mettaton adored the place they found themselves in now because of their journey. And the wish Emet-Selch had made... Mettaton felt grateful for it, even though he knew they would've both wished for it together.
But he wanted Emet-Selch to experience the joy he got out of this vivid sensation. Of being gripped, touched, and then given a spot for him to slip his cock, warm and tight; Mettaton shudders tightly, a squeak of a moan escaping his throat as he's crushed by the overwhelming and sudden realization that he was feeling, vivid and arousing. From pain to pleasure to the simple contact of their bodies, the man beneath him warm and soft and giving... His body shudders, as he both collapses and curls around Emet-Selch.]
You've made a mess of me, god...
[And with this amount of sensitivity, the heavy weight of arousal between this thighs... release would not be difficult to find from here. But he gives Emet-Selch a softer kiss, brief against the corner of his lips out of appreciation.]
[And with Mettaton's grasp on his hips, Emet-Selch's own tattoo is occasionally brushed, grazed- and with it, his thoughts turn to static. It was far sharper than anything he would've expected from this contact, despite the suggestive appeal of Mettaton holding onto him this way, securing him down to the mattress and fucking him as he'd dreamt of. But this was another entire reason to be aroused, and unavoidably so.
So his body can't help but writhe, bucking up into Mettaton cock even as he was finally buried all the way down to the root. Grinding himself onto the robot's lap, his thighs on either side of him tremble, while more invisibly muscle tenses around him. Lips parted, he's out of breath enough for any sound he makes to be choked into nothing, but he's still provoked into making them. The satisfaction he had, in knowing he held the whole of his husband's cock, could sit flush to his lap even if it hurt himself to do- he had no words for it, nothing beyond a rush of gratitude, relief, and adoration.
And what went perfectly with it was the softness he felt in response to his lover's words, an understanding that he'd given him something equally treasured. A pleasure reflected bodily, yes, but the emotional impact that went with it, this sharing of experiences. Of sensations, of moods both good and poor- of this time spent reaching for each other's company, and taking their bodies along the way.
He nuzzles, whispers his name, makes effort after effort to kiss him even when most of them are lost to sounds or breaths. From digging in, one of his hands manages to stroke more gently down Mettaton's side, affection writ plain in each touch. He loved him; he reveled in every moan Mettaton graced him with, and that the way he moved spoke of a man who really had gotten into this. That they could enjoy this together after all was more than he thought possible....
He tries for a hum when Mettaton speaks of being a mess, but it turns into something closer to a groan.]
You're not- not enough of one- not yet....
[He whispers it near his lips, in a voice as tight as his body felt. But not with agony or displeasure, even though he could tell that this all hurt, and would continue to hurt him. That Mettaton was surely bruising him with his fingers is barely noticed, beyond the pleasurable ache it gave him, the mage already squirming into every push of their bodies, as though he could drive him any deeper.
Nothing but Mettaton's release would do, and he was sure now that the robot would be able to reach it, was interested enough to manage it. Not that Emet-Selch thought that it would be very much of a mess at all, given that it would be neatly contained and delivered deep inside him. A sensation he'd gone without since he'd arrived here, and one that he realized he missed nearly as much as this. A flood of heat even hotter than his erection; swallowing him once had merely left him aching for more of it, however he could get it.]
[Impossibility really didn't exist, not between them. That's not a takeaway, so much as something MTT had been sure of to start, long before. Even segueing from a soured mood back to an affectionate and hungry one was never out of the question, even if in the sinkhole of the moment it felt like it. Nothing was impossible between them. They could do so much when united...
And united they were, Mettaton acknowledges with a shudder of delight. With Emet-Selch panting and squirming, slamming himself down forcefully against the robot's lap, how could he do anything but cry out in ecstasy? He looks down at him with his eye wide, mesmerized by the sight of Emet-Selch caught in his thrall. Had he another arm he's sure he'd stroke his face, cup his cheek, draw digits along the softness of his skin... but instead, his fingers dig into his hips, gripping onto his mate as he drags himself firmly along his body in short, deep, and full strokes.
It wasn't the slickest combination they've ever had... but the pure delight of being together at all couldn't be overlooked, a precious thing they'd wanted for months on end. His lips part, but instead of any response (he'd only registered his voice as static, to start), Mettaton moans again, arching his back and giving himself over to grinding into Emet-Selch.
No... he wouldn't be much of a mess. And that notion itself brings him to growl, curling around the mage again as he mashes their lips together.]
Then m... make me, make me one, Hades...
[His voice itself is a groan, nearly veering into a whine as his cock fills, a pressure swimming low, hard and deep in his body without reprieve. With no pulse, and seemingly no fluid, it felt so strangely impossible to feel so needing of release... And if his new anatomy didn't factor in veins or 'blood' or anything needed to fuel an erection or even an orgasm, there must be something magical at play. He wished he could communicate in words how he felt, with his thighs burning, hyper-aware of his own cock and the heat he occupied—but what better way to tell Emet-Selch than to show him, to leave him achingly hot and full of his release?
He'd already wanted that outcome. But with it front and center in his mind, the robotic monster groans, drawing Emet-Selch up by the hips to better penetrate him, as if he needed that.]
Stay... Give me you- Ahh, Hades, I'm going to, f-first... You let me first...!!
[Emet-Selch hasn't made any indication that he was about to come, but even still, Mettaton makes the rules. He comes first, no matter what, and he makes that clear with a tighter grip on his hips, a gasp and jerk at the sensation of being handled, his body fondled, his cock squeezed around. Inundated helplessly by sensation as he is, who was the one really in control here when MTT could barely think straight with it all?]
[He shivers at being growled at, the sound wholly exciting rather than threatening, as went with any other signs of his husband's more animalistic habits. There wasn't room or time for decorum in their sex, even if they'd begun more slowly and without much in the way of their normal wanting. How swiftly that had changed, and so completely that it left him breathless and stricken to feel it. They really were prone to one another... heart and body both.
And Mettaton would be made more of a (literal) mess if he had anything to say about it, though it would be from the Ascian's come instead. He'd already finished once between them, and though that had been somewhat obscured by the robot's more copious and glittery load, it was assuredly there. And he more assuredly was willing to add to it, to leave his own mark on his mate's body in this base way.
But not yet, no matter the thrill that ran through him at the thought. There wasn't any chance of Emet-Selch defying him, even if he'd wanted to; though he felt surprisingly full, a throb that matched the soreness of his body as he was rubbed deep, he wasn't at the point where bursting felt immanent. Part of him remained mostly surprised that he'd gotten hard at all, given their starting point. Not impossible, of course, though his faith in those areas wasn't as complete; his own trust had more to do with being relentlessly stubborn, rather than anything necessarily pleasurable or pleasant.
But here they were, fucking as though their lives depended on it, every grind of their bodies together a reason to gasp, to tighten up. To writhe harder to meet it, as though he could squeeze and drag Mettaton's release from him, coax it out through the tightness and plea of his body. An appeal for him to let go, to give him that slickness they lacked (even if it would be too late to spare him the discomfort).]
Then- then come or I'll- I'll surpass you--
[He wouldn't, not now; he couldn't, more relevantly, unless Mettaton managed to hold out for much longer than this. The desperation he felt was one he recognized as a yearning for his lover's own release, to witness and feel him at that peak once more. He'd done it already in his mouth and his hand, but each time left him wanting to take him from additional angles. Other ways and means, as what did seeing Mettaton climax do for him but leave him wanting to see more?
And it would arouse him endlessly to witness, to feel him let go, when he'd gone without for months. And when he's tugged harder yet to Mettaton's hips, kissed no less fiercely even as their bodies continued to be slammed together, insistence and determination making up for any physical lack of readiness, he clenches tight around him, pants against the other man's lips. It was damp enough now, their kiss, and hot enough that the only thing that could beat it was where their bodies were properly joined. Even so, he pleads for more, to be scalded properly inside a body already raw, the cries he makes against him wordless but wanting.]
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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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And so it surprised, to hear Mettaton... agree to continuing? Emet-Selch stills, not really believing he heard or understood correctly, even as he feels more of what was an unmistakable push forward. A slow, uncomfortable grind into his body, reclaiming ground previously abandoned. And with far more to go than that. And he's silent, uncertain of what to make of this, having resigned himself to emptiness.
But this was notably not that. It was also notably something that would take... an interminable amount of time given Mettaton's current least-destructive pace. But the smaller man says nothing; beyond that first hint of surprise and moment of startle, he doesn't react. His body twinges but he doesn't fight it, even though there was no way he could describe this as pleasant. ...In some small way, he was touched that Mettaton would try at all, even when he clearly didn't want to, on top of not enjoying it.
After several too-long moments, in something too clinical to be called sex, he sighs slowly, glancing aside.]
...Never mind. It's clear that you despise this. I'll survive going without.
[He could indulge his misery on his own time, rather than dragging Mettaton down into all of it. It was hard to imagine anything less appealing than this... and in the moment, hard to imagine ever wanting to be in this position again. But he knew habit would get to him eventually. Hopefully there would be some better lube available, so that they could more readily ignore everything that went wrong this time, he considered cynically.]
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[He wasn't sure how he felt about a lot of this, but he knew that with such certainty that he spits it out first. His voice is still soft, his guard totally dropped, revealing that hurt core of his that struggled in situations uncomfortable. Uncomfortable in ways that went beyond the sensation of pressing past tight muscle, lubricated only by drying semen... Emet-Selch isn't yielding, and their ejaculate isn't the slickest substance after all, not when compared to proper lubricant. No, his pace isn't hasty; at this rate, he wasn't sure what haste would yield them, given that it wasn't as though Emet-Selch was very pliant, and neither of them had any glide to offer.
Mettaton deliberately ignores Emet-Selch's dismissal when he tells him not to mind. Just as he didn't listen before—but this time, it's having heard him deny him that he continues. But it's because this was a denial rooted in Mettaton's feelings that he continues, feelings that... weren't so severe as despise, much less hate. And the more that moments pass, the more he realizes that it didn't even stray into not wanting this, as much as not wanting the discomfort of the surrounding feelings... but wanting to face it all anyway.
With that in mind, he meets Emet-Selch's eyes again, this time with a brighter light to them. A spark of determination, it could be called, as though a monster were capable of it... (Who really defined that about monsters, anyway? Proper determination was a stupid word for what it was that they really lacked, when Mettaton showed more often than anything that he had the flame of ambition in him.)
It's... a bit less clinical, the way he curls into Emet-Selch, as though he felt better even for hearing Emet-Selch dismiss him out of consideration for his feelings. Still carefully, he shakes his head no, and continues, slow rolls of his hips the answer to their mutual resistance.]
But I want to show you that I do care about what you want, Hades. And that whatever it is that you set your heart on... I want it, too. Even if I can't let go, or act like I know better than you.
[And even if the thought of it makes him uncomfortable. The thought of letting Emet-Selch hurt himself had clearly done that, for some reason... when the hypocrisy of him hurting Emet-Selch was somehow different. Or suddenly stopping, suddenly controlling the minutia of the situation in thinking he knew how to dictate what Emet-Selch was enjoying and had well in hand... Mettaton smiles a little just to consider it, as he'd enjoyed his enjoyment even when he sought to... derail it.
That suggested, Mettaton squeezes Emet-Selch's shoulder.]
Will you accept me, at least that far?
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But more of a surprise yet, was the conclusion that Mettaton seemed to come to, and that it wasn't to give up and withdraw. For a moment, all Emet-Selch could do was blink, on realizing that the other man wasn't pulling out, permitting that part of their encounter to come to its emotionally uncomfortable and unsatisfying end. The Ascian had thought he'd been as neutral, honest as he could be; it was a genuine permission for Mettaton to stop, rather than a trap to foster further resentment.
Staring at him without entirely realizing he was doing it, he's briefly at a loss for how to react. He wasn't going to insist that the robot stop for his own sake, if he was determined to press on for him- but it was hard to accept that he was, given how previously reluctant he'd been to hurt him. And this would certainly hurt, even with the care Mettaton took in the way he pushed forward, kneading the Ascian's body into what compliance it could give him. Which was a limited amount, even when he was trying not to tense.
Hesitantly, he reaches up with his other arm, taking him into a loose sort of embrace. A non-verbal acceptance of Mettaton's decision, before he can entirely find the words for it. Fingers press gently into metal, as though it were something new to him- or precious, in some intangible way. He still ached to remember what things had been like so recently, when they'd both been so aroused, so desperate. This felt like a sad echo of that moment, but he wanted him all the same.]
...If you're willing, how could I refuse you?
[It already felt a little less clinical at least, a form of intimacy that wasn't comfortable in any regard- but intimacy all the same. Absently adjusting his grip on him, he meets his eye. Takes in the familiar details of his face- the familiar resolution to him as well. He didn't see him as the sort to give up; neither of them were, even if it sometimes manifested differently. And it was one of the many things he loved about him. Sighing more softly yet, he watches him, gold into brilliant violet.]
Would you kiss me?
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An arm's slung around his person, and Mettaton sinks into it some more, sighing at the tactile comfort of it that he could feel so vividly, from the warmth of his limb to the softness of his skin. ...It did feel like a sad echo of what they just had, and MTT, too, ached for it. And even wanted him, despite it all, as he always had.
So when he suggests his willingness, Mettaton nods. Transfixed by his look alone, he could make the claim that his willingness to obey was induced by some kind of hypnotism, if he weren't sincerely endeared to the thought of kissing him after so simple a request. But Mettaton smiles, thumb stroking between his shoulder and neck as he mounts him.]
Would I ever. [An enthused reply, never wanting to shirk the opportunity.] I'm glad you asked.
[Because he wanted to kiss him too. If Emet-Selch hadn't asked, it was likely that MTT would've closed in, tested the emotional connection between their bodies—but just like this he closes in, curling around his husband's body as he works his length into him the best he can, all while locking lips.
Mettaton tenderly takes to kissing his lower lip, a soft union of them where he sucks gently, nuzzling against Emet-Selch's lips with a hum. He was so warm, so soft, so damp... All of the normal things that would welcome a kiss, but bits that Mettaton coveted, a touch that inspires him into wanting. Details of Emet-Selch that, sure, all other bodies would share—but Mettaton's transfixed on him uniquely, for all of his softness, his welcoming of a kiss, his welcoming of his body. Though his advance is tender, it belies a heat that manages to be a continuation of where they left off—a hunger for not only for the sensations he could experience, but the responses, the actions of the man beneath him.
And most importantly, the ardor he harbored for him, a heated affection that wouldn't be so easily quelled. He loved him all the same, wanted him all the same, and felt safe with him always.]
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And when their lips meet, and his eyes take the opportunity to slip shut, Emet-Selch finds himself for the first time since he'd been placed on his back... not disliking this position. Relaxing a little bit into it, beyond the deliberate way he tries to relax around the robot's length, it was too much to say that he enjoyed it, yet- but it was better. The kiss, though, he was immediately enamored with.
It was pleasant, affectionate- romantic, even, as so many of their touches were. But he felt especially attuned to it now- or at least, felt more of a longing in that direction, for something that would make up for the recently renewed disconnect. Even if it had taken time to even be able to reach for this much, a willingness to accept some sort of reassurance after they'd both been wounded, Emet-Selch soaks it in as though he'd been starved for it for far longer than these minutes.
Though it was a different softness than his own, he could feel the slight give to Mettaton's lips, the texture something to ever fascinate over just as the other man could with his skin. His own mouth providing enough saliva to keep the contact effectively moist, he makes a small noise into the gentle suck of his lip, something appreciative.
It wasn't at all the same as the ardor they might have shared in their more familiar couplings, even the ones where they took a slower pace- but Emet-Selch could feel Mettaton's love for him no less. If anything, it felt a touch rawer than usual, due to that lingering emotional disturbance, as anything sentimental settled close as vulnerabilities were restored. More open again to his lover's heart- of course it would hurt to be close to it.
All of it, though, he would take as some distraction to the gradual way Mettaton worked himself deeper. Not to the idea, the awareness of being slowly filled- but the drag that would have to be endured to get there. That much wasn't so nice, but it was warm too, warmer than their kiss even (the warmth of skin raw...), and he gasps softly against his lips. Arms tightening around him, he buries one hand in dark hair, while his legs readjust to more actively lock around Mettaton's hips. It wasn't the same as being properly aroused, but the more he was able to let go of his distress, the easier it was to remember the abject pleasure that was usually found in this position. In this configuration, with their lips together, and their bodies in the process of joining, Mettaton a welcomed force above him.
(He could be exasperated in himself, at how quickly his mood there could change- but it didn't surprise him. They had too much history like this, too many times the robot had nestled himself just like this between his legs, atop his body, lovingly mounting him. Given the slightest crack in his defensive resolve, and he'd crumble just like this...and he was grateful, then, that Mettaton had neither withdrawn nor left him.)]
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A gentler romance rather than the electrifying heat that singed them before accompanies this combining of bodies. Mettaton felt similarly grateful and humbled that he didn't leave, that he fought his usual impulse to let Emet-Selch fester in his feelings just because he didn't find him in a productive state. That he could sit with him, and let him be upset... That Emet-Selch never pushed him away only served as a reminder of the time when the Ascian cried out for him despite his righteous, blind fury. Then... then, in all of the electric insanity, he'd rather have his teeth in his throat, his neck snapped up by sharp incisors. Being together could be destructive, but it could remain a wonderful thing, even as they were gradually working at inevitably doing harm to Emet-Selch's body.
Not because that was the intent, of course. Kissing him soft, that appreciative sound is met with a lower, almost groan on MTT's part. He couldn't help the heat that burned low in his body at feeling Emet-Selch succumbed beneath his weight... even after all else, it was an insane, and instant, attraction. No, he wouldn't say that feeling himself slipping past somewhat-slick muscle was particularly pleasant, even if it wasn't bad... nor was he in any impressive state of arousal.
But what he was, was smitten. Emet-Selch's body tries to receive him, relaxing and bending around him, holding him and trying at pliance. Too much to say he enjoyed it either- but he couldn't help but find it innately attractive, to have his mate naked, beneath him, receiving his cock.
So he kneads his way deeper, a gradual thing that still makes strides. Their lips slide against each other's in their kiss that just keeps going, little moments here and there for Emet-Selch to breathe- but the priority was their kiss, as Mettaton takes any opportunity he can to capture him back up, to rob him of his next gulp of air. Just like this he fills him, gradually rolling his hips to stuff his girth in Emet-Selch's deserving body.
His words are a mumble, spoken against Emet-Selch's lips, damp from kisses tender.]
If you need me to pause at any point... say so. Though I doubt you'll need that.
[Because he figured that Emet-Selch would determinedly, stubbornly maintain himself, even if it hurt. But the floor was open if he had anything to say, just in case he defeated his expectations. In case he did have input.
With a good nudge, Mettaton restores the depth Emet-Selch had found once- but no more than that. He exhales, letting the pressure of heat expel from his body- because he couldn't deny, he was getting the "better" end of the bargain. Emet-Selch was still squeezing 'round his cock- and even though the insertion wasn't the most comfortable, they'd done it before... and the mood struck him as just vulnerable, just exposed enough that it managed still to make him horny, and in love.]
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More direct, and more honest had been his desperation to give his throat, his life to Mettaton. Anything to ease his lover's madness; anything to keep from being alone. Mettaton had hurt him terribly by abandoning him instead- and though he knew it had been for the best, it was difficult for his emotions to agree. Even now, some part of him would have preferred to have the memory instead of teeth tearing him apart. (He already had that memory, of times when another sort of insanity had prevailed.)
One way or another, remaining in each other's company could be destructive. He was relieved to be spared that much now, to feel Mettaton's presence and company impressing on him still, a distraction from himself.)
To hear a groan from the other man was its own pleasure, as any sign of anything other than clinical resolution... helped. Not only when it came to enduring the more uncomfortable sensory aspects of their combining, but in continuing to sooth the parts of his temper that remained ruffled, disturbed.
And devoted kissing helped, taking and giving one after another- if they could ever be properly divided into distinct 'kisses', given how reluctant they were to pause in them once started. But the Ascian occasionally required breath, and Mettaton graciously permitted him a little, for all that neither of them seemed inclined to give him opportunity for much. Being out of breath, searching out that faint, familiar dizziness, the accompanying quickness of his heart- it helped too, as his body reluctantly was made to take progressively more of his husband's thickness again.
Being properly aroused would've made this easier still... but he didn't have his hopes raised that far, for all that his mood had improved somewhat. Emet-Selch could tell (after all, he was in a rather specific position to feel it directly) that Mettaton was similarly not nearly as full as he had been, not as rigid as he could be, the kind of stiffness that he could ache to observe. But he was still somewhat hard, and naturally so, given that his cock was receiving some manner of treatment, even if it wasn't exactly pleasant. (And the robot seemed aspected towards arousal as a default.)
And their position was, now that Emet-Selch was no longer as upset, undoubtedly an attractive one. That much he would agree with. Closely pressed and gently rolling together, they would make a visibly erotic sight, even when more than their hearts were tender. Lips frequently locked and sounds blended, he embraced the less-uncomfortable tension that his body made some attempt to feel, as the simple concept of what they were doing was worth every bit of attraction.
Shivering when he's allowed a little more air as Mettaton speaks, their lips remain close, damp, heated. Even with breath, it was difficult to reply, distracted as he was by wanting to kiss him, by the pleasure he could take in this, soft and wanting both.]
You know- just as well as I do, that I'd never ask for that.
[Calling himself out... but they both recognized his stubbornness. Especially now, when there was additional baggage around his being willingness to be hurt if it meant being filled by Mettaton's cock, he was absolutely not going to ask him to slow down or stop. His fingers tense against him at even the idea, as he felt a mix of apprehension and anticipation on guessing that the robot was only about halfway in... which meant there was still plenty to go. Reminding himself to give in past every protesting twinge of his body, he manages to nudge his hips upward with a small noise that wasn't entirely pained.]
If there's anything I need, it's for you not to- to stop.
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Which he knew would please. And in knowing that it would please, it served to arouse... That's why they were so effective on each other! If they were talking about it, he'd laugh outright.
Their efforts unite toward filling Emet-Selch up, as Mettaton gasps to feel Emet-Selch nudging back into the press of his hips. Like a light switch flicked, he feels heat course through his body, fierce and shocking; there's no way a reading like that couldn't be felt through that psychic connection they've gained, through the help of their little dragon bites. The involuntary jerk of his hips, a somatic response to his mate asking for his cock, might be enough to demonstrate his animalistic desire, a want for Emet-Selch that ran carnal and monstrous, that he couldn't deny. Easy to tap into, regardless of position...
He has no rabbit ears. But the way they'd spring and lean would've been 100% guaranteed.
The heat that seeps from past his lips might be evidence enough of his excitement, as his voice slips his throat in a soft exhale of a groan. To not stop... His fingers flex against Emet-Selch's shoulders, reaffirming his grip on the smaller man beneath him as he further mounts him. Curling around him, he presses a firmer kiss, a heated breath.]
Then don't blame me, if I really start to... get into it...
[He knew Emet-Selch wouldn't hold it against him if he were deriving physical pleasure from something that wasn't as pleasant to him. Mettaton hadn't wanted Emet-Selch to have to hurt, no matter how it was applied... but the result of their blows is that Mettaton understood that Emet-Selch was ready for it, had committed to it. Just as they'd both committed, at least, to filling him, to finding themselves deep. He helps to lift Emet-Selch's hips, curling around his body, a wordless promise that he would remain steady in his insertion.
And his thrusts firm, his presses shorter, gradual. He tries for the least painful insertion, even though he knew it inevitable, a low rumble in his throat.]
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Mettaton's hips jerk, and Emet-Selch gasps against his lips, body reflexively tensing around his erection in a way that wasn't at all comfortable- but not a terrible feeling either. His hands similarly tense, fingers dragging over the robot's body, not entirely understanding the source of what seemed closer to actual pleasure. Arousal, that was both his and wasn't, as the mage's cock was still mostly soft by this point. But he was grateful for it, as while he found the discomfort worthwhile, the discomfort wasn't the point. He would take every bit of hurt and damage, but the more of it he could ignore in favor of more pleasurable sensations, the better.
Even aside from what seemed shared in a way impossible, it was inspiring, the way Mettaton reacted with such immediacy to those signs of his wanting for his body, his desire for his mate's sex. Something that was, indeed, a bit animalistic- and something that Emet-Selch was immensely attracted to receiving, and for being responsible for. And with reactions like that, how couldn't he be moved to try and work his hips upward, legs spread and tense about Mettaton's body, in similarly wordless but clear desire for him? A plead for more, even as he accepted his lover's pace for them, as his body struggled to accommodate the thickness he was receiving.
Little by little, could this pain be something he could be aroused by too? It wasn't the same as being bitten or scratched, being grasped so tightly he was bruised, left with marks of semi-permanence (or definite permanence). But it wasn't without the potential for pleasure- or rather, he couldn't separate it from the satisfaction and sensitivity of being filled this intimately, of having his husband's cock rubbing inside of him. Shakily, he whispers something close to a moan of the other man's name, nuzzling against his lips as he listened to his voice, as he absorbed his heat.
Whatever physical pleasure he could grasp himself he knew would help, but it wasn't a requirement. It dampened not at all his desire for the taller man, and his breath comes quicker between the solidity of Mettaton's kiss, a contact he responds to with something like hunger. Held more securely yet by Mettaton's hands, the other man's body surrounding and grasping and mounting him in a way that felt both possessive and loving, he felt safer by degrees, calmed (while enticed) and reassured.]
I'll only blame you if you- don't. Mettaton....
[--At first, he'd hoped for nothing more than to feel Mettaton buried down to his root, their bodies as joined and as close as they could be. Given the limited arousal between them to start, he hadn't wished for his climax, his come- but as the robot's thrusts firmed, his suggestion of getting into it sending a shiver of anticipatory pleasure through him- he found himself coveting the sensation of him reaching that particular height.
...His body still tenses now and again, despite his best efforts, reflexive flinching in response to being dryly kneaded by something thick and stiff. But he rocks to meet his thrusts all the same, as if to show that his body wouldn't stop him- that everything that Mettaton was giving him was exactly what he wanted, that the ache for more outstripped the pain it left him in.]
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His name, moaned like that... is enough to guarantee a proper filling, he thinks in all ways other than words. Mettaton groans right back, pressing Emet-Selch down with his upper body while still keeping his hips free, permitting him the continued arching into his thrusts. All combined with the sensation of pressing him down into the mattress, which gives Mettaton a rush to feel in combination with that sound that slips past his lips. Emet-Selch's fingertips dig into MTT's back, pressing into metal and demanding he stay. The potential for blame, if he didn't enjoy himself- that only pulls from him a lower groan, a firmer thrust.]
You... won't have a thing to worry about blaming me for, then... Hades.
[As usual: robots can't be breathless. Yet Mettaton sounds that way, unable to grasp for his voice; when he does, it's an airy rendition of it. It's shaping up to be an engagement far, far more productive than clinical, as even when Emet-Selch tenses in pain, Mettaton knows for fact that the rest of him enjoys every bit of this. Psychologically, he knew that pleasure could do wonders.
Thicker and stiffer he gets with each push, as it wasn't very comfortable to him, either. Come wasn't the best of lubricants... and it wasn't as though it was dry even now, but it wasn't slippery enough. Slipping Emet-Selch over his shaft's made into an easier affair with the Ascian participating, and Mettaton grips onto Emet-Selch's shoulders, using him as leverage to press deeper. And indeed, Emet-Selch slips further down his girth, their cravings for each other making it that bit easier to perform.]
Would you... let those fingers of yours wander to the sides of my chest? [A curiosity: Mettaton kisses the corner of Emet-Selch's lips, feeling a strange intensity coursing through him at any accidental touch of his tattoo. But he smiles, kissing him firmer, longer.] You have such an attractive grip, when you're losing yourself to me... Mmm.
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So he embraces every bit of it now, as Mettaton coaxed their bodies together, and Emet-Selch did what he could to meet and receive him. He could guess that this wasn't the most delightful of sensations either for the robot, and that they wouldn't make a habit of fucking like this once they obtained an actual source of lubrication... but he found himself relieved that his husband could visibly (and audibly) become reasonably aroused by it still.
And that could dizzy him (along with his more genuine breathlessness, as he either forgets to take in air, or loses the chance through kisses, or expends it on sounds of his own). Altogether it... helped, and if he wasn't enjoying himself by now, it was near enough to make little difference.
Even if it wasn't the same kind of enjoyment as he'd been having before, when he'd been painfully erect, and lost to a different sort of desperate madness. But the more he sank into this (and the more Mettaton sank into him, however uncomfortably), the more pleasure there was. The more arousal there was, as it wasn't as though his body had been made exhausted of its potential for it.
But he wasn't really thinking of that, beyond an understanding that he... liked this, with less reluctance in each moment. Even if his body couldn't give in as readily to being entered like this, it mattered less even as it hurt more. Nearly every twinge of pain was followed by a firmer, decided roll of his hips upward, in defiance of his own limitations. And where his gasps weren't wholly free of signs of hurt, they demonstrated even more pleasure than that, warmth increasing each time Mettaton groaned with him, and with each bit more of his girth he felt pressed deep.
Mettaton's request draws a smaller sound from him- assent, probably. Though he'd mostly forgotten about their dragon bites in the wake of all else they'd been through and were doing, he doesn't question what his lover was asking for. His back felt the most natural to grasp onto, but there were other places he could reach, and none that he was opposed to touching. So his hands slip to his sides and drag upwards, the tips of his fingers firm against metal- but nowhere near as firm as what he was stroking.
Where Mettaton didn't need breath to speak, and didn't have to be hindered either by the act of kissing unless he wished to be, Emet-Selch had to operate under both of those constraints. Especially when he'd rather snap Mettaton's lips up in another kiss, forever caught up in answering, leaning for each one the taller man gives him. The scrape of his fingers tries to pull him closer somehow.]
If- you want that, then keep- what you're doing....
[It's mumbled with middling coherence, but it's all Mettaton's going to get, so long as Emet-Selch had his lips to claim.]
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The nature of insertion, however, is enough to rile him up... And with his husband, increasingly pliant and goading him on, Mettaton was bound to get into it.)
It wasn't bad. It was easier than when they were in the house of mirrors, especially the more erect he got; trying to use spit at that time was... something. This was a material slicker, and there was plenty of it, thanks especially to Mettaton's abnormally productive releases. As he found himself stiffer, he could only become moreso with the eagerness of their bodies and the sensation of filling Emet-Selch out, and of the deliberate welcoming the Ascian willed out of his body for MTT's insertion. That he liked this was mirrored: Mettaton liked it, too, and he went from reluctance to eagerness readily.
He knew it was hurting Emet-Selch. But where his gasps weren't free from pain, neither did they seem separate from pleasure.
Neither of them consciously thought about their dragon bites, but each time he incidentally found his arm brushing over his side, Mettaton couldn't help but feel something sharp—but not unpleasant, which fueled this request. Even though he adored the feeling of fingers raking and pressing direly into his back, he was compelled to ask for this—and his request fulfilled jars him, causing him to gasp for sound, for thought.]
Ah...! Ohhh...!
[This close to its partnering tattoo, it was as good as an erogenous zone. A touch intimate, the circular markings linked the two lovers and did much to enhance the pleasure between them. Mettaton squirms under the rake of fingers that urge him close, a firm, harsh thrust of his hips the answer to his own hardening ache.
And though he hears Emet-Selch and comprehends him, it felt as though he spoke directly into his mind, hearing occupied with the sound of his own moaning as he curls hard around Emet-Selch, stuffing him deep. His thrusts aren't the sort that draw back and push in as they might enjoy, more cyclical and deliberate, small lengths of himself pulled then pushed to (as gradually as he can) ease Emet-Selch around him. But his thrusts, spirited as they are, plunge that bit deeper, that bit more uncontrollably, as he answers Emet-Selch's answer with a kiss more hot than damp.
But damp all the same, with how involved Emet-Selch's made to be. And Mettaton takes advantage of that, kissing him hard, interrupting his speech with a low, heady groan. Shifting his hands away from Emet-Selch's shoulders, Mettaton decides to grip him by the hips—not because of the marking there, but because he wanted to impress upon the smaller man that he had him well in hand, and would fill him. Nearly a growl, possessive and low, slips between their lips in the midst of a kiss as Mettaton wraps his fingers around Emet-Selch's hips, drawing the Ascian close and holding him steady for his gradual penetration.]
Oh, I'll... I'll keep doing you, is what I'm doing.
[Obvious. But he's impassioned, voice low and husky. The monster shifts his knees closer, forcing Emet-Selch into an even tighter curl as he rocks his hips—as he forces him into riding down his shaft, practically down to the root.]
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This wasn't as difficult as that; as copious as Mettaton's drool had been then (mixed with the mage's blood), his semen was even moreso (mixed with the mage's semen). And this time, Emet-Selch had prepared himself somewhat (rather than telling the robot to have at it, and... having him do just that).
This hurt; this was horniness and other neediness prevailing over sense. He would be sore afterward. But it was also increasingly good.
And what unintentionally helped too, was the reaction he got while dragging his hands down the robot's sides. The way his partner nearly jolted, moved as though it were his cock being electrified, causes his own body to twitch, to jerk up into his length. It was something sensitive- and in the heat of the moment, he couldn't distinguish between what Mettaton was feeling, and what he was feeling too, or whether he was just that taken by his lover's reaction to being scratched that way.
Whatever the cause, it was good, it got him harder, as his body responded to all this stimulus in the most natural way it knew: by filling out his cock.
A prime factor in that hardening, though, was the way Mettaton filled him out, in reliable pushes that gave him as much chance as he could to adapt. (Far more than he would've given himself, and where he still would have chosen that outcome if he thought about it- he's not thinking of it now, given in to what they had like this. The familiarity and comfort of being laid down, Mettaton wrapped around him as much as he could, securing him against his hips.) And even if the deeper he went, the more he stretched him, and the more it hurt- the more it inevitably aroused him too. Both in the consciousness of what they were doing, the erotic truth of Mettaton fitting him with his cock, but the way it rubbed him wasn't entirely about the rawness.
Crying out against his lips, it's made breathless and partially swallowed by the way their lips continued to meet. Ardor and kisses that he struggles to meet, though it's effort clumsier, damper now, as he nearly pants against him. A warm shiver courses through him to hear Mettaton growling, his body instinctively excited by the sound, and by the way the taller man mounted him with it.]
Keep- keep going, Mettaton--
[It's less demand and more of a plea, whispered in a tight voice near his lips, which he continues trying to kiss- even as his own keep parting to vocalize less coherently than that, with soft groans and cries. Gasps from sharper twinges of pain, as his body took more and more of a hard, thick cock- but sounds that trailed off into shaky, outright moans. It was entirely removed from how clinical it had been to start, and far more than he thought was achievable, from the way his legs lock around him, to how he scrapes his hands down the robot's sides, tensely groping and holding on. If not the most desperate he'd ever been, he was committed- and openly affected.]
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Gripping down on Emet-Selch's hips, he draws the smaller man close enough to his hips that any space he had left to cover of his erection was readily patched. His length is pressed deep, right down to the root. The sound of Emet-Selch's voice urged him there, a need to... soothe, perhaps, that tightness of voice by filling out the tightness of body. He would not only keep going, but make good on settling Emet-Selch down on his root—effectively and totally penetrating him.]
Ah... For you...
[For him, he'd not only fit him in this blissful, if intense in many directions, union. He'd also keep going. Gripping firmly his hips, Mettaton would be sinking claws into skin if he had them as his grasp steels, holding Emet-Selch steady to be worked down with that thick cock he finally fit.
They were both committed to this end, and Mettaton's voice is a rumble of a groan as he mounts him tight, continuing to swing his hips, pressing him back against the mattress. Short, full kneading, rolling his tip deep inside of Emet-Selch, the sensation of erotic pleasure after months with out quickly blinds him, as Mettaton's groans soon join with Emet-Selch's moans. Just as he promised, he can't stop himself: he's really getting into it, even as he sympathizes with the hurt Emet-Selch's enduring, and even as he feels some of that drag for himself. It felt too good, and he felt too spirited to let it get him down anymore.
With the two of them busy giving voice to their vocalizations, kisses are even sloppier and less coordinated than before. Mettaton gives the Ascian a firm thrust to emphasize how he's buried down to the root, before moaning at the contact, at the acknowledgement that they were finally joined.
Soft and low, his voice wouldn't be audible to anyone beyond Emet-Selch.]
This... is more than I could have wished for, Hades...
[Even the circumstance, because Emet-Selch is alive and real and not an idealized version of a man he's married to. He is responsive and reactive, and even if they came to blows, even if their mood had soured, Mettaton adored the place they found themselves in now because of their journey. And the wish Emet-Selch had made... Mettaton felt grateful for it, even though he knew they would've both wished for it together.
But he wanted Emet-Selch to experience the joy he got out of this vivid sensation. Of being gripped, touched, and then given a spot for him to slip his cock, warm and tight; Mettaton shudders tightly, a squeak of a moan escaping his throat as he's crushed by the overwhelming and sudden realization that he was feeling, vivid and arousing. From pain to pleasure to the simple contact of their bodies, the man beneath him warm and soft and giving... His body shudders, as he both collapses and curls around Emet-Selch.]
You've made a mess of me, god...
[And with this amount of sensitivity, the heavy weight of arousal between this thighs... release would not be difficult to find from here. But he gives Emet-Selch a softer kiss, brief against the corner of his lips out of appreciation.]
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So his body can't help but writhe, bucking up into Mettaton cock even as he was finally buried all the way down to the root. Grinding himself onto the robot's lap, his thighs on either side of him tremble, while more invisibly muscle tenses around him. Lips parted, he's out of breath enough for any sound he makes to be choked into nothing, but he's still provoked into making them. The satisfaction he had, in knowing he held the whole of his husband's cock, could sit flush to his lap even if it hurt himself to do- he had no words for it, nothing beyond a rush of gratitude, relief, and adoration.
And what went perfectly with it was the softness he felt in response to his lover's words, an understanding that he'd given him something equally treasured. A pleasure reflected bodily, yes, but the emotional impact that went with it, this sharing of experiences. Of sensations, of moods both good and poor- of this time spent reaching for each other's company, and taking their bodies along the way.
He nuzzles, whispers his name, makes effort after effort to kiss him even when most of them are lost to sounds or breaths. From digging in, one of his hands manages to stroke more gently down Mettaton's side, affection writ plain in each touch. He loved him; he reveled in every moan Mettaton graced him with, and that the way he moved spoke of a man who really had gotten into this. That they could enjoy this together after all was more than he thought possible....
He tries for a hum when Mettaton speaks of being a mess, but it turns into something closer to a groan.]
You're not- not enough of one- not yet....
[He whispers it near his lips, in a voice as tight as his body felt. But not with agony or displeasure, even though he could tell that this all hurt, and would continue to hurt him. That Mettaton was surely bruising him with his fingers is barely noticed, beyond the pleasurable ache it gave him, the mage already squirming into every push of their bodies, as though he could drive him any deeper.
Nothing but Mettaton's release would do, and he was sure now that the robot would be able to reach it, was interested enough to manage it. Not that Emet-Selch thought that it would be very much of a mess at all, given that it would be neatly contained and delivered deep inside him. A sensation he'd gone without since he'd arrived here, and one that he realized he missed nearly as much as this. A flood of heat even hotter than his erection; swallowing him once had merely left him aching for more of it, however he could get it.]
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And united they were, Mettaton acknowledges with a shudder of delight. With Emet-Selch panting and squirming, slamming himself down forcefully against the robot's lap, how could he do anything but cry out in ecstasy? He looks down at him with his eye wide, mesmerized by the sight of Emet-Selch caught in his thrall. Had he another arm he's sure he'd stroke his face, cup his cheek, draw digits along the softness of his skin... but instead, his fingers dig into his hips, gripping onto his mate as he drags himself firmly along his body in short, deep, and full strokes.
It wasn't the slickest combination they've ever had... but the pure delight of being together at all couldn't be overlooked, a precious thing they'd wanted for months on end. His lips part, but instead of any response (he'd only registered his voice as static, to start), Mettaton moans again, arching his back and giving himself over to grinding into Emet-Selch.
No... he wouldn't be much of a mess. And that notion itself brings him to growl, curling around the mage again as he mashes their lips together.]
Then m... make me, make me one, Hades...
[His voice itself is a groan, nearly veering into a whine as his cock fills, a pressure swimming low, hard and deep in his body without reprieve. With no pulse, and seemingly no fluid, it felt so strangely impossible to feel so needing of release... And if his new anatomy didn't factor in veins or 'blood' or anything needed to fuel an erection or even an orgasm, there must be something magical at play. He wished he could communicate in words how he felt, with his thighs burning, hyper-aware of his own cock and the heat he occupied—but what better way to tell Emet-Selch than to show him, to leave him achingly hot and full of his release?
He'd already wanted that outcome. But with it front and center in his mind, the robotic monster groans, drawing Emet-Selch up by the hips to better penetrate him, as if he needed that.]
Stay... Give me you- Ahh, Hades, I'm going to, f-first... You let me first...!!
[Emet-Selch hasn't made any indication that he was about to come, but even still, Mettaton makes the rules. He comes first, no matter what, and he makes that clear with a tighter grip on his hips, a gasp and jerk at the sensation of being handled, his body fondled, his cock squeezed around. Inundated helplessly by sensation as he is, who was the one really in control here when MTT could barely think straight with it all?]
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And Mettaton would be made more of a (literal) mess if he had anything to say about it, though it would be from the Ascian's come instead. He'd already finished once between them, and though that had been somewhat obscured by the robot's more copious and glittery load, it was assuredly there. And he more assuredly was willing to add to it, to leave his own mark on his mate's body in this base way.
But not yet, no matter the thrill that ran through him at the thought. There wasn't any chance of Emet-Selch defying him, even if he'd wanted to; though he felt surprisingly full, a throb that matched the soreness of his body as he was rubbed deep, he wasn't at the point where bursting felt immanent. Part of him remained mostly surprised that he'd gotten hard at all, given their starting point. Not impossible, of course, though his faith in those areas wasn't as complete; his own trust had more to do with being relentlessly stubborn, rather than anything necessarily pleasurable or pleasant.
But here they were, fucking as though their lives depended on it, every grind of their bodies together a reason to gasp, to tighten up. To writhe harder to meet it, as though he could squeeze and drag Mettaton's release from him, coax it out through the tightness and plea of his body. An appeal for him to let go, to give him that slickness they lacked (even if it would be too late to spare him the discomfort).]
Then- then come or I'll- I'll surpass you--
[He wouldn't, not now; he couldn't, more relevantly, unless Mettaton managed to hold out for much longer than this. The desperation he felt was one he recognized as a yearning for his lover's own release, to witness and feel him at that peak once more. He'd done it already in his mouth and his hand, but each time left him wanting to take him from additional angles. Other ways and means, as what did seeing Mettaton climax do for him but leave him wanting to see more?
And it would arouse him endlessly to witness, to feel him let go, when he'd gone without for months. And when he's tugged harder yet to Mettaton's hips, kissed no less fiercely even as their bodies continued to be slammed together, insistence and determination making up for any physical lack of readiness, he clenches tight around him, pants against the other man's lips. It was damp enough now, their kiss, and hot enough that the only thing that could beat it was where their bodies were properly joined. Even so, he pleads for more, to be scalded properly inside a body already raw, the cries he makes against him wordless but wanting.]
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