[Even against his neck, that perfect juncture of tender flesh between his shoulder where it's tantalizing to sink deep incisors and canines, where he sloppily runs his tongue and drools against his skin in his lavish enjoyment, he hears Emet-Selch's request. Silver ears swivel, though they remain pressed to the Ascian's face; and he realizes then that his ears are capable of feeling temperature, and it's not unusual that Emet-Selch would feel cooler than his abnormally hot ears. This doesn't strike him as odd, either — because it's not strange to be cooler than Mettaton, either in metal or flesh flavors.
He hums a contented affirmative against skin, past the bubbling of blood in his throat as it's met with vibrations of sound. He unlatches from his bite with a kiss.]
You've got it, my darling. Anything... [He licks the corner of his lips, where blood cascades down his chin.] -you'd like.
[One arm unwinds from his waist; the other braces Emet-Selch's lax weight against his thigh as he readjusts his grip on him, manhandling his body like he's nothing. He dislodges his leg from its entanglement, scooping the other man into his arms in something more of a bridal carry — both to better clear him of his legs, and to deposit him squarely in the center of the bed. Standing over him, his hand moves to briefly run through his beloved's hair, taking in his appearance, appreciating him even like this and finding him lovely regardless of pallor.
The robot follows after him, lunging for his neck to prevent any further loss of blood to the dark bedspread — a color more appropriate for bloodstain, he considers. Dark or not, sheets couldn't appreciate blood like he could, so it's only right that he takes it before it goes to waste.
As he sucks upon his neck, Mettaton's body catches up with him. With Emet-Selch laid upon his back, the idol stoops his entire body low enough to rub contours of metal and silicone and fur against his lover's thigh, abdomen, waist, until he finds himself in a good place, body parallel to his. His leg is pressed between Emet-Selch's, thigh flush to his groin, and he hums into his claim on Emet-Selch's skin. This close, Mettaton finally eases himself down, providing the full of his weight upon his body: with his head at his neck, he presses his chest to his, hips to hips, and shifts excitably against him with the whole of his body.
He thinks about Emet-Selch's reassurance to help him deal with the situation he's found himself in. It's a terrifying obstacle, but he feels so empowered, so safe and secure and perfectly at home with this man, and he can feel their mutual trust so clearly in this moment. Emet-Selch is worth his infatuation, and he hums into his neck, a soft, ascending note of comfort. With his weight pressed against his lover, his hand's free to wander: it follows the shape of his body by touch, gently skimming the other side of Emet-Selch's neck and further north yet, until he can run his fingers as far back into his hair as he can reach. He braces his lover's head there, nuzzling into his claim upon his neck with greater security, applying the pressure of his tongue with reverence — not entirely for blood, but for Emet-Selch.
But he breaks from him for a moment to lick. He cleans around the wound whatever excess blood has escaped him, for whatever good that does. It's maintenance, wanting to keep blood from messily drying upon his beloved. Kisses follow, kisses to his clavicle and then following the front of his throat, up to his chin, along his jaw, then just beneath his ear — then right back to his bite mark, where he laps at any draining blood. Forms his lips around him with another soft moan, a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss where he steals away some of his blood in the process. Mettaton shifts his thigh against his erection, hum dipping lower.]
no subject
He hums a contented affirmative against skin, past the bubbling of blood in his throat as it's met with vibrations of sound. He unlatches from his bite with a kiss.]
You've got it, my darling. Anything... [He licks the corner of his lips, where blood cascades down his chin.] -you'd like.
[One arm unwinds from his waist; the other braces Emet-Selch's lax weight against his thigh as he readjusts his grip on him, manhandling his body like he's nothing. He dislodges his leg from its entanglement, scooping the other man into his arms in something more of a bridal carry — both to better clear him of his legs, and to deposit him squarely in the center of the bed. Standing over him, his hand moves to briefly run through his beloved's hair, taking in his appearance, appreciating him even like this and finding him lovely regardless of pallor.
The robot follows after him, lunging for his neck to prevent any further loss of blood to the dark bedspread — a color more appropriate for bloodstain, he considers. Dark or not, sheets couldn't appreciate blood like he could, so it's only right that he takes it before it goes to waste.
As he sucks upon his neck, Mettaton's body catches up with him. With Emet-Selch laid upon his back, the idol stoops his entire body low enough to rub contours of metal and silicone and fur against his lover's thigh, abdomen, waist, until he finds himself in a good place, body parallel to his. His leg is pressed between Emet-Selch's, thigh flush to his groin, and he hums into his claim on Emet-Selch's skin. This close, Mettaton finally eases himself down, providing the full of his weight upon his body: with his head at his neck, he presses his chest to his, hips to hips, and shifts excitably against him with the whole of his body.
He thinks about Emet-Selch's reassurance to help him deal with the situation he's found himself in. It's a terrifying obstacle, but he feels so empowered, so safe and secure and perfectly at home with this man, and he can feel their mutual trust so clearly in this moment. Emet-Selch is worth his infatuation, and he hums into his neck, a soft, ascending note of comfort. With his weight pressed against his lover, his hand's free to wander: it follows the shape of his body by touch, gently skimming the other side of Emet-Selch's neck and further north yet, until he can run his fingers as far back into his hair as he can reach. He braces his lover's head there, nuzzling into his claim upon his neck with greater security, applying the pressure of his tongue with reverence — not entirely for blood, but for Emet-Selch.
But he breaks from him for a moment to lick. He cleans around the wound whatever excess blood has escaped him, for whatever good that does. It's maintenance, wanting to keep blood from messily drying upon his beloved. Kisses follow, kisses to his clavicle and then following the front of his throat, up to his chin, along his jaw, then just beneath his ear — then right back to his bite mark, where he laps at any draining blood. Forms his lips around him with another soft moan, a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss where he steals away some of his blood in the process. Mettaton shifts his thigh against his erection, hum dipping lower.]