[Muscles tighten underneath the path of Mettaton's hand, knowing how easily a gentle stroke could turn into a piercing of skin, and finds himself content with both options. Caresses both gentle and bloody, bruising and invisible- they each had their place, and the Ascian could appreciate the variations, the possibilities, knowing only that the result is whatever they both wanted the most at any particular moment.
But he thinks as well on their collected work, finding it strange to consider a time back when he hadn't possessed patterns of purples and reds decorating his neck, his chest, his thighs. To see himself with none of them would speak of something being wrong, their presence a continued visual sign of their connection. They would be connected regardless of the state of his body, it was true, but- it was reassuring. He nuzzles slowly at him with swollen lips.]
Well... I'd say we both have the finest taste then.
[In imagery, in partners, in inclinations. With egos like theirs, it was a small wonder that they found they complemented one another, rather than only contrasted in great severity. But then, with egos like theirs, who else but someone similarly self-assured, demanding, emotional- could ever hope to live up to expectations?
And similarly insatiable, for that matter, if on a different key of energy- though that (along with a desire to see himself marked, visibly claimed by another) remained something the Ascian hadn't expected to ever develop.
But if this was how Mettaton was every full moon, Emet-Selch wondered how he'd been managing on his own. Did his presence help sate an endless desire that was already there (or if not sate, provide some manner of appropriate outlet)? Or did it only incite predilections and impulses that wouldn't have been quite as strong, had he not been exposed to the temptation of his lover? In either case, he thought he might take better care to be available during any future full moons. Were it the former, he felt- not quite guilty, as such, but regretful to have not been there to distract him. And for the latter- well. If it led to outcomes like these, it would only be the most pleasant sort of consequence.
Mettaton dips his head, and Emet-Selch tilts his to accommodate, feeling him unerringly drawn to those places where he'd already recently pulled blood, reopening any fragile clots that had dared to attempt forming when he'd been otherwise distracted. It was a pleasing sensation in itself, the press of tongue and lips to open wounds, the drinking up of whatever fresh blood that flowed from them, a warm sting that he couldn't distinguish from his lover's own appreciation for the fluid. Of course his was the best, of witches and otherwise. That Mettaton still had a greater-than-entirely-healthy want for it was- expected.
--But it was fine. They'd learned their lesson, he thought, to not bite so deeply in the wrong place, to provide him scars, and Mettaton blood, in a more sustainable way. Encouraging his bloodletting in feral-leaning states was a bit like tempting fate, but they knew what they were doing, he was certain. There was only the pulse-increasing satisfaction of it, of feeling his blood drawn here and there, points of sharpest detail to enhance the backdrop of wider-spreading bruises.
But Mettaton wasn't the only one being tempted. Straddling him with more deliberation, Emet-Selch presses his own cock against the puca's with a faint sound, and a shiver of tension. As Mettaton had commented on their adventures into the Wilde, he really did end up with his legs spread around him for long stretches of time.... Slowly rubbing himself against his erection, he lets out a shuddered sigh, feeling a rush of heat from the thought, as well as the position itself. Altogether, it's little surprise when his own length begins to fill again, something that would be quite evident against his lover's erection, and something that fills him with satisfaction in itself. The kiss he presses to the side of his neck is open-mouthed, heated- more a press of saliva and breath than a kiss.]
But does it even count as temptation, when there's no chance of not giving in...?
[A voice that would've been low already, lowered further by the raw treatment of his throat. But neither of them required encouraging, neither was teasing the other into something they thought they shouldn't do. The outcome truly was one untouched by chance or hesitation.
Especially as his breathing catches as Mettaton's hand lowers, casually groping his ass though it belonged to him. Which it did, along with the rest of him. Which was still a bit of a dizzying thing to dwell on, to apply thought to- how it was both comforting and enticing and a source of unexpected pleasure.
But Mettaton was just as much his in the process. He resists the urge to bite him at the thought.]
What direction, then... will your temptation take us?
no subject
But he thinks as well on their collected work, finding it strange to consider a time back when he hadn't possessed patterns of purples and reds decorating his neck, his chest, his thighs. To see himself with none of them would speak of something being wrong, their presence a continued visual sign of their connection. They would be connected regardless of the state of his body, it was true, but- it was reassuring. He nuzzles slowly at him with swollen lips.]
Well... I'd say we both have the finest taste then.
[In imagery, in partners, in inclinations. With egos like theirs, it was a small wonder that they found they complemented one another, rather than only contrasted in great severity. But then, with egos like theirs, who else but someone similarly self-assured, demanding, emotional- could ever hope to live up to expectations?
And similarly insatiable, for that matter, if on a different key of energy- though that (along with a desire to see himself marked, visibly claimed by another) remained something the Ascian hadn't expected to ever develop.
But if this was how Mettaton was every full moon, Emet-Selch wondered how he'd been managing on his own. Did his presence help sate an endless desire that was already there (or if not sate, provide some manner of appropriate outlet)? Or did it only incite predilections and impulses that wouldn't have been quite as strong, had he not been exposed to the temptation of his lover? In either case, he thought he might take better care to be available during any future full moons. Were it the former, he felt- not quite guilty, as such, but regretful to have not been there to distract him. And for the latter- well. If it led to outcomes like these, it would only be the most pleasant sort of consequence.
Mettaton dips his head, and Emet-Selch tilts his to accommodate, feeling him unerringly drawn to those places where he'd already recently pulled blood, reopening any fragile clots that had dared to attempt forming when he'd been otherwise distracted. It was a pleasing sensation in itself, the press of tongue and lips to open wounds, the drinking up of whatever fresh blood that flowed from them, a warm sting that he couldn't distinguish from his lover's own appreciation for the fluid. Of course his was the best, of witches and otherwise. That Mettaton still had a greater-than-entirely-healthy want for it was- expected.
--But it was fine. They'd learned their lesson, he thought, to not bite so deeply in the wrong place, to provide him scars, and Mettaton blood, in a more sustainable way. Encouraging his bloodletting in feral-leaning states was a bit like tempting fate, but they knew what they were doing, he was certain. There was only the pulse-increasing satisfaction of it, of feeling his blood drawn here and there, points of sharpest detail to enhance the backdrop of wider-spreading bruises.
But Mettaton wasn't the only one being tempted. Straddling him with more deliberation, Emet-Selch presses his own cock against the puca's with a faint sound, and a shiver of tension. As Mettaton had commented on their adventures into the Wilde, he really did end up with his legs spread around him for long stretches of time.... Slowly rubbing himself against his erection, he lets out a shuddered sigh, feeling a rush of heat from the thought, as well as the position itself. Altogether, it's little surprise when his own length begins to fill again, something that would be quite evident against his lover's erection, and something that fills him with satisfaction in itself. The kiss he presses to the side of his neck is open-mouthed, heated- more a press of saliva and breath than a kiss.]
But does it even count as temptation, when there's no chance of not giving in...?
[A voice that would've been low already, lowered further by the raw treatment of his throat. But neither of them required encouraging, neither was teasing the other into something they thought they shouldn't do. The outcome truly was one untouched by chance or hesitation.
Especially as his breathing catches as Mettaton's hand lowers, casually groping his ass though it belonged to him. Which it did, along with the rest of him. Which was still a bit of a dizzying thing to dwell on, to apply thought to- how it was both comforting and enticing and a source of unexpected pleasure.
But Mettaton was just as much his in the process. He resists the urge to bite him at the thought.]
What direction, then... will your temptation take us?