[Mettaton hums into his neck, wrapping his lips around one of those puncture wounds and treating it to the flat of his tongue, coaxing fluid to leak into the similarly wet confines of his mouth. He bleeds slowly, nothing enough to serve as replacement for the rush of delight a fresh bite offers, but it's pleasing all the same. Pleasing, and nearly mind-numbing. If he got one of those rushes of blood filling his mouth, what would he do with it in a state like this...? Mettaton is unconcerned, because he simply wants it. A small taste leads to wanting a greater one, and a greater one... It could be fine. They'd already made the mistake of excessive bloodletting before, so it's a mistake he'd never wish to repeat intentionally.
He is within his mind, not feral beyond control. Emet-Selch's blood only seems to have a calming effect on him, somehow. Soporific and enticing at once, something he wants more of, but something that soothes any madness that could develop in him during such a state. If ever he found himself losing control, the safest thing he imagines he could do is bite Emet-Selch to come down from it all (and hopefully not kill him in the process of tempering his madness).
With a voice that could have already been low made lower, Mettaton only smiles into his neck and lets off of his bite/puncture. He licks at him and presses lips to the scantest oozing of blood, sucking into him the most sensual, warm of kisses, sure to let his lips barely rise from his skin. For feeling so invited by Emet-Selch's tone, scent, and gesture to expose his neck, he's fairly tamed for the moment.
But then, the Ascian rolls his hips into his, spreading his legs around Mettaton's hips and rubs, cock to cock.]
Ah-
[His voice is soft and surprised, catching dead in his throat as he rocks back into him. He holds back a moan, both of his hands squeezing his Bonded's ass with a grip firm enough to spread him — spread for nothing, unfortunately (?). Mettaton's erection remains solidly against his cock as he buries his nose into his lover's neck, senses filled with blood and skin and sweat and the smell of his lover in general. He rubs his shaft against the other man, delighting in the firm, intimate friction of his filling cock.
The thought does occur to him, that Emet-Selch looks lovely with his legs so spread. It's a look he'd be hesitant to give up on him, and his head fills with imagery of him still: bent forward and hips raised, legs spread; holding him atop his body and keeping his hands on his hips, forcing him to sit firmly upon his arousal, legs spread; pinning him upon his back and lifting his legs high up upon Mettaton's shoulders, legs definitely spread. Spreading him for Mettaton's eyes, for his pleasure, for his indulgence, all of it is something he finds himself grinding harder into his Bonded just for the crime of thinking about it.]
Not- temptation, but inevitability. That's something I can get behind.
[The magic words to help Mettaton make a choice. If there's something Mettaton isn't, it's indecisive, even when he has an abundance of choices to select from. He wants his cake and his pie and he wants to eat it all, too, so why shouldn't sex positions be the same? Picking one doesn't mean he can't have them all at some point. Emet-Selch knows that. Temptation leads him in one direction, but the direction it leads them is the correct decision for that moment.
And this moment, Mettaton bares his teeth. He snaps down on Emet-Selch's shoulder in a vicious display for a moment, a claim upon his skin and his blood, but he only bruises him with a temporary restraint, as opposed to breaking skin. He can bite him bleeding when he's well and ready. For now, he takes that pent-up energy and yanks Emet-Selch off of him, pushing him upon the surface of the bed face down. Like this, Mettaton climbs atop him and pins him down by his wrists with his whole weight, sliding his knees between his thighs — spreading his legs, just as he likes. The expanse of his back is most readily available for his eye to drink in, angry lines upon his shoulder blades where he'd earlier clawed him in the throes of passion visible.
And he takes a moment just to appraise him, making a low sound in his throat. He examines his neck, follows his spine down his back; lets his gaze linger upon his lover's waist, trim and so unscathed, something he imagines marking up if he ever chose to grab him there with nails made sharp. (He could grab him by the waist and force him to sit upon him sometime, sinking claws into flesh—) Lower does his eye flit, down to his ass, the sight of agitated red from where he's gripped into skin with sharpened nails.
Naturally, lower yet, his thighs... are beautifully marked up. Inner thighs bear marks so recent, and the backs of them, too, are marked. Just staring at him makes his cock ache with lust, and he lowers his body to press his erection against Emet-Selch's ass.]
And behind you is where inevitability might lead me... What do you think? Tell me how you want me.
[Emet-Selch could think what he wants, as long as it flatters Mettaton's starving ego. It would be words to seduce, surely. But if his idea of a position differs, Mettaton expects that Emet-Selch will only sell it to him in the most enticing of ways, in a way that appeals to the robot's senses so thoroughly that he'll have no choice but to pursue it. One of their cravings will override the other's if they're not already matched. It would become a craving mutual, all else becoming a craving for the next moment. Mettaton shifts his hips, pressing more direly his cock against Emet-Selch's ass — waiting to be praised, waiting to be accepted, waiting to hear his lover's feedback.]
no subject
He is within his mind, not feral beyond control. Emet-Selch's blood only seems to have a calming effect on him, somehow. Soporific and enticing at once, something he wants more of, but something that soothes any madness that could develop in him during such a state. If ever he found himself losing control, the safest thing he imagines he could do is bite Emet-Selch to come down from it all (and hopefully not kill him in the process of tempering his madness).
With a voice that could have already been low made lower, Mettaton only smiles into his neck and lets off of his bite/puncture. He licks at him and presses lips to the scantest oozing of blood, sucking into him the most sensual, warm of kisses, sure to let his lips barely rise from his skin. For feeling so invited by Emet-Selch's tone, scent, and gesture to expose his neck, he's fairly tamed for the moment.
But then, the Ascian rolls his hips into his, spreading his legs around Mettaton's hips and rubs, cock to cock.]
Ah-
[His voice is soft and surprised, catching dead in his throat as he rocks back into him. He holds back a moan, both of his hands squeezing his Bonded's ass with a grip firm enough to spread him — spread for nothing, unfortunately (?). Mettaton's erection remains solidly against his cock as he buries his nose into his lover's neck, senses filled with blood and skin and sweat and the smell of his lover in general. He rubs his shaft against the other man, delighting in the firm, intimate friction of his filling cock.
The thought does occur to him, that Emet-Selch looks lovely with his legs so spread. It's a look he'd be hesitant to give up on him, and his head fills with imagery of him still: bent forward and hips raised, legs spread; holding him atop his body and keeping his hands on his hips, forcing him to sit firmly upon his arousal, legs spread; pinning him upon his back and lifting his legs high up upon Mettaton's shoulders, legs definitely spread. Spreading him for Mettaton's eyes, for his pleasure, for his indulgence, all of it is something he finds himself grinding harder into his Bonded just for the crime of thinking about it.]
Not- temptation, but inevitability. That's something I can get behind.
[The magic words to help Mettaton make a choice. If there's something Mettaton isn't, it's indecisive, even when he has an abundance of choices to select from. He wants his cake and his pie and he wants to eat it all, too, so why shouldn't sex positions be the same? Picking one doesn't mean he can't have them all at some point. Emet-Selch knows that. Temptation leads him in one direction, but the direction it leads them is the correct decision for that moment.
And this moment, Mettaton bares his teeth. He snaps down on Emet-Selch's shoulder in a vicious display for a moment, a claim upon his skin and his blood, but he only bruises him with a temporary restraint, as opposed to breaking skin. He can bite him bleeding when he's well and ready. For now, he takes that pent-up energy and yanks Emet-Selch off of him, pushing him upon the surface of the bed face down. Like this, Mettaton climbs atop him and pins him down by his wrists with his whole weight, sliding his knees between his thighs — spreading his legs, just as he likes. The expanse of his back is most readily available for his eye to drink in, angry lines upon his shoulder blades where he'd earlier clawed him in the throes of passion visible.
And he takes a moment just to appraise him, making a low sound in his throat. He examines his neck, follows his spine down his back; lets his gaze linger upon his lover's waist, trim and so unscathed, something he imagines marking up if he ever chose to grab him there with nails made sharp. (He could grab him by the waist and force him to sit upon him sometime, sinking claws into flesh—) Lower does his eye flit, down to his ass, the sight of agitated red from where he's gripped into skin with sharpened nails.
Naturally, lower yet, his thighs... are beautifully marked up. Inner thighs bear marks so recent, and the backs of them, too, are marked. Just staring at him makes his cock ache with lust, and he lowers his body to press his erection against Emet-Selch's ass.]
And behind you is where inevitability might lead me... What do you think? Tell me how you want me.
[Emet-Selch could think what he wants, as long as it flatters Mettaton's starving ego. It would be words to seduce, surely. But if his idea of a position differs, Mettaton expects that Emet-Selch will only sell it to him in the most enticing of ways, in a way that appeals to the robot's senses so thoroughly that he'll have no choice but to pursue it. One of their cravings will override the other's if they're not already matched. It would become a craving mutual, all else becoming a craving for the next moment. Mettaton shifts his hips, pressing more direly his cock against Emet-Selch's ass — waiting to be praised, waiting to be accepted, waiting to hear his lover's feedback.]