[It was true that if Emet-Selch had remained still, Mettaton would have eventually asked if he'd even tried, but would somehow twist it around into being a bid for more of his attention just as he was: ass accessible, body prone, placed just where Mettaton wanted him. That the other man could barely speak wasn't a matter when Mettaton could make assumptions for him and watch his reaction. But he drinks in the sights, the expressions, until Emet-Selch seems to consider his method of "escape," or "use of freedom," or whatever he might call it. Mettaton was eager to see, especially if he was going to make this call while ogling his body as he was.
He's not at all shy, and he readjusts his posture, sitting upon his hip as he keeps his legs spread as he watches him back.
There are moments of silence and appreciation for the thought spared to this task, to designing the best course of action to achieve Standing. If Mettaton's going to be so generous, he appreciates that it's being taken advantage of, and he smiles upon his lover's form as he rocks himself onto his side. He cranes his neck, getting a good understanding as to why he'd be in such pain, and he grits his teeth (in a grin) in sympathy (that he barely has, they're bite marks he made and he likes them). Moreover, he's getting a better understanding of his lover's ache, watching as he pulls himself together and braces himself for further movement, humming as his ears stand perky and his gaze remains bright, attentive. Mettaton nearly shuffles with him to the edge of the bed, doing so in a much more refined manner on his hip and moving with his legs, his ears still high and his eyes still fixed, interested in his lover's ambitions but remaining quiet in this curiosity.
And he launches himself directly into a standing position, getting off of the bed and everything. Mettaton gasps shortly, emoting more than the actual emotion warrants by pressing fingers to his lower lip in his shock for the daring attempt that appears to take a lot out of the Ascian, who even manages to make a sound to express his pain, who even flinches and wavers. Even so, Mettaton claps his hands together.]
You're vertical. That's a start!
[He beams, even as Emet-Selch's eyes are squeezed shut. But his lover tries too soon to walk — though the robot immediately registers it as more of a stumble as he reaches for his shoulder (and reaches successfully, there's a lot of real estate there), prompting him to spread his arms for him and to kick his legs gracefully over the side of the bed, hands hovering about his figure. A fail-safe to catch him, should he stumble and fall. His smile is hot, attention hotter, even as he regards him with a sort of excitement. An excitement for his lover to... attempt to disengage from their passionate lovemaking, only to fail, which would be the only outcome. The expected outcome, making it nothing but a success. Mettaton hums again, his yellow eye fixed on Emet-Selch with something that is a hybrid between pleased with his attempt, and hungry for him to succumb.]
Naturally, you're choosing to come back to me...
[There's a sick sort of fascination he gets out of this, and he tries to place it. Not that he examines it too hard, but his lover's standing, barely, beautiful wearing his bruises and blood, come and sweat, nothing else at all, scarcely able to even walk... So wonderfully impacted by the throes of their passion, moreso than Mettaton could ever be, he was rendered so worn and vulnerable to Mettaton's delectation. Emet-Selch couldn't and wouldn't escape, and (barring teleportation) even if he tried, it was obvious that he'd be made to submit to Mettaton. But the thing that strikes Mettaton as most desirable of all is how obvious the signs of his use are, in body: how disagreeable his hips have become, his thighs set to trembling and his body rendered totally worn down.
Mettaton has to sigh at it all, dreamlike and appreciative as he lets a hand rub encouragingly against Emet-Selch's back. He doesn't see this show of vulnerability to be anything but arousing and intimate, nothing short of what they'd show each other.
But more than that, he waited for that surefire sign that something had changed. And as soon as it comes, as soon as he can tell Emet-Selch's given up on trying to do any walking in favor of just standing, a sort of tense heat washing over them both, Mettaton's energy peaks in eager alertness. He gropes Emet-Selch's hip in the front, and the other hand wraps around his side to grab his ass, as though needing to brace himself just as much he braces Emet-Selch, giving him the option of succumbing to his arms.
He knows what's happening, and he can barely restrain his excitement. Mettaton bites at his lower lip for some grasp on control, feeling pressure swiftly pool and squeeze his lower body in a manner that feels so alive and fulfilling, needy and reactive. He pulls their bodies closer together, stabilizing him and bringing Emet-Selch's hip between his spread thighs as he leans in to press a needy, damp kiss to his torso. But as soon as Emet-Selch's been slipped between thighs (and with his thigh surely pressed against a rousing cock), Mettaton unhands his ass to let fingers drag along his inner thighs. He lets out the sound of a collapsing sigh.]
Hades... You— [Mettaton swallows, too much saliva in his mouth. His finger skims along his tissue, riding up bruises and prodding their way up to his ass, where he can trace this rivulet of come back to the source. He presses his finger firmly, ardently, against his entrance — either trying to stop the dribble of come from all of his past releases, or trying to feel it more acutely.] It's... I-I need to...
[He swallows again. Kisses his chest again, with more pronounced wetness to his lips, his tongue. Mettaton rises suddenly, sidestepping the Ascian with such direction and command. Keeping his finger nestled right against Emet-Selch's entrance, the rest of his fingers squeeze his ass as Mettaton presses his hand against his lover's upper back, coaxing him, forcing him to lean forward, over the bed, bending at the hip as the robot stands behind him. He sighs again, his words taking on a sort of overeager cant, uncontrollable fever seeping into his words as his restraint leaves him.]
Standing, keep doing that... You're doing fabulously. And bend over for me, my dear... Just like this.
[And "for him," he means to sate his appetite, to gawk and soak in the sight of his thighs dripping with come, to see it trailing down already-bitten thighs for himself. Mettaton lets his claws run along Emet-Selch's back as he takes a step back to appreciate the view, and the sight of him has Mettaton stalling, staggering, pressure in his crotch immense and sudden. Thick, milky come, so much of it already, drips from his lover's body, and Mettaton's spreads his lover's ass to get a better sight of him. A sight to have him moaning, to feel a rush of heat and tension coax his own arousal to full, thick rigidity.
An arousal the robot immediately shoves against his entrance, the glans pushing and poking at him, getting slicked up by his own come. A sight and sensation to have Mettaton moaning again as he manually manipulates his cock with a hand, rubbing the glans firmly against Emet-Selch's entrance, collecting come and letting it drip along his cock. Mettaton's voice is labored as the Puca has a hard time maintaining any sense or sanity in the face of his lust.]
Hades... You must feel so... empty now. You're dripping so much...
no subject
He's not at all shy, and he readjusts his posture, sitting upon his hip as he keeps his legs spread as he watches him back.
There are moments of silence and appreciation for the thought spared to this task, to designing the best course of action to achieve Standing. If Mettaton's going to be so generous, he appreciates that it's being taken advantage of, and he smiles upon his lover's form as he rocks himself onto his side. He cranes his neck, getting a good understanding as to why he'd be in such pain, and he grits his teeth (in a grin) in sympathy (that he barely has, they're bite marks he made and he likes them). Moreover, he's getting a better understanding of his lover's ache, watching as he pulls himself together and braces himself for further movement, humming as his ears stand perky and his gaze remains bright, attentive. Mettaton nearly shuffles with him to the edge of the bed, doing so in a much more refined manner on his hip and moving with his legs, his ears still high and his eyes still fixed, interested in his lover's ambitions but remaining quiet in this curiosity.
And he launches himself directly into a standing position, getting off of the bed and everything. Mettaton gasps shortly, emoting more than the actual emotion warrants by pressing fingers to his lower lip in his shock for the daring attempt that appears to take a lot out of the Ascian, who even manages to make a sound to express his pain, who even flinches and wavers. Even so, Mettaton claps his hands together.]
You're vertical. That's a start!
[He beams, even as Emet-Selch's eyes are squeezed shut. But his lover tries too soon to walk — though the robot immediately registers it as more of a stumble as he reaches for his shoulder (and reaches successfully, there's a lot of real estate there), prompting him to spread his arms for him and to kick his legs gracefully over the side of the bed, hands hovering about his figure. A fail-safe to catch him, should he stumble and fall. His smile is hot, attention hotter, even as he regards him with a sort of excitement. An excitement for his lover to... attempt to disengage from their passionate lovemaking, only to fail, which would be the only outcome. The expected outcome, making it nothing but a success. Mettaton hums again, his yellow eye fixed on Emet-Selch with something that is a hybrid between pleased with his attempt, and hungry for him to succumb.]
Naturally, you're choosing to come back to me...
[There's a sick sort of fascination he gets out of this, and he tries to place it. Not that he examines it too hard, but his lover's standing, barely, beautiful wearing his bruises and blood, come and sweat, nothing else at all, scarcely able to even walk... So wonderfully impacted by the throes of their passion, moreso than Mettaton could ever be, he was rendered so worn and vulnerable to Mettaton's delectation. Emet-Selch couldn't and wouldn't escape, and (barring teleportation) even if he tried, it was obvious that he'd be made to submit to Mettaton. But the thing that strikes Mettaton as most desirable of all is how obvious the signs of his use are, in body: how disagreeable his hips have become, his thighs set to trembling and his body rendered totally worn down.
Mettaton has to sigh at it all, dreamlike and appreciative as he lets a hand rub encouragingly against Emet-Selch's back. He doesn't see this show of vulnerability to be anything but arousing and intimate, nothing short of what they'd show each other.
But more than that, he waited for that surefire sign that something had changed. And as soon as it comes, as soon as he can tell Emet-Selch's given up on trying to do any walking in favor of just standing, a sort of tense heat washing over them both, Mettaton's energy peaks in eager alertness. He gropes Emet-Selch's hip in the front, and the other hand wraps around his side to grab his ass, as though needing to brace himself just as much he braces Emet-Selch, giving him the option of succumbing to his arms.
He knows what's happening, and he can barely restrain his excitement. Mettaton bites at his lower lip for some grasp on control, feeling pressure swiftly pool and squeeze his lower body in a manner that feels so alive and fulfilling, needy and reactive. He pulls their bodies closer together, stabilizing him and bringing Emet-Selch's hip between his spread thighs as he leans in to press a needy, damp kiss to his torso. But as soon as Emet-Selch's been slipped between thighs (and with his thigh surely pressed against a rousing cock), Mettaton unhands his ass to let fingers drag along his inner thighs. He lets out the sound of a collapsing sigh.]
Hades... You— [Mettaton swallows, too much saliva in his mouth. His finger skims along his tissue, riding up bruises and prodding their way up to his ass, where he can trace this rivulet of come back to the source. He presses his finger firmly, ardently, against his entrance — either trying to stop the dribble of come from all of his past releases, or trying to feel it more acutely.] It's... I-I need to...
[He swallows again. Kisses his chest again, with more pronounced wetness to his lips, his tongue. Mettaton rises suddenly, sidestepping the Ascian with such direction and command. Keeping his finger nestled right against Emet-Selch's entrance, the rest of his fingers squeeze his ass as Mettaton presses his hand against his lover's upper back, coaxing him, forcing him to lean forward, over the bed, bending at the hip as the robot stands behind him. He sighs again, his words taking on a sort of overeager cant, uncontrollable fever seeping into his words as his restraint leaves him.]
Standing, keep doing that... You're doing fabulously. And bend over for me, my dear... Just like this.
[And "for him," he means to sate his appetite, to gawk and soak in the sight of his thighs dripping with come, to see it trailing down already-bitten thighs for himself. Mettaton lets his claws run along Emet-Selch's back as he takes a step back to appreciate the view, and the sight of him has Mettaton stalling, staggering, pressure in his crotch immense and sudden. Thick, milky come, so much of it already, drips from his lover's body, and Mettaton's spreads his lover's ass to get a better sight of him. A sight to have him moaning, to feel a rush of heat and tension coax his own arousal to full, thick rigidity.
An arousal the robot immediately shoves against his entrance, the glans pushing and poking at him, getting slicked up by his own come. A sight and sensation to have Mettaton moaning again as he manually manipulates his cock with a hand, rubbing the glans firmly against Emet-Selch's entrance, collecting come and letting it drip along his cock. Mettaton's voice is labored as the Puca has a hard time maintaining any sense or sanity in the face of his lust.]
Hades... You must feel so... empty now. You're dripping so much...