[The hand he used before to stroke through dark locks of hair, from temple to crown, entangles itself there as Mettaton lets up on his bite, kissing and licking at his newest wound in his heat. He even kisses a mark against freshly bitten skin like a brand, a delightful noise slipping from his throat as he drinks his Witch's blood, all of it becoming a part of his experience, a rush for the senses.
He can hear his own blood pounding in his ears too keenly, but it's nowhere enough to distract from each and every gasp and plead carried on Emet-Selch's voice. Noises to remind him of what he does to him, sounds he prescribes to memory in hopes of keeping them forever. It registers to him there how vulnerable the Ascian makes himself before the Puca. Beyond his lust-driven madness, he finds an overflowing of love for him, a reservoir of it intended only for Emet-Selch. Somewhere deeper in his brain, these sounds are ones he wants to always be there. Impossibilities set before his mind's eye, visions of turning to him in his darkest moments and sharing with him his brightest sights. Experiencing the world at his side, showing him his accomplishments and relishing his.
He squeezes his eyes shut and lunges for his throat. His teeth graze down the very front of it, somewhere he could easily tear his windpipe from if he were determined, but his energy's quickly translated into wet, sloppy kisses and a whine that carries the note of desperation. He releases him; exhales a shaky breath, heart swollen with his feelings.
When Mettaton moves to suck another mark into his lover's neck, he does it because he wants to remind Emet-Selch of this, rather than to prove to anybody else who he belongs to. And feverishly, when he switches to the other side of his neck, the next bite is administered with this same intent: it's not a snap of his jaws this time, but a press of his lips, a sloppy kiss that widens into the slide of teeth and the damp of his mouth, then pressure until he breaks him. The idol shudders, every muscle in his body tensing at the taste of magic and copper on his tongue, a delightful groan slipping from his throat, releasing him quickly to better lap up the blood he's drawn from his lover through harsh pants.
All the while, Mettaton's thrusting continues: a constant, a backdrop to his indulgence of his Bonded's blood and being.
As the robot reaches for greater heights of pleasure, his body begins to slip into a carnal mode where he's determined to extract all of the ecstasy he can from his Bonded's body. His thrusts grow firmer again and his abdomen tenses, knees sliding apart as he fucks him with more fervor than before. The hike in pleasure he feels forces Mettaton to unclench his teeth as he cries out, shuddering so severely that he's made to slip against his Bonded's shoulder, muscle giving way. But he continues thrusting, harder and faster than before.]
Hades, you, you, I-I— nnn... need— love—
[Scarcely realizing that he's saying anything at all against his latest claim of teeth, Mettaton's thrusts don't cease. He pounds into his beloved, his fingers moving to grip onto Emet-Selch's upper arms as he tries desperately to bite back down upon his shoulders. But every time he does, he's interrupted by a cry of absolute euphoria as he each slide of his cock grows more blindingly erotic than the last. The feeling of Emet-Selch's body against the too-sensitive tip of his arousal and the way his body tightens around his shaft every time he stuffs him full, and the way his body seems to protest it when he withdraws, has Mettaton shuddering, panting and unable to open his eyes.
But he tries, desperately. No longer could he hope to stop so close to reaching his climax as Mettaton lifts his head, drool and blood smeared down from his lip and across his jaw as he stares down upon his Bonded's face before he loses the control for even that. Mettaton tries to take him into a sloppy kiss, interrupted by his own cries of pleasure as his muscles tense, curling inward on his Bonded and clutching him close as if trying to take him into his body.]
no subject
He can hear his own blood pounding in his ears too keenly, but it's nowhere enough to distract from each and every gasp and plead carried on Emet-Selch's voice. Noises to remind him of what he does to him, sounds he prescribes to memory in hopes of keeping them forever. It registers to him there how vulnerable the Ascian makes himself before the Puca. Beyond his lust-driven madness, he finds an overflowing of love for him, a reservoir of it intended only for Emet-Selch. Somewhere deeper in his brain, these sounds are ones he wants to always be there. Impossibilities set before his mind's eye, visions of turning to him in his darkest moments and sharing with him his brightest sights. Experiencing the world at his side, showing him his accomplishments and relishing his.
He squeezes his eyes shut and lunges for his throat. His teeth graze down the very front of it, somewhere he could easily tear his windpipe from if he were determined, but his energy's quickly translated into wet, sloppy kisses and a whine that carries the note of desperation. He releases him; exhales a shaky breath, heart swollen with his feelings.
When Mettaton moves to suck another mark into his lover's neck, he does it because he wants to remind Emet-Selch of this, rather than to prove to anybody else who he belongs to. And feverishly, when he switches to the other side of his neck, the next bite is administered with this same intent: it's not a snap of his jaws this time, but a press of his lips, a sloppy kiss that widens into the slide of teeth and the damp of his mouth, then pressure until he breaks him. The idol shudders, every muscle in his body tensing at the taste of magic and copper on his tongue, a delightful groan slipping from his throat, releasing him quickly to better lap up the blood he's drawn from his lover through harsh pants.
All the while, Mettaton's thrusting continues: a constant, a backdrop to his indulgence of his Bonded's blood and being.
As the robot reaches for greater heights of pleasure, his body begins to slip into a carnal mode where he's determined to extract all of the ecstasy he can from his Bonded's body. His thrusts grow firmer again and his abdomen tenses, knees sliding apart as he fucks him with more fervor than before. The hike in pleasure he feels forces Mettaton to unclench his teeth as he cries out, shuddering so severely that he's made to slip against his Bonded's shoulder, muscle giving way. But he continues thrusting, harder and faster than before.]
Hades, you, you, I-I— nnn... need— love—
[Scarcely realizing that he's saying anything at all against his latest claim of teeth, Mettaton's thrusts don't cease. He pounds into his beloved, his fingers moving to grip onto Emet-Selch's upper arms as he tries desperately to bite back down upon his shoulders. But every time he does, he's interrupted by a cry of absolute euphoria as he each slide of his cock grows more blindingly erotic than the last. The feeling of Emet-Selch's body against the too-sensitive tip of his arousal and the way his body tightens around his shaft every time he stuffs him full, and the way his body seems to protest it when he withdraws, has Mettaton shuddering, panting and unable to open his eyes.
But he tries, desperately. No longer could he hope to stop so close to reaching his climax as Mettaton lifts his head, drool and blood smeared down from his lip and across his jaw as he stares down upon his Bonded's face before he loses the control for even that. Mettaton tries to take him into a sloppy kiss, interrupted by his own cries of pleasure as his muscles tense, curling inward on his Bonded and clutching him close as if trying to take him into his body.]