[Said with a fervent emphasis, his tone itself suggesting how glad he is to express as much. It's both a confirmation and a description of just how much he possesses Mettaton, spoken directly against his skin. He places kiss to his throat as he travels back down his neck, wetter than anything he gave to his jaw as he finds himself decisive about what he wishes to communicate to his despairing Bonded. Through action, expression.]
You have me... always.
[Biting gently this time, Mettaton takes flesh between his lips and kisses hard, working a mark there with suction — the first of his image of complete allure, a ravished, ravaged Emet-Selch that exceeds even what they managed before the mirrors. Where he presses his lips, he can almost feel the haunts of what used to be there in some other time (or place, considering the dream), imagining kisses and bruises and bites that have long faded or haven't exactly existed at all, if one were to get technical about it.
But it doesn't change a thing: remembered or not, perceived or not, didn't Mettaton mark him up severely? That happened.
His thumb remains stroking over the Ascian's quick-beating heart, his lips against his pulse, his arm steady against his back in their reciprocal embrace. Uncertainty would always remain in this place, but Mettaton cares not for its rules, he's decided. Anything he does to him would be there forever, aware or not, dead or alive, present or absent. That's the nature of Mettaton's existence. If all else fades, Mettaton believes he will always persist. It's what he wants, anyhow.
A bruise, deep and contrasting so starkly against Emet-Selch's skin, is left behind. Mettaton regards it with satisfaction, a note of this evident on a hum. How could Emet-Selch ever question if he's ever had Mettaton if he can always envision these marks, even if they've faded? He won't let him doubt for a second their possession of each other, an enduring thing that Mettaton's so sure of wanting.
And so he shifts slightly, sinking his teeth into his neck with a paradoxical gentleness: a scrape, a decision, a mark, then the pressure, all the way up until his skin breaks and blood flows. This time, it's not only with Mettaton's insatiable appetite in mind, but his desire to communicate a message to his Bonded. He would never have to ask again if he has Mettaton, and if Mettaton has him.
For all that this mark is only a part of his artistic vision, Mettaton still groans at the taste of blood. It's becoming so familiar a taste, just as familiar as Emet-Selch's mouth. His emotions run concupiscent all over again, but a note of reassurance and deliberation combined.]
no subject
[Said with a fervent emphasis, his tone itself suggesting how glad he is to express as much. It's both a confirmation and a description of just how much he possesses Mettaton, spoken directly against his skin. He places kiss to his throat as he travels back down his neck, wetter than anything he gave to his jaw as he finds himself decisive about what he wishes to communicate to his despairing Bonded. Through action, expression.]
You have me... always.
[Biting gently this time, Mettaton takes flesh between his lips and kisses hard, working a mark there with suction — the first of his image of complete allure, a ravished, ravaged Emet-Selch that exceeds even what they managed before the mirrors. Where he presses his lips, he can almost feel the haunts of what used to be there in some other time (or place, considering the dream), imagining kisses and bruises and bites that have long faded or haven't exactly existed at all, if one were to get technical about it.
But it doesn't change a thing: remembered or not, perceived or not, didn't Mettaton mark him up severely? That happened.
His thumb remains stroking over the Ascian's quick-beating heart, his lips against his pulse, his arm steady against his back in their reciprocal embrace. Uncertainty would always remain in this place, but Mettaton cares not for its rules, he's decided. Anything he does to him would be there forever, aware or not, dead or alive, present or absent. That's the nature of Mettaton's existence. If all else fades, Mettaton believes he will always persist. It's what he wants, anyhow.
A bruise, deep and contrasting so starkly against Emet-Selch's skin, is left behind. Mettaton regards it with satisfaction, a note of this evident on a hum. How could Emet-Selch ever question if he's ever had Mettaton if he can always envision these marks, even if they've faded? He won't let him doubt for a second their possession of each other, an enduring thing that Mettaton's so sure of wanting.
And so he shifts slightly, sinking his teeth into his neck with a paradoxical gentleness: a scrape, a decision, a mark, then the pressure, all the way up until his skin breaks and blood flows. This time, it's not only with Mettaton's insatiable appetite in mind, but his desire to communicate a message to his Bonded. He would never have to ask again if he has Mettaton, and if Mettaton has him.
For all that this mark is only a part of his artistic vision, Mettaton still groans at the taste of blood. It's becoming so familiar a taste, just as familiar as Emet-Selch's mouth. His emotions run concupiscent all over again, but a note of reassurance and deliberation combined.]