[Emet-Selch's demand, something more of an invitation than anything, manages to heat his blood and push his own pulse to pounding. He never stopped being Mettaton or a Puca, for all that he appears perfectly human, leaving him prone to all of the same vices: Emet's blood, possession, and Emet-Selch himself. He tongues him roughly, dragging even his lips along his newest mark to drink him up as he takes a smaller point of that ring of teeth to suck a bruise into. It yields him more of a taste all the while, a delicacy unlike any other that sends a tremble through the robot's body. Anticipation's been there, it usually is, but this dials it up, setting him in a new frame of mind. He's maddened by this desire to prove how persistent his presence could truly be.
Mettaton shifts upon Emet-Selch's lap to facilitate this closeness, for all that he still hasn't lifted from his cock. And he doesn't see a reason to, if it doesn't bother him, though he envisions Emet-Selch reclining before, prostrate and vulnerable, in the near future. There's a part of Mettaton abundantly glad for the fact that there's no ritual of clothing removal whenever he has Emet-Selch already stripped, and he thinks to himself that for every time they sleep in the same bed, he'd like to preemptively rid him of clothes, for all that he enjoys attire. It's part of a ritual, but part of one that he'll just have to proudly take care of with immediacy. His thoughts are accompanied by his tireless covetousness, sating himself with more of Emet-Selch's blood, licking and sucking at his first mark while drifting over his pulse with his lips, spreading a line of red along his throat as he mouths him, a sudden awareness of how delicate his neck is.
And how prone Emet-Selch makes himself to him. It has Mettaton pressing into him in return, body flush to him as he angles his head down and buries himself in Emet-Selch's neck, having drifted to the other side as he leaves kisses and bruises in his wake. He's already bitten into this side of his neck, but it's not enough. This time, he doesn't hold back to start: Mettaton bites down hard, getting woozy off of the immediate gratification of fresh blood on his tongue, the magic of his Bonded exquisite. Irresistible.
He swallows, an excess of drool accompanying a tongue blood-drenched. He speaks against his neck, voice dark and velvety.]
With how delicious you taste... With how much I need you. You'll never escape it, how I intend to mark you up.
[A swipe of his tongue; another swallow. Every muscle in Mettaton's body is tensed, as if ready to pounce upon something he already has in his clutches. His fingers prod his chest, his palm rubs into him, all of it softer than the rest of him, all of it undeniably fueled by absolute attraction and reverence.]
Your whole body, by the way... That's what I'll be enjoying. Ha.
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Mettaton shifts upon Emet-Selch's lap to facilitate this closeness, for all that he still hasn't lifted from his cock. And he doesn't see a reason to, if it doesn't bother him, though he envisions Emet-Selch reclining before, prostrate and vulnerable, in the near future. There's a part of Mettaton abundantly glad for the fact that there's no ritual of clothing removal whenever he has Emet-Selch already stripped, and he thinks to himself that for every time they sleep in the same bed, he'd like to preemptively rid him of clothes, for all that he enjoys attire. It's part of a ritual, but part of one that he'll just have to proudly take care of with immediacy. His thoughts are accompanied by his tireless covetousness, sating himself with more of Emet-Selch's blood, licking and sucking at his first mark while drifting over his pulse with his lips, spreading a line of red along his throat as he mouths him, a sudden awareness of how delicate his neck is.
And how prone Emet-Selch makes himself to him. It has Mettaton pressing into him in return, body flush to him as he angles his head down and buries himself in Emet-Selch's neck, having drifted to the other side as he leaves kisses and bruises in his wake. He's already bitten into this side of his neck, but it's not enough. This time, he doesn't hold back to start: Mettaton bites down hard, getting woozy off of the immediate gratification of fresh blood on his tongue, the magic of his Bonded exquisite. Irresistible.
He swallows, an excess of drool accompanying a tongue blood-drenched. He speaks against his neck, voice dark and velvety.]
With how delicious you taste... With how much I need you. You'll never escape it, how I intend to mark you up.
[A swipe of his tongue; another swallow. Every muscle in Mettaton's body is tensed, as if ready to pounce upon something he already has in his clutches. His fingers prod his chest, his palm rubs into him, all of it softer than the rest of him, all of it undeniably fueled by absolute attraction and reverence.]
Your whole body, by the way... That's what I'll be enjoying. Ha.