[Would Mettaton's recent fascination with his blood ever begin to strike him as excessive, unusual? It certainly wasn't unwelcome, from the taking of it, to the raw marks left behind in the process. It was nothing like the tidy (if also surprisingly pleasant) process of being fed on by a vampire; this was both painful and a bit of a mess. Neither were traits that he perceived as a detriment, any discomfort registering more as intensity. Or at the worst, the smallest of prices to pay for the resulting bruising and redness. For the feeling of blood and his lover's saliva mixing upon his skin, an experience too heady for him to even consider trying to discourage, much less limit.
Though really, if Emet-Selch ever realizes that Mettaton's getting himself addicted to his blood rather than simply appreciating it, his response would be, essentially: good. Another way he could never be left, if his Bonded required him for his fix.
Not that there seemed to be any risk of that, considering Mettaton's words, his posture, every act and word. And how comforting it was, rather than restrictive, to be faced with that level of intent, to not be permitted to leave. Not that he would ever try. But- their metaphorical claws were dug in regardless, a combined threat and promise, demand and reassurance.
His wounds were raw and warm, but the damp lines left in Mettaton's wake cooled very quickly, the contrast producing a shiver. His body in its entirety didn't feel warm enough at all, not when compared to the burn of injury or any place the puca was currently pressed against. Or around; his cock was currently quite warmed, still buried inside him for the moment. But it's a persistent contact that facilitates a response, particularly when paired with the next bite, the next release of blood into his lover's mouth. A gradual hardening that has his breath hitch, turning into a low moan at the thought of how that must feel. And how exposed he was in all aspects, that he wouldn't have been able to hide his burgeoning arousal from him, even if he'd wanted to.
And what else did he need blood for, in the end? It was there to either fill his cock, or Mettaton's mouth; any other purpose was of far lesser importance.
He shivers again, at the thought of being marked all over, unavoidably damaged, at the tautness to the other's body, as though he were only moments away from tearing him apart. How his own pulse races in response, muscles tensing as though responding to an impending threat- yet with no intention of trying to escape from it. He would dash himself against his lover's jaws and hands however he could, drive them deeper, in order to keep him from ever pulling free.]
Good.
[His voice is a hushed whisper, head tilting against Mettaton's, rubbing a bit against him, the scent of fresher blood becoming more distinct.]
I expect you'll be thorough.
[They were neither the sort to be satisfied with half-measures. A healthy combination.]
no subject
Though really, if Emet-Selch ever realizes that Mettaton's getting himself addicted to his blood rather than simply appreciating it, his response would be, essentially: good. Another way he could never be left, if his Bonded required him for his fix.
Not that there seemed to be any risk of that, considering Mettaton's words, his posture, every act and word. And how comforting it was, rather than restrictive, to be faced with that level of intent, to not be permitted to leave. Not that he would ever try. But- their metaphorical claws were dug in regardless, a combined threat and promise, demand and reassurance.
His wounds were raw and warm, but the damp lines left in Mettaton's wake cooled very quickly, the contrast producing a shiver. His body in its entirety didn't feel warm enough at all, not when compared to the burn of injury or any place the puca was currently pressed against. Or around; his cock was currently quite warmed, still buried inside him for the moment. But it's a persistent contact that facilitates a response, particularly when paired with the next bite, the next release of blood into his lover's mouth. A gradual hardening that has his breath hitch, turning into a low moan at the thought of how that must feel. And how exposed he was in all aspects, that he wouldn't have been able to hide his burgeoning arousal from him, even if he'd wanted to.
And what else did he need blood for, in the end? It was there to either fill his cock, or Mettaton's mouth; any other purpose was of far lesser importance.
He shivers again, at the thought of being marked all over, unavoidably damaged, at the tautness to the other's body, as though he were only moments away from tearing him apart. How his own pulse races in response, muscles tensing as though responding to an impending threat- yet with no intention of trying to escape from it. He would dash himself against his lover's jaws and hands however he could, drive them deeper, in order to keep him from ever pulling free.]
Good.
[His voice is a hushed whisper, head tilting against Mettaton's, rubbing a bit against him, the scent of fresher blood becoming more distinct.]
I expect you'll be thorough.
[They were neither the sort to be satisfied with half-measures. A healthy combination.]