[His entire moment seems to close in on him with the sound of Emet-Selch's voice commending it all. And the sound of his moan, the sudden tensing of his body, the realization of his gradually filling cock——
Mettaton switches from tonguing to a firm bite into his shoulder, bracing himself against a harsh, unbridled moan, which he lets out against skin. Two wounds in Mettaton's wake to bleed out, a third to be consumed from. For now, he grips down onto his Bonded with his teeth as he licks and tastes experimentally at his body, head spinning from it all. The way they both desperately mash their bodies together as firmly as they can, the way Emet-Selch's grip on him is unforgiving but so tender, the way he can feel his heartbeat drum in his bite, blood pushing into his mouth. An association made, a neurological pathway forming itself to associate the taste of his blood with arousal, inebriating and necessary.
And his arousal, which begins to form itself into something firmer while he'd gotten accustomed his softness. Mettaton twitches on his lap, anticipatory of his impending erection, the realization that he'd get such an intimate experience of feeling his filling, a response to his body and his actions. He curves his back into him on reflex, rocking hips into his lap slightly, the suggestion that he welcomes and encourages the sensation he could spring upon him.
He pulls his teeth off of his Bonded and switches back to lapping up blood, cleaning him and kissing him all about his neck and shoulders, revisiting old wounds and licking sloppily at all he can ingest. All the while, he returns this gesture of ardor, slipping into a firm nuzzle of his Bonded appreciatively, possessively. A nuzzle that turns into a revisit of Emet-Selch's lips, the hints of a growl on his voice as he takes to a forceful kiss.
Mettaton sucks at his lover's lower lip before nipping him, a low, primal groan his expression for his need. His tongue explores his lip some more, searching for ways to make him that much more flushed, imagining his lip swollen to match the anticipated tinge of his cheeks. Imagining him fucked silly, imagining Mettaton taking to him over and over and bleeding him dry of anything he has to give: blood, sweat, come, tears, any of it, he'll take. Filled in its place with himself, he imagines so vividly. Emet-Selch beyond his senses, marked up and possessed entirely.
He tenses around his Emet-Selch's cock as he finds himself rousing, cock firming up. How could he deny himself the pleasure he feels from his beloved's body? Mettaton slips his tongue between his lips, pushing into his lover with the threat of toppling him down and into the mattress. Muscles still taut, still ready to lunge, ready to pin him down and screw him senseless at the slightest provocation — and it entices him to do so.]
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Mettaton switches from tonguing to a firm bite into his shoulder, bracing himself against a harsh, unbridled moan, which he lets out against skin. Two wounds in Mettaton's wake to bleed out, a third to be consumed from. For now, he grips down onto his Bonded with his teeth as he licks and tastes experimentally at his body, head spinning from it all. The way they both desperately mash their bodies together as firmly as they can, the way Emet-Selch's grip on him is unforgiving but so tender, the way he can feel his heartbeat drum in his bite, blood pushing into his mouth. An association made, a neurological pathway forming itself to associate the taste of his blood with arousal, inebriating and necessary.
And his arousal, which begins to form itself into something firmer while he'd gotten accustomed his softness. Mettaton twitches on his lap, anticipatory of his impending erection, the realization that he'd get such an intimate experience of feeling his filling, a response to his body and his actions. He curves his back into him on reflex, rocking hips into his lap slightly, the suggestion that he welcomes and encourages the sensation he could spring upon him.
He pulls his teeth off of his Bonded and switches back to lapping up blood, cleaning him and kissing him all about his neck and shoulders, revisiting old wounds and licking sloppily at all he can ingest. All the while, he returns this gesture of ardor, slipping into a firm nuzzle of his Bonded appreciatively, possessively. A nuzzle that turns into a revisit of Emet-Selch's lips, the hints of a growl on his voice as he takes to a forceful kiss.
Mettaton sucks at his lover's lower lip before nipping him, a low, primal groan his expression for his need. His tongue explores his lip some more, searching for ways to make him that much more flushed, imagining his lip swollen to match the anticipated tinge of his cheeks. Imagining him fucked silly, imagining Mettaton taking to him over and over and bleeding him dry of anything he has to give: blood, sweat, come, tears, any of it, he'll take. Filled in its place with himself, he imagines so vividly. Emet-Selch beyond his senses, marked up and possessed entirely.
He tenses around his Emet-Selch's cock as he finds himself rousing, cock firming up. How could he deny himself the pleasure he feels from his beloved's body? Mettaton slips his tongue between his lips, pushing into his lover with the threat of toppling him down and into the mattress. Muscles still taut, still ready to lunge, ready to pin him down and screw him senseless at the slightest provocation — and it entices him to do so.]