[A new bite, left to ache in sympathy with the others, in time with the beat of his heart. And how his pulse was encouraging Mettaton's work, keeping blood flowing quickly to each new wound, the sort that could have easily escaped, to spill freely down his shoulder and chest, were it not for the tireless efforts of the idol's tongue. Not that his skin was left remotely clean from all this, and he shuddered to think what he would look like at the end of this. A thought that steals his breath and makes his cock hard, prodding the interior of Mettaton's body with greater structure. Penetrating him rather than merely being contained by him. The rocking from his lover's hips, the tightening around his length, further serve to speed that response, slightly dizzied by how quickly he could feel himself filling up.
But it was a satisfying realization. And a low, encouraging hum rumbles through the Ascian's throat at the licking and swiping of blood, from fresh marks to older ones, where easily-disturbed clots were attempting to form. With several points to draw from, and ever more blood lurking just beneath the surface, it would be hard to imagine ever running out of the substance. No matter where Mettaton turned, there would be something easily available for his consumption.
It was a rougher, more primal sort of affection, but no less affectionate for it. It's this that Emet-Selch is aware of when wet, reddened lips capture his, pushing forward against his face. A pressure he returns on instinct, licking back at him when he can, breath shivering at the suction to his lip, the suggestion of teeth in it. His own growl matches Mettaton's when his skin isn't pierced, briefly biting down on the puca's own lip as though threatening to snap through it instead.
Hand lowering to grip and dig into Mettaton's thigh, the Ascian groans around the tongue shoved into his mouth, a blood-soaked but familiar sensation, sucking hard at it with an added scraping of teeth. The metallic taste in itself didn't do much for him, but knowing that it was his was a strangely exciting experience, that such vitality was coating his lover's lips and tongue, that Mettaton had such fascination with obtaining it from him. That in itself made it an appealing thing to taste on him.
Despite the desire for being pushed back, his own tension doesn't relent, pressing back hard into the kiss, into his body. Arching forward, not in the remotest attempt to prevent him, but in its own sort of challenge. To be pressed back, held down and taken. The feeling of Mettaton's own hardening cock brushing against him was a deeply wanted sensation, to feel what he could do to the other man, to have that evidence of his attraction.
The chaotic mess of his own emotional state was still there, but with sheer physicality arresting his senses, it provided him a focus for it- or possibly, some manner of outlet. The intensity Mettaton could provide him, the primal taste of blood, their hardening erections and the rub of heated, sweaty skin. They could claw into each other with such love that there was no mistaking it, to leave wounds that couldn't heal.]
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But it was a satisfying realization. And a low, encouraging hum rumbles through the Ascian's throat at the licking and swiping of blood, from fresh marks to older ones, where easily-disturbed clots were attempting to form. With several points to draw from, and ever more blood lurking just beneath the surface, it would be hard to imagine ever running out of the substance. No matter where Mettaton turned, there would be something easily available for his consumption.
It was a rougher, more primal sort of affection, but no less affectionate for it. It's this that Emet-Selch is aware of when wet, reddened lips capture his, pushing forward against his face. A pressure he returns on instinct, licking back at him when he can, breath shivering at the suction to his lip, the suggestion of teeth in it. His own growl matches Mettaton's when his skin isn't pierced, briefly biting down on the puca's own lip as though threatening to snap through it instead.
Hand lowering to grip and dig into Mettaton's thigh, the Ascian groans around the tongue shoved into his mouth, a blood-soaked but familiar sensation, sucking hard at it with an added scraping of teeth. The metallic taste in itself didn't do much for him, but knowing that it was his was a strangely exciting experience, that such vitality was coating his lover's lips and tongue, that Mettaton had such fascination with obtaining it from him. That in itself made it an appealing thing to taste on him.
Despite the desire for being pushed back, his own tension doesn't relent, pressing back hard into the kiss, into his body. Arching forward, not in the remotest attempt to prevent him, but in its own sort of challenge. To be pressed back, held down and taken. The feeling of Mettaton's own hardening cock brushing against him was a deeply wanted sensation, to feel what he could do to the other man, to have that evidence of his attraction.
The chaotic mess of his own emotional state was still there, but with sheer physicality arresting his senses, it provided him a focus for it- or possibly, some manner of outlet. The intensity Mettaton could provide him, the primal taste of blood, their hardening erections and the rub of heated, sweaty skin. They could claw into each other with such love that there was no mistaking it, to leave wounds that couldn't heal.]