[He wouldn't spend his night anywhere but in Mettaton's arms, he thinks, even as he hastens his pace into a sprint. There's nothing more to write.
Mettaton may be wearing heels, but he has the same power behind his legs granted to him by transforming into a Puca at all, something of an interesting, welcome change, despite their distortion in appearance. He's so fast now, his legs have such substance, and it's a rush just to use them at all when he's this wound up. It's even a rush to know that his Bonded remains, that they're both keyed up and agitated by their circumstances, both of them knowing the same thing yet contending for either side of the issue.
If Mettaton couldn't feel Emet-Selch's emotions clear as day through their Bond, he'd be able to tell in his erratic manner of typing. But even his own mood is clear: his decision, his desperation, his assertion, his possessiveness and his craving. All the idol's adoration manifest.
He's a lot faster when running, making it easy to clear distance from Entertainment District to Haven. He takes shortcuts over buildings - they're nothing to his ability to jump them and his inability to hurt himself in the process - and it's no time at all until he kicks in his own front door, caring little for trying the knob. (He fortunately only breaks it a little.) Mettaton closes it (to the best of his ability), marches up the stairs on steely steps marked by the click of heels, and opens Emet-Selch's door.
He closes it behind him, and locks eyes with his lover's figure. All at once, that flinty coldness to his golden eye ignites into passion, and he crosses the room for him in a matter of strides.]
Hades.
[Mettaton's voice is modulated and firm when he says his name, but low enough for it to be just for his ears as he stands before him. A deliberate use of his name as he confirms what he savors having of him. He pulls Emet-Selch close and... simply presses his forehead to his, first. He tips their noses, closes his eye, loves him and breathes in his presence. It's heavy and heartfelt, the product fondness. Mettaton smiles softly.
Should there be no protest, he slips down to his neck and snaps his teeth into flesh in with a voracity, shuddering and sighing into the heady feeling of his Bonded's magic signature. A long-awaited treat, the feeling of his Bond's soul so close, his body warm and alive in his arms, his blood hot and his favorite thing to taste. His arms pull Emet-Selch so close to his waist that he may very well be lifting him off the floor slightly.]
no subject
Mettaton may be wearing heels, but he has the same power behind his legs granted to him by transforming into a Puca at all, something of an interesting, welcome change, despite their distortion in appearance. He's so fast now, his legs have such substance, and it's a rush just to use them at all when he's this wound up. It's even a rush to know that his Bonded remains, that they're both keyed up and agitated by their circumstances, both of them knowing the same thing yet contending for either side of the issue.
If Mettaton couldn't feel Emet-Selch's emotions clear as day through their Bond, he'd be able to tell in his erratic manner of typing. But even his own mood is clear: his decision, his desperation, his assertion, his possessiveness and his craving. All the idol's adoration manifest.
He's a lot faster when running, making it easy to clear distance from Entertainment District to Haven. He takes shortcuts over buildings - they're nothing to his ability to jump them and his inability to hurt himself in the process - and it's no time at all until he kicks in his own front door, caring little for trying the knob. (He fortunately only breaks it a little.) Mettaton closes it (to the best of his ability), marches up the stairs on steely steps marked by the click of heels, and opens Emet-Selch's door.
He closes it behind him, and locks eyes with his lover's figure. All at once, that flinty coldness to his golden eye ignites into passion, and he crosses the room for him in a matter of strides.]
Hades.
[Mettaton's voice is modulated and firm when he says his name, but low enough for it to be just for his ears as he stands before him. A deliberate use of his name as he confirms what he savors having of him. He pulls Emet-Selch close and... simply presses his forehead to his, first. He tips their noses, closes his eye, loves him and breathes in his presence. It's heavy and heartfelt, the product fondness. Mettaton smiles softly.
Should there be no protest, he slips down to his neck and snaps his teeth into flesh in with a voracity, shuddering and sighing into the heady feeling of his Bonded's magic signature. A long-awaited treat, the feeling of his Bond's soul so close, his body warm and alive in his arms, his blood hot and his favorite thing to taste. His arms pull Emet-Selch so close to his waist that he may very well be lifting him off the floor slightly.]