[It's true: were he to teleport, Mettaton would track him down again. Bond failing, he would simply think of an object he'd imagine on his person: his earring, if he couldn't simply covet his soul and find him that way. Mettaton has countless ways he'd track him down, and he doesn't imagine Emet-Selch would put up such a fight so as to make him truly untraceable.
This simply means he can devote his energy entirely to ravishing him rather than hunting him.
Blood seeps between his teeth and drains into his mouth. He's gotten good at forming his lips around his bite to reduce the amount of loss, so wanting of his Bonded's blood as he is. His ears perk up, though there's a contentedness to them in their angle, in how they lean and swivel to pick up sounds from his Bondmate over all else. Feeling even his leg locked with his, Mettaton nuzzles into his bite, agitating it, ushering forth a greater gush — has he hit something good already? There's so much...
He sucks; it's a relief beyond measure. He couldn't begin to cough on all of the blood he has in his throat, given that he has no need to breathe, but he swallows and swallows, pleased by its abundance. Mettaton groans into his bite, realizing that he'd been wanting this taste for... days. Ever since he last had his fix of the Ascian, even though it hasn't been long. How stressed he's been, how frantic and agitated, and how immediately Emet-Selch's life serves to ameliorate his troubles, a cure to his anxieties. He is his solace where he can't have one, and his next sigh is crossed with the notes of pleasure and desperation both. And now that he has it, it's a wonderful bite of him, he thinks. One he could suck on for a time, with how plentiful a supply it is. (Perhaps MTT isn't considering any danger to his Emet-Selch. How much is too much? Mettaton doesn't know of such a thing.)
Adjusting his hold on his lover, one of Mettaton's flexible arms winds entirely around Emet-Selch's middle as the other crosses over his back, gripping down onto his ass as he comfortably takes a share of gravity from the Ascian. The idol tugs him as close as he can, shifting his hip into Emet-Selch's leg to form his body against his where he knows it'll give way to his own. Pressing as completely to him as possible as he sucks rapturously upon his injury.
He can only show him he has him in this moment, but this moment has expanse. The uncertainty of their return, should it come, should it be cruel... Whenever it is, it's not now, and now is always happening. Mettaton's upset begins to dissolve with him in his arms: there's nothing to worry about. Emet-Selch is securely in his grip, and surely his loss would feel like danger. He feels nothing of the sort.
This reassurance in place, Mettaton sighs again into his neck, adjusting his lips once more when he feels blood seep from the corner of them. He shudders, even as he remains stable. He swallows again breaking free and sighing long and hard against his skin.
Mettaton kisses him where a bruise blooms around punctures. He bleeds copiously. He shivers again, the smell overwhelming him, intoxicating him. All of his pleasure to have his Bonded so close is immense, and he feels he possesses him all the more for his delight. With a voice deeper and thicker, painted awash in the blood in his throat and the love he harbors, Mettaton speaks against his throat.]
Ah... Y-You didn't tense, darling... I can tell...
[His sharpened teeth slipped through him so readily. It makes him want more.]
no subject
This simply means he can devote his energy entirely to ravishing him rather than hunting him.
Blood seeps between his teeth and drains into his mouth. He's gotten good at forming his lips around his bite to reduce the amount of loss, so wanting of his Bonded's blood as he is. His ears perk up, though there's a contentedness to them in their angle, in how they lean and swivel to pick up sounds from his Bondmate over all else. Feeling even his leg locked with his, Mettaton nuzzles into his bite, agitating it, ushering forth a greater gush — has he hit something good already? There's so much...
He sucks; it's a relief beyond measure. He couldn't begin to cough on all of the blood he has in his throat, given that he has no need to breathe, but he swallows and swallows, pleased by its abundance. Mettaton groans into his bite, realizing that he'd been wanting this taste for... days. Ever since he last had his fix of the Ascian, even though it hasn't been long. How stressed he's been, how frantic and agitated, and how immediately Emet-Selch's life serves to ameliorate his troubles, a cure to his anxieties. He is his solace where he can't have one, and his next sigh is crossed with the notes of pleasure and desperation both. And now that he has it, it's a wonderful bite of him, he thinks. One he could suck on for a time, with how plentiful a supply it is. (Perhaps MTT isn't considering any danger to his Emet-Selch. How much is too much? Mettaton doesn't know of such a thing.)
Adjusting his hold on his lover, one of Mettaton's flexible arms winds entirely around Emet-Selch's middle as the other crosses over his back, gripping down onto his ass as he comfortably takes a share of gravity from the Ascian. The idol tugs him as close as he can, shifting his hip into Emet-Selch's leg to form his body against his where he knows it'll give way to his own. Pressing as completely to him as possible as he sucks rapturously upon his injury.
He can only show him he has him in this moment, but this moment has expanse. The uncertainty of their return, should it come, should it be cruel... Whenever it is, it's not now, and now is always happening. Mettaton's upset begins to dissolve with him in his arms: there's nothing to worry about. Emet-Selch is securely in his grip, and surely his loss would feel like danger. He feels nothing of the sort.
This reassurance in place, Mettaton sighs again into his neck, adjusting his lips once more when he feels blood seep from the corner of them. He shudders, even as he remains stable. He swallows again breaking free and sighing long and hard against his skin.
Mettaton kisses him where a bruise blooms around punctures. He bleeds copiously. He shivers again, the smell overwhelming him, intoxicating him. All of his pleasure to have his Bonded so close is immense, and he feels he possesses him all the more for his delight. With a voice deeper and thicker, painted awash in the blood in his throat and the love he harbors, Mettaton speaks against his throat.]
Ah... Y-You didn't tense, darling... I can tell...
[His sharpened teeth slipped through him so readily. It makes him want more.]