[Relying on Mettaton to stand as a hypothetical turns into relying on him to stand as a truth; his arms cling onto him with a certain rigidity, grateful for the idol's reliable winding grip. The rush of dizziness catches him off-guard, and with it a hint of nausea, as he feels the distinct way Mettaton sucked upon the wound, and how quickly blood flowed from it, in a seemingly endless torrent. And how good the robot had gotten, he distantly noticed, at funneling most of it down his throat; so little, at first, escaped his desperate lips.
It was just the suddenness of the drain, he assumed; Mettaton hadn't taken this much this quickly before. As deep as the wound on his chest had been (and still was, as it was yet reluctantly healing), necks were an easier access point for the fluid. From the last time, he'd perhaps he'd felt a touch weaker afterward, but that was the natural result of injury. And this- this was just the abruptness; he'd adjust, he was certain.
His breath is quicker; he swallows heavily. His fingers knead slowly into Mettaton, trying to think more on the press of his hip and the tie of their legs, on the familiar hold on his ass, but it was a faded backdrop to the blood. His heartbeat. That specific sort of pulsing; his lover's lips against the wound.]
I... ah--
[It's not a distracted note (how could he be distracted from all of this?) or even precisely a disoriented one, but it takes a few moments to gather his concentration, to apply them to words. His pulse was thready and so quickened; he wondered how easily Mettaton could feel it, each moment squeezing that bit more life from him. With the puca's mouth less-effectively covering the wound in order to speak (but not to breathe; a robot's body had its advantages, he thought... he would require no breaks from him) he can better feel the way it not only welled up, but flowed past. Wetness uncaught by lips pours down his neck to soak into fabric. A deep red scent that was not uncommon these days.]
Perhaps I'm getting used to it.
[A healthy response to develop, surely: a complete lack of alarm to incisors slicing into his throat. But how could he be at all troubled, knowing what effect his blood had on his lover? Mettaton had been so anxious ever since they'd returned from the underground, and to know he could sooth him like this, if only for a time... it filled him with affection for him. And if Emet-Selch were likewise soothed by the connection, the sensation made it that much harder to think about inevitable losses. Much harder to think in general, but particularly about that; how could anything be forgotten when they were so full of each other? A trading of blood for open wounds, a connection so natural it sets him shivering.]
no subject
It was just the suddenness of the drain, he assumed; Mettaton hadn't taken this much this quickly before. As deep as the wound on his chest had been (and still was, as it was yet reluctantly healing), necks were an easier access point for the fluid. From the last time, he'd perhaps he'd felt a touch weaker afterward, but that was the natural result of injury. And this- this was just the abruptness; he'd adjust, he was certain.
His breath is quicker; he swallows heavily. His fingers knead slowly into Mettaton, trying to think more on the press of his hip and the tie of their legs, on the familiar hold on his ass, but it was a faded backdrop to the blood. His heartbeat. That specific sort of pulsing; his lover's lips against the wound.]
I... ah--
[It's not a distracted note (how could he be distracted from all of this?) or even precisely a disoriented one, but it takes a few moments to gather his concentration, to apply them to words. His pulse was thready and so quickened; he wondered how easily Mettaton could feel it, each moment squeezing that bit more life from him. With the puca's mouth less-effectively covering the wound in order to speak (but not to breathe; a robot's body had its advantages, he thought... he would require no breaks from him) he can better feel the way it not only welled up, but flowed past. Wetness uncaught by lips pours down his neck to soak into fabric. A deep red scent that was not uncommon these days.]
Perhaps I'm getting used to it.
[A healthy response to develop, surely: a complete lack of alarm to incisors slicing into his throat. But how could he be at all troubled, knowing what effect his blood had on his lover? Mettaton had been so anxious ever since they'd returned from the underground, and to know he could sooth him like this, if only for a time... it filled him with affection for him. And if Emet-Selch were likewise soothed by the connection, the sensation made it that much harder to think about inevitable losses. Much harder to think in general, but particularly about that; how could anything be forgotten when they were so full of each other? A trading of blood for open wounds, a connection so natural it sets him shivering.]