[It barely even hurt, somehow- or rather, the deep throbbing of the wound was the same as the sensation of it being sucked on. It didn't even sting this time, or at least he didn't notice it accompanying the prodding of a tongue, the pressure of lips. There was an ache, he supposed, a deeper one that felt like it reached the core of him, and he couldn't tell if it was the result of injury or longing. He needed to lose so much in order to be filled with something else, for Mettaton to take the place of all that unnecessary blood and pain. It was soothing; he was still nauseous.
And his eyes are firmly closed. He is aroused himself- or getting there, at least, Emet-Selch had felt flickers of it while waiting for Mettaton's arrival. A normal response to anticipating him, a normal response to not only his presence but the thought of it, a distraction eternal. And with the slide of a thigh between his legs he shudders, beginning to stiffen despite of it all- or because of it, perhaps. But it's a bodily response that dizzies him further, as his blood is torn between filling his cock, and Mettaton's eager mouth, with his lover getting the lion's (or rather, the puca's) share. It was good that he was being propped up so well, he thought; if Mettaton let go, he was certain he'd collapse without him....
It takes him a moment to realize he's being kissed, that he's not just imagining the taste of blood against them. So there's a moment's delay before he presses back, a soft nuzzle for his lips, wet entirely from his own excess. If he slipped his tongue between them, would he taste anything else? A stray thought: Mettaton's mouth tasted more of blood than himself, these days; it was almost a pity.
His neck was wet and not getting any less so; opened and deep, the wound continued to drain. Fabric began to stick to him, a heaviness to it that was gradually spreading, and he's only dimly aware of why. A sensation distant, like so many others. A sensation drowned out by his pulse, by his own quickened breathing. Even arousal seemed quieter, a different sort of throb that seemed to reassure that all was well.
There was... nothing wrong with this. He was also certain of that, as he licks back at Mettaton's lips, legs tensing around his thigh- though it's as much for balance as pleasure.]
Is it....
[He's still working through a response to Mettaton's first words, even as he hears the rest, and his thoughts lose their track again. The robot had barely left his neck and already so much--]
You're- losing some of it.
[A low murmur between kisses, between breaths, shallow and fast.]
no subject
And his eyes are firmly closed. He is aroused himself- or getting there, at least, Emet-Selch had felt flickers of it while waiting for Mettaton's arrival. A normal response to anticipating him, a normal response to not only his presence but the thought of it, a distraction eternal. And with the slide of a thigh between his legs he shudders, beginning to stiffen despite of it all- or because of it, perhaps. But it's a bodily response that dizzies him further, as his blood is torn between filling his cock, and Mettaton's eager mouth, with his lover getting the lion's (or rather, the puca's) share. It was good that he was being propped up so well, he thought; if Mettaton let go, he was certain he'd collapse without him....
It takes him a moment to realize he's being kissed, that he's not just imagining the taste of blood against them. So there's a moment's delay before he presses back, a soft nuzzle for his lips, wet entirely from his own excess. If he slipped his tongue between them, would he taste anything else? A stray thought: Mettaton's mouth tasted more of blood than himself, these days; it was almost a pity.
His neck was wet and not getting any less so; opened and deep, the wound continued to drain. Fabric began to stick to him, a heaviness to it that was gradually spreading, and he's only dimly aware of why. A sensation distant, like so many others. A sensation drowned out by his pulse, by his own quickened breathing. Even arousal seemed quieter, a different sort of throb that seemed to reassure that all was well.
There was... nothing wrong with this. He was also certain of that, as he licks back at Mettaton's lips, legs tensing around his thigh- though it's as much for balance as pleasure.]
Is it....
[He's still working through a response to Mettaton's first words, even as he hears the rest, and his thoughts lose their track again. The robot had barely left his neck and already so much--]
You're- losing some of it.
[A low murmur between kisses, between breaths, shallow and fast.]