[Even though the robot craves his blood like nothing else, Mettaton wants to kiss him — and having Emet-Selch bring notice to his would so quickly after he's left it, after he's started kissing him, has him drawing his gaze to the spot before his mouth for once. And what he sees...
Mettaton is not a professional at Being Organic and Having Blood, but he has enough experience to take note of the amount. The way it floods from his bite, and he tries to envision whatever's underneath, something circulatory from his intensive study. Sure, the body is delicate, he acknowledges. But why would it be too terrible if he'd hit a plentiful vessel...? "Terrible" isn't even something that yet occurs to him, gazing down upon all of that red. How much more comes, even in looking at it.
His lover's breathing is erratic. His clothes are getting as wet as his own was that one time, near the collar, and Mettaton's attention shoots to Emet-Selch's face. Down to his cock; he rubs a thigh against him some more, idly, appreciatively. He sighs, both at the feeling of his growing hardness, and at the reminder.]
Oh...
[Maybe there's a hint of concern now. But it only causes Mettaton to want to stop the blood from escaping him — to claim it as his own, he doesn't have any, he wants it. If he could press his mouth to it, let the excess flow into his mouth, surely it would stop... staining his clothes any worse, and then it wouldn't look as alarming. That would solve the problem. So he returns to his wound eagerly, lapping at it with his tongue behind the security of lips pressed tight to skin, catching any and all excess.
Just with the taste of it on his tongue, there's not as much worry anymore: he could fill himself to the brim like this, he thinks with anticipation. (Without considering that in filling up his chassis, he would be draining that same amount from his Bonded — and he can fit easily 40% of his blood in his body, not that he's thinking about it in numbers, only vastness to be filled. (A very, very bad thing, but Mettaton doesn't realize it. He really should realize it; he would if he weren't placated by blood in the first place.)) He considers the distribution of blood in his Emet-Selch's body, with a concentration of it being given to him by mouth, and a concentration filling his cock. Both are for him. He thinks about how much of a pleasure his Bonded's body is, even without it being his own. But then, isn't it his?
He cares so much for him. Mettaton wants to kiss him all over...
The Puca pulls him closer to his body, even as he continues laving his tongue along his wound. He wishes he could nuzzle him, but he's busy trying to avoid losing any of his blood — no longer sucking hard, but gently prodding him with his tongue. The hand that remains on Emet-Selch's waist strokes him softly, an accompanying sigh of satisfaction slipping from his throat.
Surely, applying his tongue and catching all blood in his mouth will solve all problems. Not that he feels that there were any problems to begin with, even if there was the inkling of a feeling...]
no subject
Mettaton is not a professional at Being Organic and Having Blood, but he has enough experience to take note of the amount. The way it floods from his bite, and he tries to envision whatever's underneath, something circulatory from his intensive study. Sure, the body is delicate, he acknowledges. But why would it be too terrible if he'd hit a plentiful vessel...? "Terrible" isn't even something that yet occurs to him, gazing down upon all of that red. How much more comes, even in looking at it.
His lover's breathing is erratic. His clothes are getting as wet as his own was that one time, near the collar, and Mettaton's attention shoots to Emet-Selch's face. Down to his cock; he rubs a thigh against him some more, idly, appreciatively. He sighs, both at the feeling of his growing hardness, and at the reminder.]
Oh...
[Maybe there's a hint of concern now. But it only causes Mettaton to want to stop the blood from escaping him — to claim it as his own, he doesn't have any, he wants it. If he could press his mouth to it, let the excess flow into his mouth, surely it would stop... staining his clothes any worse, and then it wouldn't look as alarming. That would solve the problem. So he returns to his wound eagerly, lapping at it with his tongue behind the security of lips pressed tight to skin, catching any and all excess.
Just with the taste of it on his tongue, there's not as much worry anymore: he could fill himself to the brim like this, he thinks with anticipation. (Without considering that in filling up his chassis, he would be draining that same amount from his Bonded — and he can fit easily 40% of his blood in his body, not that he's thinking about it in numbers, only vastness to be filled. (A very, very bad thing, but Mettaton doesn't realize it. He really should realize it; he would if he weren't placated by blood in the first place.)) He considers the distribution of blood in his Emet-Selch's body, with a concentration of it being given to him by mouth, and a concentration filling his cock. Both are for him. He thinks about how much of a pleasure his Bonded's body is, even without it being his own. But then, isn't it his?
He cares so much for him. Mettaton wants to kiss him all over...
The Puca pulls him closer to his body, even as he continues laving his tongue along his wound. He wishes he could nuzzle him, but he's busy trying to avoid losing any of his blood — no longer sucking hard, but gently prodding him with his tongue. The hand that remains on Emet-Selch's waist strokes him softly, an accompanying sigh of satisfaction slipping from his throat.
Surely, applying his tongue and catching all blood in his mouth will solve all problems. Not that he feels that there were any problems to begin with, even if there was the inkling of a feeling...]