[The developing prominence of the taste of sweat and his cooling skin under Mettaton's hot, bloodied mouth are notable, though the monster isn't sure how. It's different, and he can feel his mild tremors as he strokes the back of his neck. Can feel the way he shivers under his body.
It brings Mettaton the desire to soothe him in return, for this display of complete vulnerability in body. He does so by licking and further agitating that wound with his tongue. Nuzzling his temple into Emet-Selch's cheek. Pressing his thigh against his engorged arousal, humming at the sensation of him and his attempts to press into his thigh: a reward for his tenacity, for his delectable hardness, a good use of his blood, in Mettaton's opinion. Further taking his blood, preventing it from spilling anywhere other than into his mouth. That he was bleeding this much was for him, he decides, and the robot would gladly take all of this and more from Emet-Selch, because he loves him. Because he would take the whole of him, from head to toe and deeper yet. Not a drop that exits his body should go anywhere else, and it's such a delightful feeling, something that sedates and tides him over, a fixation to distract him from all of his worries. He focuses so wholly on the Ascian that he can't possibly ruminate over all that ails him, so dearly in love with the man beneath him in his gradual chill. Firmly grounded in the moment, this is all that exists: the future and past all exist right now, and of course it means the world. This means everything.
Their Bond. Emet-Selch is dizzy. It's a dizziness that doesn't come from breathlessness, though he wonders if that would make it better if he could suffocate him with his tongue instead of solely pulling blood from his body. (If only he had a duplicate of himself! He could feed on his spilling wound and kiss his lover to death.) Mettaton's arms press into Emet-Selch's body, trying to bring his weight down upon him more firmly.
He still tastes his clamminess.
Mettaton swallows. He swallows and swallows and feels he couldn't get enough of him. But he breaks free of his leaking wound for just a moment, the need to express his thoughts and communicate occurring to him. A check-in to make sense of his Bonded's feelings, despite how he can sense them sympathetically.]
H... Hades? How are you doing?
[Mettaton's voice is soft and light, unhurried and unworried. Even as he thinks that Emet-Selch has lost a lot of blood... It feels like a lot, anyway, when he considers how much has made it down his throat. The idol interprets Emet-Selch's body language to be weakened, succumbing to him... But he was plenty agitated before he got here. They both were. That he should be so receptive and submissive, that he should be so hard and soft simultaneously, and that he should bleed so profusely... All of it felt appropriate, somehow. Whether it's right or not, that's the question. Whether Emet-Selch is all right, that's yet another question.
Because ultimately, Mettaton cares for him. He doesn't think they're in any danger, but he wants to know how Emet-Selch's doing nonetheless. He wants to know how he feels about this drain of lifeblood. He wants to know how his mood sits. He wants to know what troubles him, what he desires, what could soothe, what he feels, what weighs upon his shoulders... and how he could make him feel weightless, if temporarily. What he could do to alleviate that burden.
As soon as he finishes speaking, Mettaton wraps his lips around that bite. How hard he bleeds still... It's fortunate that it's going down somewhat, but it's likely less for any actual healing, and more for lack of pressure. Mettaton presses his tongue to his skin again, applying wet, heated pressure.]
no subject
It brings Mettaton the desire to soothe him in return, for this display of complete vulnerability in body. He does so by licking and further agitating that wound with his tongue. Nuzzling his temple into Emet-Selch's cheek. Pressing his thigh against his engorged arousal, humming at the sensation of him and his attempts to press into his thigh: a reward for his tenacity, for his delectable hardness, a good use of his blood, in Mettaton's opinion. Further taking his blood, preventing it from spilling anywhere other than into his mouth. That he was bleeding this much was for him, he decides, and the robot would gladly take all of this and more from Emet-Selch, because he loves him. Because he would take the whole of him, from head to toe and deeper yet. Not a drop that exits his body should go anywhere else, and it's such a delightful feeling, something that sedates and tides him over, a fixation to distract him from all of his worries. He focuses so wholly on the Ascian that he can't possibly ruminate over all that ails him, so dearly in love with the man beneath him in his gradual chill. Firmly grounded in the moment, this is all that exists: the future and past all exist right now, and of course it means the world. This means everything.
Their Bond. Emet-Selch is dizzy. It's a dizziness that doesn't come from breathlessness, though he wonders if that would make it better if he could suffocate him with his tongue instead of solely pulling blood from his body. (If only he had a duplicate of himself! He could feed on his spilling wound and kiss his lover to death.) Mettaton's arms press into Emet-Selch's body, trying to bring his weight down upon him more firmly.
He still tastes his clamminess.
Mettaton swallows. He swallows and swallows and feels he couldn't get enough of him. But he breaks free of his leaking wound for just a moment, the need to express his thoughts and communicate occurring to him. A check-in to make sense of his Bonded's feelings, despite how he can sense them sympathetically.]
H... Hades? How are you doing?
[Mettaton's voice is soft and light, unhurried and unworried. Even as he thinks that Emet-Selch has lost a lot of blood... It feels like a lot, anyway, when he considers how much has made it down his throat. The idol interprets Emet-Selch's body language to be weakened, succumbing to him... But he was plenty agitated before he got here. They both were. That he should be so receptive and submissive, that he should be so hard and soft simultaneously, and that he should bleed so profusely... All of it felt appropriate, somehow. Whether it's right or not, that's the question. Whether Emet-Selch is all right, that's yet another question.
Because ultimately, Mettaton cares for him. He doesn't think they're in any danger, but he wants to know how Emet-Selch's doing nonetheless. He wants to know how he feels about this drain of lifeblood. He wants to know how his mood sits. He wants to know what troubles him, what he desires, what could soothe, what he feels, what weighs upon his shoulders... and how he could make him feel weightless, if temporarily. What he could do to alleviate that burden.
As soon as he finishes speaking, Mettaton wraps his lips around that bite. How hard he bleeds still... It's fortunate that it's going down somewhat, but it's likely less for any actual healing, and more for lack of pressure. Mettaton presses his tongue to his skin again, applying wet, heated pressure.]