[Their manner together is heated enough to burn — and Mettaton feels ever more regret and vindication both for having been ferried away from the basement suddenly. It would've been a sight of a love that nobody else could fathom, but it would've been something Mettaton wanted all to behold in its perfect violence and bloodshed. And yet, he's found himself considering more carefully that Emet-Selch is his complete audience. He carries the burden of reacting enough to satisfy Mettaton.
And with his admission of desire, Mettaton's smile only grows, another ecstatic gale of laughter light on the air to contrast against his darkness, and followed quickly after by a moan of an exhale. No, Emet-Selch's not just voicing a fantasy: he's demanding it be fulfilled. Were MTT cursed to have a god complex or the need for control instead of something that slots in nicely with his general conceit, merely compounding upon vanity already there, he might have found such a demand to be unsuitable, intolerable. Instead, the robot gives Emet-Selch's arousal a firm stroke along its underside before reaching down to cup the entirety of him, from balls to shaft. He stares down at him with a smirk, stroking gently his balls with sharp, threatening nails, the base of his palm rubbing into Emet-Selch's shaft. All of Emet-Selch's body is his, and he envisions that his erection won't be getting much in the way of direct stimulation, at this rate.
Which suits Mettaton just fine. He's positive Emet-Selch can bring himself to satisfaction from sucking his erection on its own — another thought to have him collapsing in a dreamy sigh. It's a wanted thing, to imagine Emet-Selch so turned on by having his air replaced by his length and elated for it enough to come. He wants to see if he'll do it.
He kisses, licks, and sucks at his bloodied neck some more, feeling hungrier than sanity should allow, and takes heavy notice of his lover's wandering hand. It slides along his thigh so tantalizingly, flirting inward. With a demand like his, why would Mettaton deny him what he wants? Even if his want is to choke.
Mettaton performs that partial shift, shifting the weight distribution in his legs so that he forces the shaft of it against Emet-Selch's wandering fingers in invitation. Only now does Mettaton realize how hard he is — how desirous and worked up he's become, and his voice comes out on a stuttered moan.]
H- Hades... What a wonderful idea. Yes. I can see why you'd want me so. If you're going to be so demanding of me... how could I think to deny you?
[For a fleeting moment, Mettaton pulls away from his neck to regard him. And it's a sight he feels would stop his breath and heart both if they were there to stop, a series of mottled yellows and fading blues of long-fading bruises and kisses, of deep violets and blues to signify his recent expressions of ardor, of brilliant rose and bright red fresh and vital. But loudest are streaks and smears of blood, punctures from hands around his neck, claws embedded like hooks to claim him and keep him, and teeth, the teeth Mettaton feels inclined to add more of.
The Puca lunges again, sinking his teeth into Emet-Selch's shoulder where he can see a previously healing wound trying to stitch itself back together. And that won't do, not if he wishes to scar. He doesn't ever want his Bonded to go without reminders upon him wherever he looks, and they add to his beauty, provide a touch of Mettaton all over him and render him into something of the robot's making. Should he gaze at himself in the mirror he'd be marked and taken, incapable of viewing himself without seeing bold signs of his lover upon him. And bared before anyone else, they would know of his claim upon this body. Nobody else could have him and love him like Mettaton can: a touch upon flesh that reaches soul deep, with the longing to tinge him from the marks on his skin to the manifestation of his soul.
With this renewed bite thorough and bleeding, Mettaton kisses Emet-Selch softly upon torn flesh, trailing marks of red up to his ear.]
It's what I want, too. To see you swallowing me, breathless and dazed... Filling your body with me. [His free hand drifts upon the plane of his abdomen, wandering up until he reaches a line of blood. Gliding his finger along and smearing it into skin in patterns, Mettaton's gaze softens.] A wanted outcome, to think of nothing but me.
[He flirts with Emet-Selch's fingers, rubbing his arousal into his hand when he knows his Bonded would prefer feeling it rubbing down his throat. That thought is enough to pull a moan from Mettaton. He sucks in between teeth, his voice increasingly frenetic, as feral-leaning as he's beginning to feel.]
Hades... Down. Suck me. Love me, I... [His thrusts against his hand, fantasy overtaking him as he imagines instead the confines of Emet-Selch's mouth, lips wrapped and split around his length.] Let me. Pin you to the wall, and fuck your mouth... You want that. Don't you.
no subject
And with his admission of desire, Mettaton's smile only grows, another ecstatic gale of laughter light on the air to contrast against his darkness, and followed quickly after by a moan of an exhale. No, Emet-Selch's not just voicing a fantasy: he's demanding it be fulfilled. Were MTT cursed to have a god complex or the need for control instead of something that slots in nicely with his general conceit, merely compounding upon vanity already there, he might have found such a demand to be unsuitable, intolerable. Instead, the robot gives Emet-Selch's arousal a firm stroke along its underside before reaching down to cup the entirety of him, from balls to shaft. He stares down at him with a smirk, stroking gently his balls with sharp, threatening nails, the base of his palm rubbing into Emet-Selch's shaft. All of Emet-Selch's body is his, and he envisions that his erection won't be getting much in the way of direct stimulation, at this rate.
Which suits Mettaton just fine. He's positive Emet-Selch can bring himself to satisfaction from sucking his erection on its own — another thought to have him collapsing in a dreamy sigh. It's a wanted thing, to imagine Emet-Selch so turned on by having his air replaced by his length and elated for it enough to come. He wants to see if he'll do it.
He kisses, licks, and sucks at his bloodied neck some more, feeling hungrier than sanity should allow, and takes heavy notice of his lover's wandering hand. It slides along his thigh so tantalizingly, flirting inward. With a demand like his, why would Mettaton deny him what he wants? Even if his want is to choke.
Mettaton performs that partial shift, shifting the weight distribution in his legs so that he forces the shaft of it against Emet-Selch's wandering fingers in invitation. Only now does Mettaton realize how hard he is — how desirous and worked up he's become, and his voice comes out on a stuttered moan.]
H- Hades... What a wonderful idea. Yes. I can see why you'd want me so. If you're going to be so demanding of me... how could I think to deny you?
[For a fleeting moment, Mettaton pulls away from his neck to regard him. And it's a sight he feels would stop his breath and heart both if they were there to stop, a series of mottled yellows and fading blues of long-fading bruises and kisses, of deep violets and blues to signify his recent expressions of ardor, of brilliant rose and bright red fresh and vital. But loudest are streaks and smears of blood, punctures from hands around his neck, claws embedded like hooks to claim him and keep him, and teeth, the teeth Mettaton feels inclined to add more of.
The Puca lunges again, sinking his teeth into Emet-Selch's shoulder where he can see a previously healing wound trying to stitch itself back together. And that won't do, not if he wishes to scar. He doesn't ever want his Bonded to go without reminders upon him wherever he looks, and they add to his beauty, provide a touch of Mettaton all over him and render him into something of the robot's making. Should he gaze at himself in the mirror he'd be marked and taken, incapable of viewing himself without seeing bold signs of his lover upon him. And bared before anyone else, they would know of his claim upon this body. Nobody else could have him and love him like Mettaton can: a touch upon flesh that reaches soul deep, with the longing to tinge him from the marks on his skin to the manifestation of his soul.
With this renewed bite thorough and bleeding, Mettaton kisses Emet-Selch softly upon torn flesh, trailing marks of red up to his ear.]
It's what I want, too. To see you swallowing me, breathless and dazed... Filling your body with me. [His free hand drifts upon the plane of his abdomen, wandering up until he reaches a line of blood. Gliding his finger along and smearing it into skin in patterns, Mettaton's gaze softens.] A wanted outcome, to think of nothing but me.
[He flirts with Emet-Selch's fingers, rubbing his arousal into his hand when he knows his Bonded would prefer feeling it rubbing down his throat. That thought is enough to pull a moan from Mettaton. He sucks in between teeth, his voice increasingly frenetic, as feral-leaning as he's beginning to feel.]
Hades... Down. Suck me. Love me, I... [His thrusts against his hand, fantasy overtaking him as he imagines instead the confines of Emet-Selch's mouth, lips wrapped and split around his length.] Let me. Pin you to the wall, and fuck your mouth... You want that. Don't you.