[His voice is sweet and smooth, an exhalation of amused fascination. It's not only his words that convince him of his desire but his body, the sight of him, the heat of each kiss rising as though their temperature could beat out the heat of Summer. He reciprocates kisses and ups that heat, sucking at his lips and swiping at him with his tongue while his hips thrust against nothing shortly, ineffectually, imagining the sensation of his lover's throat tight around his cock. His mind paints vivid pictures and textures of the feeling of touching his own length through Emet-Selch's throat, imagery obscene and one he considers from multiple angles: what did he look like, throat full of him? What would Emet-Selch think, feeling what he felt instead of having his hands pinned to the wall, digging into his hip? He stutters at the very thought.
He wants Emet-Selch so bad he can't stand it, so Mettaton shifts his weight down to press his arousal against Emet-Selch's faded one, at least to give him something to rub against.
And he moans, sharp and short while he dives in to press his lips to Emet-Selch's with an intense heat. Rising by degrees, his cock feels so hard and engorged already, especially as he rolls his hips into sticky, slick come left behind by his Bonded — a thought that only has him gasping some more. He sinks his teeth into Emet-Selch's lip, nearly puncturing him all over again, but the give of that split lip is great enough that he only forces it to bleed some more. More blood for him to suck and drink and grow intoxicated over, which he does liberally and lovingly, sighs of contentment slipping from his throat.
The very sound of Emet-Selch's voice, throat used and hoarse, could arouse Mettaton in a snap. He knows what he did and what they mutually covet, and he wants it all over again. Could he pound into his throat until his voice was made completely hoarse, syllables a struggle to form? It's terrible how much he wants that, and he continues to grind into Emet-Selch's spent cock for some manner of satisfaction to tide him over until he could... pull himself together for long enough to make his dreams a reality, instead of succumbing to this fever of want.
First thing's first: he wants to see him entirely. The only beauty that could compare to Mettaton's own in this moment of pure vanity is Emet-Selch's naked body, a record of signatures left by Mettaton's lips. Regretfully, he pulls back for a moment, some manner of satiation achieved by having rubbed his hips into Emet-Selch's.
But when he rears up, Mettaton can see Emet-Selch's come along his own cock, along his body. All he can do is freeze to behold it and to fascinate himself over it, the sight of come slicking up his shaft and sticky on the glans. ...He exhales, fixing his attention on Emet-Selch with that luminous depth to his gaze.]
I don't imagine I could stop, darling. You're lucky, aren't you...?
[He doesn't want Mettaton to stop, and Mettaton couldn't stop. He's starving.
With both of their hands free, Mettaton can finally disrobe Emet-Selch without the trouble of one-handedness. Mettaton finishes his earlier attempt at removing Emet-Selch's shirt, peeling it from his arm and sighing at the sight of him covered in blood and bruise before he presses his lips against Emet-Selch's abdomen, kissing and lapping at the mess he'd made as his claws flirt with his length, stroking along the side of his shaft. Tucking his fingers into his waistband, he begins that process of sliding his pants from his hips — but his lips trail after fabric, following down his right hip, his thigh, then his inner thigh until he forces Emet-Selch's legs up and removes his pants completely.
He sighs, still holding Emet-Selch's thighs apart with both hands. He keeps them spread for him, beholding the full sight of his come-marked body.]
That's. So much better. How beautifully I've marked you up... You must find yourself aroused often, at a sight like this.
[Envy strikes him. He wants a body that can be so marked... But it dissolves just as quickly when the Puca remembers that this is his body. That thought has him dipping down, nestling his face between Emet-Selch's spread thighs, nuzzling into his balls and taking a mouthful of his inner thigh just beneath. He nips and sucks, marking up his lover in a way that claims him down to his sex, his body, his arousal. Mettaton sighs a note of satisfaction into his skin, dark-tinted ears askew in his dedicated interest while he busies himself with marking Emet-Selch's body, renewing bruises that belong on his inner thighs.]
no subject
[His voice is sweet and smooth, an exhalation of amused fascination. It's not only his words that convince him of his desire but his body, the sight of him, the heat of each kiss rising as though their temperature could beat out the heat of Summer. He reciprocates kisses and ups that heat, sucking at his lips and swiping at him with his tongue while his hips thrust against nothing shortly, ineffectually, imagining the sensation of his lover's throat tight around his cock. His mind paints vivid pictures and textures of the feeling of touching his own length through Emet-Selch's throat, imagery obscene and one he considers from multiple angles: what did he look like, throat full of him? What would Emet-Selch think, feeling what he felt instead of having his hands pinned to the wall, digging into his hip? He stutters at the very thought.
He wants Emet-Selch so bad he can't stand it, so Mettaton shifts his weight down to press his arousal against Emet-Selch's faded one, at least to give him something to rub against.
And he moans, sharp and short while he dives in to press his lips to Emet-Selch's with an intense heat. Rising by degrees, his cock feels so hard and engorged already, especially as he rolls his hips into sticky, slick come left behind by his Bonded — a thought that only has him gasping some more. He sinks his teeth into Emet-Selch's lip, nearly puncturing him all over again, but the give of that split lip is great enough that he only forces it to bleed some more. More blood for him to suck and drink and grow intoxicated over, which he does liberally and lovingly, sighs of contentment slipping from his throat.
The very sound of Emet-Selch's voice, throat used and hoarse, could arouse Mettaton in a snap. He knows what he did and what they mutually covet, and he wants it all over again. Could he pound into his throat until his voice was made completely hoarse, syllables a struggle to form? It's terrible how much he wants that, and he continues to grind into Emet-Selch's spent cock for some manner of satisfaction to tide him over until he could... pull himself together for long enough to make his dreams a reality, instead of succumbing to this fever of want.
First thing's first: he wants to see him entirely. The only beauty that could compare to Mettaton's own in this moment of pure vanity is Emet-Selch's naked body, a record of signatures left by Mettaton's lips. Regretfully, he pulls back for a moment, some manner of satiation achieved by having rubbed his hips into Emet-Selch's.
But when he rears up, Mettaton can see Emet-Selch's come along his own cock, along his body. All he can do is freeze to behold it and to fascinate himself over it, the sight of come slicking up his shaft and sticky on the glans. ...He exhales, fixing his attention on Emet-Selch with that luminous depth to his gaze.]
I don't imagine I could stop, darling. You're lucky, aren't you...?
[He doesn't want Mettaton to stop, and Mettaton couldn't stop. He's starving.
With both of their hands free, Mettaton can finally disrobe Emet-Selch without the trouble of one-handedness. Mettaton finishes his earlier attempt at removing Emet-Selch's shirt, peeling it from his arm and sighing at the sight of him covered in blood and bruise before he presses his lips against Emet-Selch's abdomen, kissing and lapping at the mess he'd made as his claws flirt with his length, stroking along the side of his shaft. Tucking his fingers into his waistband, he begins that process of sliding his pants from his hips — but his lips trail after fabric, following down his right hip, his thigh, then his inner thigh until he forces Emet-Selch's legs up and removes his pants completely.
He sighs, still holding Emet-Selch's thighs apart with both hands. He keeps them spread for him, beholding the full sight of his come-marked body.]
That's. So much better. How beautifully I've marked you up... You must find yourself aroused often, at a sight like this.
[Envy strikes him. He wants a body that can be so marked... But it dissolves just as quickly when the Puca remembers that this is his body. That thought has him dipping down, nestling his face between Emet-Selch's spread thighs, nuzzling into his balls and taking a mouthful of his inner thigh just beneath. He nips and sucks, marking up his lover in a way that claims him down to his sex, his body, his arousal. Mettaton sighs a note of satisfaction into his skin, dark-tinted ears askew in his dedicated interest while he busies himself with marking Emet-Selch's body, renewing bruises that belong on his inner thighs.]