[(ooc: oh no i wrote knot instead of know two tags ago, party's over)
A Bond can't make them telepathic, but each moan from Emet-Selch is so uncannily clear to Mettaton that he'd almost believe it could. The hunger in his gaze bespoke of a desire to swallow and lave him with his tongue, to taste his own come as well as Mettaton's and to be filled by him once more. Emet-Selch's satisfaction becomes a fixation of Mettaton's, an obsession toward filling him completely with himself — surely the best way to satisfy them both. He would use the Ascian, give him his arousal to hold tight in his throat and in place of all other less Mettaton-related things, save for the fact that he wants only to take his breath away from him. But Emet-Selch adores that, they've found: and the come that smears their cocks and splatters upon Emet-Selch's abdomen is proof of his thrill. Truly, his Bonded's an insatiable one... Perfect for Mettaton.
Hearing Emet-Selch describe his experience with frustrated arousal separate from Mettaton, all while he paints his thighs in kisses that will ripen with time, has the robot making soft sounds around suction, impassions him to leave deeper, more plentiful markings. They're deep, ones his Bonded can touch and stroke while craving Mettaton's touch and pleasure, while imagining him serving him with kisses, with tongue, or with a heaviness to fill his body. Knowing Emet-Selch finds himself often craving Mettaton satisfies his own vanity, his thirst for recognition, for reverence, for compliments to his body and self. He moans softly into the skin he sucks, nibbling close to his balls before biting yet another mark into skin, hungry and loving a mix to amplify the sheer eagerness with which he presses his face between his thighs.
He knows he looks brilliant there, framed between love-bitten thighs. He knows he's a sight to remember. He licks and bites and sucks like he knows he could take his breath through vision alone.
The kinds of thoughts Emet-Selch must grapple with, attraction growing so desperate that it arouses him helplessly, disrupts his routine, renders him hard and aching even from thinking about the marks under his clothes... There are so many incidents of their coupling worthy of reflection, Mettaton would agree. Reminders of kisses and fever ever present to keep him company in Mettaton's stead, effective enough to have the Ascian craving and longing and needy, wanting to hunt the robotic idol down just to demonstrate to him his Mettaton-inspired arousal...
It's a depraved thing to want. He wouldn't mind such a fate. It would be such a dangerous thing to encounter, the sudden springing of arousal at any point in time, but now that he knows with certainty that Emet-Selch's often plagued with an erection inspired by his own body, what's Mettaton supposed to do? Even in his normal state, arousal manifests. It distracts. It occupies his thoughts, leaves him imagining Emet-Selch busy with a body made beautiful and painted, thinking about him, wanting him, craving him. He's become so easily enticed and distracted by the thoughts of sex, dreaming of ways to take his Bonded: pinning him to walls, shoving himself between thighs, mounting him, sucking him, touching him, teasing him, he can't stop thinking about it all sometimes.
Mettaton raises his eyes to meet Emet-Selch's from behind his filling cock, from his spot with his lips pressed to Emet-Selch's balls. His thighs are marked in reds that will bloom purple, the space between his thighs kissed and bruised to his pleasure. Satisfied with his work, Mettaton leans back to regard him with his eyes, drinking him in, knowing he's been given such intimate marks he can savor. He makes sure to reach in to prod each one as a reminder of its existence, making eye contact with Emet-Selch all the while. Staring him down with an intensity predator-like, contentment written upon his features.]
Then... I'll just have to make up for all of that pent-up desire by giving you more of me. Won't I? [More often. More intensely. As if they're not already prolific enough, already impassioned enough. Mettaton, too, is insatiable, and his current dip into a more monstrous mindset is making it harder to imagine that he'd ever want to be doing anything but filling Emet-Selch with his cock and his heart. An audience eternal, rapt and wanting, but it's someone he adores beyond sense.] Not that I imagine it'll fix a thing. But I can give you more to think about...
[And recently, that thing has been a kind of submission on his Bonded's part, prone and open and filled with Mettaton and loving it, and Mettaton's hooked to that sensation around his length. Already he's imagining it once more, biting at his lip with his desire... and with Emet-Selch naked, with him appropriately marked up and with Mettaton's saliva coating the insides of his thighs, marked and scented all over his cock and his thighs, Mettaton smiles upon his lover before sliding off the edge of the bed.
The Puca stands over Emet-Selch from the side of the bed, running his hands over his shoulders with another hunger, fancying the sight of blood and wounds both. He leans down to meet his Bonded in his propped-up position, lapping up the blood that'd dripped from his lip and catching him in a short, open-mouthed kiss: just enough to lick up his lip. His hands grip onto his shoulders, and he coaxes Emet-Selch to turn his body so that his back's facing the robot. Should he cooperate, Mettaton then presses gently upon his shoulders, the suggestion that he lay on his back with his head at the edge of the mattress, neck stretched and bared just so. (Mettaton's sure to run a finger along his throat for emphasis.)
Positioned like this, Emet-Selch will have Mettaton's arousal shoved into his face, claws raking over his chest with just enough pressure to nearly scratch. The idol sighs sharply, pleasure impending.]
Ah... What- what do you think, Hades, dear? Would this give you enough of me to fantasize about?
[Mettaton slides the shaft along Emet-Selch's mouth, dragging down until the corona rests upon his lower lip. And for all he's collected and controlled, there's an air about him that is fevered, desirous and maddened, head in the future and imagining Emet-Selch's body lain out before him while Mettaton fucks his throat, Emet-Selch made to arch his back and squirm with the deprivation and fulfillment of it all. He swallows thickly, scarcely able to control his monstrous need.]
no subject
A Bond can't make them telepathic, but each moan from Emet-Selch is so uncannily clear to Mettaton that he'd almost believe it could. The hunger in his gaze bespoke of a desire to swallow and lave him with his tongue, to taste his own come as well as Mettaton's and to be filled by him once more. Emet-Selch's satisfaction becomes a fixation of Mettaton's, an obsession toward filling him completely with himself — surely the best way to satisfy them both. He would use the Ascian, give him his arousal to hold tight in his throat and in place of all other less Mettaton-related things, save for the fact that he wants only to take his breath away from him. But Emet-Selch adores that, they've found: and the come that smears their cocks and splatters upon Emet-Selch's abdomen is proof of his thrill. Truly, his Bonded's an insatiable one... Perfect for Mettaton.
Hearing Emet-Selch describe his experience with frustrated arousal separate from Mettaton, all while he paints his thighs in kisses that will ripen with time, has the robot making soft sounds around suction, impassions him to leave deeper, more plentiful markings. They're deep, ones his Bonded can touch and stroke while craving Mettaton's touch and pleasure, while imagining him serving him with kisses, with tongue, or with a heaviness to fill his body. Knowing Emet-Selch finds himself often craving Mettaton satisfies his own vanity, his thirst for recognition, for reverence, for compliments to his body and self. He moans softly into the skin he sucks, nibbling close to his balls before biting yet another mark into skin, hungry and loving a mix to amplify the sheer eagerness with which he presses his face between his thighs.
He knows he looks brilliant there, framed between love-bitten thighs. He knows he's a sight to remember. He licks and bites and sucks like he knows he could take his breath through vision alone.
The kinds of thoughts Emet-Selch must grapple with, attraction growing so desperate that it arouses him helplessly, disrupts his routine, renders him hard and aching even from thinking about the marks under his clothes... There are so many incidents of their coupling worthy of reflection, Mettaton would agree. Reminders of kisses and fever ever present to keep him company in Mettaton's stead, effective enough to have the Ascian craving and longing and needy, wanting to hunt the robotic idol down just to demonstrate to him his Mettaton-inspired arousal...
It's a depraved thing to want. He wouldn't mind such a fate. It would be such a dangerous thing to encounter, the sudden springing of arousal at any point in time, but now that he knows with certainty that Emet-Selch's often plagued with an erection inspired by his own body, what's Mettaton supposed to do? Even in his normal state, arousal manifests. It distracts. It occupies his thoughts, leaves him imagining Emet-Selch busy with a body made beautiful and painted, thinking about him, wanting him, craving him. He's become so easily enticed and distracted by the thoughts of sex, dreaming of ways to take his Bonded: pinning him to walls, shoving himself between thighs, mounting him, sucking him, touching him, teasing him, he can't stop thinking about it all sometimes.
Mettaton raises his eyes to meet Emet-Selch's from behind his filling cock, from his spot with his lips pressed to Emet-Selch's balls. His thighs are marked in reds that will bloom purple, the space between his thighs kissed and bruised to his pleasure. Satisfied with his work, Mettaton leans back to regard him with his eyes, drinking him in, knowing he's been given such intimate marks he can savor. He makes sure to reach in to prod each one as a reminder of its existence, making eye contact with Emet-Selch all the while. Staring him down with an intensity predator-like, contentment written upon his features.]
Then... I'll just have to make up for all of that pent-up desire by giving you more of me. Won't I? [More often. More intensely. As if they're not already prolific enough, already impassioned enough. Mettaton, too, is insatiable, and his current dip into a more monstrous mindset is making it harder to imagine that he'd ever want to be doing anything but filling Emet-Selch with his cock and his heart. An audience eternal, rapt and wanting, but it's someone he adores beyond sense.] Not that I imagine it'll fix a thing. But I can give you more to think about...
[And recently, that thing has been a kind of submission on his Bonded's part, prone and open and filled with Mettaton and loving it, and Mettaton's hooked to that sensation around his length. Already he's imagining it once more, biting at his lip with his desire... and with Emet-Selch naked, with him appropriately marked up and with Mettaton's saliva coating the insides of his thighs, marked and scented all over his cock and his thighs, Mettaton smiles upon his lover before sliding off the edge of the bed.
The Puca stands over Emet-Selch from the side of the bed, running his hands over his shoulders with another hunger, fancying the sight of blood and wounds both. He leans down to meet his Bonded in his propped-up position, lapping up the blood that'd dripped from his lip and catching him in a short, open-mouthed kiss: just enough to lick up his lip. His hands grip onto his shoulders, and he coaxes Emet-Selch to turn his body so that his back's facing the robot. Should he cooperate, Mettaton then presses gently upon his shoulders, the suggestion that he lay on his back with his head at the edge of the mattress, neck stretched and bared just so. (Mettaton's sure to run a finger along his throat for emphasis.)
Positioned like this, Emet-Selch will have Mettaton's arousal shoved into his face, claws raking over his chest with just enough pressure to nearly scratch. The idol sighs sharply, pleasure impending.]
Ah... What- what do you think, Hades, dear? Would this give you enough of me to fantasize about?
[Mettaton slides the shaft along Emet-Selch's mouth, dragging down until the corona rests upon his lower lip. And for all he's collected and controlled, there's an air about him that is fevered, desirous and maddened, head in the future and imagining Emet-Selch's body lain out before him while Mettaton fucks his throat, Emet-Selch made to arch his back and squirm with the deprivation and fulfillment of it all. He swallows thickly, scarcely able to control his monstrous need.]