[He's made to laugh shortly at that, hand rubbing along the length of Emet-Selch's back. It rides along his spine, down to the small of it, where it finds a place to rest. Digits rub into him, the hint of claws a pinprick ever present. Always a fierce thought away from curling them in and puncturing through flesh, but instead, he glides them gently along his skin, filled with warmth in manner.]
Of course not! I was just thinking about how gorgeous you are after months of our work...
[Their work, he trails off, implying further their combined passion and lust for one another, their mutual possessiveness that can only manifest so blatantly upon Emet-Selch's body. Even so much as sparing though to it has Mettaton fantasizing about taking a bite of his shoulder, teeth slipping through muscle as it gushes blood into his mouth...
... Bruises, he was talking about, but bite marks accompany them. Bite marks are what has the chance of scarring for good, and he imagines the mark he made upon his lover's chest, even while he continues to pine for the taste of blood. He fixes on his lover's body again, casting his gaze down upon as much as he can see, especially those marks upon his shoulders.]
A lovely addition to a man already beautiful. But I think you know why you're only enhanced by me.
[The way jewelry is enhanced by Mettaton, Emet-Selch is also enhanced by Mettaton.
He hasn't quite gotten over addiction. It's one of those things that traumatizing himself was able to undo somewhat - possibly killing his Bonded would do that - but it's not completely gone. Every time he gets a taste of him, he yearns for more and more, every lick of fluid something worth consumption. And why shouldn't he covet Emet-Selch's specifically? Other Witches paled in comparison, he thought, to no surprise: as Emet-Selch hold such lofty expectations for things worth his consideration, Mettaton, too, holds standards difficult to meet, even when he offers more regard to that which doesn't meet it. Emet-Selch just happens to have the tastiest blood, and Mettaton would be willing to chalk it up to his superiority as well. His lover is special. He wouldn't mind that assumption at all.
(The fact that his own shapeshifted blood doesn't taste good, he's realized, is because Monster blood doesn't taste good to him. He is a Monster even if he's shapeshifted into a human, and that's immutable. It has no bearing on how worthwhile he is.)
Mettaton feels himself being rubbed back, Emet-Selch shifting against his arousal. He's hard, he realizes. Very hard. He bites at his lip, a slight noise slipping from his throat as he meets that rub with a firmer one, needy and thankful for reciprocated attention. Emet-Selch's body is the center of his focus aside from his own, but they come in pairs. Of course the Puca would consider his own body in relation to Emet-Selch's, so often entwined as they are — and how much he wants them entwined now only increases steadily, sure to become something he can't resist any longer. He wonders, then, if Emet-Selch will offer himself up to his attentions each full moon. If he'd sate this monstrous desire for him, if he'd be receptive to appeasing his cravings. Being in the same room with him would undoubtedly lead to a thirst for them together.
Shifting his upper body slightly, the idol dips down to Emet-Selch's neck again to lick and agitate wounds. Deliberate work: he wants to disrupt any attempt at clotting to give himself blood, to entice himself further into wanting to break skin. Mettaton doesn't mind being teased, either.]
You- taste of me... but you also tempt me on your own, darling. [Were Mettaton to lose control completely to his Monstrous instincts, Emet-Selch would be his favored victim, Puca or not.] Not that there's any question, what the outcome of my temptation is.
[There's really not, because Mettaton likes to get what he wants. His hand slips lower yet, squeezing Emet-Selch's ass with that same air of contented possessiveness. He knows Emet-Selch's been claimed by him, belonging to nobody but him. They belong to each other, and that's a state he's pleased to be in. And since Emet-Selch's his, he's only readying himself to pounce, acclimating his lover to further submitting to him. With taste like theirs, only the best would do, and each of them views themselves as among the best of the bunch.]
no subject
Of course not! I was just thinking about how gorgeous you are after months of our work...
[Their work, he trails off, implying further their combined passion and lust for one another, their mutual possessiveness that can only manifest so blatantly upon Emet-Selch's body. Even so much as sparing though to it has Mettaton fantasizing about taking a bite of his shoulder, teeth slipping through muscle as it gushes blood into his mouth...
... Bruises, he was talking about, but bite marks accompany them. Bite marks are what has the chance of scarring for good, and he imagines the mark he made upon his lover's chest, even while he continues to pine for the taste of blood. He fixes on his lover's body again, casting his gaze down upon as much as he can see, especially those marks upon his shoulders.]
A lovely addition to a man already beautiful. But I think you know why you're only enhanced by me.
[The way jewelry is enhanced by Mettaton, Emet-Selch is also enhanced by Mettaton.
He hasn't quite gotten over addiction. It's one of those things that traumatizing himself was able to undo somewhat - possibly killing his Bonded would do that - but it's not completely gone. Every time he gets a taste of him, he yearns for more and more, every lick of fluid something worth consumption. And why shouldn't he covet Emet-Selch's specifically? Other Witches paled in comparison, he thought, to no surprise: as Emet-Selch hold such lofty expectations for things worth his consideration, Mettaton, too, holds standards difficult to meet, even when he offers more regard to that which doesn't meet it. Emet-Selch just happens to have the tastiest blood, and Mettaton would be willing to chalk it up to his superiority as well. His lover is special. He wouldn't mind that assumption at all.
(The fact that his own shapeshifted blood doesn't taste good, he's realized, is because Monster blood doesn't taste good to him. He is a Monster even if he's shapeshifted into a human, and that's immutable. It has no bearing on how worthwhile he is.)
Mettaton feels himself being rubbed back, Emet-Selch shifting against his arousal. He's hard, he realizes. Very hard. He bites at his lip, a slight noise slipping from his throat as he meets that rub with a firmer one, needy and thankful for reciprocated attention. Emet-Selch's body is the center of his focus aside from his own, but they come in pairs. Of course the Puca would consider his own body in relation to Emet-Selch's, so often entwined as they are — and how much he wants them entwined now only increases steadily, sure to become something he can't resist any longer. He wonders, then, if Emet-Selch will offer himself up to his attentions each full moon. If he'd sate this monstrous desire for him, if he'd be receptive to appeasing his cravings. Being in the same room with him would undoubtedly lead to a thirst for them together.
Shifting his upper body slightly, the idol dips down to Emet-Selch's neck again to lick and agitate wounds. Deliberate work: he wants to disrupt any attempt at clotting to give himself blood, to entice himself further into wanting to break skin. Mettaton doesn't mind being teased, either.]
You- taste of me... but you also tempt me on your own, darling. [Were Mettaton to lose control completely to his Monstrous instincts, Emet-Selch would be his favored victim, Puca or not.] Not that there's any question, what the outcome of my temptation is.
[There's really not, because Mettaton likes to get what he wants. His hand slips lower yet, squeezing Emet-Selch's ass with that same air of contented possessiveness. He knows Emet-Selch's been claimed by him, belonging to nobody but him. They belong to each other, and that's a state he's pleased to be in. And since Emet-Selch's his, he's only readying himself to pounce, acclimating his lover to further submitting to him. With taste like theirs, only the best would do, and each of them views themselves as among the best of the bunch.]