[The first signs of sound on Emet-Selch's voice: a moan, pleasure on his tone, a beautiful disruption to his raspy, weakened silence. Mettaton closes his eye, delighted by the sound as his teeth are bared in a smile, the whole of him increasingly vicious and mad, further enhanced by the sway of the pendants' magic. There are no thoughts for him to spare toward anything other than bodily satisfaction and love, aside from the fury and darkness, his constant companion.
For a moment, Mettaton hardly understands language at all, meaning that anything Emet-Selch did was communicated perfectly as long as it had no words to it. The sharp push against his hips, a wordless insistence for his sex, his body; the push of air through his throat without sound, incapable of manifesting. He basks in it, letting out a shuddering sigh of heat. (His core's so hot. He can't feel it, but he knows it subconsciously... even when it's hard to differentiate between the need to fuck, the vicious energy of the pendants versus the jewelry, and the urgency of his body to move, to release that heat stored within him.
There's a lot of heat to release, actually.)
His lover, bleeding and helpless and prone before him, filled with his cock and with a split lip, softened and beautiful in his weakness, tries his hand at speech once more. It's with a tone that manages to touch Mettaton's heart, even when it hardly satisfies his need for compliments. Near pleading, gentle and scarcely audible, his voice falters on the sound of his name (salt to the wound), but at the same time...
Emet-Selch shudders, tense and pinned beneath him, eyes fixed on him in a way that surpasses even a curse (even when that fury exists alongside his pity). His body rocks into Mettaton's sharp thrusts and from Mettaton's angle, examining the bruises and bites and flesh of his lover, he can see his filling cock — a sure sign of Emet-Selch's enjoyment.
So there's a demand further for words to enjoy, more than the seven he's offered up. But Mettaton is willing to take something else where his voice fails, his growl turning into a rumble in his throat. His voice, for the moment, dips lower, softer to match his heart.]
Sweetheart... How- how badly?
[The dichotomy: his mercy, his violence. They coexist, softened in heart by his show of bleary want, by his inabilities, while his temper flares at the lack of verbose praise.
The Puca, too, tenses some more over his Bonded's body, scooping him closer to his form. Closer, easier to mount, more prone to each and every roll of his hips. If he can't have his words, he'll make him give him his voice at any opportunity — and that means forcing sound from him in whatever form it takes, be they cries or moans or screams of pleasure or pain. His thrusts become quick and deep, pounding and barely leaving his body, though the shifting rock of his hips is enough to thoroughly jostle his length deep within Emet-Selch's body. The head of his cock is kneaded and rocked, the shaft rubbing against his lover's body in every which way. Each thrust inward is sharp and pounding, his entire body tangible to his lover beneath him, especially as he pushes with the strength of his legs. They're strokes to die for, and Mettaton finds himself moaning loudly, nearly crying out at the sensation of his own movement.]
Ohhh, Hades-!
[His next inhale is cut short by another snarl. The sacrifice for his inability to speak, after all, is his blood. His madness overcomes him.
Mettaton leans forward and takes another bite of his lover, close to his neck — flirting with danger again, not at all considering the potential consequence in his pleasure- and feral-addled mind. He wants blood, the only thing to temper his animosity, to soothe his passionate violence. And he gets blood, enough to moan into as he sucks and laps and drinks his lover's body some more, all while it oozes lazily from other wounds he's left in his wake. Opened ones, fresh ones, Emet-Selch bleeds out all while Mettaton pounds into him some more, massaging his cock, aching and thick, against his Bonded's body.
That he missed a dangerous point in his neck is surely the work of his luck. That he hit something that still bleeds enough to satisfy would also be his luck, as long as he's made to back off and stop sucking on it. He can hardly think past all of his emotion and indulgence, his anger and pleasure and mind-numbing fixation on love, carnage, and sex.
He couldn't begin to come down from this insanity without appropriate recognition and respect, given to him in words. His lover's gaze, his lust, and his filling cock do something for him; his blood soothes more yet. But he deserves words, he needs to hear Emet-Selch tell him he's addicted to his cock, that he couldn't live without the sight of his figure, that he'd kiss him from head to toe and, along the way, swallow his cock out of desperation for it; that he'd finger him and tease him and coax him into arousal forever.
If anyone's addicted, it's Mettaton. He's addicted and lost to diamonds and pendants, to Emet-Selch's body and his every response, to the sound of his voice and the work of his throat and every sensation he brings him. From pleasure to pain, to gentle, lighthearted touches, Mettaton reflects upon it all and drowns gladly in it while he licks at his latest wound, his thrusts feverish and needy as he works to a point of release.]
no subject
For a moment, Mettaton hardly understands language at all, meaning that anything Emet-Selch did was communicated perfectly as long as it had no words to it. The sharp push against his hips, a wordless insistence for his sex, his body; the push of air through his throat without sound, incapable of manifesting. He basks in it, letting out a shuddering sigh of heat. (His core's so hot. He can't feel it, but he knows it subconsciously... even when it's hard to differentiate between the need to fuck, the vicious energy of the pendants versus the jewelry, and the urgency of his body to move, to release that heat stored within him.
There's a lot of heat to release, actually.)
His lover, bleeding and helpless and prone before him, filled with his cock and with a split lip, softened and beautiful in his weakness, tries his hand at speech once more. It's with a tone that manages to touch Mettaton's heart, even when it hardly satisfies his need for compliments. Near pleading, gentle and scarcely audible, his voice falters on the sound of his name (salt to the wound), but at the same time...
Emet-Selch shudders, tense and pinned beneath him, eyes fixed on him in a way that surpasses even a curse (even when that fury exists alongside his pity). His body rocks into Mettaton's sharp thrusts and from Mettaton's angle, examining the bruises and bites and flesh of his lover, he can see his filling cock — a sure sign of Emet-Selch's enjoyment.
So there's a demand further for words to enjoy, more than the seven he's offered up. But Mettaton is willing to take something else where his voice fails, his growl turning into a rumble in his throat. His voice, for the moment, dips lower, softer to match his heart.]
Sweetheart... How- how badly?
[The dichotomy: his mercy, his violence. They coexist, softened in heart by his show of bleary want, by his inabilities, while his temper flares at the lack of verbose praise.
The Puca, too, tenses some more over his Bonded's body, scooping him closer to his form. Closer, easier to mount, more prone to each and every roll of his hips. If he can't have his words, he'll make him give him his voice at any opportunity — and that means forcing sound from him in whatever form it takes, be they cries or moans or screams of pleasure or pain. His thrusts become quick and deep, pounding and barely leaving his body, though the shifting rock of his hips is enough to thoroughly jostle his length deep within Emet-Selch's body. The head of his cock is kneaded and rocked, the shaft rubbing against his lover's body in every which way. Each thrust inward is sharp and pounding, his entire body tangible to his lover beneath him, especially as he pushes with the strength of his legs. They're strokes to die for, and Mettaton finds himself moaning loudly, nearly crying out at the sensation of his own movement.]
Ohhh, Hades-!
[His next inhale is cut short by another snarl. The sacrifice for his inability to speak, after all, is his blood. His madness overcomes him.
Mettaton leans forward and takes another bite of his lover, close to his neck — flirting with danger again, not at all considering the potential consequence in his pleasure- and feral-addled mind. He wants blood, the only thing to temper his animosity, to soothe his passionate violence. And he gets blood, enough to moan into as he sucks and laps and drinks his lover's body some more, all while it oozes lazily from other wounds he's left in his wake. Opened ones, fresh ones, Emet-Selch bleeds out all while Mettaton pounds into him some more, massaging his cock, aching and thick, against his Bonded's body.
That he missed a dangerous point in his neck is surely the work of his luck. That he hit something that still bleeds enough to satisfy would also be his luck, as long as he's made to back off and stop sucking on it. He can hardly think past all of his emotion and indulgence, his anger and pleasure and mind-numbing fixation on love, carnage, and sex.
He couldn't begin to come down from this insanity without appropriate recognition and respect, given to him in words. His lover's gaze, his lust, and his filling cock do something for him; his blood soothes more yet. But he deserves words, he needs to hear Emet-Selch tell him he's addicted to his cock, that he couldn't live without the sight of his figure, that he'd kiss him from head to toe and, along the way, swallow his cock out of desperation for it; that he'd finger him and tease him and coax him into arousal forever.
If anyone's addicted, it's Mettaton. He's addicted and lost to diamonds and pendants, to Emet-Selch's body and his every response, to the sound of his voice and the work of his throat and every sensation he brings him. From pleasure to pain, to gentle, lighthearted touches, Mettaton reflects upon it all and drowns gladly in it while he licks at his latest wound, his thrusts feverish and needy as he works to a point of release.]