[The warmth spreads to his cheeks, but only by way of his smile's broadening. Mettaton isn't the only one with blood on face, though he's plentifully marked: his chin and his lips, his cheeks and even the tip of his nose, with all of the indulging he'd been given. Emet-Selch tastes irresistible to him, in flavor and magic. No, Emet-Selch has smatterings of blood here and there from Mettaton's attention to him: smeared around his lips, with kiss marks on his jaw and cheeks, all of it in various states of dry and fresh.
But the Puca lets his head drop again, nuzzling his face back into its rightful spot in his neck, next to his ear. He's sucked plenty a bruise into this spot: even now, it bears marks of his passion. The need to move still lingers, heat still trapped in his body, but the longer he stills the more it goes down. (Go figure.) Even so, Mettaton indulges his body's needs and moves, repositioning his upper body and its hold on his lover — shifting his hips, jostling his length in the process, reminding himself that it's quite present all over again.
An exhalation of heat right next to Emet-Selch's neck is the signal he gets of his notice, his ears relaxing and obeying gravity. They're not in full contact with Emet-Selch, but if they were, he'd be able to feel how searing hot they were as well: another opportunity for heat to escape his body, and perhaps more reliable than occasional exhalations of heated air from his mouth. But everywhere there's fur, temperature also rises to the surface: under Emet-Selch's fingertips is soft, dark fur and equal parts warmth, as though he's achieved a real fusion of machine and organic.
Not the most expected developments in his life, becoming organic in the direction of a rabbit who can shapeshift. But there were a lot of surprises, all of them varying shades of pleasant, he'd say.
He continues to wear a smile against Emet-Selch's skin, thinking about that sorry look on his Bonded's features. Surely, an apology for his diminished speech. Mettaton forgives him, for now. (He might change his mind once the fever pitch of his curse returns full-force.) He hums a reply on a smooth, low tone next to his ear in reply to his love, acknowledging and kissing him all over again for it.]
You more than demonstrate as much, darling. In your every... movement.
[In his every expression, yes: from the ones he makes on his face to the way he moves his body, but also in his every movement. The ones unseen, the way his body holds his cock and pulls it, squeezes it and welcomes it; the ways his muscles twitch in his legs as he huddles closer, pulls them into each other. Every movement is riddled with heart. Even if it would be considered excessive, no matter what anyone else thought of their engagement with one another... Mettaton saw it as a proper manifestation of their passion, care, and dedication. Emet-Selch would defer to him and adore Mettaton, would submit to him despite protecting him; and Mettaton would demand from him, treasure him; he'd love him and care for him, and keep him safe.
A squeeze of his body felt like something with an intent greater than that, and Mettaton presses his weight into Emet-Selch with more intent. His thumb begins to stroke over Emet-Selch's bare shoulder, his sharp claw an incidental drag along skin. Sharp enough to rend and tear and puncture, as Emet-Selch would be too aware by now. His back and his shoulders bear their most prominent damage, all to harmonize with the rest of his damage — most wrought by teeth and lips.]
I've done you in. First you lose your sight, and now you lose your voice...
[Mettaton tsks, as though Emet-Selch's the one inviting such disability, tempting fate and getting what he deserves. In this case, he was begging for an aroused, feral-leaning Puca with a vanity complex to fill him with cock and fuck him until he was spent. Begged for him to fill his throat and take his speech, a humbling offering to his beauty and magnificence, in knowledge and pleasure of such a deed. A tight fit, a blinding, ethereal experience of pleasure he would frequently revisit as well, and crave over and over.
And in the back of the Puca's mind, Emet-Selch is not yet used enough. Still, a period of repose remains, even as the seed of want is ever renewed. He would use this body again; he would deposit more come inside of him. This position would be perfect for that in its obedience of gravity, and righting himself would eventually lead to it streaming down his legs in full force... A visual demonstration of his marking, and Emet-Selch would be made to feel it entirely.
Mettaton shudders, and shifts his hips. He holds Emet-Selch close, focusing still on their affection.]
But you don't mind. Do you, Hades? [An innocent kiss. Of course he doesn't mind.]
no subject
But the Puca lets his head drop again, nuzzling his face back into its rightful spot in his neck, next to his ear. He's sucked plenty a bruise into this spot: even now, it bears marks of his passion. The need to move still lingers, heat still trapped in his body, but the longer he stills the more it goes down. (Go figure.) Even so, Mettaton indulges his body's needs and moves, repositioning his upper body and its hold on his lover — shifting his hips, jostling his length in the process, reminding himself that it's quite present all over again.
An exhalation of heat right next to Emet-Selch's neck is the signal he gets of his notice, his ears relaxing and obeying gravity. They're not in full contact with Emet-Selch, but if they were, he'd be able to feel how searing hot they were as well: another opportunity for heat to escape his body, and perhaps more reliable than occasional exhalations of heated air from his mouth. But everywhere there's fur, temperature also rises to the surface: under Emet-Selch's fingertips is soft, dark fur and equal parts warmth, as though he's achieved a real fusion of machine and organic.
Not the most expected developments in his life, becoming organic in the direction of a rabbit who can shapeshift. But there were a lot of surprises, all of them varying shades of pleasant, he'd say.
He continues to wear a smile against Emet-Selch's skin, thinking about that sorry look on his Bonded's features. Surely, an apology for his diminished speech. Mettaton forgives him, for now. (He might change his mind once the fever pitch of his curse returns full-force.) He hums a reply on a smooth, low tone next to his ear in reply to his love, acknowledging and kissing him all over again for it.]
You more than demonstrate as much, darling. In your every... movement.
[In his every expression, yes: from the ones he makes on his face to the way he moves his body, but also in his every movement. The ones unseen, the way his body holds his cock and pulls it, squeezes it and welcomes it; the ways his muscles twitch in his legs as he huddles closer, pulls them into each other. Every movement is riddled with heart. Even if it would be considered excessive, no matter what anyone else thought of their engagement with one another... Mettaton saw it as a proper manifestation of their passion, care, and dedication. Emet-Selch would defer to him and adore Mettaton, would submit to him despite protecting him; and Mettaton would demand from him, treasure him; he'd love him and care for him, and keep him safe.
A squeeze of his body felt like something with an intent greater than that, and Mettaton presses his weight into Emet-Selch with more intent. His thumb begins to stroke over Emet-Selch's bare shoulder, his sharp claw an incidental drag along skin. Sharp enough to rend and tear and puncture, as Emet-Selch would be too aware by now. His back and his shoulders bear their most prominent damage, all to harmonize with the rest of his damage — most wrought by teeth and lips.]
I've done you in. First you lose your sight, and now you lose your voice...
[Mettaton tsks, as though Emet-Selch's the one inviting such disability, tempting fate and getting what he deserves. In this case, he was begging for an aroused, feral-leaning Puca with a vanity complex to fill him with cock and fuck him until he was spent. Begged for him to fill his throat and take his speech, a humbling offering to his beauty and magnificence, in knowledge and pleasure of such a deed. A tight fit, a blinding, ethereal experience of pleasure he would frequently revisit as well, and crave over and over.
And in the back of the Puca's mind, Emet-Selch is not yet used enough. Still, a period of repose remains, even as the seed of want is ever renewed. He would use this body again; he would deposit more come inside of him. This position would be perfect for that in its obedience of gravity, and righting himself would eventually lead to it streaming down his legs in full force... A visual demonstration of his marking, and Emet-Selch would be made to feel it entirely.
Mettaton shudders, and shifts his hips. He holds Emet-Selch close, focusing still on their affection.]
But you don't mind. Do you, Hades? [An innocent kiss. Of course he doesn't mind.]