[The sudden ability to move has him feeling weightless, thrusting almost helplessly against Mettaton's thighs, unable to find any sort of rhythm himself, aching terribly from each drag of friction. And when he's rendered helpless to move, Mettaton bearing down on him again, his hips continuing to twitch, the Ascian's body shuddering into the mattress. His moaning was sharp but ever quieter as he loses ever more desire, much less opportunity, to draw a proper breath.
The kissing certainly did not help in that regard, his small noises further stifled by Mettaton's tongue, swallowed up by their mouths, and Emet-Selch makes no attempt to counter this. Even the smaller moments, the brush to his hair, the sound of a sigh, it all added up, it would all bury him.
Drowing, suffocation, the sense of being crushed; he had no word to describe the feelings that wasn't a negative one, that wasn't ultimately fatal. And yet to stop was impossible, to want to, unthinkable.
...It reminded him a little of being tempered.
And how welcome this futility was. How miserable he was, with ever more of it dragged to the surface with such openness. There was thousands of years worth to deal with, compressed and compacted, and Emet-Selch wasn't sure if he was trying to bury Mettaton in there with him, or cling to the puca's own feelings instead, to drown in a different sort of sentiment. He was lost either way, the Ascian knew that much.
Each kiss breaks him a little further, the different intensities giving him no chance of adjusting, nothing to anchor to, leaving him capable of only responding, almost harsh in his urgency. He was certainly overstimulated now, in every sense of the word, biting at Mettaton's lips when he could claim them, before losing his grip on them with ever hoarser cries. His cock hurt to be touched, much less gripped by trembling thighs, but he wouldn't have pulled back from it, even if he physically could.
Emet-Selch didn't have the coherence nor the breath to plead with him, for everything that he didn't have words for. But it was there in his feelings, in the way he struggled. He couldn't be saved, but did he have to be alone?]
no subject
The kissing certainly did not help in that regard, his small noises further stifled by Mettaton's tongue, swallowed up by their mouths, and Emet-Selch makes no attempt to counter this. Even the smaller moments, the brush to his hair, the sound of a sigh, it all added up, it would all bury him.
Drowing, suffocation, the sense of being crushed; he had no word to describe the feelings that wasn't a negative one, that wasn't ultimately fatal. And yet to stop was impossible, to want to, unthinkable.
...It reminded him a little of being tempered.
And how welcome this futility was. How miserable he was, with ever more of it dragged to the surface with such openness. There was thousands of years worth to deal with, compressed and compacted, and Emet-Selch wasn't sure if he was trying to bury Mettaton in there with him, or cling to the puca's own feelings instead, to drown in a different sort of sentiment. He was lost either way, the Ascian knew that much.
Each kiss breaks him a little further, the different intensities giving him no chance of adjusting, nothing to anchor to, leaving him capable of only responding, almost harsh in his urgency. He was certainly overstimulated now, in every sense of the word, biting at Mettaton's lips when he could claim them, before losing his grip on them with ever hoarser cries. His cock hurt to be touched, much less gripped by trembling thighs, but he wouldn't have pulled back from it, even if he physically could.
Emet-Selch didn't have the coherence nor the breath to plead with him, for everything that he didn't have words for. But it was there in his feelings, in the way he struggled. He couldn't be saved, but did he have to be alone?]