[Mettaton cries out. It's broken off by the end in initiating yet another kiss, wanting nothing more than to take more of him yet. With both of them so open to each other, however, it comes as little surprise that the sheer force of Emet-Selch's feelings, pure in form and weight and misery, would yank Mettaton in another direction entirely, as if gripped by the throat. It isn't fear, but he feels unprepared, like he's found an anaconda deep in a burrow when he'd already seen its tracks. His hand fists in his hair and the one against his hip grips tighter on reflex. How could he bring them closer? He feels desperate for that, and he's not sure if it's his feeling or his Bonded's. It doesn't matter anymore. Even he felt as though he'd be crushed, but he knew he wouldn't be. He couldn't be. Despair isn't his, though it rubs raw against him.
He continues to take more and more kisses from him, frantic, and continues to rub against his cock with a feverish desire for more. The sheer amount of heat he feels in his core is surely reflected in the taste of his mouth, heat in place of air. Mettaton feels all but addicted to what he can get out of his Bonded in this moment, scarcely able to stop just to soothe the ache he feels. His ears fold back, flush against his head in his backwards submission to it all, his acceptance of him. In truth, he loves his openness in this moment, the insight into his desire, as terrifying as it is in his misery.
This intimacy appeals too much, and he can't think straight inundated by such sensation, fondness, and affect. The hand against his hip traces gently up to his shoulder, where he grips the Ascian with a shaky moan at the feeling of his trembling figure beneath him, the sound of his faint cries enough to make him go weak. The sheer weight of his feelings become pleasant, a backdrop for his bliss and his love despite it all, complex and thrilling.
Both of them felt so much, in such opposite directions. Emet-Selch's disorientation, suffocation, and abject loneliness permeated all else, but it didn't overwhelm the idol to the point of drowning. He grows more tender, continues to deliberately steal his chance for breath for as long as his urgency isn't for needing to breathe... Because the robot feels like his urgency needs to be met with him instead. He feels nothing but compassion and love and familiarity, for someone he's known for only a month's time.
Still, in his unguarded state, Mettaton ends up granting Emet-Selch room to breathe unintentionally when he ducks toward his ear and kisses him against his neck, the place he seems to gravitate to, and he sighs. Presses into him; nuzzles him; squeezes him closer with the winding sort of strength unique to an arm like his. His voice is smooth as ever, low, coaxing, heady, and close, with an edge of his need.]
Hades...
[He wants terribly to fill Emet-Selch with him as a form of claim, primal and intuitive. If he can't do it physically, how better to do that than to occupy his senses?]
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He continues to take more and more kisses from him, frantic, and continues to rub against his cock with a feverish desire for more. The sheer amount of heat he feels in his core is surely reflected in the taste of his mouth, heat in place of air. Mettaton feels all but addicted to what he can get out of his Bonded in this moment, scarcely able to stop just to soothe the ache he feels. His ears fold back, flush against his head in his backwards submission to it all, his acceptance of him. In truth, he loves his openness in this moment, the insight into his desire, as terrifying as it is in his misery.
This intimacy appeals too much, and he can't think straight inundated by such sensation, fondness, and affect. The hand against his hip traces gently up to his shoulder, where he grips the Ascian with a shaky moan at the feeling of his trembling figure beneath him, the sound of his faint cries enough to make him go weak. The sheer weight of his feelings become pleasant, a backdrop for his bliss and his love despite it all, complex and thrilling.
Both of them felt so much, in such opposite directions. Emet-Selch's disorientation, suffocation, and abject loneliness permeated all else, but it didn't overwhelm the idol to the point of drowning. He grows more tender, continues to deliberately steal his chance for breath for as long as his urgency isn't for needing to breathe... Because the robot feels like his urgency needs to be met with him instead. He feels nothing but compassion and love and familiarity, for someone he's known for only a month's time.
Still, in his unguarded state, Mettaton ends up granting Emet-Selch room to breathe unintentionally when he ducks toward his ear and kisses him against his neck, the place he seems to gravitate to, and he sighs. Presses into him; nuzzles him; squeezes him closer with the winding sort of strength unique to an arm like his. His voice is smooth as ever, low, coaxing, heady, and close, with an edge of his need.]
Hades...
[He wants terribly to fill Emet-Selch with him as a form of claim, primal and intuitive. If he can't do it physically, how better to do that than to occupy his senses?]