[It's impossible to do anything to each other's souls here, realistically, but it doesn't make it any less foreboding or possible. It feels that way, anyway. Mettaton can almost feel Emet-Selch pulling him under in such a way he couldn't have anticipated in his wildest fantasies. It's panic-inducing, an uptick in frantic energy when Mettaton's only outlet for it is to writhe under Emet-Selch's weight and to cling to him, contradictory. He doesn't even care to test if he can pull back. He doesn't want to, and the feeling of pressure upon his very existence makes him close his eye with a gasp.
This could very well be dangerous, given any other circumstance, but Mettaton only delights in it. His mind races too far ahead of him to reason that it's not dangerous, especially with the feeling of his soul being swallowed up by his Bonded's, dark and intense. He can barely process what he's saying.
...He hadn't thought of Emet-Selch's capabilities, no. He certainly wouldn't have thought of them being any danger to him. He trusts him. What an oversight, with a presence like his. Too often Mettaton lets himself get carried away without considering the consequences.
Squirming in Emet-Selch's grip, he feels that tug against his being as his spatial awareness continues to diminish — not to any detriment, only to deliriousness. But he also shifts his heavy legs made heavier by the exertion of pressure against his body and soul, enough to rub hard against Emet-Selch's arousal, and Mettaton cries out, relenting to in a shifting mess with a satisfied, full-bodied shudder. His arms wind further about Emet-Selch's back, impossibly so, and he grips into his skin.
Mettaton tries to speak, but he can't, a block between speech and thought.
So they can both take souls. Mettaton acknowledges the danger here, and makes sure to communicate that understanding to his lover by catching his lips in a deep kiss, thrusting his tongue past his lips. Still, he feels the Asican winding about his soul, and it sets him trembling some more. He grips into his skin, pulls Emet-Selch's weight upon him forcefully, and drags his tongue along his lower lip as he kisses him around a sigh in his throat. He's something else, Emet-Selch. It's terrible, awe-inducing, haunting, and desirable, knowing (and not knowing) the things he could do, yet finding it delightful.]
no subject
[It's impossible to do anything to each other's souls here, realistically, but it doesn't make it any less foreboding or possible. It feels that way, anyway. Mettaton can almost feel Emet-Selch pulling him under in such a way he couldn't have anticipated in his wildest fantasies. It's panic-inducing, an uptick in frantic energy when Mettaton's only outlet for it is to writhe under Emet-Selch's weight and to cling to him, contradictory. He doesn't even care to test if he can pull back. He doesn't want to, and the feeling of pressure upon his very existence makes him close his eye with a gasp.
This could very well be dangerous, given any other circumstance, but Mettaton only delights in it. His mind races too far ahead of him to reason that it's not dangerous, especially with the feeling of his soul being swallowed up by his Bonded's, dark and intense. He can barely process what he's saying.
...He hadn't thought of Emet-Selch's capabilities, no. He certainly wouldn't have thought of them being any danger to him. He trusts him. What an oversight, with a presence like his. Too often Mettaton lets himself get carried away without considering the consequences.
Squirming in Emet-Selch's grip, he feels that tug against his being as his spatial awareness continues to diminish — not to any detriment, only to deliriousness. But he also shifts his heavy legs made heavier by the exertion of pressure against his body and soul, enough to rub hard against Emet-Selch's arousal, and Mettaton cries out, relenting to in a shifting mess with a satisfied, full-bodied shudder. His arms wind further about Emet-Selch's back, impossibly so, and he grips into his skin.
Mettaton tries to speak, but he can't, a block between speech and thought.
So they can both take souls. Mettaton acknowledges the danger here, and makes sure to communicate that understanding to his lover by catching his lips in a deep kiss, thrusting his tongue past his lips. Still, he feels the Asican winding about his soul, and it sets him trembling some more. He grips into his skin, pulls Emet-Selch's weight upon him forcefully, and drags his tongue along his lower lip as he kisses him around a sigh in his throat. He's something else, Emet-Selch. It's terrible, awe-inducing, haunting, and desirable, knowing (and not knowing) the things he could do, yet finding it delightful.]