[He can hardly keep track of all of the sensations, not noticing how his thighs automatically press around the hardness of his arousal and his hands mold around the arch of his back. Every twitch of his body grabs his attention, and overload of longing and sensitivity: he's arrested by Emet-Selch's reciprocation of his kiss. Subject to the weight of him and the relentless rub of his cock, he spasms, clings to his back, and fails to notice the sound of his own desperate, broken cries muffled by kisses when the robotic idol is usually so aware of himself. His self-awareness is totally shelved.
The way Emet-Selch grips down on his very soul takes his gratification to unforeseen levels, and the intensity's enough to keep Mettaton's entire body trembling on constant. His thighs are tense around his arousal and he sighs and whines at how wanting he is deep, deep down, in every possible way for his Bonded. As he gazes up at Emet-Selch, he's unfocused, drunken, infatuated, and overwhelmed, always reaching greater heights of pleasure with each round they slip into with each other. Enticed into him on some core level of his being, he's absolutely hooked: he feels thoroughly caught under the pressure of a soul so immense impressing upon his own, heavy and undeniable. He didn't expect this perfect approach to sensuality when he reached out for his heart.
For as trapped as he feels, Mettaton grips back, both in body and soul. His head lolls to the side despite himself as he relishes the Ascian's affections with a heavy sigh, and he's absolutely taken, feeling his body press just right against his Bonded's while he feels so warmly toward Emet-Selch's essence. He does not let go of him, not in any way. He feels so deeply taken, deeply satisfied, and with the way his lover frenetically kisses him, he feels deeply cared for.
He regains some control of himself and wherever he can, he catches Emet-Selch's face with kisses of his own. How could anybody treat him to such unknown depths?]
Th... Yes, exact- exactly...!
[And even his ability to string words together fails him. Of course. How else can he say that Emet-Selch's bringing him beyond his expectations? There's so much else he wants, a never-ending list of desires, but this is like scratching an itch he could have never known how to convey. It's fortunate that he's been matched with the Ascian, he thinks. It's conveyed by Bond, by the intensifying grip on his very soul: Emet-Selch is never, ever getting away from him. He demands it: his pleasure, his affection, and his company, which never fails to put Mettaton at ease in its ever-growing familiarity. For how tantalizingly risky as their flirtation with danger is, Mettaton loves him immensely.
The Puca can't stop fidgeting his legs, the heat of his body rising ever higher. The hotter he feels, the more he needs to move. He tries desperately to catch his lips in a kiss, but he's just as satisfied with kissing him haphazardly under the weight of his body and soul.]
no subject
The way Emet-Selch grips down on his very soul takes his gratification to unforeseen levels, and the intensity's enough to keep Mettaton's entire body trembling on constant. His thighs are tense around his arousal and he sighs and whines at how wanting he is deep, deep down, in every possible way for his Bonded. As he gazes up at Emet-Selch, he's unfocused, drunken, infatuated, and overwhelmed, always reaching greater heights of pleasure with each round they slip into with each other. Enticed into him on some core level of his being, he's absolutely hooked: he feels thoroughly caught under the pressure of a soul so immense impressing upon his own, heavy and undeniable. He didn't expect this perfect approach to sensuality when he reached out for his heart.
For as trapped as he feels, Mettaton grips back, both in body and soul. His head lolls to the side despite himself as he relishes the Ascian's affections with a heavy sigh, and he's absolutely taken, feeling his body press just right against his Bonded's while he feels so warmly toward Emet-Selch's essence. He does not let go of him, not in any way. He feels so deeply taken, deeply satisfied, and with the way his lover frenetically kisses him, he feels deeply cared for.
He regains some control of himself and wherever he can, he catches Emet-Selch's face with kisses of his own. How could anybody treat him to such unknown depths?]
Th... Yes, exact- exactly...!
[And even his ability to string words together fails him. Of course. How else can he say that Emet-Selch's bringing him beyond his expectations? There's so much else he wants, a never-ending list of desires, but this is like scratching an itch he could have never known how to convey. It's fortunate that he's been matched with the Ascian, he thinks. It's conveyed by Bond, by the intensifying grip on his very soul: Emet-Selch is never, ever getting away from him. He demands it: his pleasure, his affection, and his company, which never fails to put Mettaton at ease in its ever-growing familiarity. For how tantalizingly risky as their flirtation with danger is, Mettaton loves him immensely.
The Puca can't stop fidgeting his legs, the heat of his body rising ever higher. The hotter he feels, the more he needs to move. He tries desperately to catch his lips in a kiss, but he's just as satisfied with kissing him haphazardly under the weight of his body and soul.]