[Were there barriers left he hadn't been aware of? He wouldn't have thought so, and yet, wrapped around his soul like this, Emet-Selch felt more exposed than before. Though nothing had been deliberately hidden, with the core of themselves tied up in one another, it felt impossible to keep back anything at all. Even if there was too much to take in, it was all there, raw and available and vast, and he felt more susceptible to drowning within it than ever.
How could a soul so different, influence him so far? It felt once again that they were matched- that despite the tempestuous weight of his own, it was no less affected, no more able to ignore Mettaton's, unable to crush him underneath, swallow him up without a trace. He felt pierced by him, claimed in turn- that the more his soul encroached on him, the more Mettaton's own influence spread, becoming inescapable. Not that he felt the slightest inclination to even attempt to detach.
It was so profound that it hurt, and his cries are soft and pained. Thrusting between the squeeze of Mettaton's thighs, there's no sense of rhythm involved; a few desperate jerks of his hips, followed by shuddering pauses, gasps for air as he kisses and clings back. As though he couldn't concentrate on more than one action at a time. Which was likely to be true, given how overwhelmed he was by the whole of it.
He was so close, so quickly. When Emet-Selch leans up momentarily, it's to observe what he can of his lover's condition. The sight of him crying out, along with the sound, has his own breath turn into a shuddered whine. How uncontrolled and open he was, and with their souls mixed, it was as though he could feel Mettaton's pleasure as well, mirrored endlessly with his own. It hurt even to look upon it, and his eyes close again, though he can't shut any of it out. Even what he couldn't see, he could feel- the constant trembling of the form under his, every shiver of his legs, the continued pressure around his cock.
Falling into another kiss, he feels as equally drowned by the press of Mettaton's demands on him. How much he returned them. How much he loved him in that moment, in some terribly broken way. How heartfelt it was and full of fathomless longing, an edge of need that could never be fully satisfied. It's probably good that Emet-Selch finds himself incapable of speech, of language. All it would amount to would be pleas not to leave, demands giving way to desperation, each one more disconsolate than the last. But the sentiment is carried in his voice regardless, in the sounds he makes, ever softer, ever more swallowed up by deeper kisses.
When the pleasure his body feels suddenly crests, he's lost, nearly despairing of it. As though he'd never be able to find this again, that it was inexorably slipping away from him with each shudder, each breath, no matter how hard he clung to him. Emptying himself between his thighs once more, he collapses by degrees, face burying itself against Mettaton's neck, and trying not to cry.
no subject
How could a soul so different, influence him so far? It felt once again that they were matched- that despite the tempestuous weight of his own, it was no less affected, no more able to ignore Mettaton's, unable to crush him underneath, swallow him up without a trace. He felt pierced by him, claimed in turn- that the more his soul encroached on him, the more Mettaton's own influence spread, becoming inescapable. Not that he felt the slightest inclination to even attempt to detach.
It was so profound that it hurt, and his cries are soft and pained. Thrusting between the squeeze of Mettaton's thighs, there's no sense of rhythm involved; a few desperate jerks of his hips, followed by shuddering pauses, gasps for air as he kisses and clings back. As though he couldn't concentrate on more than one action at a time. Which was likely to be true, given how overwhelmed he was by the whole of it.
He was so close, so quickly. When Emet-Selch leans up momentarily, it's to observe what he can of his lover's condition. The sight of him crying out, along with the sound, has his own breath turn into a shuddered whine. How uncontrolled and open he was, and with their souls mixed, it was as though he could feel Mettaton's pleasure as well, mirrored endlessly with his own. It hurt even to look upon it, and his eyes close again, though he can't shut any of it out. Even what he couldn't see, he could feel- the constant trembling of the form under his, every shiver of his legs, the continued pressure around his cock.
Falling into another kiss, he feels as equally drowned by the press of Mettaton's demands on him. How much he returned them. How much he loved him in that moment, in some terribly broken way. How heartfelt it was and full of fathomless longing, an edge of need that could never be fully satisfied. It's probably good that Emet-Selch finds himself incapable of speech, of language. All it would amount to would be pleas not to leave, demands giving way to desperation, each one more disconsolate than the last. But the sentiment is carried in his voice regardless, in the sounds he makes, ever softer, ever more swallowed up by deeper kisses.
When the pleasure his body feels suddenly crests, he's lost, nearly despairing of it. As though he'd never be able to find this again, that it was inexorably slipping away from him with each shudder, each breath, no matter how hard he clung to him. Emptying himself between his thighs once more, he collapses by degrees, face burying itself against Mettaton's neck, and trying not to cry.
He doesn't entirely succeed.]