A... small sacrifice. ... Soreness? For more of me.
[It's such a strange feeling, finding himself unable to string together words in anything more than broken sentences. In any other context it would be frustrating, but here, it's captivation in a way he can only appreciate. Mettaton gives his neck gladly, his eye shuttering closed with the feeling of his kisses, the sensation of pressure that comes with each. His fingers drift down to the back of his upper thighs and he presses into his muscle hungrily, the curious quality of his touch making it so that his behavior could only be called feeling him up. When the Puca gives himself to tactile senses, he finds himself surprised by the way Emet-Selch's body feels atop him, each drag of fingers or press of body and how much it differs from his expectations, yet satisfies greater than his imagination.
What he really didn't expect was how much it would please him, to feel even overtaken in soul when he places such great focus on form. How could it be this thrilling, yet comfortable? Eye still closed and lips parted, he grips tighter, lets out a soft, pleasurable moan, drinking Emet-Selch in as he receives his touch, but there's much to focus on. His wet kisses to his neck, the slickness of each left behind, hand against his chest, the way he arches into his palms only to bring his hips down, the rub of his cock against his thigh...
Mettaton's very good at letting himself get lost in the pleasure of such sensory details. For all he grips into the backs of the Ascian's thighs, his body's otherwise succumbed. He stutters again, something like a sharp inhale without being so. One of his hands follows the curves of his body to rest in the center of his lower back, and he presses down.]
Hades... Bite. Use— Bite me.
[He sure did just slip a demand in, but he finds himself trembling at the thought. Mettaton realizes how much he wants to feel that now that he's said it aloud, and he subconsciously brings his thighs closer together, fixed on Emet-Selch's erection, its sensual hardness, the knowledge of what he can do to the other man.
His voice is breathy, the same quality of being able to disappear into the air despite the way he usually projects himself.]
I want you.
[His fingers roam toward Emet-Selch's inner thigh as he grips into flesh, cupping him firmly while his other hand continues to press him close.]
no subject
[It's such a strange feeling, finding himself unable to string together words in anything more than broken sentences. In any other context it would be frustrating, but here, it's captivation in a way he can only appreciate. Mettaton gives his neck gladly, his eye shuttering closed with the feeling of his kisses, the sensation of pressure that comes with each. His fingers drift down to the back of his upper thighs and he presses into his muscle hungrily, the curious quality of his touch making it so that his behavior could only be called feeling him up. When the Puca gives himself to tactile senses, he finds himself surprised by the way Emet-Selch's body feels atop him, each drag of fingers or press of body and how much it differs from his expectations, yet satisfies greater than his imagination.
What he really didn't expect was how much it would please him, to feel even overtaken in soul when he places such great focus on form. How could it be this thrilling, yet comfortable? Eye still closed and lips parted, he grips tighter, lets out a soft, pleasurable moan, drinking Emet-Selch in as he receives his touch, but there's much to focus on. His wet kisses to his neck, the slickness of each left behind, hand against his chest, the way he arches into his palms only to bring his hips down, the rub of his cock against his thigh...
Mettaton's very good at letting himself get lost in the pleasure of such sensory details. For all he grips into the backs of the Ascian's thighs, his body's otherwise succumbed. He stutters again, something like a sharp inhale without being so. One of his hands follows the curves of his body to rest in the center of his lower back, and he presses down.]
Hades... Bite. Use— Bite me.
[He sure did just slip a demand in, but he finds himself trembling at the thought. Mettaton realizes how much he wants to feel that now that he's said it aloud, and he subconsciously brings his thighs closer together, fixed on Emet-Selch's erection, its sensual hardness, the knowledge of what he can do to the other man.
His voice is breathy, the same quality of being able to disappear into the air despite the way he usually projects himself.]
I want you.
[His fingers roam toward Emet-Selch's inner thigh as he grips into flesh, cupping him firmly while his other hand continues to press him close.]