[The other side of his neck is both given and taken, really. The Puca bites at his own lip again in pain/pleasure at the renewed mouthful Emet-Selch has taken of his neck, and he can feel each place he's bitten burning against the air, both in pain and the wetness left behind, invisible to the eye but not to Mettaton's sensitivity. For more of anything he can give, he'll move however Emet-Selch dictates. It's as though they've made a trade: Emet-Selch gives him the pleasure he seeks, and Mettaton will perform in any way he could ask.
Both of his hands readjust their grip on him frantically in response to being pushed full-force against the bed, harder and needier than before. His fingers stroke his thigh while he continues to palm him with his other hand, fingers prodding the supple flesh. He can hardly stand the feeling of his thrusts, suddenly feeling himself slamming against that wall of unfulfilled need with full force. If the Ascian were to move like that, if Mettaton weren't limited by the design of his own anatomy... The idol moans at his own obscene cravings, the longing for Emet-Selch to have more access to his body intensified. All he can do is shift helplessly beneath him, his own hips rocking against his Bonded's with unrealized desire as even the rest of him is made to squirm in his heat.
Hearing Emet-Selch moan against his neck fuels that endless feedback between the two. For while the other man thrives off of Mettaton's responses, the robot feeds off of his in turn, needing it desperately to reach any mark of fulfillment that he can never quite reach. He whines against the sheer pleasure of his teeth grinding into his neck, trembling hard enough for his hands to shake, his coordination shot, unable to open his eye for as overwhelmed as he is.
He's positively drowning in his Bonded, right down to being swallowed up in a soul so immense that it could daunt. But he takes his own claim on him, shifts to surround some of his being in return with his own fragile potency, to surround him in turn. The Bond they created with each other is entirely too precious to him, Mettaton acknowledges; in this abstract way, he clings to him, both for stability and to join him in his own undoing. Without really considering it, each thrust of Emet-Selch's is met with a gasp from Mettaton as he starts to slip into a mode of fantasy, blending the eroticism of feeling his hard cock pressing into him with the blinding pleasure each rough bite to his throat brings him. A cocktail like that lets his fancies get away from him, makes it so that his noises go unchecked.
Whose feelings of fondness are these, anyway? The idol easily accepts that they're his own, that all of these feelings belong to him. The lust, the possessiveness, the attraction, the affection, the ache for more, but the intense gratification only Emet-Selch could bring him. Yet the absolute love he feels is so intense...
He stutters around syllables he can't speak. Something about loving him, surely. Does he have to say it when he's so transparent?]
no subject
[The other side of his neck is both given and taken, really. The Puca bites at his own lip again in pain/pleasure at the renewed mouthful Emet-Selch has taken of his neck, and he can feel each place he's bitten burning against the air, both in pain and the wetness left behind, invisible to the eye but not to Mettaton's sensitivity. For more of anything he can give, he'll move however Emet-Selch dictates. It's as though they've made a trade: Emet-Selch gives him the pleasure he seeks, and Mettaton will perform in any way he could ask.
Both of his hands readjust their grip on him frantically in response to being pushed full-force against the bed, harder and needier than before. His fingers stroke his thigh while he continues to palm him with his other hand, fingers prodding the supple flesh. He can hardly stand the feeling of his thrusts, suddenly feeling himself slamming against that wall of unfulfilled need with full force. If the Ascian were to move like that, if Mettaton weren't limited by the design of his own anatomy... The idol moans at his own obscene cravings, the longing for Emet-Selch to have more access to his body intensified. All he can do is shift helplessly beneath him, his own hips rocking against his Bonded's with unrealized desire as even the rest of him is made to squirm in his heat.
Hearing Emet-Selch moan against his neck fuels that endless feedback between the two. For while the other man thrives off of Mettaton's responses, the robot feeds off of his in turn, needing it desperately to reach any mark of fulfillment that he can never quite reach. He whines against the sheer pleasure of his teeth grinding into his neck, trembling hard enough for his hands to shake, his coordination shot, unable to open his eye for as overwhelmed as he is.
He's positively drowning in his Bonded, right down to being swallowed up in a soul so immense that it could daunt. But he takes his own claim on him, shifts to surround some of his being in return with his own fragile potency, to surround him in turn. The Bond they created with each other is entirely too precious to him, Mettaton acknowledges; in this abstract way, he clings to him, both for stability and to join him in his own undoing. Without really considering it, each thrust of Emet-Selch's is met with a gasp from Mettaton as he starts to slip into a mode of fantasy, blending the eroticism of feeling his hard cock pressing into him with the blinding pleasure each rough bite to his throat brings him. A cocktail like that lets his fancies get away from him, makes it so that his noises go unchecked.
Whose feelings of fondness are these, anyway? The idol easily accepts that they're his own, that all of these feelings belong to him. The lust, the possessiveness, the attraction, the affection, the ache for more, but the intense gratification only Emet-Selch could bring him. Yet the absolute love he feels is so intense...
He stutters around syllables he can't speak. Something about loving him, surely. Does he have to say it when he's so transparent?]