[Being dragged down on top of Mettaton gets a brief jerk of his hips and a sigh that doesn't quite make it past his lips, remaining trapped in a throat that he could feel licked over by his lover's tongue. Expecting another bite but not quite sure when it would be coming, being rolled suddenly over catches him off guard, tensing with a startled noise that quickly turns pleasured as the weight of the other man sinks into him. Overwhelmed at the warmth now covering his front, his back firmly against the mattress, Emet-Selch hums a breathless satisfaction at the new position. And attempts to arch underneath him, keeping his neck tilted back and exposed, while arms wrapped around to pull his Bonded tighter.
A hum that translates smoothly into a groan at the heady combination of teeth sinking into his skin and the drag of their erections together. Two different sorts of hardness, each enhancing the other. Both were something he struggled to press into, with a jerk of hips and twist of neck. Ineffectual but determined, he shudders at the movement of Mettaton's own hips practically pinning him to the bed, feeling the stiffness of their cocks rubbing so enticingly against one another, prodded hard against each other's bodies.
His own hands fall to Mettaton's hips to help drag him closer, for all that it makes his own attempts to thrust upward that much more impossible. Shivers again as a bite turns again to a lick, the tease of tongue and feeling of his lover's breath and lips on skin. The small wounds were points of heat, sharper than the rest of his body, but surrounded by points of chill, where saliva had been left behind, any smear of blood that escaped immediate claim.
And alert to its presence, Emet-Selch notes the faint scent of blood in the air, the traces of it that Mettaton must be leaving along his jaw, feeling the mix of slicknesses left on his neck. Stirred further by the brush of Mettaton's finger along it, he swallows as he feels it pass over, eyes fixed upwards. Locked upon his face, memorizing the sight of him like this- so appropriately predatory, complete with the Ascian's blood at his lips. An attractive look for the idol, he thought, his own lips slightly parted, as though he could taste it himself, could breathe it in.]
Everything--
[He repeats, caught on that word, dwelling on the solidity and weight of it. It was easy, perhaps, to be lost so wholly to passion, to say and claim anything in the heat of the moment. Not that Emet-Selch thought they ever did, never said anything they didn't entirely mean- but he's clearly alert and focused, intent on Mettaton's words. The feeling of them, what it meant to belong to someone. To want to be marked by them, completely and utterly, both visibly and indelibly, to be filled completely. To let himself go entirely, and receive all of Mettaton in return.
How long had he felt so hollow? Could Mettaton even begin to fill him? The Ascian's own look is no less hungered, a despairing and demanding sort of love, the threat- or promise- that he was no less possessed in turn. Mettaton may be filling him, but Emet-Selch would be taking him, keeping him, expecting the whole of his essence.]
All of myself, then... for all of you.
[Voice soft and deep, Emet-Selch keeps his eyes open as he leans his head up, attempting to reach those bloodied lips with his own, in one more affirmation.
no subject
A hum that translates smoothly into a groan at the heady combination of teeth sinking into his skin and the drag of their erections together. Two different sorts of hardness, each enhancing the other. Both were something he struggled to press into, with a jerk of hips and twist of neck. Ineffectual but determined, he shudders at the movement of Mettaton's own hips practically pinning him to the bed, feeling the stiffness of their cocks rubbing so enticingly against one another, prodded hard against each other's bodies.
His own hands fall to Mettaton's hips to help drag him closer, for all that it makes his own attempts to thrust upward that much more impossible. Shivers again as a bite turns again to a lick, the tease of tongue and feeling of his lover's breath and lips on skin. The small wounds were points of heat, sharper than the rest of his body, but surrounded by points of chill, where saliva had been left behind, any smear of blood that escaped immediate claim.
And alert to its presence, Emet-Selch notes the faint scent of blood in the air, the traces of it that Mettaton must be leaving along his jaw, feeling the mix of slicknesses left on his neck. Stirred further by the brush of Mettaton's finger along it, he swallows as he feels it pass over, eyes fixed upwards. Locked upon his face, memorizing the sight of him like this- so appropriately predatory, complete with the Ascian's blood at his lips. An attractive look for the idol, he thought, his own lips slightly parted, as though he could taste it himself, could breathe it in.]
Everything--
[He repeats, caught on that word, dwelling on the solidity and weight of it. It was easy, perhaps, to be lost so wholly to passion, to say and claim anything in the heat of the moment. Not that Emet-Selch thought they ever did, never said anything they didn't entirely mean- but he's clearly alert and focused, intent on Mettaton's words. The feeling of them, what it meant to belong to someone. To want to be marked by them, completely and utterly, both visibly and indelibly, to be filled completely. To let himself go entirely, and receive all of Mettaton in return.
How long had he felt so hollow? Could Mettaton even begin to fill him? The Ascian's own look is no less hungered, a despairing and demanding sort of love, the threat- or promise- that he was no less possessed in turn. Mettaton may be filling him, but Emet-Selch would be taking him, keeping him, expecting the whole of his essence.]
All of myself, then... for all of you.
[Voice soft and deep, Emet-Selch keeps his eyes open as he leans his head up, attempting to reach those bloodied lips with his own, in one more affirmation.
Everything.]