[It feels as though he's been stolen from his own body, yet tethered to the scene regardless. In his stupor, he nuzzles him back on developed instinct. More claim, even after he's transformed away from a Puca's anatomy and any of its scent-marking features. Anything he could to to ensure that Emet-Selch never doubts where he belongs.
What an impossibility, this all is. What an impossibility, the Bond is. Being a Monster. Having this man. This body. His body. It's staggering.
Scarcely a thing to consider, for the monster's attention is reeled back in to focus on the Ascian's neck and the scent of him, mingling with blood and, well, Mettaton. Between them, the smell and feeling of their sex and heat, the cool of the air on his skin and the warmth of the body beneath him. Slickness, stickiness, wetness, all new textures to overwhelm him while he's already so taken by it all.
Taking stock of his body, he can feel the throb of his cock as he recovers from his show of passion... But it's accompanied by the pulse of his lover. It surprises him to feel his pulse so intimately, but it becomes instantly addictive, even as his erection diminishes. For all that he still lacks any coordination to pull out. He lies there, arms and legs both completely useless.
His gasps for air turn into a rapturous sigh, and he nuzzles so deeply into Emet-Selch's neck, curling into him, that he'll no doubt rise with smattering of blood up to the corner of his eye.
Another sense is demanded: aural, to the sound of his name upon his lover's low voice. Mettaton presses his ear to his throat then, still able to hear him clearly with the other but taking it in in multiple dimensions. The idol shivers. A wave of complicated yet clear emotion overcomes him, a love so elated and brilliant that he smiles against his shoulder. Thankfulness, next: that he'd have this and him and this entire opportunity, all from meeting him, from a sickly sweet sort of transparency shared between them.
How does he handle it all. The intensity of his own, the intensity of his lover's. A weight so immense that Mettaton is gladly crushed under it. So overcome that he exhales all of the air he has in his lungs, and fails to take in another breath.
Their Bond is so terrifyingly open and vulnerable that he doesn't even have to put in the effort to feel the massive presence of his Bonded's soul, and to feel already that he's so close to him. Mettaton takes a sharp, shaky inhale, shivering still. He talks against his shoulder.]
I... I love you. Hades.
[He'd been trying to say it earlier, and the sentiment glows more brightly than before, lit by the afterglow. Mettaton kisses his skin. Whatever's against his face will do. The urge to express his love in ways beyond his capabilities grips him, and he shifts futilely. He settles on trying to tighten his embrace.
More firmly against his skin, perhaps veering into muttering territory and on a sluggish voice, airy and scarcely audible:]
You make me... so happy.
[None of his despair could hope to overshadow his natural inclination toward positivity, and Emet-Selch brings him this.]
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What an impossibility, this all is. What an impossibility, the Bond is. Being a Monster. Having this man. This body. His body. It's staggering.
Scarcely a thing to consider, for the monster's attention is reeled back in to focus on the Ascian's neck and the scent of him, mingling with blood and, well, Mettaton. Between them, the smell and feeling of their sex and heat, the cool of the air on his skin and the warmth of the body beneath him. Slickness, stickiness, wetness, all new textures to overwhelm him while he's already so taken by it all.
Taking stock of his body, he can feel the throb of his cock as he recovers from his show of passion... But it's accompanied by the pulse of his lover. It surprises him to feel his pulse so intimately, but it becomes instantly addictive, even as his erection diminishes. For all that he still lacks any coordination to pull out. He lies there, arms and legs both completely useless.
His gasps for air turn into a rapturous sigh, and he nuzzles so deeply into Emet-Selch's neck, curling into him, that he'll no doubt rise with smattering of blood up to the corner of his eye.
Another sense is demanded: aural, to the sound of his name upon his lover's low voice. Mettaton presses his ear to his throat then, still able to hear him clearly with the other but taking it in in multiple dimensions. The idol shivers. A wave of complicated yet clear emotion overcomes him, a love so elated and brilliant that he smiles against his shoulder. Thankfulness, next: that he'd have this and him and this entire opportunity, all from meeting him, from a sickly sweet sort of transparency shared between them.
How does he handle it all. The intensity of his own, the intensity of his lover's. A weight so immense that Mettaton is gladly crushed under it. So overcome that he exhales all of the air he has in his lungs, and fails to take in another breath.
Their Bond is so terrifyingly open and vulnerable that he doesn't even have to put in the effort to feel the massive presence of his Bonded's soul, and to feel already that he's so close to him. Mettaton takes a sharp, shaky inhale, shivering still. He talks against his shoulder.]
I... I love you. Hades.
[He'd been trying to say it earlier, and the sentiment glows more brightly than before, lit by the afterglow. Mettaton kisses his skin. Whatever's against his face will do. The urge to express his love in ways beyond his capabilities grips him, and he shifts futilely. He settles on trying to tighten his embrace.
More firmly against his skin, perhaps veering into muttering territory and on a sluggish voice, airy and scarcely audible:]
You make me... so happy.
[None of his despair could hope to overshadow his natural inclination toward positivity, and Emet-Selch brings him this.]