[A short satisfied hum passes the test of his swollen throat, nuzzling his cheek into Emet-Selch's shoulder as a reply to his gentle nudges. Mettaton feels delirious with ecstasy, warmth, overstimulated (never a bad thing, to Mettaton), loved and loving. He's eased Emet-Selch's legs down to straddle his own, arms useless even as he tries to draw them up to wrap around his waist — which they do, if not loosely. The sight he drank in over the past few minutes of his Bondmate spread out before him, riding his cock and marked so thoroughly in purple and red, a display rendered of his own efforts, is a sight he knows he won't be forgetting any time soon.
When he speaks on a tone so deep, nuanced with his feelings that wash over Mettaton as they usually do with a Bond like theirs, he shivers instead of listens. His mind, with all of its processing capabilities, is a few measures behind his senses. Emet-Selch's voice in itself is his, too, and he loves the sound of it. He can almost feel it rumbling in his own chest, an absolute pleasure of a sensation. Something worth clinging to, even when he finally parses the words warranting such stability.
The idol only collapses further yet into his back, arms tightening around his waist, swallowing around breath caught in his throat. When Mettaton manages to speak, his voice is soft and breathy, spoken with his lips pressed to his skin.]
I love you, too. Hades...
[No matter how well he could feel Emet-Selch's emotions or feel his own, he'd never not take that effort to say it aloud, even if doing that much has him settling back down against his shoulder again, cheek pressed to him, sighing in a way to catch his breath.
Mettaton idly takes stock of his body, to ground himself. The air's cool against his too-hot skin, but he can hardly tell what he feels about that when he's defenseless against it. His entire body tingles, his pulse, though stabilizing, still feels as though it pounds. His legs, legs not Puca-shaped, feel wobbly and heavy, but in such a pleasant way. His lap is weighted down by his Bonded, straddling his body, swallowing up his gradually softening cock in the heat of himself. Mettaton sighs. Even the uncomfortable parts combine to make a sensory experience the robot hangs onto. His fingers twitch to life, pressing into the plane of Emet-Selch's abdomen with the blatant desire to feel him up, nuzzling his cheek into his shoulder before rolling his head so that he can press kisses to his shoulder instead.
He manages to squeeze his waist in his arms. When he thinks back, it's to a time where Emet-Selch responded with hackles raised to a confession of blossoming love on Mettaton's part. Had he rejected him, Mettaton knows he has the fortitude to recover (and perhaps to try a different strategy, if he felt continued want)... Though, he's not sure how much further he'd drop into love, given that he could tell his friend was similarly falling for him, in a distant, Emet-Selch kind of way. Chemistry where the both of them were loving each other would be a hard thing to simply ignore. A current in the torrents of his lover's emotional state, something that was difficult for him to acknowledge. He feels proud of him for having made himself vulnerable to it, knowing it wasn't easy.
Emet-Selch is so sensitive a man, he thinks, nuzzling into his shoulder again. Sensitive and hurting, but in moments like these, he hopes to be a respite. Inundated with pleasure, handing himself off to Mettaton as Mettaton gives himself over. A soul like Emet-Selch's is one encumbered by so much: guilt, despair, grief, and loneliness. Burdens impossible to unload so easily from a soul like his. His arms tighten again: if he could be even a pleasant distraction from all he suffers, if he could be warm company otherwise, that would satisfy the idol.]
no subject
When he speaks on a tone so deep, nuanced with his feelings that wash over Mettaton as they usually do with a Bond like theirs, he shivers instead of listens. His mind, with all of its processing capabilities, is a few measures behind his senses. Emet-Selch's voice in itself is his, too, and he loves the sound of it. He can almost feel it rumbling in his own chest, an absolute pleasure of a sensation. Something worth clinging to, even when he finally parses the words warranting such stability.
The idol only collapses further yet into his back, arms tightening around his waist, swallowing around breath caught in his throat. When Mettaton manages to speak, his voice is soft and breathy, spoken with his lips pressed to his skin.]
I love you, too. Hades...
[No matter how well he could feel Emet-Selch's emotions or feel his own, he'd never not take that effort to say it aloud, even if doing that much has him settling back down against his shoulder again, cheek pressed to him, sighing in a way to catch his breath.
Mettaton idly takes stock of his body, to ground himself. The air's cool against his too-hot skin, but he can hardly tell what he feels about that when he's defenseless against it. His entire body tingles, his pulse, though stabilizing, still feels as though it pounds. His legs, legs not Puca-shaped, feel wobbly and heavy, but in such a pleasant way. His lap is weighted down by his Bonded, straddling his body, swallowing up his gradually softening cock in the heat of himself. Mettaton sighs. Even the uncomfortable parts combine to make a sensory experience the robot hangs onto. His fingers twitch to life, pressing into the plane of Emet-Selch's abdomen with the blatant desire to feel him up, nuzzling his cheek into his shoulder before rolling his head so that he can press kisses to his shoulder instead.
He manages to squeeze his waist in his arms. When he thinks back, it's to a time where Emet-Selch responded with hackles raised to a confession of blossoming love on Mettaton's part. Had he rejected him, Mettaton knows he has the fortitude to recover (and perhaps to try a different strategy, if he felt continued want)... Though, he's not sure how much further he'd drop into love, given that he could tell his friend was similarly falling for him, in a distant, Emet-Selch kind of way. Chemistry where the both of them were loving each other would be a hard thing to simply ignore. A current in the torrents of his lover's emotional state, something that was difficult for him to acknowledge. He feels proud of him for having made himself vulnerable to it, knowing it wasn't easy.
Emet-Selch is so sensitive a man, he thinks, nuzzling into his shoulder again. Sensitive and hurting, but in moments like these, he hopes to be a respite. Inundated with pleasure, handing himself off to Mettaton as Mettaton gives himself over. A soul like Emet-Selch's is one encumbered by so much: guilt, despair, grief, and loneliness. Burdens impossible to unload so easily from a soul like his. His arms tighten again: if he could be even a pleasant distraction from all he suffers, if he could be warm company otherwise, that would satisfy the idol.]