[The sounds Mettaton made were more than satisfying. The way he almost writhed against him- every response only fed into his own, heightened it, encouraged it. That it was possible to see the idol this... unguarded, responsive- it made it that bit easier to be unguarded in turn, to answer him as he naturally would, without any consideration towards pretense.
When the kiss breaks, the Ascian feels light-headed, unsure of the last time he'd taken a proper breath. It had seemed... unimportant, had traveled further down his list of priorities as the moments passed, easily eclipsed by maintaining that contact. And it's only grudgingly that he makes up for it now, breathing rapid and a bit unsteady, punctuated by shivering. Chest heaving, his hands settle for the moment at Mettaton's lower back, simply clutching at him.
There was a lot to take in, even for him. He had eons of experience, but it was eons of indifference. When he responded genuinely, it was genuine, the whole mess of him: unabashed and poorly restrained. It wasn't consciously that Emet-Selch shared that sense of desperation- not for physical satisfaction (though it certainly flavored it), but simple closeness. A bitter loneliness. How could it ever be enough? It couldn't; yet he dug in regardless.
Intense emotions on his part were always negative.
So sharply aroused that it ached, he can't stop the slow roll of his hips against the other man's thigh, nor the accompanying quiet moan. Letting go of Mettaton's back, the Ascian's hands move up to cup either side of his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. His eyes flicker open for a brief few moments, though his gaze is too unfocused to make out much of anything with his good eye. Pressing their lips together again, there's more of a gentleness to the kiss, remembering that softness he'd previously been shown, and wanting more of it. Wanting more of everything, and a little afraid of being consumed by it.]
no subject
When the kiss breaks, the Ascian feels light-headed, unsure of the last time he'd taken a proper breath. It had seemed... unimportant, had traveled further down his list of priorities as the moments passed, easily eclipsed by maintaining that contact. And it's only grudgingly that he makes up for it now, breathing rapid and a bit unsteady, punctuated by shivering. Chest heaving, his hands settle for the moment at Mettaton's lower back, simply clutching at him.
There was a lot to take in, even for him. He had eons of experience, but it was eons of indifference. When he responded genuinely, it was genuine, the whole mess of him: unabashed and poorly restrained. It wasn't consciously that Emet-Selch shared that sense of desperation- not for physical satisfaction (though it certainly flavored it), but simple closeness. A bitter loneliness. How could it ever be enough? It couldn't; yet he dug in regardless.
Intense emotions on his part were always negative.
So sharply aroused that it ached, he can't stop the slow roll of his hips against the other man's thigh, nor the accompanying quiet moan. Letting go of Mettaton's back, the Ascian's hands move up to cup either side of his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. His eyes flicker open for a brief few moments, though his gaze is too unfocused to make out much of anything with his good eye. Pressing their lips together again, there's more of a gentleness to the kiss, remembering that softness he'd previously been shown, and wanting more of it. Wanting more of everything, and a little afraid of being consumed by it.]