[How undignified it probably was, to let himself be so marked, as though his skin or himself was something that even could be claimed. It was incredibly presumptuous on Mettaton's part, but the Ascian could only find himself a bit charmed by it (and intensely aroused). But, one of the benefits of unhealthy self-assurance and a complete lack of shame was not being remotely bothered at the thought of anyone catching a glimpse of these... designations of possession. It was for them to enjoy; other people might as well not exist. If anything, Emet-Selch was likely to feel some small regret as they faded, in the days to come, as though the memory could slip away with it.
Of significantly more vulnerability was each display of response- every unrestrained moan, each twinge and shudder, the way the Ascian's body fought to arch up underneath him. To be so immediate, responding without thought, even wanting Mettaton to know, to feel every effect he was exerting on him. It was too raw of a thing to maintain for very long, too exposed- but oh, how it appealed....
...Was that muscle? Emet-Selch is almost certain he can feel a sensation of tensing around his cock, not only a flat increasing pressure. It was unexpected, but he wasn't about to question it, soft cries escaping with his breath as he feels his length progressively squeezed. His body shifts, twitches, struggles up underneath Mettaton, to stroke himself that bit more against his thighs, to feel more of that near-living tension, encouraged ever deeper by every sign of the other man's own pleasure.
The sound of Mettaton's voice, so low and close to his ear, feels as though it's being spoken directly into his head. It helped- bit by bit- to block out all else. To focus on this moment as if it were all that needed to exist. The sound is like a current, running through him, sets his breath shuddering in response, and he swallows hard. How could voice alone have such a profound effect on him?
It takes considerable effort to answer, his tone a low rumble, a moan lurking somewhere just behind it. The satisfaction of the pressure Mettaton was using, holding him down, made it that much more difficult.]
...Is that- so...? I can only imagine... what it must look like. What you've done to me....
[The Ascian interrupts himself, as even that much composure falters, a sharper pang of need running through him, setting him shivering anew.]
--ah, Mettaton....
[It was hard not to plead, feeling ever more desperate for more of him.]
no subject
Of significantly more vulnerability was each display of response- every unrestrained moan, each twinge and shudder, the way the Ascian's body fought to arch up underneath him. To be so immediate, responding without thought, even wanting Mettaton to know, to feel every effect he was exerting on him. It was too raw of a thing to maintain for very long, too exposed- but oh, how it appealed....
...Was that muscle? Emet-Selch is almost certain he can feel a sensation of tensing around his cock, not only a flat increasing pressure. It was unexpected, but he wasn't about to question it, soft cries escaping with his breath as he feels his length progressively squeezed. His body shifts, twitches, struggles up underneath Mettaton, to stroke himself that bit more against his thighs, to feel more of that near-living tension, encouraged ever deeper by every sign of the other man's own pleasure.
The sound of Mettaton's voice, so low and close to his ear, feels as though it's being spoken directly into his head. It helped- bit by bit- to block out all else. To focus on this moment as if it were all that needed to exist. The sound is like a current, running through him, sets his breath shuddering in response, and he swallows hard. How could voice alone have such a profound effect on him?
It takes considerable effort to answer, his tone a low rumble, a moan lurking somewhere just behind it. The satisfaction of the pressure Mettaton was using, holding him down, made it that much more difficult.]
...Is that- so...? I can only imagine... what it must look like. What you've done to me....
[The Ascian interrupts himself, as even that much composure falters, a sharper pang of need running through him, setting him shivering anew.]
--ah, Mettaton....
[It was hard not to plead, feeling ever more desperate for more of him.]