[Even as he licks over his neck, Emet-Selch can feel the memory of Mettaton's lips closing over his own, the firmness of teeth. Something that has his exhalation against the idol's throat shaking, despite it being such a relatively small note, not unfamiliar. Even more alluring was the way he could feel Mettaton shudder and shift over him, encouraging his hands to return to the man's thighs. Palms running firmly along their length, his fingers turn to kneading, feeling for that suggestion of muscle that he remembered from before.
Why was the threat (or promise) of being pressed down nearly as enticing as the action itself? Each moment carried its own anticipatory edge to it, a blend of expectation and desire, and he felt a little off-balance in more than just position. At the question, Emet-Selch tilts his head back just enough to allow his gaze to flicker back up to Mettaton's face, still oddly caught between moments. As though trapped in mid-air, waiting for gravity (or more accurately, Mettaton), to finish crushing him.]
Somewhat. 'Tis good you can't feel it.
[Because then he'd have to consider keeping his room at a more appropriate temperature. But if Mettaton didn't notice, and the Ascian didn't care, then there was no point in bothering.
Finally, time resumes as Emet-Selch feels his back hit the covers, Mettaton's body remaining satisfyingly close, appreciating that he doesn't have to stretch too far to bury his face against the idol's neck again. Closing his lips around the semi-skin of his throat, he sucks a slow line along it, finding it a pity he couldn't really mark him in the same way. But the contact, even the texture remained good.
And hands on skin were much preferable to hands on clothes, setting the Ascian shivering anew, but at touch this time. His muscles contract wherever fingers press, wondering distantly if he were actually more sensitive, or just more attuned to anything Mettaton chose to focus on.]
no subject
Why was the threat (or promise) of being pressed down nearly as enticing as the action itself? Each moment carried its own anticipatory edge to it, a blend of expectation and desire, and he felt a little off-balance in more than just position. At the question, Emet-Selch tilts his head back just enough to allow his gaze to flicker back up to Mettaton's face, still oddly caught between moments. As though trapped in mid-air, waiting for gravity (or more accurately, Mettaton), to finish crushing him.]
Somewhat. 'Tis good you can't feel it.
[Because then he'd have to consider keeping his room at a more appropriate temperature. But if Mettaton didn't notice, and the Ascian didn't care, then there was no point in bothering.
Finally, time resumes as Emet-Selch feels his back hit the covers, Mettaton's body remaining satisfyingly close, appreciating that he doesn't have to stretch too far to bury his face against the idol's neck again. Closing his lips around the semi-skin of his throat, he sucks a slow line along it, finding it a pity he couldn't really mark him in the same way. But the contact, even the texture remained good.
And hands on skin were much preferable to hands on clothes, setting the Ascian shivering anew, but at touch this time. His muscles contract wherever fingers press, wondering distantly if he were actually more sensitive, or just more attuned to anything Mettaton chose to focus on.]