[It's with a faint shiver that threatened to turn into another jerk of hips that Emet-Selch watches Mettaton's fingers, feels that incidental movement so close to his erection so intently that he can't think of anything outside of it. Though it hadn't really been that long, it still felt like a short eternity of waiting, from the time he'd become aroused to the time Mettaton finally got his pants open, allowing his cock to spring to some measure of freedom. The Ascian's moan is low and shamelessly pleased, reveling both in the brief relief that being exposed brought, as well as from watching (and hearing) Mettaton's own response to the sight. Even without being yet touched, it was a pleasure, fully aware and able to feel how much he was wanted, and how much it heightened his own reaction. A cycle that neither of them seemed to have any interest in breaking.
When their eyes finally meet again, his pulse leaps, breath stalling, all of that yearning plain in his expression. Agreeing with absolute conviction that they had no need for patience. Not between them. Not for this.
Too many (if such a thing were possible) needs at once made it hard to position himself for anything. Instead, his mind restlessly shifts between concepts and imaginings, along similar lines as Mettaton's. How much he wanted to take and touch and suck and simply be with him, to have enough of himself carved out and consumed so that he could never be abandoned.
But at the moment his requirements were to be closer and- not much of anything else. So closer he tries to press, encouraged by Mettaton's own drag at him, while a hand drops to the hem of his opened pants, shoving them still lower, even if he can't work out the coordination to kick himself free of them entirely just yet. He'd thought, for a fleeting moment earlier, that he'd be able to keep some measure of calm, to be able to take in the full sight of his lover's transformed body with deliberation, to explore him with hands and lips, but he knew there was no chance for that now. Not yet, not when they were both completely unsated and impatient, lusting for everything at once.
But right now, what he wants most of all is teeth in his throat- something Emet-Selch realized and decided on the moment Mettaton lunged for it, when he felt the pain of the bite blossoming outward from the points of impact. A gasping cry passes his lips as he bares his neck instinctively towards him; an absurd instinct to have, but a demand in the gesture, as though expecting to be torn open. The sharp sting let him know that skin had been successfully broken, and he shudders, the ache of his cock turning the pain into a point of simple intensity.
His hands fall back to Mettaton's own body, seeking some sort of purchase there, fingers digging into skin, in a tense and irregular kneading at it.
Patience was for things that required it. There was no reason to suffer it otherwise.]
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When their eyes finally meet again, his pulse leaps, breath stalling, all of that yearning plain in his expression. Agreeing with absolute conviction that they had no need for patience. Not between them. Not for this.
Too many (if such a thing were possible) needs at once made it hard to position himself for anything. Instead, his mind restlessly shifts between concepts and imaginings, along similar lines as Mettaton's. How much he wanted to take and touch and suck and simply be with him, to have enough of himself carved out and consumed so that he could never be abandoned.
But at the moment his requirements were to be closer and- not much of anything else. So closer he tries to press, encouraged by Mettaton's own drag at him, while a hand drops to the hem of his opened pants, shoving them still lower, even if he can't work out the coordination to kick himself free of them entirely just yet. He'd thought, for a fleeting moment earlier, that he'd be able to keep some measure of calm, to be able to take in the full sight of his lover's transformed body with deliberation, to explore him with hands and lips, but he knew there was no chance for that now. Not yet, not when they were both completely unsated and impatient, lusting for everything at once.
But right now, what he wants most of all is teeth in his throat- something Emet-Selch realized and decided on the moment Mettaton lunged for it, when he felt the pain of the bite blossoming outward from the points of impact. A gasping cry passes his lips as he bares his neck instinctively towards him; an absurd instinct to have, but a demand in the gesture, as though expecting to be torn open. The sharp sting let him know that skin had been successfully broken, and he shudders, the ache of his cock turning the pain into a point of simple intensity.
His hands fall back to Mettaton's own body, seeking some sort of purchase there, fingers digging into skin, in a tense and irregular kneading at it.
Patience was for things that required it. There was no reason to suffer it otherwise.]