[Was his skin more sensitive, or was he only more conscious of it? More attuned to nearness in itself, Emet-Selch shivers faintly despite the warmth. The capture and release of his lip stills his breath, and when he finally remembers to restart it several moments after, there's a shake to it- and when a brief opening of his eyes has them meeting purple, it's not a sight that makes it any easier to steady himself. Did it still count as anticipation when he was already indulging?
Gaze lowering again, he takes Mettaton's lower lip between his teeth, providing a slow scrape from one side to the other, firm and with the tension of a bite that never quite comes. Instead he takes a breath, sharp and brief, both soothed and enticed by the familiar taste of his Bonded's mouth, the hand buried in his hair.
His own hand at the idol's neck moves gradually upward, fingers taking in the line of his jaw, to trail along the shape of an ear, tucking a few strands of hair back behind it. And from there to his face: the ridge of an eyebrow, the shape of an eye, the smoothness of his cheek. The slightest variations in textures, in the give of skin: it was a learning through touch alone. Though- not entirely alone, he realized after a moment, taking in the sound of their breathing, the lingering scent of sex, the way his lover tasted against his tongue. Every aspect was associated with one another, tied together in his thoughts. And each one he wanted more of, while knowing that he'd never be able to get enough of any of them.
But it's a thought that has his tongue finally press further past Mettaton's lips with a hitch to his breath. And though there's a certain inherent need to his movement, to the way his hands firm, cupping his Bonded's face with his hand- it's neither rushed, nor forced. It's still a deliberate expression of his want for him, of appreciation and affection, love and even adoration. The sort of thing that hurt to surround himself with, but that he couldn't bear to part from.
A low sound accompanies the feeling, low enough that it barely escapes his throat at all. The hand he has at Mettaton's chest continues toying with his nipple, giving it a few harder squeezes between fingers, before leaving it with a drag of thumb and continuing to trace lower, a caress over the muscles of his abdomen. So different entirely than all the shapes and consistencies that he was used to, with each version important, and worthy of loving by virtue of who it belonged to.]
no subject
Gaze lowering again, he takes Mettaton's lower lip between his teeth, providing a slow scrape from one side to the other, firm and with the tension of a bite that never quite comes. Instead he takes a breath, sharp and brief, both soothed and enticed by the familiar taste of his Bonded's mouth, the hand buried in his hair.
His own hand at the idol's neck moves gradually upward, fingers taking in the line of his jaw, to trail along the shape of an ear, tucking a few strands of hair back behind it. And from there to his face: the ridge of an eyebrow, the shape of an eye, the smoothness of his cheek. The slightest variations in textures, in the give of skin: it was a learning through touch alone. Though- not entirely alone, he realized after a moment, taking in the sound of their breathing, the lingering scent of sex, the way his lover tasted against his tongue. Every aspect was associated with one another, tied together in his thoughts. And each one he wanted more of, while knowing that he'd never be able to get enough of any of them.
But it's a thought that has his tongue finally press further past Mettaton's lips with a hitch to his breath. And though there's a certain inherent need to his movement, to the way his hands firm, cupping his Bonded's face with his hand- it's neither rushed, nor forced. It's still a deliberate expression of his want for him, of appreciation and affection, love and even adoration. The sort of thing that hurt to surround himself with, but that he couldn't bear to part from.
A low sound accompanies the feeling, low enough that it barely escapes his throat at all. The hand he has at Mettaton's chest continues toying with his nipple, giving it a few harder squeezes between fingers, before leaving it with a drag of thumb and continuing to trace lower, a caress over the muscles of his abdomen. So different entirely than all the shapes and consistencies that he was used to, with each version important, and worthy of loving by virtue of who it belonged to.]