[Just as Mettaton begins to grow accustomed to the sensation of one, then two fingers massaging him into a state of receptiveness, Emet-Selch changes things up. That hypnotizing rhythm that he began timing short breaths to - not with, but close - speeds up in response to his greed. And why shouldn't it? A smooth, short moan is pulled from his throat, one that disappears into the air when he closes his eyes and gives into the new rhythm.
He aches, raw and deeply enticed, unable to do much but continue to swipe his tongue and suck upon his lover's lower lip to keep himself with it, even when he slips into open-mouthed pants and sighs with the increased rhythm of his fingers at work. But his pace slows some more all over again, and that change in speed paired with the press of fingers into his thigh has him sighing all over again. Whether fast or slow, Emet-Selch treats him to an addictive rhythm that he wants to sit upon... Which only brings him further anticipation, knowing he'll get that chance, for all that he can't tense his legs by will at this point.
Just as he sighs in relief at the fullness and increasing familiarity of it, the Ascian pulls out. Mettaton's eyes fly open. There's no disappointment to be had over what's lost, but forward-thinking, the understanding that his Bonded feels them ready to move on.
It happens faster than he can keep track of. The realization that he's dispensed more lubrication into his fingers, Mettaton can feel his pulse in his own arousal when he considers what Emet-Selch's about to do to himself. The hand he has over his heart moves south on reflex, wanting to get in on the action of his preparation, wanting to know if he couldn't see him pull slick fingers over heated flesh. But his lover surprises him with his show of want: the obvious pleasure he takes in preparing his arousal for his body has Mettaton swallowing, anticipatory, transfixed upon his beloved's expression, his stolen breath and lidded eyes. And, no doubt, his imagination.
What he'd do to get front row seats to his lover's thoughts, if his own was going wild. An imagination for the imminent future, a precognition more than a fantasy. Mettaton swallows thickly around a gasp of sympathy.
The hand he has on his lover's shoulder drifts to his neck, skimming lightly over one of his deep, reddened bite marks. He thumbs it fondly with a soft hum and a warm smile against Emet-Selch nipping his lip. Mettaton responds to it by capturing his Bonded in a firm, passionate kiss...
...one broken by the sudden nudging of his cock, hot and slick, flush to his entrance. Mettaton jumps.]
A... Ah... Oh—
[A sharp inhale. The tug of his hip. Guided to sit squarely against the press of his erection, the nudge of the tip suggestion enough of what's to come. He swallows again, locking wide eyes with his lover. A disposition that slips from fully aware and alarmed, and downward into sultry recognition and deep covetousness. Mettaton's lips part in sympathy, body trembling.
He can't disguise his eagerness if he tried. Emet-Selch likely knew he didn't have to do a thing to get Mettaton started, for he immediately rolls his hips with a firm press down, lit aflame the very instant he feels the further impression of the glans sliding into his body. His body's been worked on to accommodate his length, Mettaton realizes with a sick delight, each gyration of his hips working to sink his cock into his body. And delightful it is, the sensation of tight muscle being intruded upon by the perfectly shaped head of Emet-Selch's cock, Mettaton thinks.
Hungrily, he presses down. Desperate for that sensation of filling, of rhythm, of that massage he was enjoying out of his fingers. He rolls his hips some more, a moan spilling from him, his head lolling on his shoulders as he loses himself so early to imagination even while he's fulfilling these fantasies. He works the tip of Emet-Selch's cock deeper inside, already set to wanting him and wanting him deep, legs spread, arousal standing at full attention as Mettaton's hands move down to brace himself against his own thighs, giving himself better ability to work his hips.
A slip in his tense muscles has the head of Emet-Selch's cock popping inside — and how could he have anticipated the way the corona feels, a defined ridge to further massage himself against? Mettaton shudders with a moan, rolling his hips with even more brazen desire. Even this much of him stretches him more than his fingers did, the promise for a deeper rub set out before him.]
Ohh, H-Hades... I love you, this is... Hah...
[Mettaton bears down on him some more, seeking greater stimulation with the rocking of his hips. And each roll, accompanied by more of his weight, has him sinking down upon Emet-Selch's cock. He breathes against his face, a shuddering thing as he traces his lips against the Ascian's with an indelible fondness that soaks even his soft moans in the feeling.]
no subject
He aches, raw and deeply enticed, unable to do much but continue to swipe his tongue and suck upon his lover's lower lip to keep himself with it, even when he slips into open-mouthed pants and sighs with the increased rhythm of his fingers at work. But his pace slows some more all over again, and that change in speed paired with the press of fingers into his thigh has him sighing all over again. Whether fast or slow, Emet-Selch treats him to an addictive rhythm that he wants to sit upon... Which only brings him further anticipation, knowing he'll get that chance, for all that he can't tense his legs by will at this point.
Just as he sighs in relief at the fullness and increasing familiarity of it, the Ascian pulls out. Mettaton's eyes fly open. There's no disappointment to be had over what's lost, but forward-thinking, the understanding that his Bonded feels them ready to move on.
It happens faster than he can keep track of. The realization that he's dispensed more lubrication into his fingers, Mettaton can feel his pulse in his own arousal when he considers what Emet-Selch's about to do to himself. The hand he has over his heart moves south on reflex, wanting to get in on the action of his preparation, wanting to know if he couldn't see him pull slick fingers over heated flesh. But his lover surprises him with his show of want: the obvious pleasure he takes in preparing his arousal for his body has Mettaton swallowing, anticipatory, transfixed upon his beloved's expression, his stolen breath and lidded eyes. And, no doubt, his imagination.
What he'd do to get front row seats to his lover's thoughts, if his own was going wild. An imagination for the imminent future, a precognition more than a fantasy. Mettaton swallows thickly around a gasp of sympathy.
The hand he has on his lover's shoulder drifts to his neck, skimming lightly over one of his deep, reddened bite marks. He thumbs it fondly with a soft hum and a warm smile against Emet-Selch nipping his lip. Mettaton responds to it by capturing his Bonded in a firm, passionate kiss...
...one broken by the sudden nudging of his cock, hot and slick, flush to his entrance. Mettaton jumps.]
A... Ah... Oh—
[A sharp inhale. The tug of his hip. Guided to sit squarely against the press of his erection, the nudge of the tip suggestion enough of what's to come. He swallows again, locking wide eyes with his lover. A disposition that slips from fully aware and alarmed, and downward into sultry recognition and deep covetousness. Mettaton's lips part in sympathy, body trembling.
He can't disguise his eagerness if he tried. Emet-Selch likely knew he didn't have to do a thing to get Mettaton started, for he immediately rolls his hips with a firm press down, lit aflame the very instant he feels the further impression of the glans sliding into his body. His body's been worked on to accommodate his length, Mettaton realizes with a sick delight, each gyration of his hips working to sink his cock into his body. And delightful it is, the sensation of tight muscle being intruded upon by the perfectly shaped head of Emet-Selch's cock, Mettaton thinks.
Hungrily, he presses down. Desperate for that sensation of filling, of rhythm, of that massage he was enjoying out of his fingers. He rolls his hips some more, a moan spilling from him, his head lolling on his shoulders as he loses himself so early to imagination even while he's fulfilling these fantasies. He works the tip of Emet-Selch's cock deeper inside, already set to wanting him and wanting him deep, legs spread, arousal standing at full attention as Mettaton's hands move down to brace himself against his own thighs, giving himself better ability to work his hips.
A slip in his tense muscles has the head of Emet-Selch's cock popping inside — and how could he have anticipated the way the corona feels, a defined ridge to further massage himself against? Mettaton shudders with a moan, rolling his hips with even more brazen desire. Even this much of him stretches him more than his fingers did, the promise for a deeper rub set out before him.]
Ohh, H-Hades... I love you, this is... Hah...
[Mettaton bears down on him some more, seeking greater stimulation with the rocking of his hips. And each roll, accompanied by more of his weight, has him sinking down upon Emet-Selch's cock. He breathes against his face, a shuddering thing as he traces his lips against the Ascian's with an indelible fondness that soaks even his soft moans in the feeling.]