[Writhing and squirming, but only to draw closer, to press deeper- bodies slick with a combination of substances, they were a mess on all levels, but there would never be any stopping them, any holding them back. They would always take what they wanted, and take pleasure in the wanting of it.
Mettaton's fingers touch the stiffness of his erection, and his breathing chokes on an intake, the Ascian's entire body shivering, clenching. A particular tightness that continues on a lowering towards being flush against his lover's hips, and his eyes briefly squeeze shut, overcome at the sudden sensitivity. His cock had gone relatively untouched over these encounters, offered a few strokings by hand, and some incidental frottage against the bed, but his pleasure had been almost entirely sourced from contact with Mettaton's body- particularly his cock. Whether it was sucking on it, or being otherwise fucked by it, it had been more than enough.
So much so that this sudden attention leaves him temporarily weak and overwhelmed, barely holding back the impulse to come just from that, just from a few strokes and squeezes against the glans. Emet-Selch was so prone to him, so attuned, so craving of his touch that any contact with Mettaton at all felt hypersensitive.
But apart from a tremble to his thighs, and some seconds of an attempt to collect himself to the smallest degree, there's no delay in his movements, in the stroking of them both with his body. In the rolling and kneading of Mettaton's cock in the tightness of his own form, every shift upward followed by a satisfying push downward, filling himself back up again with a thickness it felt as though he could barely contain.
Kissing continues intermittently, while unintentionally but acceptably broken by louder cries and even panting on Mettaton's part, and harder breathing on the Ascian's. And Emet-Selch is torn between at least rubbing his lips back against his (torn and swollen, against reliable silicone, both tinged with blood and saliva, both tasting of one another) and leaning back enough to watch his expression. To watch him, to that matching hazy focus of his golden eye, to be caught all over again by memorizing the details of his visage, and how stunning he looks when rapt with pleasure....
And Emet-Selch is already watching him without making a decision about it at all, forgetting to breathe entirely for several seconds as his hips continue to move, as he rocks against his body incessantly. But he can't move far from his lips either, not quite fighting his desire to kiss him again so much as delaying it by taking in the sight of his face as well. Though at a particular stroke over his own erection, he makes the mistake of looking down at that instead.
A sight that nearly causes him to lose it again- his lover's four-fingered hand wrapped around his cock, evidence of his previous climaxes still visible on its swollen, heated length. A sticky residue that may have been partially wiped off or spread against the bedcovers, or otherwise smeared against his abdomen or dripped down to the inside of his thighs, but had never been deliberately cleaned. His come, his evidence of his attraction and lust towards Mettaton just left there to be seen against his erection- and where more would join it.
It's an awareness not in specific thought, but a knowledge nonetheless that grips him, in the same way that Mettaton was holding onto his cock, or was continuing to grip his ass.
His eyes flicker back up to his Bonded's face, so close to his own that it's made blurry, but with a wanting demonstrably undeniable.]
I-- I love you....
[It barely even qualifies as a whisper, breathy and soundless as it is, words mouthed against his lips between kisses. Kisses that are surprisingly tender despite the increasing abandon with which his hips move, thrusting himself onto his cock, meeting Mettaton's own pushes upward, nuzzling and loving him with each pant, each tense, each shiver.]
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Mettaton's fingers touch the stiffness of his erection, and his breathing chokes on an intake, the Ascian's entire body shivering, clenching. A particular tightness that continues on a lowering towards being flush against his lover's hips, and his eyes briefly squeeze shut, overcome at the sudden sensitivity. His cock had gone relatively untouched over these encounters, offered a few strokings by hand, and some incidental frottage against the bed, but his pleasure had been almost entirely sourced from contact with Mettaton's body- particularly his cock. Whether it was sucking on it, or being otherwise fucked by it, it had been more than enough.
So much so that this sudden attention leaves him temporarily weak and overwhelmed, barely holding back the impulse to come just from that, just from a few strokes and squeezes against the glans. Emet-Selch was so prone to him, so attuned, so craving of his touch that any contact with Mettaton at all felt hypersensitive.
But apart from a tremble to his thighs, and some seconds of an attempt to collect himself to the smallest degree, there's no delay in his movements, in the stroking of them both with his body. In the rolling and kneading of Mettaton's cock in the tightness of his own form, every shift upward followed by a satisfying push downward, filling himself back up again with a thickness it felt as though he could barely contain.
Kissing continues intermittently, while unintentionally but acceptably broken by louder cries and even panting on Mettaton's part, and harder breathing on the Ascian's. And Emet-Selch is torn between at least rubbing his lips back against his (torn and swollen, against reliable silicone, both tinged with blood and saliva, both tasting of one another) and leaning back enough to watch his expression. To watch him, to that matching hazy focus of his golden eye, to be caught all over again by memorizing the details of his visage, and how stunning he looks when rapt with pleasure....
And Emet-Selch is already watching him without making a decision about it at all, forgetting to breathe entirely for several seconds as his hips continue to move, as he rocks against his body incessantly. But he can't move far from his lips either, not quite fighting his desire to kiss him again so much as delaying it by taking in the sight of his face as well. Though at a particular stroke over his own erection, he makes the mistake of looking down at that instead.
A sight that nearly causes him to lose it again- his lover's four-fingered hand wrapped around his cock, evidence of his previous climaxes still visible on its swollen, heated length. A sticky residue that may have been partially wiped off or spread against the bedcovers, or otherwise smeared against his abdomen or dripped down to the inside of his thighs, but had never been deliberately cleaned. His come, his evidence of his attraction and lust towards Mettaton just left there to be seen against his erection- and where more would join it.
It's an awareness not in specific thought, but a knowledge nonetheless that grips him, in the same way that Mettaton was holding onto his cock, or was continuing to grip his ass.
His eyes flicker back up to his Bonded's face, so close to his own that it's made blurry, but with a wanting demonstrably undeniable.]
I-- I love you....
[It barely even qualifies as a whisper, breathy and soundless as it is, words mouthed against his lips between kisses. Kisses that are surprisingly tender despite the increasing abandon with which his hips move, thrusting himself onto his cock, meeting Mettaton's own pushes upward, nuzzling and loving him with each pant, each tense, each shiver.]