[Words that had been well acceptable, judging by the reaction on Mettaton's part, the firmer thrusts that have his legs wrap around him that bit harder, and the kiss he's first given as reply. Another taste of the hunger the puca had for him, and a feeling Emet-Selch wanted to do nothing other than both satisfy and encourage. To both give him everything that he wanted of him, everything he asked or desired, while still leaving him aching for more of him. That he'd be left aching just as sorely in return was exactly what the Ascian wanted.
Mettaton breaks it for speech, and Emet-Selch is left dizzied again as he resumes breathing. Again, there was the satisfaction of praise, of pleasing. It was an unfamiliar thing still, and felt... indulgent, somehow. To have some promise of being fulfilled, and the ability to fulfill in turn. And he knew as well of their desire to please one another, of his lover's interest in providing what he wanted- and how so convenient it was that their desires matched so thoroughly. That their want for each other's bodies manifested like this, that their taste for it was so similar. To be taken by the same imagery didn't surprise him, but it gratified all the same, and he shivered still at the thought of it, of the memory of feeling thick, white rivulets trailing down his thighs where his lover could admire them. Where his body was reduced to two statuses: in the process of being fucked, or in allowing the aftermath to spill down his legs for the sake of inspiring more fucking.
They could indulge each other, and indulge in one another. A thought in itself to heat.
And satisfaction again, at the rocking of their bodies, of the kisses they were locked in once more. Two places their bodies could slickly join, warm and loving and demanding all the same. It was good that Mettaton wasn't expecting more speech from him for now, and better that he could use his lips and mouth for something else, a different way of pleasing them both than through words. Another show of devotion, making up for the weakness of his throat.
It was a closeness remarkable, accomplished by bodies, but made possible through emotion. Every push of hips felt like an affirmation of it; every bit of give his body provided confirmed it. Every shudder and sound held them that little bit tighter, both so very vulnerable to each other and simultaneously secure.
Mettaton keeps his lips to his, but pauses in his kissing. Emet-Selch similarly pauses, opening his eyes for a moment- even if all he can see is a bit of dark hair, too close for any detail. Too close for anything outside of Mettaton to even exist, which was exactly as it should be. His eyes close again as his body is continuously rolled back into the bed, worked over by his lover's erection. Hard drags that he couldn't begin to get enough of, with a thickness and shape that felt just right for him. The robot's 'breath' against his face was a certain sign of the yet greater heat that must lay within him- an exhalation that would've enticed him into kissing him further, even had be gone without Mettaton's direction.
But it's an order given that he has no problem complying with; once again their desires matched. Leaning up against his lips, it's a soft, damp touch, from both a moment of his own exhalation against him, and more so by the stroke of tongue. Not that there wasn't already a sharing of saliva on the both of them, but it's a quick renewing of the substance. Taking Mettaton's lower lip between his own, he runs his tongue along it, sucks on it, allows teeth to press and occasionally to nip.
It's only let go of to allow his own tongue to slip into his mouth, licking and tasting him, stroking against the idol's. Devoting himself to capturing his mouth, the Ascian stubbornly attempts to steal his breath from him, as though that were something physically possible to achieve. And in the process his own is lost, abandoned, ignored in favor of delving past his lover's lips, burying himself in kisses. Even were his own lip not already sore, swollen from being bitten, all of this attention would've been enough to do so, but his lips being tender just meant that he could feel each kiss that much more strongly. His arms wrap further around him.
Though he can never find time to breathe normally (and can never remember to), an occasional soft gasp occurs regardless, still with wet lips pressed to Mettaton's, in reaction to a particular drag of his cock or another, a stroke of his length that felt particularly intense. But each accidental breath is only followed by a more determined kiss, not caring about the way their mouths slide together, or the steadily increasing mess and heat of it; he was in a position to kiss him, and Emet-Selch was going to make the most of it.]
no subject
Mettaton breaks it for speech, and Emet-Selch is left dizzied again as he resumes breathing. Again, there was the satisfaction of praise, of pleasing. It was an unfamiliar thing still, and felt... indulgent, somehow. To have some promise of being fulfilled, and the ability to fulfill in turn. And he knew as well of their desire to please one another, of his lover's interest in providing what he wanted- and how so convenient it was that their desires matched so thoroughly. That their want for each other's bodies manifested like this, that their taste for it was so similar. To be taken by the same imagery didn't surprise him, but it gratified all the same, and he shivered still at the thought of it, of the memory of feeling thick, white rivulets trailing down his thighs where his lover could admire them. Where his body was reduced to two statuses: in the process of being fucked, or in allowing the aftermath to spill down his legs for the sake of inspiring more fucking.
They could indulge each other, and indulge in one another. A thought in itself to heat.
And satisfaction again, at the rocking of their bodies, of the kisses they were locked in once more. Two places their bodies could slickly join, warm and loving and demanding all the same. It was good that Mettaton wasn't expecting more speech from him for now, and better that he could use his lips and mouth for something else, a different way of pleasing them both than through words. Another show of devotion, making up for the weakness of his throat.
It was a closeness remarkable, accomplished by bodies, but made possible through emotion. Every push of hips felt like an affirmation of it; every bit of give his body provided confirmed it. Every shudder and sound held them that little bit tighter, both so very vulnerable to each other and simultaneously secure.
Mettaton keeps his lips to his, but pauses in his kissing. Emet-Selch similarly pauses, opening his eyes for a moment- even if all he can see is a bit of dark hair, too close for any detail. Too close for anything outside of Mettaton to even exist, which was exactly as it should be. His eyes close again as his body is continuously rolled back into the bed, worked over by his lover's erection. Hard drags that he couldn't begin to get enough of, with a thickness and shape that felt just right for him. The robot's 'breath' against his face was a certain sign of the yet greater heat that must lay within him- an exhalation that would've enticed him into kissing him further, even had be gone without Mettaton's direction.
But it's an order given that he has no problem complying with; once again their desires matched. Leaning up against his lips, it's a soft, damp touch, from both a moment of his own exhalation against him, and more so by the stroke of tongue. Not that there wasn't already a sharing of saliva on the both of them, but it's a quick renewing of the substance. Taking Mettaton's lower lip between his own, he runs his tongue along it, sucks on it, allows teeth to press and occasionally to nip.
It's only let go of to allow his own tongue to slip into his mouth, licking and tasting him, stroking against the idol's. Devoting himself to capturing his mouth, the Ascian stubbornly attempts to steal his breath from him, as though that were something physically possible to achieve. And in the process his own is lost, abandoned, ignored in favor of delving past his lover's lips, burying himself in kisses. Even were his own lip not already sore, swollen from being bitten, all of this attention would've been enough to do so, but his lips being tender just meant that he could feel each kiss that much more strongly. His arms wrap further around him.
Though he can never find time to breathe normally (and can never remember to), an occasional soft gasp occurs regardless, still with wet lips pressed to Mettaton's, in reaction to a particular drag of his cock or another, a stroke of his length that felt particularly intense. But each accidental breath is only followed by a more determined kiss, not caring about the way their mouths slide together, or the steadily increasing mess and heat of it; he was in a position to kiss him, and Emet-Selch was going to make the most of it.]