[(How many times had they gone out without the express intent of getting horny over each other, and yet their thoughts still took them in that direction? And once started, it was difficult to stop- not that Emet-Selch could remember much in the way of trying, in that regard. But why would they? It was rare that whatever they were doing was more interesting, more important than sex. And back then, he could teleport, rendering it an easy thing to retreat into privacy.
Now he couldn't. But what would keep them from playing so dangerously in the future?)
Even the sound of a moan coming from his lover has the Ascian's breath hitch, their kiss nearly interrupted for that reason too. With the sound, he could practically feel the mutual inclination to go deeper than this- and the mutual work it took to stop.
But he's softened instead at being called soft, weakened in a way that hurt, but something that he wouldn't ever seek to ease. That most of all made it near-impossible to resist taking on another kiss, the need to show all the tenderness he felt, how soft his body would be next to his (and yet how hard it would be in certain areas). This way of expression suited them best, he felt- and how he'd missed it--
Somehow they resist taking it further right there. And Emet-Selch expected Mettaton to be able to handle a bit of uneven walking, though the reminder of his familiarity of moving about on a single wheel earns him a quietly amused, if breathless, sound, an acknowledgement. Even if, for some reason the robot couldn't make the small distance on his own, Emet-Selch could drag him. Unglamourously (and probably uncomfortably, now that the robot would be able to feel the floor he was pulled across), but successfully. He had wrangled his unconscious body into a bed, when his wish for his healing had knocked the idol out. He would wrangle his conscious body too.
But it was fortunately and expectedly unnecessary, the retreat to their bedroom uneventful and as smooth as it might be. With the world shut out behind them, they were alone. Together.
With Mettaton seated at the edge of the bed, he watches as the other boot is removed, another foot revealed, complete in its craftsmanship. Another curious feature, but one he can only spend a moment's attention to, when there was all else about his lover to observe. It had already felt a challenge to part from one another long enough for the other man to sit down, to work off his boot, rather than follow him onto the bed, to sit on top of him and kiss him hard.
Though as Mettaton invites him to do the honors of undressing him, he does lean over to leave a kiss next to his functional eye, before slipping down next to him on the bed in a heap of robes. Exhaling carefully, his eyes roam over planes of silicone and metal, before landing between his thighs, to gaze unabashedly at the bright pink poking suggestively free. Something so unnatural shouldn't be so appealing, but his hand reaches for him before he's even aware of it. A single, soft brush of a finger across Mettaton's very tip, before a stroke downward, following where he imagined an outline.]
...My prize. And how neatly packaged.
[And tightly wrapped at that. From one touch to another, his fingers take to the edge of the latex, and work their way underneath, and begin tugging it downward. This wasn't some normal fabric, something that could be slipped off with ease, made for being shed- this was skin-tight, and made for Mettaton in particular. Haste mingles with patience in his touch, as the desire to extend this moment, to savor each and every inch of him revealed, warred with a desperation to see him bared.]
I've wanted- I've dreamt of this moment so often.
[Perhaps not in this shade of pink, or this specific solution to their problem- but he had, no matter how much he tried not to. If this wasn't the only way he knew how to express himself to him- it was the way he knew best.
And with incessant, determined pulls, Emet-Selch works the constrictive material lower. More peeling than undressing- all until he'd worked it far enough to expose the whole of Mettaton's erection, letting it bob free in the open air. Hopeless to stifle was his moan, or the way he curled closer to the robot's body. Though his hand doesn't yet grasp him, it wasn't for a lack of wanting to, as his fingers splay around him, close to his base.]
You're... look at you. You're already so thick for me.
[Admiration, abject wanting- it's all there in his voice, in the trembling tension in his body.]
no subject
Now he couldn't. But what would keep them from playing so dangerously in the future?)
Even the sound of a moan coming from his lover has the Ascian's breath hitch, their kiss nearly interrupted for that reason too. With the sound, he could practically feel the mutual inclination to go deeper than this- and the mutual work it took to stop.
But he's softened instead at being called soft, weakened in a way that hurt, but something that he wouldn't ever seek to ease. That most of all made it near-impossible to resist taking on another kiss, the need to show all the tenderness he felt, how soft his body would be next to his (and yet how hard it would be in certain areas). This way of expression suited them best, he felt- and how he'd missed it--
Somehow they resist taking it further right there. And Emet-Selch expected Mettaton to be able to handle a bit of uneven walking, though the reminder of his familiarity of moving about on a single wheel earns him a quietly amused, if breathless, sound, an acknowledgement. Even if, for some reason the robot couldn't make the small distance on his own, Emet-Selch could drag him. Unglamourously (and probably uncomfortably, now that the robot would be able to feel the floor he was pulled across), but successfully. He had wrangled his unconscious body into a bed, when his wish for his healing had knocked the idol out. He would wrangle his conscious body too.
But it was fortunately and expectedly unnecessary, the retreat to their bedroom uneventful and as smooth as it might be. With the world shut out behind them, they were alone. Together.
With Mettaton seated at the edge of the bed, he watches as the other boot is removed, another foot revealed, complete in its craftsmanship. Another curious feature, but one he can only spend a moment's attention to, when there was all else about his lover to observe. It had already felt a challenge to part from one another long enough for the other man to sit down, to work off his boot, rather than follow him onto the bed, to sit on top of him and kiss him hard.
Though as Mettaton invites him to do the honors of undressing him, he does lean over to leave a kiss next to his functional eye, before slipping down next to him on the bed in a heap of robes. Exhaling carefully, his eyes roam over planes of silicone and metal, before landing between his thighs, to gaze unabashedly at the bright pink poking suggestively free. Something so unnatural shouldn't be so appealing, but his hand reaches for him before he's even aware of it. A single, soft brush of a finger across Mettaton's very tip, before a stroke downward, following where he imagined an outline.]
...My prize. And how neatly packaged.
[And tightly wrapped at that. From one touch to another, his fingers take to the edge of the latex, and work their way underneath, and begin tugging it downward. This wasn't some normal fabric, something that could be slipped off with ease, made for being shed- this was skin-tight, and made for Mettaton in particular. Haste mingles with patience in his touch, as the desire to extend this moment, to savor each and every inch of him revealed, warred with a desperation to see him bared.]
I've wanted- I've dreamt of this moment so often.
[Perhaps not in this shade of pink, or this specific solution to their problem- but he had, no matter how much he tried not to. If this wasn't the only way he knew how to express himself to him- it was the way he knew best.
And with incessant, determined pulls, Emet-Selch works the constrictive material lower. More peeling than undressing- all until he'd worked it far enough to expose the whole of Mettaton's erection, letting it bob free in the open air. Hopeless to stifle was his moan, or the way he curled closer to the robot's body. Though his hand doesn't yet grasp him, it wasn't for a lack of wanting to, as his fingers splay around him, close to his base.]
You're... look at you. You're already so thick for me.
[Admiration, abject wanting- it's all there in his voice, in the trembling tension in his body.]