[When Mettaton suddenly collapses atop his body, Emet-Selch has to release his neck with a short, choked sound, feeling the air from his lungs forcibly removed. But it's the sudden pressure against his cock that keeps him from immediately drawing breath again, gasping without sound at the pulse of more demanding need that washes through him.
Though he knew heady anticipation would eventually give way to just wanting him, Emet-Selch didn't expect it to happen so quickly. Though it wasn't just the muffled pressure on his erection that did it (though it was a significant contributing factor), but the way Mettaton had seemed so overcome, the basic awareness of the idol's position over him, legs spread and moaning. It has the Ascian arching under him on reflex, hips jerking up between his thighs as his breathing turns shallow and quick. His hands slide to Mettaton's hips to clutch at them, even if dragging them down would make it that much harder for his own to press upward.
The hands drawing patterns at his chest, the contact with his nipples, were all just more points of pleasure, sharper, smaller notes that further heightened the rest. His eyes are tightly shut.]
Gods, how....
[A small voice, breathless and almost hurt, intoned against the side of Mettaton's neck, made damp from his breath and attentions there. It's more clumsily that he nuzzles at it, punctuated with the haphazard press of teeth or interrupted with a shallow moan, seeking the contact above all else.
Was it Mettaton's response bleeding into his own? Or was it simply the observation of it that has the Ascian shuddering with him, pulse leaping at the sound of his voice, the desperate way he rubbed against his cock?
It ached to feel so constrained, a hiss of frustrated want entering the raggedness of his breaths, though he wasn't about to risk a hand to try and unfasten anything.
How could he yearn for him so strongly? Emet-Selch didn't know, but he moves a hand to the back of Mettaton's head, nudging him to where he can reach his lips again, covering them with his own with no small expression of that longing.]
no subject
Though he knew heady anticipation would eventually give way to just wanting him, Emet-Selch didn't expect it to happen so quickly. Though it wasn't just the muffled pressure on his erection that did it (though it was a significant contributing factor), but the way Mettaton had seemed so overcome, the basic awareness of the idol's position over him, legs spread and moaning. It has the Ascian arching under him on reflex, hips jerking up between his thighs as his breathing turns shallow and quick. His hands slide to Mettaton's hips to clutch at them, even if dragging them down would make it that much harder for his own to press upward.
The hands drawing patterns at his chest, the contact with his nipples, were all just more points of pleasure, sharper, smaller notes that further heightened the rest. His eyes are tightly shut.]
Gods, how....
[A small voice, breathless and almost hurt, intoned against the side of Mettaton's neck, made damp from his breath and attentions there. It's more clumsily that he nuzzles at it, punctuated with the haphazard press of teeth or interrupted with a shallow moan, seeking the contact above all else.
Was it Mettaton's response bleeding into his own? Or was it simply the observation of it that has the Ascian shuddering with him, pulse leaping at the sound of his voice, the desperate way he rubbed against his cock?
It ached to feel so constrained, a hiss of frustrated want entering the raggedness of his breaths, though he wasn't about to risk a hand to try and unfasten anything.
How could he yearn for him so strongly? Emet-Selch didn't know, but he moves a hand to the back of Mettaton's head, nudging him to where he can reach his lips again, covering them with his own with no small expression of that longing.]