[The kiss had been the right choice, he thought, holding it as a kind of lifeline, when the rest of his body wanted to be pulled under by mounting want. Not that Emet-Selch didn't want to drown, in the end. To suffocate entirely and never find his way back to the surface--
It only followed to forget how to breathe sometimes. Tongue slipping into Mettaton's mouth, trailing along his lips, making a low noise whenever he brushed into the puca's own tongue. Dwelling on not only the tastes, the sensations, but the emotion evident behind it all. Emet-Selch thought he'd have noticed it even without the Bond, but alongside that connection, it dug much deeper, hit places that hurt to reach. The sort of feeling he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to claw free of or forget, even if he tried.
His chest still heaving with his elevated breathing, some portion of that hurt is evident in his broken gaze as the Ascian focuses back up on Mettaton's own eye, on what he could make out of his countenance. To try and fix his attention solely on the man over him, and their shared reactions to one another. To think only of the way Mettaton had collapsed over him, the sounds he had made, those moments of weakness. To let his own pulse drown out unwanted thought, memorizing the drifting exploration of his chest as though he could find some meaning there if he could only interpret the patterns correctly--
With openness came unhappiness, always; there was nothing else to open onto.
His neck arches without the necessity of thought as Mettaton's lips come to claim it, and Emet-Selch can't help but moan in anticipation, the hand at the puca's head smoothing over his hair, to rub at the base of an ear. The result of Mettaton's affections from before had been a pleasing sight, once he'd had the chance to observe them (and he'd been right in thinking that seeing them alone would stir some manner of arousal in him). To be marked at all again was a welcome thing.
But his attempts at breathing are disrupted again at each drag over his cock, setting off a sense of need that had never quite settled from the last time he felt Mettaton press against him. His moan is all breathless shudder as he feels the other's deliberation, the weight of him on his arousal causing the Ascian's hips to writhe up against Mettaton with little sense of control. His hand at the puca's hip still clutches at it, before stroking tensely over whatever he could reach of his thigh.]
no subject
It only followed to forget how to breathe sometimes. Tongue slipping into Mettaton's mouth, trailing along his lips, making a low noise whenever he brushed into the puca's own tongue. Dwelling on not only the tastes, the sensations, but the emotion evident behind it all. Emet-Selch thought he'd have noticed it even without the Bond, but alongside that connection, it dug much deeper, hit places that hurt to reach. The sort of feeling he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to claw free of or forget, even if he tried.
His chest still heaving with his elevated breathing, some portion of that hurt is evident in his broken gaze as the Ascian focuses back up on Mettaton's own eye, on what he could make out of his countenance. To try and fix his attention solely on the man over him, and their shared reactions to one another. To think only of the way Mettaton had collapsed over him, the sounds he had made, those moments of weakness. To let his own pulse drown out unwanted thought, memorizing the drifting exploration of his chest as though he could find some meaning there if he could only interpret the patterns correctly--
With openness came unhappiness, always; there was nothing else to open onto.
His neck arches without the necessity of thought as Mettaton's lips come to claim it, and Emet-Selch can't help but moan in anticipation, the hand at the puca's head smoothing over his hair, to rub at the base of an ear. The result of Mettaton's affections from before had been a pleasing sight, once he'd had the chance to observe them (and he'd been right in thinking that seeing them alone would stir some manner of arousal in him). To be marked at all again was a welcome thing.
But his attempts at breathing are disrupted again at each drag over his cock, setting off a sense of need that had never quite settled from the last time he felt Mettaton press against him. His moan is all breathless shudder as he feels the other's deliberation, the weight of him on his arousal causing the Ascian's hips to writhe up against Mettaton with little sense of control. His hand at the puca's hip still clutches at it, before stroking tensely over whatever he could reach of his thigh.]