[It's soft- any sound that the Ascian made was soft, so that's no particular surprise- the sound he makes when Mettaton takes his cock in his hand. The stroke of fingers cause his body to tighten, to shudder, to roll hips both down against Mettaton's body, squeezing his erection deeply within him, and into the touch to his hand. But the noise he makes is grateful, appreciative, and ever loving, brushing his lips against his face in breathy nuzzles.
Breathy murmurs similarly continue, barely distinguishable from breathing itself, Emet-Selch enraptured entirely by every part of his lover's form and self. Every grinding of their hips together felt slightly different, shades of pleasure to fall into and drown in, the rubbing nudge of Mettaton's swollen glans a focus of particular intensity. Each thrust left him feeling that trace more claimed, explored, taken- loved and cared for. Their sex and his blood filled his senses, and even though the Ascian lacked the instinct of a puca towards scenting and staking a claim that way, he felt further security in this particular mingling. There was a distinction to it that he couldn't deny, that he knew was due to their own personal composition, that became its own blended variation when they were combined. And even afterward, even when they were apart- some piece of themselves would linger on one another, a subtle reminder of possession, and it was a pleasing thought.
Mettaton's hand continues fondling his cock, causing his breathing to pitch that bit faster from it, his body to attempt shifting harder. He toyed and squeezed the sensitive head of him between fingers, before applying a proper grip along the shaft, stroking and dragging all along his length, and the Ascian was barely able to stand how exquisitely rigid he felt under his care. As though he needed any more convincing in his desire to please him, to love him, Emet-Selch's thighs tighten in their effort to stabilize him, to be as close as he could, to rock himself incessantly into Mettaton's erection, to fuck himself on his length for as long as he wanted.
And there was praise, and he loved that too, and that mattered for some reason, and his lips likewise do their best to remain against Mettaton's, kissing him with warmth if not with coordination. His tongue takes brief forays into his mouth between sharper breaths, tighter shudders- moments of still-higher pleasure that would eventually engulf him entirely.
Emet-Selch could tell, he could feel Mettaton's rise in energy, his desire to move faster, to take him harder- something difficult for the man's hips to accomplish, with his lover sitting on him like this. And the Ascian tries, continuously, to match him, wanting Mettaton just as he was wanted in turn- trying to give him the rhythm he needed. The one he longed to feel as well, desires bleeding together as they often did.
But his stamina was low, his body uncooperative with his demands, as spurred on as it wanted to be, with that tighter, quicker grip around his own cock. It was encouraging, while also leaving him a touch overwhelmed at how sensitive he felt to it, and despite all efforts, the hard way he jerks himself in Mettaton's lap remains erratic. A kneading push to clench and shudder around, but his own unsteadiness was beginning to frustrate. A low whine tries to work in his throat, barely escaping parted lips between pants. He desperately wanted to be held, and he just as desperately wanted to be fucked- but there was no reason why they couldn't have both.
Mettaton leaned forward, with a manner that threatened to pounce, to press him down, and Emet-Selch tugs at him with his arms, encouraging him in that direction, to give himself over to that energy. The idol bites him, and he returns it gently, though with heated, shaky breath.]
Take me, then, I....
[Despite the words, rasped out as they are, the tone is clearly a request, a plea. His body would take him forever if he could, even if he couldn't move very well. He would cling, he would be tight and warm, he would hold his cock and his come, and he wouldn't stop, no matter how reduced he became, how beset by trembling, how breathless and used. There would always be more to give, and to take.]
no subject
Breathy murmurs similarly continue, barely distinguishable from breathing itself, Emet-Selch enraptured entirely by every part of his lover's form and self. Every grinding of their hips together felt slightly different, shades of pleasure to fall into and drown in, the rubbing nudge of Mettaton's swollen glans a focus of particular intensity. Each thrust left him feeling that trace more claimed, explored, taken- loved and cared for. Their sex and his blood filled his senses, and even though the Ascian lacked the instinct of a puca towards scenting and staking a claim that way, he felt further security in this particular mingling. There was a distinction to it that he couldn't deny, that he knew was due to their own personal composition, that became its own blended variation when they were combined. And even afterward, even when they were apart- some piece of themselves would linger on one another, a subtle reminder of possession, and it was a pleasing thought.
Mettaton's hand continues fondling his cock, causing his breathing to pitch that bit faster from it, his body to attempt shifting harder. He toyed and squeezed the sensitive head of him between fingers, before applying a proper grip along the shaft, stroking and dragging all along his length, and the Ascian was barely able to stand how exquisitely rigid he felt under his care. As though he needed any more convincing in his desire to please him, to love him, Emet-Selch's thighs tighten in their effort to stabilize him, to be as close as he could, to rock himself incessantly into Mettaton's erection, to fuck himself on his length for as long as he wanted.
And there was praise, and he loved that too, and that mattered for some reason, and his lips likewise do their best to remain against Mettaton's, kissing him with warmth if not with coordination. His tongue takes brief forays into his mouth between sharper breaths, tighter shudders- moments of still-higher pleasure that would eventually engulf him entirely.
Emet-Selch could tell, he could feel Mettaton's rise in energy, his desire to move faster, to take him harder- something difficult for the man's hips to accomplish, with his lover sitting on him like this. And the Ascian tries, continuously, to match him, wanting Mettaton just as he was wanted in turn- trying to give him the rhythm he needed. The one he longed to feel as well, desires bleeding together as they often did.
But his stamina was low, his body uncooperative with his demands, as spurred on as it wanted to be, with that tighter, quicker grip around his own cock. It was encouraging, while also leaving him a touch overwhelmed at how sensitive he felt to it, and despite all efforts, the hard way he jerks himself in Mettaton's lap remains erratic. A kneading push to clench and shudder around, but his own unsteadiness was beginning to frustrate. A low whine tries to work in his throat, barely escaping parted lips between pants. He desperately wanted to be held, and he just as desperately wanted to be fucked- but there was no reason why they couldn't have both.
Mettaton leaned forward, with a manner that threatened to pounce, to press him down, and Emet-Selch tugs at him with his arms, encouraging him in that direction, to give himself over to that energy. The idol bites him, and he returns it gently, though with heated, shaky breath.]
Take me, then, I....
[Despite the words, rasped out as they are, the tone is clearly a request, a plea. His body would take him forever if he could, even if he couldn't move very well. He would cling, he would be tight and warm, he would hold his cock and his come, and he wouldn't stop, no matter how reduced he became, how beset by trembling, how breathless and used. There would always be more to give, and to take.]