[Looking at him with heavy-lidded intent, Emet-Selch bites his lip when Mettaton pulls off of him for a time, his cock practically glistening from how slick he'd left it. It didn't feel frustrating, exactly, for all that he longed for him to continue, but it felt like a part of the experience- watching Mettaton observe his handiwork, the mess he was making of him. How much the Ascian wanted him, to an absurd degree--
The renewed touch, the firm drag of fingers down the length of his erection brings the briefest of relief, a hard shudder causing his muscles to clench. Paired with the different sensation of damp lips, the suggestion of heat from Mettaton's mouth against rigid flesh, and the feeling turns into an ever deeper ache. Something like a whine works deep in Emet-Selch's throat, and his hand returns to petting roughly at the idol's hair, as though he could coax more out of him in some way.
And the Ascian can't help but cry out when Mettaton finally takes him in again, the sound brief but loud, strangled off into another gasping for air. He's forced to close his eyes for a handful of seconds, able to hear only the rapid thudding of his heart, and the more distant echo of his own desperate breathing. When he feels himself swallowed up entirely, the constriction of Mettaton's throat around his cock, he forces himself to witness it, the sight of the man buried so fully between his thighs would have him moaning ever louder if he weren't so out of air. But he certainly seems to try, as though needing to express every scrap of intensity, every effect Mettaton was having on him. The lack of particular rhythm kept him that bit more off-balance, the mix of pressures and motions, the softness of tongue against the squeezing of being sucked upon.
There's a soft note of pleading amid the sharpness of his breath, the way the Ascian's fingers shakily stroked over the puca's rabbit ears. For- satisfaction, certainly, but a lot of other things with it. For his company, perhaps. For this moment to continue until it blotted out all other things, the despair and grief that he carried with him in perpetuity.
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The renewed touch, the firm drag of fingers down the length of his erection brings the briefest of relief, a hard shudder causing his muscles to clench. Paired with the different sensation of damp lips, the suggestion of heat from Mettaton's mouth against rigid flesh, and the feeling turns into an ever deeper ache. Something like a whine works deep in Emet-Selch's throat, and his hand returns to petting roughly at the idol's hair, as though he could coax more out of him in some way.
And the Ascian can't help but cry out when Mettaton finally takes him in again, the sound brief but loud, strangled off into another gasping for air. He's forced to close his eyes for a handful of seconds, able to hear only the rapid thudding of his heart, and the more distant echo of his own desperate breathing. When he feels himself swallowed up entirely, the constriction of Mettaton's throat around his cock, he forces himself to witness it, the sight of the man buried so fully between his thighs would have him moaning ever louder if he weren't so out of air. But he certainly seems to try, as though needing to express every scrap of intensity, every effect Mettaton was having on him. The lack of particular rhythm kept him that bit more off-balance, the mix of pressures and motions, the softness of tongue against the squeezing of being sucked upon.
There's a soft note of pleading amid the sharpness of his breath, the way the Ascian's fingers shakily stroked over the puca's rabbit ears. For- satisfaction, certainly, but a lot of other things with it. For his company, perhaps. For this moment to continue until it blotted out all other things, the despair and grief that he carried with him in perpetuity.
To forget it all, if just for a short while.]