[Emet-Selch was naturally a low-energy type. On top of this, he had unnatural fatigue, which Mettaton was well aware of. Or at least told of. The Ascian wasn't sure if this sort of strain on his body would actually make things worse or not, or whether it would simply limit his overall endurance, but he wasn't particularly worried. Even if it did have an influence, he wouldn't have changed anything; the manifestation of closeness was too alluring. A more pleasant form of futility, to want to be filled by Mettaton's presence to no end.
If nothing else, Emet-Selch was accustomed to living under perpetual exhaustion. Though of a more emotional sort than this....
His body presses up into his hands, and down against his legs, breath giving out in a shuddered sort of sigh.]
I think... that I would become- far too sore. Long before that point.
[Even under normal circumstances, a normal partner, his cock would still end up quite raw from the repeated friction. Mettaton's form was somewhat less forgiving than that, which would surely wear on him sooner.
Though would it actually dissuade him? Emet-Selch was honestly unsure, and was becoming less sure the harder his cock became. Or would something else give out before then? Would he pass out entirely (by chance, due to overbonding, or from exhaustion)? Would he just- lose the ability to respond, or more likely, to climax?
...If he were less aroused, it would probably be less reassuring to hear that Mettaton wouldn't need to stop. They were both excessive sorts, perhaps.
It was a lot of half-formed thoughts, each one derailed by a shift of his own hips, the squirming on Mettaton's part. His lips slide over his lover's, slick from their combined work, to drift over to his jaw, and down his neck. Emet-Selch still couldn't mark him, but he could leave a damp trail along his throat regardless, sucking hard over each place he lingered. A soft moan remains trapped in his throat, the intimacy of their souls echoing the intimacy of their bodies. His hand strokes over Mettaton's upper chest, in a firm exploration across its surface.]
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If nothing else, Emet-Selch was accustomed to living under perpetual exhaustion. Though of a more emotional sort than this....
His body presses up into his hands, and down against his legs, breath giving out in a shuddered sort of sigh.]
I think... that I would become- far too sore. Long before that point.
[Even under normal circumstances, a normal partner, his cock would still end up quite raw from the repeated friction. Mettaton's form was somewhat less forgiving than that, which would surely wear on him sooner.
Though would it actually dissuade him? Emet-Selch was honestly unsure, and was becoming less sure the harder his cock became. Or would something else give out before then? Would he pass out entirely (by chance, due to overbonding, or from exhaustion)? Would he just- lose the ability to respond, or more likely, to climax?
...If he were less aroused, it would probably be less reassuring to hear that Mettaton wouldn't need to stop. They were both excessive sorts, perhaps.
It was a lot of half-formed thoughts, each one derailed by a shift of his own hips, the squirming on Mettaton's part. His lips slide over his lover's, slick from their combined work, to drift over to his jaw, and down his neck. Emet-Selch still couldn't mark him, but he could leave a damp trail along his throat regardless, sucking hard over each place he lingered. A soft moan remains trapped in his throat, the intimacy of their souls echoing the intimacy of their bodies. His hand strokes over Mettaton's upper chest, in a firm exploration across its surface.]