[Though he's all set to hum pleasantly, breathlessly, at the repeated kisses, the deluge of affection, it all parts for a more disgruntled noise at the reminder of the time where he had been fully, if temporarily blinded.]
I remember a certain amount of struggling, and all due to your help....
[He couldn't help but mutter it, recalling most of all the frustration of the experience, of not only being unable to navigate properly without help, but Mettaton using his disability against him. Throwing his voice... trying to dress him in gods knows what... being an absolute menace, both during and outside of sex. Emet-Selch was absolutely convinced that the robot had moved things around just to (literally) trip him up.
A firmer squeeze to Mettaton's tip is the recompense to remembered displeasure- though he had no excuses for the way he stroked repeatedly over the slit, while imagining what Mettaton would look like with milky come dripping from it.
--As all of that disgruntlement parts easily to what they were doing, experiencing together. The neediness they could show one another, the responsivity- as every time they reached for their lover's body, it was the same as reaching for more than that. A request for company, for security, and if they showed it best through hardened cocks and breathless cries, why was that a problem? Emet-Selch could tell his husband was a passionate sort at his core, and understandably touch-starved; given the closeness of their hearts, what better way was there for them to bond?
They loved this. He could hear it in Mettaton's voice even before he spoke, as their eyes met, his body tugged closer. But he could still move his hand- and he doesn't stop, couldn't stop when they both adored this sensation. And they would still be able to look between their bodies- though that doesn't keep him from taking a brief kiss from him first, a brush and press of their lips. And when Mettaton suggests what he wants to follow, how could he do anything but shiver, attention keen, and body rocking into his.]
I want to taste you, take you- everything--
[He'd had a taste of him before, but when had that ever been enough? But like this, when he was practically made to ride up against Mettaton's root, could feel his length arching up against his body, where his hand still worked, slickly pumping him- it was no great leap to take to imagining how little shifting it would take to align their bodies properly. To take him inside, to sit on him while joined--
Not that his body had been prepared at all- and not that the existing amount of come would be enough to do so, especially as it was already 'in use'. And... not that semen was an effective replacement for purpose-made lubrication either. It worked well enough for what they were doing now, a handjob made more congenial with the addition of something slick (and an especially erotic choice, at that), but for full-on penetration....
--Well, they'd make do. They'd made do with worse (i.e., essentially nothing beyond some of Mettaton's copious amount of saliva (mixed with the Ascian's blood)), and while that hadn't been remotely comfortable or something to attempt repeating, they wouldn't need to. A plentiful amount of semen and a bit of unworking would have to be enough. It would just mean he got sore much quicker, probably....
Not that Mettaton had even come yet- and nor was that an experience to discount. This sight, ongoing and impending was worth anticipating, his heart quick as his own cock continued to fill, visibly turned on already from what he was doing, what he was seeing and looking forward to. The sight of his husband in full climax, both of them watching his ejaculation as it was milked from him- he shudders hard, legs tensing on either side of him as Mettaton holds him tighter to his body, securing him.
...Of course, the idea of cleaning him too was immensely attractive. More so than it should have been, to nuzzle and lick at him, lap up the mess he'd made, all to inspire him to leave another one spattered across skin. Because what would his actions do, other than inspire Mettaton towards another erection? Another fullness that would need relieved, a pressure that he would eagerly soothe with mouth and hands. He moans again, soft and deep, glancing low, at the incessant, insistent working of his fist, the milky glaze over both hand and cock, and the obscene thickness edged against his body.]
Make us slick- leave me a mess worth remembering- I'll take every part of you, Mettaton--
no subject
I remember a certain amount of struggling, and all due to your help....
[He couldn't help but mutter it, recalling most of all the frustration of the experience, of not only being unable to navigate properly without help, but Mettaton using his disability against him. Throwing his voice... trying to dress him in gods knows what... being an absolute menace, both during and outside of sex. Emet-Selch was absolutely convinced that the robot had moved things around just to (literally) trip him up.
A firmer squeeze to Mettaton's tip is the recompense to remembered displeasure- though he had no excuses for the way he stroked repeatedly over the slit, while imagining what Mettaton would look like with milky come dripping from it.
--As all of that disgruntlement parts easily to what they were doing, experiencing together. The neediness they could show one another, the responsivity- as every time they reached for their lover's body, it was the same as reaching for more than that. A request for company, for security, and if they showed it best through hardened cocks and breathless cries, why was that a problem? Emet-Selch could tell his husband was a passionate sort at his core, and understandably touch-starved; given the closeness of their hearts, what better way was there for them to bond?
They loved this. He could hear it in Mettaton's voice even before he spoke, as their eyes met, his body tugged closer. But he could still move his hand- and he doesn't stop, couldn't stop when they both adored this sensation. And they would still be able to look between their bodies- though that doesn't keep him from taking a brief kiss from him first, a brush and press of their lips. And when Mettaton suggests what he wants to follow, how could he do anything but shiver, attention keen, and body rocking into his.]
I want to taste you, take you- everything--
[He'd had a taste of him before, but when had that ever been enough? But like this, when he was practically made to ride up against Mettaton's root, could feel his length arching up against his body, where his hand still worked, slickly pumping him- it was no great leap to take to imagining how little shifting it would take to align their bodies properly. To take him inside, to sit on him while joined--
Not that his body had been prepared at all- and not that the existing amount of come would be enough to do so, especially as it was already 'in use'. And... not that semen was an effective replacement for purpose-made lubrication either. It worked well enough for what they were doing now, a handjob made more congenial with the addition of something slick (and an especially erotic choice, at that), but for full-on penetration....
--Well, they'd make do. They'd made do with worse (i.e., essentially nothing beyond some of Mettaton's copious amount of saliva (mixed with the Ascian's blood)), and while that hadn't been remotely comfortable or something to attempt repeating, they wouldn't need to. A plentiful amount of semen and a bit of unworking would have to be enough. It would just mean he got sore much quicker, probably....
Not that Mettaton had even come yet- and nor was that an experience to discount. This sight, ongoing and impending was worth anticipating, his heart quick as his own cock continued to fill, visibly turned on already from what he was doing, what he was seeing and looking forward to. The sight of his husband in full climax, both of them watching his ejaculation as it was milked from him- he shudders hard, legs tensing on either side of him as Mettaton holds him tighter to his body, securing him.
...Of course, the idea of cleaning him too was immensely attractive. More so than it should have been, to nuzzle and lick at him, lap up the mess he'd made, all to inspire him to leave another one spattered across skin. Because what would his actions do, other than inspire Mettaton towards another erection? Another fullness that would need relieved, a pressure that he would eagerly soothe with mouth and hands. He moans again, soft and deep, glancing low, at the incessant, insistent working of his fist, the milky glaze over both hand and cock, and the obscene thickness edged against his body.]
Make us slick- leave me a mess worth remembering- I'll take every part of you, Mettaton--