[Hands clutch his hips, one unadorned, and one newly inscribed- and sensitive still, as the Ascian writhes sharply in place as it's handled, a near-voiceless keen escaping his lips. It didn't hurt to be touched there, but it was reactive, and given his current awkward position, perched over another man's cock, partly inside him already- it causes his muscles to seize up again. Which probably hurt; he does nothing to escape what he was taking. That it was caused by Mettaton touching his tattoo escapes him entirely, as he'd forgotten that it was there at all.
But his eyes squeeze shut, breath coming in a shallower pant, his hand clawing at the robot's shoulder. His other hand whips upward to mirror it on his opposite shoulder, now that he no longer needed to align Mettaton's erection with him- but it's an act mostly unconscious, reflexive, needing to brace himself most of all with his legs spread and condition compromised. Though he felt the sound of his own heart might deafen him, Mettaton's cries reached louder than that, sound he willingly drowns in. More than ever, it felt like he'd reached him--
Mettaton was being so polite, that he would be surprised about it in a calmer moment. And while the Ascian was well aware, even fixated on his lover's response, he doesn't have the capacity to think about the way Mettaton hadn't thrusted, hadn't dragged him down with the strength he knew he possessed. He was allowed, for the moment, to take the yet-filling erection at his own pace. But what choice of pace was there?
Emet-Selch had the head of Mettaton's cock lodged in his body, with the rest of his length to follow, as quickly as possible, whatever it did to them in the process: that was all he knew.
So after that brief, trembling pause, his body clenched tight around the full glans of him, he tries to lower himself. Intensity, most of all, rushes through him, as every hard jerk of his hips sent sensation through him, sharp enough to stun him, but not to stop him. Mettaton wanted more, demanded it- which was the only thing worth hearing, worth listening.
It was definitely too much to take as quickly as this, even with his best attempts at preparation, and their use of drying come in place of lube. If he'd been slower, it might have well been possible to do with minimal discomfort, his body coaxed into the sort of pliability that required time to achieve. But he wasn't thinking of what could've been, only the sound his lover made at being held only this deep, and the need to take him the rest of the way.
As it really was a need, something that couldn't be argued with, that reflected what he'd missed so horribly these months. And what did their old intimacy and passions express but his longing for closeness and company? The feeling of being a little less alone, if only for moments at a time.
So it hurt. Not as much as it could have, but enough that it would've normally been worth slowing down, to give him more time and especially more lube. But with Mettaton's hips slowly moving, he had to move more, forcing more of his shaft into him, until he was buried nearly halfway deep. It dragged more as it went on, as in his insistence he tenses more than he otherwise would have, but it doesn't stop him. Clinging to Mettaton's body, he nuzzles helplessly against his cheek, unable to speak, only to whine again, soft and sharply.]
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But his eyes squeeze shut, breath coming in a shallower pant, his hand clawing at the robot's shoulder. His other hand whips upward to mirror it on his opposite shoulder, now that he no longer needed to align Mettaton's erection with him- but it's an act mostly unconscious, reflexive, needing to brace himself most of all with his legs spread and condition compromised. Though he felt the sound of his own heart might deafen him, Mettaton's cries reached louder than that, sound he willingly drowns in. More than ever, it felt like he'd reached him--
Mettaton was being so polite, that he would be surprised about it in a calmer moment. And while the Ascian was well aware, even fixated on his lover's response, he doesn't have the capacity to think about the way Mettaton hadn't thrusted, hadn't dragged him down with the strength he knew he possessed. He was allowed, for the moment, to take the yet-filling erection at his own pace. But what choice of pace was there?
Emet-Selch had the head of Mettaton's cock lodged in his body, with the rest of his length to follow, as quickly as possible, whatever it did to them in the process: that was all he knew.
So after that brief, trembling pause, his body clenched tight around the full glans of him, he tries to lower himself. Intensity, most of all, rushes through him, as every hard jerk of his hips sent sensation through him, sharp enough to stun him, but not to stop him. Mettaton wanted more, demanded it- which was the only thing worth hearing, worth listening.
It was definitely too much to take as quickly as this, even with his best attempts at preparation, and their use of drying come in place of lube. If he'd been slower, it might have well been possible to do with minimal discomfort, his body coaxed into the sort of pliability that required time to achieve. But he wasn't thinking of what could've been, only the sound his lover made at being held only this deep, and the need to take him the rest of the way.
As it really was a need, something that couldn't be argued with, that reflected what he'd missed so horribly these months. And what did their old intimacy and passions express but his longing for closeness and company? The feeling of being a little less alone, if only for moments at a time.
So it hurt. Not as much as it could have, but enough that it would've normally been worth slowing down, to give him more time and especially more lube. But with Mettaton's hips slowly moving, he had to move more, forcing more of his shaft into him, until he was buried nearly halfway deep. It dragged more as it went on, as in his insistence he tenses more than he otherwise would have, but it doesn't stop him. Clinging to Mettaton's body, he nuzzles helplessly against his cheek, unable to speak, only to whine again, soft and sharply.]