[And with Mettaton's grasp on his hips, Emet-Selch's own tattoo is occasionally brushed, grazed- and with it, his thoughts turn to static. It was far sharper than anything he would've expected from this contact, despite the suggestive appeal of Mettaton holding onto him this way, securing him down to the mattress and fucking him as he'd dreamt of. But this was another entire reason to be aroused, and unavoidably so.
So his body can't help but writhe, bucking up into Mettaton cock even as he was finally buried all the way down to the root. Grinding himself onto the robot's lap, his thighs on either side of him tremble, while more invisibly muscle tenses around him. Lips parted, he's out of breath enough for any sound he makes to be choked into nothing, but he's still provoked into making them. The satisfaction he had, in knowing he held the whole of his husband's cock, could sit flush to his lap even if it hurt himself to do- he had no words for it, nothing beyond a rush of gratitude, relief, and adoration.
And what went perfectly with it was the softness he felt in response to his lover's words, an understanding that he'd given him something equally treasured. A pleasure reflected bodily, yes, but the emotional impact that went with it, this sharing of experiences. Of sensations, of moods both good and poor- of this time spent reaching for each other's company, and taking their bodies along the way.
He nuzzles, whispers his name, makes effort after effort to kiss him even when most of them are lost to sounds or breaths. From digging in, one of his hands manages to stroke more gently down Mettaton's side, affection writ plain in each touch. He loved him; he reveled in every moan Mettaton graced him with, and that the way he moved spoke of a man who really had gotten into this. That they could enjoy this together after all was more than he thought possible....
He tries for a hum when Mettaton speaks of being a mess, but it turns into something closer to a groan.]
You're not- not enough of one- not yet....
[He whispers it near his lips, in a voice as tight as his body felt. But not with agony or displeasure, even though he could tell that this all hurt, and would continue to hurt him. That Mettaton was surely bruising him with his fingers is barely noticed, beyond the pleasurable ache it gave him, the mage already squirming into every push of their bodies, as though he could drive him any deeper.
Nothing but Mettaton's release would do, and he was sure now that the robot would be able to reach it, was interested enough to manage it. Not that Emet-Selch thought that it would be very much of a mess at all, given that it would be neatly contained and delivered deep inside him. A sensation he'd gone without since he'd arrived here, and one that he realized he missed nearly as much as this. A flood of heat even hotter than his erection; swallowing him once had merely left him aching for more of it, however he could get it.]
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So his body can't help but writhe, bucking up into Mettaton cock even as he was finally buried all the way down to the root. Grinding himself onto the robot's lap, his thighs on either side of him tremble, while more invisibly muscle tenses around him. Lips parted, he's out of breath enough for any sound he makes to be choked into nothing, but he's still provoked into making them. The satisfaction he had, in knowing he held the whole of his husband's cock, could sit flush to his lap even if it hurt himself to do- he had no words for it, nothing beyond a rush of gratitude, relief, and adoration.
And what went perfectly with it was the softness he felt in response to his lover's words, an understanding that he'd given him something equally treasured. A pleasure reflected bodily, yes, but the emotional impact that went with it, this sharing of experiences. Of sensations, of moods both good and poor- of this time spent reaching for each other's company, and taking their bodies along the way.
He nuzzles, whispers his name, makes effort after effort to kiss him even when most of them are lost to sounds or breaths. From digging in, one of his hands manages to stroke more gently down Mettaton's side, affection writ plain in each touch. He loved him; he reveled in every moan Mettaton graced him with, and that the way he moved spoke of a man who really had gotten into this. That they could enjoy this together after all was more than he thought possible....
He tries for a hum when Mettaton speaks of being a mess, but it turns into something closer to a groan.]
You're not- not enough of one- not yet....
[He whispers it near his lips, in a voice as tight as his body felt. But not with agony or displeasure, even though he could tell that this all hurt, and would continue to hurt him. That Mettaton was surely bruising him with his fingers is barely noticed, beyond the pleasurable ache it gave him, the mage already squirming into every push of their bodies, as though he could drive him any deeper.
Nothing but Mettaton's release would do, and he was sure now that the robot would be able to reach it, was interested enough to manage it. Not that Emet-Selch thought that it would be very much of a mess at all, given that it would be neatly contained and delivered deep inside him. A sensation he'd gone without since he'd arrived here, and one that he realized he missed nearly as much as this. A flood of heat even hotter than his erection; swallowing him once had merely left him aching for more of it, however he could get it.]