[He shivers at being growled at, the sound wholly exciting rather than threatening, as went with any other signs of his husband's more animalistic habits. There wasn't room or time for decorum in their sex, even if they'd begun more slowly and without much in the way of their normal wanting. How swiftly that had changed, and so completely that it left him breathless and stricken to feel it. They really were prone to one another... heart and body both.
And Mettaton would be made more of a (literal) mess if he had anything to say about it, though it would be from the Ascian's come instead. He'd already finished once between them, and though that had been somewhat obscured by the robot's more copious and glittery load, it was assuredly there. And he more assuredly was willing to add to it, to leave his own mark on his mate's body in this base way.
But not yet, no matter the thrill that ran through him at the thought. There wasn't any chance of Emet-Selch defying him, even if he'd wanted to; though he felt surprisingly full, a throb that matched the soreness of his body as he was rubbed deep, he wasn't at the point where bursting felt immanent. Part of him remained mostly surprised that he'd gotten hard at all, given their starting point. Not impossible, of course, though his faith in those areas wasn't as complete; his own trust had more to do with being relentlessly stubborn, rather than anything necessarily pleasurable or pleasant.
But here they were, fucking as though their lives depended on it, every grind of their bodies together a reason to gasp, to tighten up. To writhe harder to meet it, as though he could squeeze and drag Mettaton's release from him, coax it out through the tightness and plea of his body. An appeal for him to let go, to give him that slickness they lacked (even if it would be too late to spare him the discomfort).]
Then- then come or I'll- I'll surpass you--
[He wouldn't, not now; he couldn't, more relevantly, unless Mettaton managed to hold out for much longer than this. The desperation he felt was one he recognized as a yearning for his lover's own release, to witness and feel him at that peak once more. He'd done it already in his mouth and his hand, but each time left him wanting to take him from additional angles. Other ways and means, as what did seeing Mettaton climax do for him but leave him wanting to see more?
And it would arouse him endlessly to witness, to feel him let go, when he'd gone without for months. And when he's tugged harder yet to Mettaton's hips, kissed no less fiercely even as their bodies continued to be slammed together, insistence and determination making up for any physical lack of readiness, he clenches tight around him, pants against the other man's lips. It was damp enough now, their kiss, and hot enough that the only thing that could beat it was where their bodies were properly joined. Even so, he pleads for more, to be scalded properly inside a body already raw, the cries he makes against him wordless but wanting.]
no subject
And Mettaton would be made more of a (literal) mess if he had anything to say about it, though it would be from the Ascian's come instead. He'd already finished once between them, and though that had been somewhat obscured by the robot's more copious and glittery load, it was assuredly there. And he more assuredly was willing to add to it, to leave his own mark on his mate's body in this base way.
But not yet, no matter the thrill that ran through him at the thought. There wasn't any chance of Emet-Selch defying him, even if he'd wanted to; though he felt surprisingly full, a throb that matched the soreness of his body as he was rubbed deep, he wasn't at the point where bursting felt immanent. Part of him remained mostly surprised that he'd gotten hard at all, given their starting point. Not impossible, of course, though his faith in those areas wasn't as complete; his own trust had more to do with being relentlessly stubborn, rather than anything necessarily pleasurable or pleasant.
But here they were, fucking as though their lives depended on it, every grind of their bodies together a reason to gasp, to tighten up. To writhe harder to meet it, as though he could squeeze and drag Mettaton's release from him, coax it out through the tightness and plea of his body. An appeal for him to let go, to give him that slickness they lacked (even if it would be too late to spare him the discomfort).]
Then- then come or I'll- I'll surpass you--
[He wouldn't, not now; he couldn't, more relevantly, unless Mettaton managed to hold out for much longer than this. The desperation he felt was one he recognized as a yearning for his lover's own release, to witness and feel him at that peak once more. He'd done it already in his mouth and his hand, but each time left him wanting to take him from additional angles. Other ways and means, as what did seeing Mettaton climax do for him but leave him wanting to see more?
And it would arouse him endlessly to witness, to feel him let go, when he'd gone without for months. And when he's tugged harder yet to Mettaton's hips, kissed no less fiercely even as their bodies continued to be slammed together, insistence and determination making up for any physical lack of readiness, he clenches tight around him, pants against the other man's lips. It was damp enough now, their kiss, and hot enough that the only thing that could beat it was where their bodies were properly joined. Even so, he pleads for more, to be scalded properly inside a body already raw, the cries he makes against him wordless but wanting.]