[Each response, each sign of Mettaton's own frantic desperation leaves him shuddering, reeling from the sense of it seeping into his own. He didn't think that he would be burned by Mettaton's lips and tongue, but he wanted to be, wanted to take every bit of his warmth, if he couldn't have his breath. And with no breath to steal, Emet-Selch is left with only his own poor attempts at it, with every squeeze of his cock leaving him panting ever more harshly.
There was a comfort in being held to, enveloped, wrapped up in his arm, feeling Mettaton's face against his throat, the texture of his voice. And there was more comfort in that sense of familiarity he felt as well, something he didn't want to examine too closely at all. But comfort wasn't enough, no matter how hard he attached to it, and to him, no matter how much he tried.
When he finally reaches some sort of peak, the Ascian almost doesn't realize it. There was ever sharper pain, desperation and necessity, and finally a point that hurt worst of all, as though climax was something to be torn from him. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't terrible either; most of all it was intense, blinded him the rest of the way, erased the concept of thought itself- but that was what he wanted, wasn't it?
Apart from the continued small, soft pleads, it's completely soundless.
As he latches onto Mettaton physically, Emet-Selch clings to him mentally as well; he was still inundated, permeated by the sense of his own despair, but it wasn't the only thing there, the only thing left. It was so foreign, so different that he didn't know what to make of it, neither to reject it nor defend from it. It didn't hurt him any less (or at least, he couldn't disconnect it from the pain that was already there), but it hurt differently, pressing to the rawest parts of him that had long gone untreated, unreached.
His breath is shaky, not only from the desperate need for air, but from the force of collected emotion. He presses the side of his head hard against Mettaton's, as though he could burrow against him further, somehow, disturbed feelings barely even beginning to settle. His hand buries itself in Mettaton's hair, feeling the brush of those pressed-back ears, but his grip is weak, as trembling as the rest of him. There were no thoughts remaining.]
no subject
There was a comfort in being held to, enveloped, wrapped up in his arm, feeling Mettaton's face against his throat, the texture of his voice. And there was more comfort in that sense of familiarity he felt as well, something he didn't want to examine too closely at all. But comfort wasn't enough, no matter how hard he attached to it, and to him, no matter how much he tried.
When he finally reaches some sort of peak, the Ascian almost doesn't realize it. There was ever sharper pain, desperation and necessity, and finally a point that hurt worst of all, as though climax was something to be torn from him. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't terrible either; most of all it was intense, blinded him the rest of the way, erased the concept of thought itself- but that was what he wanted, wasn't it?
Apart from the continued small, soft pleads, it's completely soundless.
As he latches onto Mettaton physically, Emet-Selch clings to him mentally as well; he was still inundated, permeated by the sense of his own despair, but it wasn't the only thing there, the only thing left. It was so foreign, so different that he didn't know what to make of it, neither to reject it nor defend from it. It didn't hurt him any less (or at least, he couldn't disconnect it from the pain that was already there), but it hurt differently, pressing to the rawest parts of him that had long gone untreated, unreached.
His breath is shaky, not only from the desperate need for air, but from the force of collected emotion. He presses the side of his head hard against Mettaton's, as though he could burrow against him further, somehow, disturbed feelings barely even beginning to settle. His hand buries itself in Mettaton's hair, feeling the brush of those pressed-back ears, but his grip is weak, as trembling as the rest of him. There were no thoughts remaining.]