[It was unconscious, the desire to gasp or moan or otherwise cry out at every sound Mettaton was making, at the signs of his weakness, of being overcome, still so evident even in a robotic form. It was a pleasure excessive, and the sort of response that translates into an increased need to pleasure him yet further, to bring them both past all thought or sense. It didn't matter that they were already long past that point already- Emet-Selch couldn't stop taking him, they couldn't stop taking each other.
When he'd first encountered Mettaton by chance- a situation surrounded by fear, with the anticipation of death- how could he have ever anticipated that it would lead him to this? Choking, bleeding, scarred and suffocating himself willingly, desperately, sucking on the thickness of his lover's cock as though he'd been waiting for this opportunity for the whole of his life. Or that his life no longer mattered so long as he could please him. He loved him, he loved him, and he would never let him leave, and he would do all that he could to ensure Mettaton never wanted to. Tears well up in his eyes, from physical exertion, from what he was putting his body through, but also from the utter solace he was feeling, in giving himself up. In giving himself over, every mood and thought and expression, no matter how personal or painful- but there was no space for holding anything back.
...Mettaton was so important to him. Even when he grated, when he was deliberately provoking his temper, threatening his patience, disagreeing with him on one matter or another. Emet-Selch wanted his vulnerability and his honesty, those moments when he was both serious and concerned, thoughtful and thoughtless, tender and taken over by primal, base indulgence.
It felt endless. It might as well be endless, as time stopped mattering, stopped being counted. His throat yet convulsing, yet tugging on Mettaton's cock as though it could keep him there, prevent him from pulling away and ending this- and the softer feeling of a hand stroking the outside of his neck, encouraging this pull, this devotion to him. The way Mettaton could clutch at his own erection through his neck, feel doubly over every swallow, every suck, feel how perfectly the glans lay within his neck, fitting there with a tightness to weep over. And the Ascian's reward for his endurance was heat, wetness- his lover's release spilling down his throat, burning him, his throat seizing up further in its own display of passion (and not a response to suffocating). And as the sensation warms him, fills him, Emet-Selch is aware (insomuch as he's aware) of a matching rolling, bursting sort of heat, but one centered much lower on his own body.
Even if his cock had gone without touch, it wasn't as though other parts of his body weren't being lavishly treated, stroked and caressed, loved and enjoyed. Every rub from the tip of Mettaton's cock coaxed his own orgasm closer, brought his own need to sharper heights. Grinded into the wall, fucked and taken and loved- his climax was just another expression of his own adoration for him, the experience of swallowing down the result of his lover's ecstasy more than enough to drag him over the edge with him.
Hold on Mettaton's leg faltering, his fingers clasp at fur he can't feel. His other arm was numb. He was weak, faint, weighted down and weightless alike, disconnected, disoriented- and safe. Safe and loved with such understanding that it was akin to being tempered once more. Even their souls were bound together, weren't they? Tied up and mixed, until he could no longer distinguish Mettaton's from his own.
Trapped against the wall as he is though, his body can't do the sensible thing and allow reflex to take over; all the shuddering jerks he makes are as stifled as his voice, as incomplete, as ineffective at dislodging the cock so wonderfully buried inside him. Even now, he doesn't want it to leave. And his movements grow weaker, the world darker- or is it brighter? But all detail escapes him; there's nothing outside of this.
It can't really be called consciousness anymore, but everything had stopped hurting for one perfect, infinite instant. Without thought, how could memory hurt him? And without breath, how could there be thought? This was rapture, deadly and beautiful alike, and that this would also lead to a complete and permanent suffocation should Mettaton not pull back was just the consequence of perfection.
On any retreat, he'll be likely to collapse immediately afterward, though once oxygen is allowed to fill his lungs and replenish his blood, he'll come to quickly enough.]
no subject
When he'd first encountered Mettaton by chance- a situation surrounded by fear, with the anticipation of death- how could he have ever anticipated that it would lead him to this? Choking, bleeding, scarred and suffocating himself willingly, desperately, sucking on the thickness of his lover's cock as though he'd been waiting for this opportunity for the whole of his life. Or that his life no longer mattered so long as he could please him. He loved him, he loved him, and he would never let him leave, and he would do all that he could to ensure Mettaton never wanted to. Tears well up in his eyes, from physical exertion, from what he was putting his body through, but also from the utter solace he was feeling, in giving himself up. In giving himself over, every mood and thought and expression, no matter how personal or painful- but there was no space for holding anything back.
...Mettaton was so important to him. Even when he grated, when he was deliberately provoking his temper, threatening his patience, disagreeing with him on one matter or another. Emet-Selch wanted his vulnerability and his honesty, those moments when he was both serious and concerned, thoughtful and thoughtless, tender and taken over by primal, base indulgence.
It felt endless. It might as well be endless, as time stopped mattering, stopped being counted. His throat yet convulsing, yet tugging on Mettaton's cock as though it could keep him there, prevent him from pulling away and ending this- and the softer feeling of a hand stroking the outside of his neck, encouraging this pull, this devotion to him. The way Mettaton could clutch at his own erection through his neck, feel doubly over every swallow, every suck, feel how perfectly the glans lay within his neck, fitting there with a tightness to weep over. And the Ascian's reward for his endurance was heat, wetness- his lover's release spilling down his throat, burning him, his throat seizing up further in its own display of passion (and not a response to suffocating). And as the sensation warms him, fills him, Emet-Selch is aware (insomuch as he's aware) of a matching rolling, bursting sort of heat, but one centered much lower on his own body.
Even if his cock had gone without touch, it wasn't as though other parts of his body weren't being lavishly treated, stroked and caressed, loved and enjoyed. Every rub from the tip of Mettaton's cock coaxed his own orgasm closer, brought his own need to sharper heights. Grinded into the wall, fucked and taken and loved- his climax was just another expression of his own adoration for him, the experience of swallowing down the result of his lover's ecstasy more than enough to drag him over the edge with him.
Hold on Mettaton's leg faltering, his fingers clasp at fur he can't feel. His other arm was numb. He was weak, faint, weighted down and weightless alike, disconnected, disoriented- and safe. Safe and loved with such understanding that it was akin to being tempered once more. Even their souls were bound together, weren't they? Tied up and mixed, until he could no longer distinguish Mettaton's from his own.
Trapped against the wall as he is though, his body can't do the sensible thing and allow reflex to take over; all the shuddering jerks he makes are as stifled as his voice, as incomplete, as ineffective at dislodging the cock so wonderfully buried inside him. Even now, he doesn't want it to leave. And his movements grow weaker, the world darker- or is it brighter? But all detail escapes him; there's nothing outside of this.
It can't really be called consciousness anymore, but everything had stopped hurting for one perfect, infinite instant. Without thought, how could memory hurt him? And without breath, how could there be thought? This was rapture, deadly and beautiful alike, and that this would also lead to a complete and permanent suffocation should Mettaton not pull back was just the consequence of perfection.
On any retreat, he'll be likely to collapse immediately afterward, though once oxygen is allowed to fill his lungs and replenish his blood, he'll come to quickly enough.]