[(Whenever Emet-Selch finds himself in a future point, with memories complete and death occurred- and accepting, in time, that his people were truly lost- Mettaton can offer himself as a new focal point, temper him right back up, safe and sound. A dark god transposed with one of glitter; an entity created out of a world's cry for salvation, onto a robot with exceptional legs.
There's just no comparison.
Yet in a more serious way, it's something that would provide both solace and security- and would, for once, be an expression of devotion with a tangible result, providing something other than a lifetime of solitude and misery. A task that did not include sacrificing multitudes of lives and worlds. To instead make use of that inclination for the pleasure of someone who loved him, and who he loved in return... it wouldn't be the worst way of channeling it.)
Every drag of cock seemed as though it pulled him more deeply under, every pull that he could follow with his fingers, every push that replaced what had been lost. A use that would no doubt leave him sore, tender, a memory of Mettaton's thickness to accompany every swallow. A rhythm that would also leave him another load of come fuller, and with ever more to drag from him, to lick and suck and squeeze from his lover's eager body. They would drain each other of essence and sense entirely, to collapse together in a sticky, sated heap- who would yet keep attempting to continue.
But that sense of faintness was increasing, darkness impending, though his throat continues its convulsions, its ministrations, and if Emet-Selch had the capacity for thought he'd be relieved at that. That even should his awareness falter, his body would continue its attempts to mistakenly remove what lay within it- and in the process, constrict and stroke his lover's erection. It was what he wanted, what they both did.
And then there was air, where there had previously been Mettaton; Emet-Selch reflexively gasps, coughing at his sudden partial-freedom, around the head of his Bonded's cock that he (thankfully) still had in his mouth. And as though the sound had been trapped, and was just as necessary as breathing- the Ascian moans as he pants, lungs desperately replenishing all that they could, as though they knew their supply could just as easily be removed momentarily. But he doesn't quite have space to feel regret, not when he feels Mettaton's glans remain at his lips, shivering at how hot he felt, a warmth that he was sure was higher than before, all due to the heat of his own body. And Emet-Selch laps at him with his tongue, strokes and rubs the slit, anticipating the sensation of his climax, and the even greater heat that his come would provide him.
But even so, his throat felt so strange, so empty without Mettaton's erection to fill it. His hand remains at his neck, stroking slowly at it as he swallows (a motion pleasantly sore already, but something he could successfully do, which was less satisfactory), as though feeling for something that wasn't there. Or reassuring himself that it would return. Or even reminding himself of what his throat normally felt like, in order to compare it to its improved form.
It's brief; his dizziness remains, his blood not wholly re-oxygenated in these few moments. But he's in no immediate danger of blacking out again when he hears the warning provided by Mettaton's voice. The promise provided- and the Ascian parts his lips more fully, tilts his head just a little, anything to encourage him to fill him up again. An encouragement unnecessary, but given regardless, a low noise of satisfaction choked off as the shaft glides deeper into his mouth once more, and he feels the head push its way into his throat: the place he belonged.
Moans lost again, he sucks around him, swallows on instinct, and more on being told to, his own hand helping Mettaton's in holding onto him from above, as though he could be choked any more thoroughly, that there was any space left to constrict. But there was a feeling of fingers and claws, of skin stretched around the distinct shape of his erection, of space claimed and caressed once more. Mettaton was doing the vocalizing for them both, and there was rapture shared in the hearing of it, in knowing with absolute clarity how much he adored having him like this.
Emet-Selch was being stroked doubly, his throat fucked and his cock pulled, a combination he had no hope of defending against. Wracked with shudders, face buried in Mettaton's crotch, throat convulsing around his length, orgasm hits him with an intensity that feels like he's blacking out anyway. Muscles clenching, thick come erupts against his lover's fingers, to drip down his shaft, to spatter against his abdomen. Even with one release behind him, it seems no less plentiful- perhaps even more so, with the addition of Mettaton's hand rubbing it out from him.]
no subject
There's just no comparison.
Yet in a more serious way, it's something that would provide both solace and security- and would, for once, be an expression of devotion with a tangible result, providing something other than a lifetime of solitude and misery. A task that did not include sacrificing multitudes of lives and worlds. To instead make use of that inclination for the pleasure of someone who loved him, and who he loved in return... it wouldn't be the worst way of channeling it.)
Every drag of cock seemed as though it pulled him more deeply under, every pull that he could follow with his fingers, every push that replaced what had been lost. A use that would no doubt leave him sore, tender, a memory of Mettaton's thickness to accompany every swallow. A rhythm that would also leave him another load of come fuller, and with ever more to drag from him, to lick and suck and squeeze from his lover's eager body. They would drain each other of essence and sense entirely, to collapse together in a sticky, sated heap- who would yet keep attempting to continue.
But that sense of faintness was increasing, darkness impending, though his throat continues its convulsions, its ministrations, and if Emet-Selch had the capacity for thought he'd be relieved at that. That even should his awareness falter, his body would continue its attempts to mistakenly remove what lay within it- and in the process, constrict and stroke his lover's erection. It was what he wanted, what they both did.
And then there was air, where there had previously been Mettaton; Emet-Selch reflexively gasps, coughing at his sudden partial-freedom, around the head of his Bonded's cock that he (thankfully) still had in his mouth. And as though the sound had been trapped, and was just as necessary as breathing- the Ascian moans as he pants, lungs desperately replenishing all that they could, as though they knew their supply could just as easily be removed momentarily. But he doesn't quite have space to feel regret, not when he feels Mettaton's glans remain at his lips, shivering at how hot he felt, a warmth that he was sure was higher than before, all due to the heat of his own body. And Emet-Selch laps at him with his tongue, strokes and rubs the slit, anticipating the sensation of his climax, and the even greater heat that his come would provide him.
But even so, his throat felt so strange, so empty without Mettaton's erection to fill it. His hand remains at his neck, stroking slowly at it as he swallows (a motion pleasantly sore already, but something he could successfully do, which was less satisfactory), as though feeling for something that wasn't there. Or reassuring himself that it would return. Or even reminding himself of what his throat normally felt like, in order to compare it to its improved form.
It's brief; his dizziness remains, his blood not wholly re-oxygenated in these few moments. But he's in no immediate danger of blacking out again when he hears the warning provided by Mettaton's voice. The promise provided- and the Ascian parts his lips more fully, tilts his head just a little, anything to encourage him to fill him up again. An encouragement unnecessary, but given regardless, a low noise of satisfaction choked off as the shaft glides deeper into his mouth once more, and he feels the head push its way into his throat: the place he belonged.
Moans lost again, he sucks around him, swallows on instinct, and more on being told to, his own hand helping Mettaton's in holding onto him from above, as though he could be choked any more thoroughly, that there was any space left to constrict. But there was a feeling of fingers and claws, of skin stretched around the distinct shape of his erection, of space claimed and caressed once more. Mettaton was doing the vocalizing for them both, and there was rapture shared in the hearing of it, in knowing with absolute clarity how much he adored having him like this.
Emet-Selch was being stroked doubly, his throat fucked and his cock pulled, a combination he had no hope of defending against. Wracked with shudders, face buried in Mettaton's crotch, throat convulsing around his length, orgasm hits him with an intensity that feels like he's blacking out anyway. Muscles clenching, thick come erupts against his lover's fingers, to drip down his shaft, to spatter against his abdomen. Even with one release behind him, it seems no less plentiful- perhaps even more so, with the addition of Mettaton's hand rubbing it out from him.]