[Sometimes, Emet-Selch fails to produce sounds at all, for reasons that have nothing to do with a lack of air, or Mettaton-related obstructions. And the more he tries to make, the more pronounced it becomes, his voice a mess of raspy, intermittent static, though the intent behind it all remains as clear as ever. Even the lack of success in itself is an expression of pleasure, of rapturous attention and involvement; even without asphyxiation, the Ascian's thoughts had mostly dwindled onto these moments. Focused on every thrust, the way he received them, the way Mettaton provided them.
There was little space for anything outside of that, as though Mettaton's grip on him was holding more than his body in place, but had a firm, piercing grip on his mind. Even his soul hardly went unmarked, the Bond only facilitating the way their spirits could merge- at least, as far as they could merge, with an inundation of emotion attempting to make up for any gaps that came as a result of not being able to literally meld.
And the slightly erratic nature of Mettaton's thrusts further destabilized him, a rhythm persistent but unreliable, that he could trust to continue, but not know exactly how long, or how far his lover would move his cock inside him. Even if his attention could hardly become distracted, it certainly kept Emet-Selch alert, and slightly off-balance, unable to ever completely brace himself for the pleasure each stroke brought him.
A pleasure that continued to be considerable, as their bodies continued to massage one another with a squeezing grip and softness alike, of heat made slick, and a heavy rubbing worthy of rapture.
Though he notices when Mettaton lets go of his wrists, technically freeing them, there's not much Emet-Selch can do with his new opportunity, pressed otherwise into the bed by the heavy jerks of his lover's body. His hands don't shift much at all in their grip on the covers, the muscles in his arms taut and aching, his fingers clutching and digging at fabric for purchase unachievable. There was no escape possible, and none required; the only inevitability was orgasm, a promise of release that was becoming ever more prominent in his thoughts (as far as they could be considered thoughts) with every moment.
Nails pierce his back, his shoulders, and Emet-Selch can barely cry out from that either, though he tries to. His throat hurt, and his back and shoulders hurt, and everything smelled of blood and sex and Mettaton, and it was perfect. Later on, he would wonder if, on viewing the marks left to his back, whether he'd be able to imagine exactly the hold his lover had on him; he would assume so, a raw trail of claw marks and teeth, a precise imprint of how he'd kept him in place.
And from there, a memory of how he'd been moved, dragged further onto his erection, an endless rocking heat that felt like it could build forever- until it finally bursts, come flooding and burning and filling him. A satisfaction of sensation in a basic, primal way, uncomplicated and direct: Mettaton was claiming him like this, marking him as his own, spilling his ejaculate inside him so he would have no way of missing it, or missing him.
And Emet-Selch moans (it doesn't sound like one), and shudders and clenches around him, further wringing everything he could from Mettaton's still thrusting cock, feeling the way his motion was surely smearing his come against them both, giving them both a fine coating of the thick fluid.
It's the awareness of his pleasure- both through the physical heat and wet that his come provided, as well as all of his ecstasy through Bond- that finally triggers his own climax moments later. Hips jerking- partially into Mettaton's, partially to further rub his own trapped cock against the mattress- his own come spills out, another load to end up spread stickily against his own body- and this time, the covers of the bed as well.
By degrees, his body slackens, limbs going from rigid to boneless, body collapsing underneath the weight of his lover's. And Emet-Selch pants, every breath as raw sounding as all of his emotions felt.]
no subject
There was little space for anything outside of that, as though Mettaton's grip on him was holding more than his body in place, but had a firm, piercing grip on his mind. Even his soul hardly went unmarked, the Bond only facilitating the way their spirits could merge- at least, as far as they could merge, with an inundation of emotion attempting to make up for any gaps that came as a result of not being able to literally meld.
And the slightly erratic nature of Mettaton's thrusts further destabilized him, a rhythm persistent but unreliable, that he could trust to continue, but not know exactly how long, or how far his lover would move his cock inside him. Even if his attention could hardly become distracted, it certainly kept Emet-Selch alert, and slightly off-balance, unable to ever completely brace himself for the pleasure each stroke brought him.
A pleasure that continued to be considerable, as their bodies continued to massage one another with a squeezing grip and softness alike, of heat made slick, and a heavy rubbing worthy of rapture.
Though he notices when Mettaton lets go of his wrists, technically freeing them, there's not much Emet-Selch can do with his new opportunity, pressed otherwise into the bed by the heavy jerks of his lover's body. His hands don't shift much at all in their grip on the covers, the muscles in his arms taut and aching, his fingers clutching and digging at fabric for purchase unachievable. There was no escape possible, and none required; the only inevitability was orgasm, a promise of release that was becoming ever more prominent in his thoughts (as far as they could be considered thoughts) with every moment.
Nails pierce his back, his shoulders, and Emet-Selch can barely cry out from that either, though he tries to. His throat hurt, and his back and shoulders hurt, and everything smelled of blood and sex and Mettaton, and it was perfect. Later on, he would wonder if, on viewing the marks left to his back, whether he'd be able to imagine exactly the hold his lover had on him; he would assume so, a raw trail of claw marks and teeth, a precise imprint of how he'd kept him in place.
And from there, a memory of how he'd been moved, dragged further onto his erection, an endless rocking heat that felt like it could build forever- until it finally bursts, come flooding and burning and filling him. A satisfaction of sensation in a basic, primal way, uncomplicated and direct: Mettaton was claiming him like this, marking him as his own, spilling his ejaculate inside him so he would have no way of missing it, or missing him.
And Emet-Selch moans (it doesn't sound like one), and shudders and clenches around him, further wringing everything he could from Mettaton's still thrusting cock, feeling the way his motion was surely smearing his come against them both, giving them both a fine coating of the thick fluid.
It's the awareness of his pleasure- both through the physical heat and wet that his come provided, as well as all of his ecstasy through Bond- that finally triggers his own climax moments later. Hips jerking- partially into Mettaton's, partially to further rub his own trapped cock against the mattress- his own come spills out, another load to end up spread stickily against his own body- and this time, the covers of the bed as well.
By degrees, his body slackens, limbs going from rigid to boneless, body collapsing underneath the weight of his lover's. And Emet-Selch pants, every breath as raw sounding as all of his emotions felt.]