[It's an orgasm that he's barely starting to reach the end of when Emet-Selch feels Mettaton's begin. And from fevered breaths, his own nearly stills (apart from the occasional forced sharp intake, as his body startles itself into remembering what oxygen was, and why he needed it), as his body clenches reflexively tighter. It always felt the natural thing to do when he had his erection like this, in the midst of his climax- to hold him tighter and to wring all of his come from him.
And he gasps without noise at the feeling, his body giving small, faint little trembles as Mettaton empties himself once more, and feels that burst of wetness and heat deposited so, so deep within him. Once more Emet-Selch had him, all of his milky thickness, and he shudders as he imagines what it must look like, spurting out from the end of his cock but made to settle there, trapped by the glans itself. A thick stopper keeping it from running out of the Ascian's body- though gravity itself would help this time, he knew, with his hips remaining elevated. But if he was ever upright without a cock inside him (and what an unnatural state to be in)... he knew exactly what would happen again.
There was another sort of rapture in feeling so full, so stuffed of cock and come that he was sure he'd always have some echo of Mettaton there, a reminder of this sensation, a claim he'd never be able to erase entirely.
Emet-Selch is still panting, chest heaving against one of metal, as Mettaton gradually lowers himself onto him completely. The puca's jaws may have released his neck, but he remained no less trapped by his robotic lover. For every bit of slack his own body attained, it felt as though Mettaton could sink that much further onto him. A pleasing sensation; fortunately so, as the Ascian had little chance of keeping himself from slacking entirely.
His energy had been depleting for some time, but it was hard for him to imagine feeling more drained. Or to imagine much of anything, yet, barely able to take stock of his body at all, not the weakness of his own legs as they collapsed around Mettaton with faint tremors, not the warm wetness trapped between them due to his release, not the blood that stuck to him all over elsewhere, not the sweat, not the many places that ached.
Even his arms ached, as they held onto him, his grip itself slackening enough that it took some effort to maintain even that. Exhaustion and relaxation- Emet-Selch didn't know which it was he was feeling, it felt like nothing and everything at once. Not only exposed, but laid bare, carved open and displayed to smallest detail- but wrapped up so securely at the same time. With Mettaton pressing down on him like this, inside of him in both body and soul- how could he be anything other than safe?
He feels shaky; sentiment then, is what he'll drown in, heavy to the point of crushing- though closer to the realm of simple intensity, rather than despair. It still hurt, but it wasn't as unhappy of a thing.
...But Mettaton's voice was so light; a contrast that served as a balm to his own condition, and much like the rest of him, something that he just wanted to bask in.]
Mettaton....
[It's not even a whisper; he can't put sound to it at all, only mouthing his name. But he can feel Mettaton's lips at his throat, at his newest adornment; he can feel his smile. Emet-Selch tries to press into his face a little, though it barely counts as a nudge. His fingers slowly manage to pet at his back.]
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And he gasps without noise at the feeling, his body giving small, faint little trembles as Mettaton empties himself once more, and feels that burst of wetness and heat deposited so, so deep within him. Once more Emet-Selch had him, all of his milky thickness, and he shudders as he imagines what it must look like, spurting out from the end of his cock but made to settle there, trapped by the glans itself. A thick stopper keeping it from running out of the Ascian's body- though gravity itself would help this time, he knew, with his hips remaining elevated. But if he was ever upright without a cock inside him (and what an unnatural state to be in)... he knew exactly what would happen again.
There was another sort of rapture in feeling so full, so stuffed of cock and come that he was sure he'd always have some echo of Mettaton there, a reminder of this sensation, a claim he'd never be able to erase entirely.
Emet-Selch is still panting, chest heaving against one of metal, as Mettaton gradually lowers himself onto him completely. The puca's jaws may have released his neck, but he remained no less trapped by his robotic lover. For every bit of slack his own body attained, it felt as though Mettaton could sink that much further onto him. A pleasing sensation; fortunately so, as the Ascian had little chance of keeping himself from slacking entirely.
His energy had been depleting for some time, but it was hard for him to imagine feeling more drained. Or to imagine much of anything, yet, barely able to take stock of his body at all, not the weakness of his own legs as they collapsed around Mettaton with faint tremors, not the warm wetness trapped between them due to his release, not the blood that stuck to him all over elsewhere, not the sweat, not the many places that ached.
Even his arms ached, as they held onto him, his grip itself slackening enough that it took some effort to maintain even that. Exhaustion and relaxation- Emet-Selch didn't know which it was he was feeling, it felt like nothing and everything at once. Not only exposed, but laid bare, carved open and displayed to smallest detail- but wrapped up so securely at the same time. With Mettaton pressing down on him like this, inside of him in both body and soul- how could he be anything other than safe?
He feels shaky; sentiment then, is what he'll drown in, heavy to the point of crushing- though closer to the realm of simple intensity, rather than despair. It still hurt, but it wasn't as unhappy of a thing.
...But Mettaton's voice was so light; a contrast that served as a balm to his own condition, and much like the rest of him, something that he just wanted to bask in.]
Mettaton....
[It's not even a whisper; he can't put sound to it at all, only mouthing his name. But he can feel Mettaton's lips at his throat, at his newest adornment; he can feel his smile. Emet-Selch tries to press into his face a little, though it barely counts as a nudge. His fingers slowly manage to pet at his back.]