[It's a level of fury he's never experienced before that accompanies his climax, seething and as white-hot as his core itself, as his soul itself, transcendent and sublime in its intensity. It's only because he moans and cries out that Mettaton doesn't deliver unto him a second bite, one to steady that neck of his as his memory recalls in some hazy, incomplete way the manner he bled from there, the sacrifice he could take from that spot, something that fills him with... two feelings.
The first: absolute lust. His body's so tight, so welcoming and warm and soft, a bed for Mettaton to rest in, to leave behind his come. He wants to drink him up, to suck down Emet-Selch's essence to make up for all else he lacks in this moment. He screams; it's hardly enough, and it's not applied to words that he deserves to hear, something to jilt him further. An offense as grave as fucking himself on his fingers, to dedicate his voice to his own pain. Yes, if he could only have enough of his blood, it might suffice to soothe him — he always feels so soothed when he downs his Witch's blood, something to calm the tempest of his mood that grows and aches beyond him.
Ache, that's a second feeling. There's the ache of arousal and the ache of denial, but there's really something else the robot can't put a finger on that partners the feeling of his release. He's pounding into Emet-Selch (right, correct), fucking him senselessly in his pleasure and fervor, in his fury and insanity, stroking his cock until it feels like it would tear his lover open, it's so hard, unfulfilled. His lover's compliments should be accompanying this hot release, he can't think... but he did just moments ago, before similarly white-hot come gushes from him, filling Emet-Selch fuller and fuller of his essence.
(He doesn't deserve this reward, some deep part of him thinks—)
(He loves Emet-Selch and could still grant him mercy, still give him a chance to make right this wrong, another part of him considers—)
Nothing really resounds in him, and there's still another dimension to this second feeling. Like the drop of organs, the pull on his trachea; the loss of blood before he blacks out. None of the physical weakness that accompanies it all, but there's a similar feeling somewhere inside of him that colors his release, lacking in the praise he wanted and all, colored even by his Bondmate's feelings seeping over into his own. Could that be it? Could Emet-Selch be having some unpleasant feelings, even while he should be devoting himself to him? Why? That is a terrible, wretched thought; no proper fan, no devotee of his should be feeling so sick, unless it were because he knew he was failing him.
(But it's possible for this to originate from himself. He just can't fathom it. He can't really think of much at all, can't see beyond his pleasure and seething. Righteous indignation overtakes any and all of his senses, truly coloring his climax.)
It's an orgasm intense. He moans into blood. Intense, but not pure rapture like he wants it to be, not something Mettaton can lose himself any more to as madness and euphoria split him apart.
Emet-Selch's static of voice joins the static that comprises Mettaton's thoughts as he continues to lose himself to ecstasy and savagery, monstrous and primal and increasingly unstable. The only pleasure he can derive from this is the subjugation, the massage of Emet-Selch's body around his length, the way he can push and squeeze the glans against his lover's body...
It feels like an instant this time, until Mettaton releases his jaw, rubbing his face uselessly into his lover's shoulder, smearing it in blood. All of his weight becomes Emet-Selch's burden for the moment, a temporary suspension of proper consciousness — but implacable, building violence and anger build in him still, even in these moments where he should be basking in the euphoric afterglow of sex. And he does some of that, too: pleasure to overwhelm his body, mixed with the absolute indignation of this deprivation of worship. His body would have to make due, and purely in that, Mettaton reached orgasm; Mettaton deposited his load deeply, thickly inside of him; he felt such relief bodily, for his aching cock to be tended to, for that weight to be given place to rest.
Another shudder; another soft moan, spared for that bliss, at least. All else boils in him still, as bright and blinding as facets of diamonds. But for this moment, Mettaton is spent, collapsed upon his lover. He even unhands his hips, wrapping his arms snug around his waist on reflex. He loves him; he hasn't forgiven him.]
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The first: absolute lust. His body's so tight, so welcoming and warm and soft, a bed for Mettaton to rest in, to leave behind his come. He wants to drink him up, to suck down Emet-Selch's essence to make up for all else he lacks in this moment. He screams; it's hardly enough, and it's not applied to words that he deserves to hear, something to jilt him further. An offense as grave as fucking himself on his fingers, to dedicate his voice to his own pain. Yes, if he could only have enough of his blood, it might suffice to soothe him — he always feels so soothed when he downs his Witch's blood, something to calm the tempest of his mood that grows and aches beyond him.
Ache, that's a second feeling. There's the ache of arousal and the ache of denial, but there's really something else the robot can't put a finger on that partners the feeling of his release. He's pounding into Emet-Selch (right, correct), fucking him senselessly in his pleasure and fervor, in his fury and insanity, stroking his cock until it feels like it would tear his lover open, it's so hard, unfulfilled. His lover's compliments should be accompanying this hot release, he can't think... but he did just moments ago, before similarly white-hot come gushes from him, filling Emet-Selch fuller and fuller of his essence.
(He doesn't deserve this reward, some deep part of him thinks—)
(He loves Emet-Selch and could still grant him mercy, still give him a chance to make right this wrong, another part of him considers—)
Nothing really resounds in him, and there's still another dimension to this second feeling. Like the drop of organs, the pull on his trachea; the loss of blood before he blacks out. None of the physical weakness that accompanies it all, but there's a similar feeling somewhere inside of him that colors his release, lacking in the praise he wanted and all, colored even by his Bondmate's feelings seeping over into his own. Could that be it? Could Emet-Selch be having some unpleasant feelings, even while he should be devoting himself to him? Why? That is a terrible, wretched thought; no proper fan, no devotee of his should be feeling so sick, unless it were because he knew he was failing him.
(But it's possible for this to originate from himself. He just can't fathom it. He can't really think of much at all, can't see beyond his pleasure and seething. Righteous indignation overtakes any and all of his senses, truly coloring his climax.)
It's an orgasm intense. He moans into blood. Intense, but not pure rapture like he wants it to be, not something Mettaton can lose himself any more to as madness and euphoria split him apart.
Emet-Selch's static of voice joins the static that comprises Mettaton's thoughts as he continues to lose himself to ecstasy and savagery, monstrous and primal and increasingly unstable. The only pleasure he can derive from this is the subjugation, the massage of Emet-Selch's body around his length, the way he can push and squeeze the glans against his lover's body...
It feels like an instant this time, until Mettaton releases his jaw, rubbing his face uselessly into his lover's shoulder, smearing it in blood. All of his weight becomes Emet-Selch's burden for the moment, a temporary suspension of proper consciousness — but implacable, building violence and anger build in him still, even in these moments where he should be basking in the euphoric afterglow of sex. And he does some of that, too: pleasure to overwhelm his body, mixed with the absolute indignation of this deprivation of worship. His body would have to make due, and purely in that, Mettaton reached orgasm; Mettaton deposited his load deeply, thickly inside of him; he felt such relief bodily, for his aching cock to be tended to, for that weight to be given place to rest.
Another shudder; another soft moan, spared for that bliss, at least. All else boils in him still, as bright and blinding as facets of diamonds. But for this moment, Mettaton is spent, collapsed upon his lover. He even unhands his hips, wrapping his arms snug around his waist on reflex. He loves him; he hasn't forgiven him.]