[It was an anger to suffocate. Though he can tell he's breathing, the rasp of it dimly audible to his ears, Emet-Selch feels dizzied nonetheless, prevented air not from the pressure of the body on top of him, the pounding he was sustaining, but Mettaton's mood in itself. The weight of his offense could hold him down, keep the air from his lungs and his muscles from providing any more than a shiver; teeth and claws and cock weren't required to keep him in place.
It felt both interminable and brief, these moments, his throat not functional and his lover's spite barely distracted even by the blood he was taking from him, the further damage he was causing his body with his bite. But he had to endure it, even if he could do nothing to mollify, nothing to fix this frailty on his own part, this faltering when he should have been stronger; all he could do was endure his lover's displeasure... which was far worse of a feeling than any tearing by teeth.
(Even in this, reduced to one task, one person alone, and he couldn't even make him happy when he needed to--)
It doesn't matter, but he still tries, still forces some attempt at sound through his throat, though even if Emet-Selch had succeeded, if some miracle had occurred and he was spared a moment of verbal clarity- it would've been wasted regardless; language itself was lost to him. It would've only been noise. It's still noise, each fainter and hoarser than the last, tries punctuated by coughing in his desperation and an increasing taste of blood, each effort only making everything worse. But he'd never known when to stop.
(This was futility.)
Emet-Selch doesn't even moan (or its ruined equivalent) when Mettaton's orgasm hits, when he feels the distinctive rush of his come filling him, hotter even than his cock, and notable even amongst all of the come his body already contained. There was little relief in it either and not much in the way of satisfaction- which was unusual in itself, contrary to how he usually felt in the middle of his partner's climax. No restfulness of rapture, no pleasure in feeling Mettaton attain his peak- or significantly less of it, at least- only continued dissatisfaction, tension, pain.
For that it was a release, it didn't release him from his duties or this moment, which remained permanent and instantaneous. There was the consolation of still having his lover's cock, still receiving his come, still having the contact of his body. There was even the firmness of arms around him, sparing him even the piercing of nails, but it's an embrace that brought little comfort. Even when Mettaton releases his bite, rubs his face against the wound- something that normally would've registered as an overpouring of affection, the natural blending of pain and pleasure, kindness and cruelty, it felt- different than that. A reminder of insufficiency, of what the Ascian had prevented them from achieving due to his weakness. Of what they could've been enjoying together in this moment, had he been able to provide Mettaton what he required. What he deserved.
He couldn't tell where all of the emotions were coming from; not an uncommon thing, with their Bond, particularly during sex. Not being certain had been a part of the pleasure, a sign of their feelings appropriately commingled, a dissolving of the borders between them. They belonged to one another; therefore, their emotions did as well. But now... the potential for violence that still churned away, still seethed beneath the most delicate veneer of an afterglow- Emet-Selch knew that much, at least, was Mettaton's. The physical relief too, the natural response to leaving another load of come behind, of having that single need attended to, in the heat and softness of his body- that was the puca's.
And all of the darkness and barely-spent fury... that was also his lover's, but it drowned him. And where despair and misery lay- yes, that was familiar. That was his own, and how reassuring it was to return to them again; he'd felt less of their presence in Mettaton's company over time, had less reason to dwell significantly upon them, their edges softened into a more common melancholy. But no, they were still there. It was foolish to even pretend otherwise, that there were other options than this.
But in dissatisfaction and unease, unhappiness and unfulfillment- Emet-Selch becomes more uncertain. Even some of the anger he's unsure of; it wasn't as though he weren't frustrated with himself, agitated in his abject exhaustion. The edges blurred, but when all was dark to begin with- did it matter that he couldn't see the shape of it?
Mettaton's full weight was heavy on top of him, pushing him solidly into the bed and holding him there. All limbs fully collapsed, his fingers dig faintly into the covers, and his heart feels like it could burst. There's no resistance to his body, no movement other than a faint, irregular tremble.]
no subject
It felt both interminable and brief, these moments, his throat not functional and his lover's spite barely distracted even by the blood he was taking from him, the further damage he was causing his body with his bite. But he had to endure it, even if he could do nothing to mollify, nothing to fix this frailty on his own part, this faltering when he should have been stronger; all he could do was endure his lover's displeasure... which was far worse of a feeling than any tearing by teeth.
(Even in this, reduced to one task, one person alone, and he couldn't even make him happy when he needed to--)
It doesn't matter, but he still tries, still forces some attempt at sound through his throat, though even if Emet-Selch had succeeded, if some miracle had occurred and he was spared a moment of verbal clarity- it would've been wasted regardless; language itself was lost to him. It would've only been noise. It's still noise, each fainter and hoarser than the last, tries punctuated by coughing in his desperation and an increasing taste of blood, each effort only making everything worse. But he'd never known when to stop.
(This was futility.)
Emet-Selch doesn't even moan (or its ruined equivalent) when Mettaton's orgasm hits, when he feels the distinctive rush of his come filling him, hotter even than his cock, and notable even amongst all of the come his body already contained. There was little relief in it either and not much in the way of satisfaction- which was unusual in itself, contrary to how he usually felt in the middle of his partner's climax. No restfulness of rapture, no pleasure in feeling Mettaton attain his peak- or significantly less of it, at least- only continued dissatisfaction, tension, pain.
For that it was a release, it didn't release him from his duties or this moment, which remained permanent and instantaneous. There was the consolation of still having his lover's cock, still receiving his come, still having the contact of his body. There was even the firmness of arms around him, sparing him even the piercing of nails, but it's an embrace that brought little comfort. Even when Mettaton releases his bite, rubs his face against the wound- something that normally would've registered as an overpouring of affection, the natural blending of pain and pleasure, kindness and cruelty, it felt- different than that. A reminder of insufficiency, of what the Ascian had prevented them from achieving due to his weakness. Of what they could've been enjoying together in this moment, had he been able to provide Mettaton what he required. What he deserved.
He couldn't tell where all of the emotions were coming from; not an uncommon thing, with their Bond, particularly during sex. Not being certain had been a part of the pleasure, a sign of their feelings appropriately commingled, a dissolving of the borders between them. They belonged to one another; therefore, their emotions did as well. But now... the potential for violence that still churned away, still seethed beneath the most delicate veneer of an afterglow- Emet-Selch knew that much, at least, was Mettaton's. The physical relief too, the natural response to leaving another load of come behind, of having that single need attended to, in the heat and softness of his body- that was the puca's.
And all of the darkness and barely-spent fury... that was also his lover's, but it drowned him. And where despair and misery lay- yes, that was familiar. That was his own, and how reassuring it was to return to them again; he'd felt less of their presence in Mettaton's company over time, had less reason to dwell significantly upon them, their edges softened into a more common melancholy. But no, they were still there. It was foolish to even pretend otherwise, that there were other options than this.
But in dissatisfaction and unease, unhappiness and unfulfillment- Emet-Selch becomes more uncertain. Even some of the anger he's unsure of; it wasn't as though he weren't frustrated with himself, agitated in his abject exhaustion. The edges blurred, but when all was dark to begin with- did it matter that he couldn't see the shape of it?
Mettaton's full weight was heavy on top of him, pushing him solidly into the bed and holding him there. All limbs fully collapsed, his fingers dig faintly into the covers, and his heart feels like it could burst. There's no resistance to his body, no movement other than a faint, irregular tremble.]