[As though there'd been any doubt, they were both claimed now, he thought. Another layer of taking and keeping, more than that of a bit of traded fluid (though that was a satisfying process in itself), but the more indelible marks left behind as well. What the Ascian knew he'd continue to feel, even after his bites healed and he could no longer feel the echo of the other man's cock inside him. What he assumed Mettaton would also feel, bound as they were. How could he ever lose him?
It was harder to imagine the possibility (the inevitability) in their current afterglow, and Emet-Selch doesn't try very hard to pierce that comfortable sensation for once. Time would do so on its own; it didn't require his help. But for now: there were gentle hands and heated skin, the scent of blood, Mettaton, and sex, a combination that was getting to be familiar. A combination that fit together. There was the languidness of limbs and the slow catching of breaths; the low, pleased sound that he makes when he feels the sucking at his shoulder, a bit more of himself tasted and taken.
With a last gentle squeeze of Mettaton's softened cock, Emet-Selch lets go of it in order to wrap that arm about his body as well, holding himself close, holding himself up, for that matter. Shivering faintly from the release of all of that collected tension, as well as from the hand drifting along his back, he feels otherwise warm. Warmed in ways that he didn't know could be warmed, not only by the heat that remained wrapped around his cock, but that of arms and lips, reaching deeper to the very core of himself. Touched not by any physical means but by sentiment itself. Something that he wanted to wrap himself in, something that could sustain him... if just a little. Just enough to keep going.
Mettaton's words of affection settle on him the same way, things that were still hard to take without a shiver, without reacting to the way it rested on the raw parts of his emotional state (which was most of it). But wanting to let it sink in as well, every breath and utterance that passed between them.
But that last compliment has him still, slightly puzzled by his own reaction, the lurch to his pulse, the brief tensing of his grip, the pause to his breath. He was oversensitive to everything at the moment, he supposed, every feeling applied so much more directly, without filter or defense.
Tilting his head slowly up, without losing contact with Mettaton's body, his lips trail a meandering line across his Bonded's face, though he becomes sidetracked by the taste of blood, licking gently at it as though to clean (and not doing a very good job of it, though). On reaching the corner of his mouth, he pauses, and despite the delay to try and collect his thoughts, words still felt woefully inefficient.]
...I love you. And- I'm grateful to you.
[A dissatisfying way to express much of anything, and he sighs very quietly against Mettaton's lips, following it with a small kiss, and a lean of his forehead against his. The Ascian had no practice at this.]
'Tis an unfamiliar feeling. There's any number of those, in your presence.
no subject
It was harder to imagine the possibility (the inevitability) in their current afterglow, and Emet-Selch doesn't try very hard to pierce that comfortable sensation for once. Time would do so on its own; it didn't require his help. But for now: there were gentle hands and heated skin, the scent of blood, Mettaton, and sex, a combination that was getting to be familiar. A combination that fit together. There was the languidness of limbs and the slow catching of breaths; the low, pleased sound that he makes when he feels the sucking at his shoulder, a bit more of himself tasted and taken.
With a last gentle squeeze of Mettaton's softened cock, Emet-Selch lets go of it in order to wrap that arm about his body as well, holding himself close, holding himself up, for that matter. Shivering faintly from the release of all of that collected tension, as well as from the hand drifting along his back, he feels otherwise warm. Warmed in ways that he didn't know could be warmed, not only by the heat that remained wrapped around his cock, but that of arms and lips, reaching deeper to the very core of himself. Touched not by any physical means but by sentiment itself. Something that he wanted to wrap himself in, something that could sustain him... if just a little. Just enough to keep going.
Mettaton's words of affection settle on him the same way, things that were still hard to take without a shiver, without reacting to the way it rested on the raw parts of his emotional state (which was most of it). But wanting to let it sink in as well, every breath and utterance that passed between them.
But that last compliment has him still, slightly puzzled by his own reaction, the lurch to his pulse, the brief tensing of his grip, the pause to his breath. He was oversensitive to everything at the moment, he supposed, every feeling applied so much more directly, without filter or defense.
Tilting his head slowly up, without losing contact with Mettaton's body, his lips trail a meandering line across his Bonded's face, though he becomes sidetracked by the taste of blood, licking gently at it as though to clean (and not doing a very good job of it, though). On reaching the corner of his mouth, he pauses, and despite the delay to try and collect his thoughts, words still felt woefully inefficient.]
...I love you. And- I'm grateful to you.
[A dissatisfying way to express much of anything, and he sighs very quietly against Mettaton's lips, following it with a small kiss, and a lean of his forehead against his. The Ascian had no practice at this.]
'Tis an unfamiliar feeling. There's any number of those, in your presence.