[Not knowing when a particular bit of attention would lead to a new bruise leaves him perpetually tensing at the prospect. Yet even the ones that were 'only' kissings were hardly a disappointment. Partially, because they were a necessary piece of the whole experience, of leaving him unsteady with anticipation and always wanting more. But mostly because it was still the work of his lover's mouth, attention he was bestowing over this shell of a host, over scars healed and unwanted. Anything he did was a fascination, and a sign of his care. He didn't know how it was possible to keep being so touched from being touched, but Mettaton somehow managed it.
Every lick and bite and sentiment alike felt as though they had a direct line to his cock, a thought that keeps Emet-Selch from lying still underneath him. There's little control in the way he shifts restlessly, both seeking relief and almost fearing it, not wanting any of these sensations to end.
A desire underscored when Mettaton focuses again over a sensitive nipple, one not yet dampened by lips, the area suddenly much hotter. A loud, ragged breath is the Ascian's first response to such intent suction, followed by a hard shiver, his fingers digging into his hands as his arms continue trying to press upward. The sensation turning from satisfyingly hard into mere flicking and mouthing felt horribly teasing, and he could almost laugh, breathlessly and frustrated at how well Mettaton could produce these reactions from him. They were so prone to each other that he had a hard time understanding it.
But while his nipple may have been left slightly frustrated, Emet-Selch's desire for more force was at least satisfied elsewhere on his chest, tauter trembling and soft gasps of approval matching the times he felt skin pulled, bitten, turned dark. He was having a hard time keeping track of them all: what was the soreness of a bruise, and what was only tender and damp. The closer to his neck, the harder it was to determine, the ratio swinging sharply in favor of damage.
It certainly had the Ascian's favor, to be made so colorful. And how fortunate a palette, that fresh bruises took to reds and purples- shades that Mettaton already seemed to be drawn to.
(Later on, much later, he'd have to take advantage of Mettaton's mirror to see the extent of it all. The robot pulling back to look down on him only made him more sure of it.)
There really wasn't much opportunity for healing in his lip, considering the force of his own breathing, and for that matter, the way his own tongue kept wanting to investigate it. Aggravate it. As though it weren't sore enough. But new bleeding is quite easily provoked once Mettaton returns to claim it, and Emet-Selch latches onto that kiss with determination. Acting as if it were providing air rather than taking it, mistaking suffocation for freedom. Needing the taste of his lips to sustain him (even while simultaneously missing the pressure of them against his chest, sucking marks for later perusal), and needing even more the way all of Mettaton shuddered over him, in a vibration of warmth. As though he needed any more awareness of the satisfaction Mettaton took in this, in him, in using his body so fully, without reservation.
no subject
Every lick and bite and sentiment alike felt as though they had a direct line to his cock, a thought that keeps Emet-Selch from lying still underneath him. There's little control in the way he shifts restlessly, both seeking relief and almost fearing it, not wanting any of these sensations to end.
A desire underscored when Mettaton focuses again over a sensitive nipple, one not yet dampened by lips, the area suddenly much hotter. A loud, ragged breath is the Ascian's first response to such intent suction, followed by a hard shiver, his fingers digging into his hands as his arms continue trying to press upward. The sensation turning from satisfyingly hard into mere flicking and mouthing felt horribly teasing, and he could almost laugh, breathlessly and frustrated at how well Mettaton could produce these reactions from him. They were so prone to each other that he had a hard time understanding it.
But while his nipple may have been left slightly frustrated, Emet-Selch's desire for more force was at least satisfied elsewhere on his chest, tauter trembling and soft gasps of approval matching the times he felt skin pulled, bitten, turned dark. He was having a hard time keeping track of them all: what was the soreness of a bruise, and what was only tender and damp. The closer to his neck, the harder it was to determine, the ratio swinging sharply in favor of damage.
It certainly had the Ascian's favor, to be made so colorful. And how fortunate a palette, that fresh bruises took to reds and purples- shades that Mettaton already seemed to be drawn to.
(Later on, much later, he'd have to take advantage of Mettaton's mirror to see the extent of it all. The robot pulling back to look down on him only made him more sure of it.)
There really wasn't much opportunity for healing in his lip, considering the force of his own breathing, and for that matter, the way his own tongue kept wanting to investigate it. Aggravate it. As though it weren't sore enough. But new bleeding is quite easily provoked once Mettaton returns to claim it, and Emet-Selch latches onto that kiss with determination. Acting as if it were providing air rather than taking it, mistaking suffocation for freedom. Needing the taste of his lips to sustain him (even while simultaneously missing the pressure of them against his chest, sucking marks for later perusal), and needing even more the way all of Mettaton shuddered over him, in a vibration of warmth. As though he needed any more awareness of the satisfaction Mettaton took in this, in him, in using his body so fully, without reservation.
And how sorely he wanted that use.]