[There was a lot of ground to cover, Emet-Selch thought. For as much as he longed for Mettaton to return to sating the needs of his cock, the Ascian still found himself enraptured by the thought of such efforts being applied to his thighs. How much more would he feel it, when he wrapped his legs around him? The soreness of muscle worked and the tenderness of skin wounded, pierced and colorized. How would its shades develop in the days to come, how much would the process entice the both of them? What a pity for it to eventually fade....
It's a thought that has him push himself up what little that he could, to lift his head to watch as much of the process that remained. And in just that brief period of not watching him, so much had blossomed; the sight of it, and Mettaton in the middle of it, stalled his breath and tightened his muscles. How fortunate, Emet-Selch considered, that so long as he stayed here, he doubted he'd get much of a chance to heal. What was soreness on top of soreness, damage on damage? It would be an easy thing, for one or the other of them to drag their partner into a renewal. Just the sight of the bruising would be enough of a suggestion.
(Then again, whenever he did have the misfortune to heal in more entirety (like whenever he escapes back to his other household), it wouldn't change the knowledge of what had been there. And, he supposed, there could be a different sort of satisfaction in marring up a fresh slate, now and again.
That was the sort of future that was worth considering.)
Thoughts captured by the sight of himself- from the warm ache of fresh bruising, to the contrast of cooling saliva running down his thigh, along with the similarly-cooling patches of wetness that made those purples and reds appear to glisten- when Mettaton presses his face back against his cock, he nearly startles. Muscles clench, hips twitch into the contact, and his gaze struggles to focus on the man nuzzling up against his balls and shaft, surrounded by a sea of color. Taking it all in was overwhelming, particularly when paired with the lines drawn by Mettaton's tongue, a slick claim that made it impossible to think of much else.]
Ah--
[The surprise at briefly meeting Mettaton's eyes serves as a reminder that it was worth keeping them open, no matter how easy it would be for them to drift shut, to lose himself in sensation and sound and scent alone. Even taste, with the blood in his mouth from his sluggishly bleeding lip. But sight was an important sense, and if he was going to be overwhelmed, it might as well be by everything.
Which made it considerably harder to speak, looking down at his lover with his erection against his face, able to feel every word and breath and gasp against skin too hot and unbearably hard. The idea that there could be anything at all humiliating in what they were doing would never even occur to him; when such intensity was felt, why wouldn't it be expressed in as indecently blatant a manner as possible? Watching Mettaton demonstrate his attraction to his cock only reminded him of how much he loved him. And nor did he think less of himself for giving himself over to any of this; the Ascian's only surprise in that he was at all capable of it.]
I doubt... that there's any risk of my forgetting it....
[Words, how about that, he managed some. And though there's something of a shaky breath behind them, they're even coherent.]
no subject
It's a thought that has him push himself up what little that he could, to lift his head to watch as much of the process that remained. And in just that brief period of not watching him, so much had blossomed; the sight of it, and Mettaton in the middle of it, stalled his breath and tightened his muscles. How fortunate, Emet-Selch considered, that so long as he stayed here, he doubted he'd get much of a chance to heal. What was soreness on top of soreness, damage on damage? It would be an easy thing, for one or the other of them to drag their partner into a renewal. Just the sight of the bruising would be enough of a suggestion.
(Then again, whenever he did have the misfortune to heal in more entirety (like whenever he escapes back to his other household), it wouldn't change the knowledge of what had been there. And, he supposed, there could be a different sort of satisfaction in marring up a fresh slate, now and again.
That was the sort of future that was worth considering.)
Thoughts captured by the sight of himself- from the warm ache of fresh bruising, to the contrast of cooling saliva running down his thigh, along with the similarly-cooling patches of wetness that made those purples and reds appear to glisten- when Mettaton presses his face back against his cock, he nearly startles. Muscles clench, hips twitch into the contact, and his gaze struggles to focus on the man nuzzling up against his balls and shaft, surrounded by a sea of color. Taking it all in was overwhelming, particularly when paired with the lines drawn by Mettaton's tongue, a slick claim that made it impossible to think of much else.]
Ah--
[The surprise at briefly meeting Mettaton's eyes serves as a reminder that it was worth keeping them open, no matter how easy it would be for them to drift shut, to lose himself in sensation and sound and scent alone. Even taste, with the blood in his mouth from his sluggishly bleeding lip. But sight was an important sense, and if he was going to be overwhelmed, it might as well be by everything.
Which made it considerably harder to speak, looking down at his lover with his erection against his face, able to feel every word and breath and gasp against skin too hot and unbearably hard. The idea that there could be anything at all humiliating in what they were doing would never even occur to him; when such intensity was felt, why wouldn't it be expressed in as indecently blatant a manner as possible? Watching Mettaton demonstrate his attraction to his cock only reminded him of how much he loved him. And nor did he think less of himself for giving himself over to any of this; the Ascian's only surprise in that he was at all capable of it.]
I doubt... that there's any risk of my forgetting it....
[Words, how about that, he managed some. And though there's something of a shaky breath behind them, they're even coherent.]