[With as open as they were in their Bond, getting an impression of Mettaton's own feelings is not an unusual or difficult thing to achieve. If it even counted as achieving when it was just allowed to happen; anything else would mean deliberately holding back, for some reason. But the ache involved in Mettaton's emotions at first doesn't register as being from him at all. Love and attachment hurt: Emet-Selch knew this as an absolute. So it takes some time to notice the differences, the variation on a theme of pain. Enough to realize that he wasn't the source of it- an understanding that leaves him shaken, hurting all over again at the thought. It wasn't as though it were a surprise, but to be loved to that degree.... If he could feel it so plainly, what was it like to be the originator of those feelings? It's an experience that leaves him disoriented, vision briefly darkening, unable to shake off his awareness of that love. Not that he wanted to, for all that he thought that he might lose himself to it.
And he felt so exceedingly tender and raw for him in response, scarcely able to grasp that this was happening, that it was even possible--
Lost in the moment, the warmth of Mettaton's cheek pressed to the warmth of his cock, the Ascian doesn't feel even the hint of frustration. Watching him watch himself, he swallows heavily, breathing still unsteady, chest heaving from it. But he does wonder a bit over the reason for the idol's particular staring, the haze to Mettaton's expression different from that of a pause to take in the moment itself. But that's how Emet-Selch uses the opportunity, to memorize the details of the scene before him, before his senses were completely subsumed by lust and exceptional adoration.
Not that there isn't plenty of adoration already present in his gaze, for all that it remains sorrow-tinged and concurrent with the wealth of anguish he has to live with. But he's not thinking of those negative aspects and the part they play in his demeanor, in his interpretation and expression of love. But he takes in the whole of what he could see. That he was in Mettaton's room, with all of his collected treasures, on his bed, with his legs spread around him and his body affectionately damaged. His lover, in a form both familiar-yet-new, had his face rubbed up against his erection, and was looking up at him with a violet gaze that made his heart hurt in itself. Traces of blood still decorated his countenance, an echo of what Mettaton had inflicted.
And then the moment resumes, Mettaton's voice another thing to claim his senses, along with the imprint of his lips travelling up the length of his erection. Letting out a breath he'd forgotten he'd been holding, Emet-Selch immediately sucks in a new one as he feels his lover's mouth slide over the tip of his cock. A soft-though-firm stroking over the most sensitive part of him, he watches with rapt attention as the head slips smoothly passed Mettaton's lips, and though he's unable to see it, he can feel the working of the puca's tongue. The wet surroundings and long-anticipated suction has him cry out, voice shameless in his pleasure, in his desperation for him.
That his wrists were free doesn't immediately register in itself- only that he was suddenly more able to sit up properly, to watch Mettaton more closely. That he was able to lift a hand to Mettaton's hair, to push back at the bangs that kept threatening to fall forward and obscure that side of his face again. It was only then, along with the awareness of his Bonded's hands under trembling thighs, that he realized that he'd been permitted some measure of freedom. And how strange it was, to have both enjoyed (and he thought it qualified as enjoyed, if he were forced to analyze it) being held back, while also grateful for the ability to shift a bit, to touch his lover at all.
And to watch in closer detail the saliva trailing between tongue and tip, the wetness of both as Mettaton returned to mouthing the sensitive head. How much he wanted to kiss him then, to lick at the dampness on his lips; how much he didn't want to disturb a moment of what his Bonded was doing to him, the way his mouth shaped itself around the glans, and the look to his eyes--]
Mettaton, you.... [A shuddered breath; but he was struck by the importance of expressing this sentiment, somehow.] You look- so beautiful like that....
no subject
And he felt so exceedingly tender and raw for him in response, scarcely able to grasp that this was happening, that it was even possible--
Lost in the moment, the warmth of Mettaton's cheek pressed to the warmth of his cock, the Ascian doesn't feel even the hint of frustration. Watching him watch himself, he swallows heavily, breathing still unsteady, chest heaving from it. But he does wonder a bit over the reason for the idol's particular staring, the haze to Mettaton's expression different from that of a pause to take in the moment itself. But that's how Emet-Selch uses the opportunity, to memorize the details of the scene before him, before his senses were completely subsumed by lust and exceptional adoration.
Not that there isn't plenty of adoration already present in his gaze, for all that it remains sorrow-tinged and concurrent with the wealth of anguish he has to live with. But he's not thinking of those negative aspects and the part they play in his demeanor, in his interpretation and expression of love. But he takes in the whole of what he could see. That he was in Mettaton's room, with all of his collected treasures, on his bed, with his legs spread around him and his body affectionately damaged. His lover, in a form both familiar-yet-new, had his face rubbed up against his erection, and was looking up at him with a violet gaze that made his heart hurt in itself. Traces of blood still decorated his countenance, an echo of what Mettaton had inflicted.
And then the moment resumes, Mettaton's voice another thing to claim his senses, along with the imprint of his lips travelling up the length of his erection. Letting out a breath he'd forgotten he'd been holding, Emet-Selch immediately sucks in a new one as he feels his lover's mouth slide over the tip of his cock. A soft-though-firm stroking over the most sensitive part of him, he watches with rapt attention as the head slips smoothly passed Mettaton's lips, and though he's unable to see it, he can feel the working of the puca's tongue. The wet surroundings and long-anticipated suction has him cry out, voice shameless in his pleasure, in his desperation for him.
That his wrists were free doesn't immediately register in itself- only that he was suddenly more able to sit up properly, to watch Mettaton more closely. That he was able to lift a hand to Mettaton's hair, to push back at the bangs that kept threatening to fall forward and obscure that side of his face again. It was only then, along with the awareness of his Bonded's hands under trembling thighs, that he realized that he'd been permitted some measure of freedom. And how strange it was, to have both enjoyed (and he thought it qualified as enjoyed, if he were forced to analyze it) being held back, while also grateful for the ability to shift a bit, to touch his lover at all.
And to watch in closer detail the saliva trailing between tongue and tip, the wetness of both as Mettaton returned to mouthing the sensitive head. How much he wanted to kiss him then, to lick at the dampness on his lips; how much he didn't want to disturb a moment of what his Bonded was doing to him, the way his mouth shaped itself around the glans, and the look to his eyes--]
Mettaton, you.... [A shuddered breath; but he was struck by the importance of expressing this sentiment, somehow.] You look- so beautiful like that....