[He didn't have long to wait. He knew he wouldn't.
Pacing paused at the distinctive slam of a door being kicked open, all of the Ascian's restlessness continues to build in the face of losing even that meager outlet of movement. This would be his last chance to leave for a time, to put off the inevitable for no reason at all, and for all that he didn't want to, the idea remained, intrusive. A long-ingrained habit towards making things worse was a hard thing to override, the spell in his thoughts, his fingers digging into his palms as he fought back the instinct to escape.
When his own door opens, he freezes in place entirely, as though he were the one with the puca-instinct towards stillness. Only his voice remains, gaze locked upon his lover's face. How familiar he'd become to him, and how welcome the sight of him was. All of that tension and aggression and hurting remained, but the accompanying tenderness was unmistakable.]
Mettaton.
[An acknowledgement. A breath let out as Mettaton closes in on him. His own eyes slip shut as their foreheads touch, at the brush of their noses together, at the brush of their souls close together. This much was as it should be. A sense of belonging that in itself brought an ache; he was trapped, just as he'd wanted from the start.
Emet-Selch knows what's coming when Mettaton's head dips lower, his action so natural that he tenses no further at it. If anything, there was a sense of relief of finally having his lover's teeth in his neck, where they should be, his cry choked off into a hissing inhalation. The sharpness, the rightness of it all brought with it a form of clarity, as though the only way he could be certain of anything in his life was when he could feel Mettaton tearing into his flesh, mouth filling with blood. When he could feel arms crushing him against an unforgiving body, his own the only one able to yield.
It felt like Mettaton could scoop him up entirely like this, with his greater height and machine-led strength. It already felt like his breath was being pushed from his lungs, with no chance given to collect any more- a feeling he only attempts to enhance by the way his own arms wrap around the puca's body. They tighten; his fingers claw for purchase against metal and across fur, to touch, to hold, to push him ever closer. To drive him deeper into his neck with a need, a demand. If the idol was going to threaten his balance, he could have it, as he locks a leg around his, to further reduce space, to further feel him.
To be convinced. That they would remain, that they would remember, that all of this meant a damn even if they did not. To be convinced, over and over, carved into so many times until he had nothing left with which to deny it. Even then, it wouldn't be enough; even then he'd still want him, from the firmness of jaws and sharpness of claws, to the softness and love that went with them.]
no subject
Pacing paused at the distinctive slam of a door being kicked open, all of the Ascian's restlessness continues to build in the face of losing even that meager outlet of movement. This would be his last chance to leave for a time, to put off the inevitable for no reason at all, and for all that he didn't want to, the idea remained, intrusive. A long-ingrained habit towards making things worse was a hard thing to override, the spell in his thoughts, his fingers digging into his palms as he fought back the instinct to escape.
When his own door opens, he freezes in place entirely, as though he were the one with the puca-instinct towards stillness. Only his voice remains, gaze locked upon his lover's face. How familiar he'd become to him, and how welcome the sight of him was. All of that tension and aggression and hurting remained, but the accompanying tenderness was unmistakable.]
Mettaton.
[An acknowledgement. A breath let out as Mettaton closes in on him. His own eyes slip shut as their foreheads touch, at the brush of their noses together, at the brush of their souls close together. This much was as it should be. A sense of belonging that in itself brought an ache; he was trapped, just as he'd wanted from the start.
Emet-Selch knows what's coming when Mettaton's head dips lower, his action so natural that he tenses no further at it. If anything, there was a sense of relief of finally having his lover's teeth in his neck, where they should be, his cry choked off into a hissing inhalation. The sharpness, the rightness of it all brought with it a form of clarity, as though the only way he could be certain of anything in his life was when he could feel Mettaton tearing into his flesh, mouth filling with blood. When he could feel arms crushing him against an unforgiving body, his own the only one able to yield.
It felt like Mettaton could scoop him up entirely like this, with his greater height and machine-led strength. It already felt like his breath was being pushed from his lungs, with no chance given to collect any more- a feeling he only attempts to enhance by the way his own arms wrap around the puca's body. They tighten; his fingers claw for purchase against metal and across fur, to touch, to hold, to push him ever closer. To drive him deeper into his neck with a need, a demand. If the idol was going to threaten his balance, he could have it, as he locks a leg around his, to further reduce space, to further feel him.
To be convinced. That they would remain, that they would remember, that all of this meant a damn even if they did not. To be convinced, over and over, carved into so many times until he had nothing left with which to deny it. Even then, it wouldn't be enough; even then he'd still want him, from the firmness of jaws and sharpness of claws, to the softness and love that went with them.]