[A frustration and displeasure evident through Bond, through act, through word. And were Emet-Selch not aware of the effects those pieces of jewelry must be having on his Bonded, he might've been surprised at it- would've expected Mettaton to be either entertained or further excited by his display, any frustration only of a pleasant variety. A tease he would appreciate. With those effects applied, however, the Ascian can understand why his response began to darken into insulted ferality, dissatisfied at his lover demonstrating pleasure that wasn't wholly directed towards Mettaton and his cock.
A flare of temper that's enough to catch his breath and speed his pulse- but not to still his hand, and not to remove it either. His lover's grinding, his growling- it both made Emet-Selch want him with more ferocity, a need sharp enough to hurt- but at the same time kept him from making way for the puca, denying them both by blatantly pleasuring himself in front of him. That it was all ultimately for the sake of preparing himself for his cock didn't matter- inciting him took sudden priority. His own temper hissed to life. As--]
Am I...?
[--is all Emet-Selch says at first, and if he could spare him a look, it'd be a surprisingly haughty one- as though he weren't the one currently with fingers inside of himself for the sake of taking his lover's cock, or the one with a throat made raw by repeated application of said cock, or the one who had already swallowed several loads of his come with obvious pleasure. But Emet-Selch was stubborn, capricious, contrary. Sometimes he would give Mettaton the compliments he wanted- that he needed, in his current frame of mind- but now, however, he was struck with the impulse to withhold them. Mettaton could take them from him, if he wanted them so dearly. Somehow.
Oh, of course Emet-Selch desired him more than ever. Whatever pleasure his fingers could give him was only due to his thoughts on having Mettaton fill him instead, further aided by the feeling of his cock jabbing him with ever more insistence, a thick heat that was trying its hardest to force its way inside. And it was tempting to give in, to capitulate to what they wanted- what they would both ultimately have of one another.
But with a shuddered breath he persists. A jerk back of his hips against his hand, to underline where his attention was.]
Perhaps I'm still- comparing. You said I- I would need. More fingers. Didn't you?
[Mettaton was drooling over his neck, threatening it with incisors, drags of pressure that he could imagine sinking into him just as effectively as his erection. Just as possessively, and he holds back a moan at the thought. Instead, Emet-Selch takes a third finger and begins working it inside of himself, only allowing himself any noise of satisfaction- a raspy sound to strain his well-used throat- once he'd slid it all the way within.
This much was- closer, but not enough, and not the same at all, neither long nor thick enough- and even if it were, somehow, it wouldn't be Mettaton, and was therefore inferior. Emet-Selch knew this; he had no pretensions otherwise. And stretching himself like this, pushing back into the slow thrusting of three fingers only made him crave him that much harder.
But he continues; the lower sounds he continues to make also seem to indicate his greater pleasure, his preference, for this thicker intrusion, as though it weren't only an illusion of fullness that could never satisfy him. But the Ascian continues to fuck himself with his hand, as though Mettaton weren't available at all, as though he didn't have his body encroaching on his freedom, his legs between his, his cock at his ass, his teeth at his neck, and his voice threatening his ear. As though the darkness of his mood didn't underline all the rest, if the Ascian didn't give him his rightful attention.
...Emet-Selch both loved him terribly, and was a touch self-destructive.]
no subject
A flare of temper that's enough to catch his breath and speed his pulse- but not to still his hand, and not to remove it either. His lover's grinding, his growling- it both made Emet-Selch want him with more ferocity, a need sharp enough to hurt- but at the same time kept him from making way for the puca, denying them both by blatantly pleasuring himself in front of him. That it was all ultimately for the sake of preparing himself for his cock didn't matter- inciting him took sudden priority. His own temper hissed to life. As--]
Am I...?
[--is all Emet-Selch says at first, and if he could spare him a look, it'd be a surprisingly haughty one- as though he weren't the one currently with fingers inside of himself for the sake of taking his lover's cock, or the one with a throat made raw by repeated application of said cock, or the one who had already swallowed several loads of his come with obvious pleasure. But Emet-Selch was stubborn, capricious, contrary. Sometimes he would give Mettaton the compliments he wanted- that he needed, in his current frame of mind- but now, however, he was struck with the impulse to withhold them. Mettaton could take them from him, if he wanted them so dearly. Somehow.
Oh, of course Emet-Selch desired him more than ever. Whatever pleasure his fingers could give him was only due to his thoughts on having Mettaton fill him instead, further aided by the feeling of his cock jabbing him with ever more insistence, a thick heat that was trying its hardest to force its way inside. And it was tempting to give in, to capitulate to what they wanted- what they would both ultimately have of one another.
But with a shuddered breath he persists. A jerk back of his hips against his hand, to underline where his attention was.]
Perhaps I'm still- comparing. You said I- I would need. More fingers. Didn't you?
[Mettaton was drooling over his neck, threatening it with incisors, drags of pressure that he could imagine sinking into him just as effectively as his erection. Just as possessively, and he holds back a moan at the thought. Instead, Emet-Selch takes a third finger and begins working it inside of himself, only allowing himself any noise of satisfaction- a raspy sound to strain his well-used throat- once he'd slid it all the way within.
This much was- closer, but not enough, and not the same at all, neither long nor thick enough- and even if it were, somehow, it wouldn't be Mettaton, and was therefore inferior. Emet-Selch knew this; he had no pretensions otherwise. And stretching himself like this, pushing back into the slow thrusting of three fingers only made him crave him that much harder.
But he continues; the lower sounds he continues to make also seem to indicate his greater pleasure, his preference, for this thicker intrusion, as though it weren't only an illusion of fullness that could never satisfy him. But the Ascian continues to fuck himself with his hand, as though Mettaton weren't available at all, as though he didn't have his body encroaching on his freedom, his legs between his, his cock at his ass, his teeth at his neck, and his voice threatening his ear. As though the darkness of his mood didn't underline all the rest, if the Ascian didn't give him his rightful attention.
...Emet-Selch both loved him terribly, and was a touch self-destructive.]