[Such simple signs of affection are in the nudge of noses, the press of foreheads. Something that he doesn't need thought to understand, to recognize, to know as affection, as fondness, even if it would've once been a feeling that would've been next to invisible to him. And now, if he had the awareness to consider it, Emet-Selch wouldn't be sure which part was the most unexpected- the giving or the receiving of this kind of gentleness. That it was possible to be so fond of someone that it could only be expressed through both bloodshed and utmost concern- simultaneously. Even when at his most blackened and feral, the Ascian had no doubt in the puca's care for him.
From fierceness and lust, into tenderness, blood-tinged and all the sweeter for it.
But Emet-Selch doesn't require thought for a background of melancholy to join the quiet of the moment; it's not an unusual feature, inevitable, almost. As though something like this were so unbelievable that he had to inject a bit of unhappiness to make it seem realistic at all, to accept that it was happening. But it remains mild, though it softens another kiss to Mettaton's lips a degree more, brushing his own sore one against his with quiet deliberation.
And he was comfortable, despite claw marks and bites, despite remaining perched on Mettaton's cock, having been thoroughly penetrated for some time. And emotionally... he was grateful for his lover's patience and persistence with him- for giving so much of himself to him, even the parts that were personal and secret and unwanted. With the raw pieces of themselves exposed to one another, it would be easy to inflict damage, either deliberately or through carelessness. It was always a risk, what they were doing.
(The Ascian knew of his own spite, his capacity for hurting those he cared for- a flaw deeper and separate from his contrary nature. But for Mettaton he kept wanting to temper it, to not give himself over to it.)
Fingers brush his hair, and it's a soothing touch, something to both try and melt into, as well as hold still for. A small caress that draws his attention to the precise way it stirred his bangs, and from there, the delicacy of claws stroking along the center of his back. A faint shiver is all that stirs the Ascian before he relaxes again as Mettaton's arm resumes its hold around him, and he lets out a slow, warm breath.
This close to him, all Emet-Selch can see out of his good eye is dark hair, but at the sound of his name, his eyes open as well. But he didn't need sight, and Mettaton didn't need a fully organic body in order for there to be signs of exertion, of disarray. Huddled together, given over to nuzzling and softness, a kind of weakness in manner that was recognizable.
Even if he'd had more of a voice to speak, the Ascian would've found it difficult to form words, for much the same reason. Fondness like this... language was reduced to names, reutterances of the word love, and little else. Not for a lack of wanting, or a lack of willingness to try, but if a sentiment could be reduced so easily to spoken word, then was it that complicated to begin with? This ached too completely, too deeply, for any method of expression to suffice. But he presses closer that bit more, kisses him again.
He doesn't need to move his head in order to feel his lover's smile- not an uncommon expression at all, but in a context like now, it catches him. Catches him in the same way that the sound of his name does; opened as they were to one another, everything was made more sensitive. But he smiles in return- fleeting, as it ever is when it's sincere.]
Mettaton....
[It was worth trying to say his name, at least, as low as his tone inevitably is.]
no subject
From fierceness and lust, into tenderness, blood-tinged and all the sweeter for it.
But Emet-Selch doesn't require thought for a background of melancholy to join the quiet of the moment; it's not an unusual feature, inevitable, almost. As though something like this were so unbelievable that he had to inject a bit of unhappiness to make it seem realistic at all, to accept that it was happening. But it remains mild, though it softens another kiss to Mettaton's lips a degree more, brushing his own sore one against his with quiet deliberation.
And he was comfortable, despite claw marks and bites, despite remaining perched on Mettaton's cock, having been thoroughly penetrated for some time. And emotionally... he was grateful for his lover's patience and persistence with him- for giving so much of himself to him, even the parts that were personal and secret and unwanted. With the raw pieces of themselves exposed to one another, it would be easy to inflict damage, either deliberately or through carelessness. It was always a risk, what they were doing.
(The Ascian knew of his own spite, his capacity for hurting those he cared for- a flaw deeper and separate from his contrary nature. But for Mettaton he kept wanting to temper it, to not give himself over to it.)
Fingers brush his hair, and it's a soothing touch, something to both try and melt into, as well as hold still for. A small caress that draws his attention to the precise way it stirred his bangs, and from there, the delicacy of claws stroking along the center of his back. A faint shiver is all that stirs the Ascian before he relaxes again as Mettaton's arm resumes its hold around him, and he lets out a slow, warm breath.
This close to him, all Emet-Selch can see out of his good eye is dark hair, but at the sound of his name, his eyes open as well. But he didn't need sight, and Mettaton didn't need a fully organic body in order for there to be signs of exertion, of disarray. Huddled together, given over to nuzzling and softness, a kind of weakness in manner that was recognizable.
Even if he'd had more of a voice to speak, the Ascian would've found it difficult to form words, for much the same reason. Fondness like this... language was reduced to names, reutterances of the word love, and little else. Not for a lack of wanting, or a lack of willingness to try, but if a sentiment could be reduced so easily to spoken word, then was it that complicated to begin with? This ached too completely, too deeply, for any method of expression to suffice. But he presses closer that bit more, kisses him again.
He doesn't need to move his head in order to feel his lover's smile- not an uncommon expression at all, but in a context like now, it catches him. Catches him in the same way that the sound of his name does; opened as they were to one another, everything was made more sensitive. But he smiles in return- fleeting, as it ever is when it's sincere.]
Mettaton....
[It was worth trying to say his name, at least, as low as his tone inevitably is.]