[Feeling Mettaton even temporarily weakened felt like something of an achievement to the Ascian. He knew it wouldn't last, that the reservoir of battery and pendant-influence together would be more than enough to keep him going indefinitely. But Emet-Selch felt no despair at that, or regret at the limitations of his own body- he would love him and would have him until he fell apart entirely, if necessary. If sought over, if asked. It didn't matter to him if Mettaton's inclinations and nature were enhanced by pendant-pull or necklace-curse- it was still him in the end, dark and brilliant both, all of himself brought to the fore.
Emet-Selch tries to hum a contented sound at the nuzzle, but there's no more than a suggestion of static. More noticeable, perhaps, is his continued effort when it came to leaning into the nuzzling, nudging and attempted kisses to whatever part of Mettaton he could touch. At least it took no effort on his part to remain in contact with his body, and even if that meant pressure on bruise and cut, metal and jewelry digging into places raw and tender, he didn't mind. More awareness of all of that soreness would soon resume, but even then he'd find it preferable to not being in contact with him, not having his weight and his presence laid upon him.
He was still bleeding, of course. From the wounds most freshly inflicted, to the older ones disturbed. His body was a mix of it all, a visual representation of his emotional state. But there was a peace to it, more of one than he felt when he was ever intact. But when opened like this, both literally and figuratively, it was more clear the way Mettaton had worked his way inside, and the way the Ascian had wrapped around him in the process. With their bodies like this, there was no sense in ever denying their union.
It wasn't a surprise to be told he's loved. Not ever, and especially not now, but it's the sort of words that unsteady his heart, that settles on him more deeply for all that he's laid so bare. Love that's accompanied by tenderness and concern, as Emet-Selch feels Mettaton's lips over the wounds he'd just left, licking at skin left open. It barely even stung, it felt so soothing. And he's comforted all over again, quietly and genuinely pleased that his lover had taken so much enjoyment in him.
And Emet-Selch appreciated him just as fully, from the ecstasy his body provided, to the reassurance of his spirit, an attachment he felt he could rely on, could trust.
Mettaton's head moves away from its place at his neck, and the Ascian forces his eyes to open, to blink hazily up at him as his lover observes him. His face still had blood on it, as was to be expected. A warm look, and one that struck him less as that of a predator mid-assault, but one that had recently fed. The rabbit ears never did detract, somehow, from his sense of viewing Mettaton as a predator to start with, a monster who truly had brought down and ensnared his witch.]
Good.
[Another word that's more mouthed than spoken, and his expression, tired as it is, shows a hint of apology. His throat felt... pretty terrible honestly, if he payed it much attention. But it's a limitation to how much he can express this way, which he could only regret a little. Emet-Selch wouldn't have changed taking his erection down his throat as he had, and he knows he'd want his throat fucked just as thoroughly in future, his voice reduced, and its remaining dregs lost to moaning. Even now, sore and exhausted as he was, it was an attractive thought, and an appealing memory. One that he knew he'll be drawn to repeatedly.
With effort, his arms try to hold him that bit tighter, though it ends up being more of a gentle squeeze around his body instead.]
I love you.
[It's no louder than anything else, but something that felt just as important to say, even if it is, of course, something that Mettaton knew just as well. He'd still always tell him, he had realized, even if neither of them needed the reminder. But it felt right to express.]
no subject
Emet-Selch tries to hum a contented sound at the nuzzle, but there's no more than a suggestion of static. More noticeable, perhaps, is his continued effort when it came to leaning into the nuzzling, nudging and attempted kisses to whatever part of Mettaton he could touch. At least it took no effort on his part to remain in contact with his body, and even if that meant pressure on bruise and cut, metal and jewelry digging into places raw and tender, he didn't mind. More awareness of all of that soreness would soon resume, but even then he'd find it preferable to not being in contact with him, not having his weight and his presence laid upon him.
He was still bleeding, of course. From the wounds most freshly inflicted, to the older ones disturbed. His body was a mix of it all, a visual representation of his emotional state. But there was a peace to it, more of one than he felt when he was ever intact. But when opened like this, both literally and figuratively, it was more clear the way Mettaton had worked his way inside, and the way the Ascian had wrapped around him in the process. With their bodies like this, there was no sense in ever denying their union.
It wasn't a surprise to be told he's loved. Not ever, and especially not now, but it's the sort of words that unsteady his heart, that settles on him more deeply for all that he's laid so bare. Love that's accompanied by tenderness and concern, as Emet-Selch feels Mettaton's lips over the wounds he'd just left, licking at skin left open. It barely even stung, it felt so soothing. And he's comforted all over again, quietly and genuinely pleased that his lover had taken so much enjoyment in him.
And Emet-Selch appreciated him just as fully, from the ecstasy his body provided, to the reassurance of his spirit, an attachment he felt he could rely on, could trust.
Mettaton's head moves away from its place at his neck, and the Ascian forces his eyes to open, to blink hazily up at him as his lover observes him. His face still had blood on it, as was to be expected. A warm look, and one that struck him less as that of a predator mid-assault, but one that had recently fed. The rabbit ears never did detract, somehow, from his sense of viewing Mettaton as a predator to start with, a monster who truly had brought down and ensnared his witch.]
Good.
[Another word that's more mouthed than spoken, and his expression, tired as it is, shows a hint of apology. His throat felt... pretty terrible honestly, if he payed it much attention. But it's a limitation to how much he can express this way, which he could only regret a little. Emet-Selch wouldn't have changed taking his erection down his throat as he had, and he knows he'd want his throat fucked just as thoroughly in future, his voice reduced, and its remaining dregs lost to moaning. Even now, sore and exhausted as he was, it was an attractive thought, and an appealing memory. One that he knew he'll be drawn to repeatedly.
With effort, his arms try to hold him that bit tighter, though it ends up being more of a gentle squeeze around his body instead.]
I love you.
[It's no louder than anything else, but something that felt just as important to say, even if it is, of course, something that Mettaton knew just as well. He'd still always tell him, he had realized, even if neither of them needed the reminder. But it felt right to express.]