[Mettaton drawing back to observe his neck has the Ascian automatically displaying it, tilting it slightly as he rests his head back against the bed, drawing a breath through a throat well-damaged. He wondered what it did look like, as any movement only reminded him that more than the interior of his throat had been used. It was... stiff, terribly so, where any motion tugged at one bite or scratch or another, or put pressure on a bruise left behind. But he also imagined that it probably looked worse than it was, no matter how colorful or smeared with blood. It was the injury of extensive passion, rather than anything dangerous... though he knew already (and had accepted, in the back of his mind) that the upcoming days for him would be uncomfortable ones. Stiff and aching (and not even in the aroused sense), and reluctant to move or speak. Glaring at his conspicuously unharmed lover... while also wanting to curl up and sleep against him as well.
But for now, he couldn't even pretend to mind, as his eyes opened to watch his lover's regard, conscious of their contrasting shapes. Mettaton remained dark and magnificent, ever more the predator in every way he moved or looked, and in insultingly good condition despite all they had been through. If Emet-Selch weren't so prone to him, attracted to him, desirous of him even at this point- it would've drawn a huff of irritation.
Instead, the sight of him there, with a dangerous smile and sharp teeth, and a gaze that felt as though it could pierce him just as easily- it leaves him with a sense of longing, an ache for his touch, no matter how far it reduced him in the process. It's a longing that only increases when Mettaton slowly pulls his length from his body (a body that, contrarily, decides to hurt more now that it was no longer being stretched and had to adjust to a different state), and especially when it affords him a glimpse of his half-hardened cock, glistening and hot. Watching his lover lounge like this at all, looking down at the state of his body, the Ascian's possession on full display for him- he felt- pleased. Comfortable and warm, and perhaps even a bit smug in his exhaustion. Mettaton was... perfection like this, he thought, dark and haughty, assured and dangerous, bright and adoring in his potential for viciousness. Lovingly malicious. And Emet-Selch was arrogant enough to accept nothing less than that. Who else would he want to be broken down for, would he spare the most vulnerable parts of himself to?
And Mettaton waits, offers him the illusion of freedom, when both of them knew that no matter where he went, he'd end up back where he belonged- on his cock. Their bodies would wrap up in one another again, thoughts of any separation discarded. And the Ascian wondered that if he delayed too long, whether the idol would slither back over his body again, press him down and fuck him once more; he certainly had the air of impending need, and an inclination towards fulfilling it inside of him. A state he was hardly opposed to, but... if Mettaton had spared him this opportunity, he should try to make something of it. His gaze turns thoughtful, even as he continues scanning over his lover's body, distraction that it was from coherent thought.
If he could move at all. That really was the sticking point. Emet-Selch's entire body felt stiff, glued to the bed, positioned between pillows and trapped in this prison of softness and uncooperative muscles. His legs remained spread, and his ass thoroughly exposed, lifted not only for Mettaton's use, but now for his observation as well- it's enough to keep his pulse likewise lifted, fully aware of what he must look like, how used, how wet. And how much more slick he would become if he moved... and he was no less curious to find out what it would look and feel like now, with these added loads allowed to spill over.
But Mettaton had suggested a shower... lifetimes ago, by this point. Emet-Selch wanted to be fucked, no matter how inadvisably his body considered the prospect (a warning to be ignored), he wanted to feel come slide down his thighs, and he wanted to be washed off as well, to settle warm and clean and comfortable(ish) with his lover. That these were somewhat mutually exclusive options didn't matter: he would have them all in some order or another.
And so he decides: he would make a stand, for... attempting to stand. And would perhaps even walk. And if that didn't work, then the other two options would immediately be in play. They would... probably be immediately in play regardless, but he can't think that far ahead. All he knows is that he can't take too long on the sitting up part of affairs, lest he be caught immediately by the sensation of come spilling from his body, and be rendered unable to move from the awareness of that alone.
Taking a breath, Emet-Selch steels himself as best he can for the inevitable discomfort of changing positions and moving his body whatsoever. Rather than attempt to sit up, he twists himself onto his side first, hissing anyway as... any number of things protested this new arrangement. Wounds on his back lodged their complaints, as did his neck out of solidarity, though the greatest offender were his hips, his thighs, his ass. No matter how much he knew that Mettaton's erection belonged inside of his body as much as possible (a truth he knew Mettaton concurred with), parts of his body had failed to accept this, and had the gall to become sore at being stretched and rubbed for extended periods of time.
Alongside that, his muscles in general were just sore from exertion, and had stiffened into place while the Ascian had been on his back, thighs splayed, hips raised (a natural position). On his side, Emet-Selch lingers for several moments, half-curled and more than a bit awkward in his position amidst pillows and covers. But with pulls of his arms (while continuing to avoid sitting up at all), he drags and shifts himself towards the edge of the bed. Bits of fabric attempt to stick to his back and shoulders before being tugged away, reopening wounds a degree; thin trails of blood escape from several clotted bites, but Emet-Selch doesn't notice. Dragging his legs over the edge, he tries to roll himself into standing up all at once- no delay, nothing by degrees, an all or nothing attempt. He would stand, or he would crumple, and he would be a mess in either case.
--And he stands. Sort of. Badly. A sound escapes his throat, something pained and sharp and his entire body flinches as his breathing goes shaky. Just being upright so suddenly leaves him dizzy, and it felt as though every part of his body was aching in unison. But he stands, even as his legs tremble, and his eyes are tightly closed, and he gropes out an arm to reach for Mettaton's- shoulder, possibly, whatever he could grasp for some kind of support. He even takes a sort of shuffling step, though it would be optimistic to call it any kind of deliberate movement on Emet-Selch's part, rather than something akin to a stumble, a lurch forward. His lower body ached terribly, not approving of what he was doing whatsoever- almost to the point where he doesn't notice inevitability dripping down between his thighs.
Almost. A wash of heat runs through him that vies with pain for his attention, a confusing mix of sensations for his body to adjust to. He was upright, in pain, dizzy, overheated, indisposed. Milky come was also beginning to trail down skin already marked by bruise or previous release. It could've been demeaning, this sign of both weakness and use, but he could only revel in it. He's also not entirely sure if he can walk, but in this moment he's not inclined to try. Standing alone was taking a lot out of him.]
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But for now, he couldn't even pretend to mind, as his eyes opened to watch his lover's regard, conscious of their contrasting shapes. Mettaton remained dark and magnificent, ever more the predator in every way he moved or looked, and in insultingly good condition despite all they had been through. If Emet-Selch weren't so prone to him, attracted to him, desirous of him even at this point- it would've drawn a huff of irritation.
Instead, the sight of him there, with a dangerous smile and sharp teeth, and a gaze that felt as though it could pierce him just as easily- it leaves him with a sense of longing, an ache for his touch, no matter how far it reduced him in the process. It's a longing that only increases when Mettaton slowly pulls his length from his body (a body that, contrarily, decides to hurt more now that it was no longer being stretched and had to adjust to a different state), and especially when it affords him a glimpse of his half-hardened cock, glistening and hot. Watching his lover lounge like this at all, looking down at the state of his body, the Ascian's possession on full display for him- he felt- pleased. Comfortable and warm, and perhaps even a bit smug in his exhaustion. Mettaton was... perfection like this, he thought, dark and haughty, assured and dangerous, bright and adoring in his potential for viciousness. Lovingly malicious. And Emet-Selch was arrogant enough to accept nothing less than that. Who else would he want to be broken down for, would he spare the most vulnerable parts of himself to?
And Mettaton waits, offers him the illusion of freedom, when both of them knew that no matter where he went, he'd end up back where he belonged- on his cock. Their bodies would wrap up in one another again, thoughts of any separation discarded. And the Ascian wondered that if he delayed too long, whether the idol would slither back over his body again, press him down and fuck him once more; he certainly had the air of impending need, and an inclination towards fulfilling it inside of him. A state he was hardly opposed to, but... if Mettaton had spared him this opportunity, he should try to make something of it. His gaze turns thoughtful, even as he continues scanning over his lover's body, distraction that it was from coherent thought.
If he could move at all. That really was the sticking point. Emet-Selch's entire body felt stiff, glued to the bed, positioned between pillows and trapped in this prison of softness and uncooperative muscles. His legs remained spread, and his ass thoroughly exposed, lifted not only for Mettaton's use, but now for his observation as well- it's enough to keep his pulse likewise lifted, fully aware of what he must look like, how used, how wet. And how much more slick he would become if he moved... and he was no less curious to find out what it would look and feel like now, with these added loads allowed to spill over.
But Mettaton had suggested a shower... lifetimes ago, by this point. Emet-Selch wanted to be fucked, no matter how inadvisably his body considered the prospect (a warning to be ignored), he wanted to feel come slide down his thighs, and he wanted to be washed off as well, to settle warm and clean and comfortable(ish) with his lover. That these were somewhat mutually exclusive options didn't matter: he would have them all in some order or another.
And so he decides: he would make a stand, for... attempting to stand. And would perhaps even walk. And if that didn't work, then the other two options would immediately be in play. They would... probably be immediately in play regardless, but he can't think that far ahead. All he knows is that he can't take too long on the sitting up part of affairs, lest he be caught immediately by the sensation of come spilling from his body, and be rendered unable to move from the awareness of that alone.
Taking a breath, Emet-Selch steels himself as best he can for the inevitable discomfort of changing positions and moving his body whatsoever. Rather than attempt to sit up, he twists himself onto his side first, hissing anyway as... any number of things protested this new arrangement. Wounds on his back lodged their complaints, as did his neck out of solidarity, though the greatest offender were his hips, his thighs, his ass. No matter how much he knew that Mettaton's erection belonged inside of his body as much as possible (a truth he knew Mettaton concurred with), parts of his body had failed to accept this, and had the gall to become sore at being stretched and rubbed for extended periods of time.
Alongside that, his muscles in general were just sore from exertion, and had stiffened into place while the Ascian had been on his back, thighs splayed, hips raised (a natural position). On his side, Emet-Selch lingers for several moments, half-curled and more than a bit awkward in his position amidst pillows and covers. But with pulls of his arms (while continuing to avoid sitting up at all), he drags and shifts himself towards the edge of the bed. Bits of fabric attempt to stick to his back and shoulders before being tugged away, reopening wounds a degree; thin trails of blood escape from several clotted bites, but Emet-Selch doesn't notice. Dragging his legs over the edge, he tries to roll himself into standing up all at once- no delay, nothing by degrees, an all or nothing attempt. He would stand, or he would crumple, and he would be a mess in either case.
--And he stands. Sort of. Badly. A sound escapes his throat, something pained and sharp and his entire body flinches as his breathing goes shaky. Just being upright so suddenly leaves him dizzy, and it felt as though every part of his body was aching in unison. But he stands, even as his legs tremble, and his eyes are tightly closed, and he gropes out an arm to reach for Mettaton's- shoulder, possibly, whatever he could grasp for some kind of support. He even takes a sort of shuffling step, though it would be optimistic to call it any kind of deliberate movement on Emet-Selch's part, rather than something akin to a stumble, a lurch forward. His lower body ached terribly, not approving of what he was doing whatsoever- almost to the point where he doesn't notice inevitability dripping down between his thighs.
Almost. A wash of heat runs through him that vies with pain for his attention, a confusing mix of sensations for his body to adjust to. He was upright, in pain, dizzy, overheated, indisposed. Milky come was also beginning to trail down skin already marked by bruise or previous release. It could've been demeaning, this sign of both weakness and use, but he could only revel in it. He's also not entirely sure if he can walk, but in this moment he's not inclined to try. Standing alone was taking a lot out of him.]