[If he'd had more concentration to spare on anything other than 'remaining vertical' and its various aspects and effects, Emet-Selch might've given Mettaton's verbal shows of support a huff of performative displeasure. Perhaps some look of minor reproach, along with his own spoken complaint over how careless his lover had clearly been with him (even if care had been involved at every step of the way, a way that had involved very few steps, actually), and what trouble it was....
But he's not really capable of speech nor has the capacity to do more than force his legs upright (while using Mettaton for support), while trying to convince himself that the way forward was to move forward, somehow. But he couldn't- though whether that was due more to disagreeable legs, the discomfort involved, or the feeling of dripping come- he couldn't decide. Especially when Mettaton was right there, a source of safety and reassurance somehow (for all that he'd been the one responsible for leaving him like this), someone to lean on and huddle close to, and Emet-Selch veered between stubbornly maintaining his current posture (useless, he couldn't get anywhere like this), and giving in and collapsing back into his Bonded's waiting arms and onto his waiting cock. To use what energy he had on clinging to him instead, to catch his breath and bury himself against him, and give up on ever going anywhere at all.
But he remains standing somehow, kind of, trembling faintly from it all, including Mettaton's encouraging stroke to his back (though he couldn't tell if it was an encouragement towards staying upright and attempting A Walk, or an encouragement towards giving up and succumbing to him). And he trembles that bit more when he feels Mettaton's understanding over what was taking place, what they both knew would happen if he made some ill-advised but brave hobble towards independence. Scarcely able to move of his own accord anyway, Emet-Selch is shuffled as Mettaton directs, tensing that bit more in place at the combination of a cock pressed to his thigh, and a hand moving to reach between them, fingers unerringly sliding over bruises made slick, trailing all the way to his entrance.
Between Mettaton's reaction, the damp kiss to his chest, and the intimacy of his finger- Emet-Selch lost any chance of moving of his own accord. So when his Bonded pushes him over, he catches himself against the bed, willingly spreads his legs for him, and shudders at the hold of his ass, of Mettaton naturally moving up and around him to get a better look of what he'd wrought. He can only imagine his own appearance, in both how thick come was dripping steadily from him, making his ass and thighs ever more of a sloppy mess, as well as how it fit into his composure as a whole. Or... lack of composure, really, as he existed only in these individual moments, feeling the ache of his body, a body that was there for Mettaton's perusal and for no other purpose.
Could it really be called standing, at this point? Hunched over the bed with his legs spread, his arms supporting himself against the mattress, his knees with a persistent tremble to them, barely even pretending to want to do anything other than kneel upon the covers he'd barely left. Emet-Selch would be exposed to him regardless, a sight made that much more explicit as Mettaton spreads his ass apart, and his breath hitches on a low, ragged moan. So ragged that it's barely recognizable as one, context mostly giving it away.
It felt uncontrollable, this display, because it was. Permitted some pretense of standing, an allowance only for the sake of this, a result they both wanted, as though drawn to this excess, this indulgence. To watch or feel Mettaton's claim of him spilling down his body, in a way that marked him even more by it- that he wasn't meant to only keep his come tidily hidden inside, but to show his possession in starkest detail. There could be no mistaking of who he belonged to, not with this proof coated between his legs.
Mettaton was pressing his glans to his sore, dripping entrance, and Emet-Selch is made to cry out- or try to, anyway- his shivering only becoming more pronounced, entirely conscious of the effect this sight was having upon his lover, how hard he was made by it. How his cock must look with his own come smeared across the swollen tip in a milky sheen. It's something he nudges back against, as though to assist in its spread, to demonstrate his want for it and him, this desire for his lover to take in this sight and this use of him. He was more empty now, wasn't he? Emet-Selch was made to hold both his cock and his come, and one of those had pulled free, while the other was in the process of escape.
And his body's priorities naturally shift away from any concerns about discomfort and onto to a favoring of lust, onto the promise of more sex, on having another erection stroking his body. It didn't matter that he was collapsing, sore, spent- pushed to his limits and left shaking. All of this: his exposure and vulnerability, his weakness, his lover's arousal, Mettaton's ejaculate smearing copiously between them, something he wished he had the balance to spare to move a hand between his legs to feel for himself- yes, how could he care about pain when he had everything else to contend with? More important things like Mettaton's erection and his pleasure? As though to assure him that his priorities were moving in the right direction, the Ascian's own cock begins to stiffen once more, as though attracted to obscenity itself. But it's a welcome heaviness between his legs, and he doesn't want to think about what that says about him, that a body so given over to fatigue would still find it in itself to stir one more time for this.]
no subject
But he's not really capable of speech nor has the capacity to do more than force his legs upright (while using Mettaton for support), while trying to convince himself that the way forward was to move forward, somehow. But he couldn't- though whether that was due more to disagreeable legs, the discomfort involved, or the feeling of dripping come- he couldn't decide. Especially when Mettaton was right there, a source of safety and reassurance somehow (for all that he'd been the one responsible for leaving him like this), someone to lean on and huddle close to, and Emet-Selch veered between stubbornly maintaining his current posture (useless, he couldn't get anywhere like this), and giving in and collapsing back into his Bonded's waiting arms and onto his waiting cock. To use what energy he had on clinging to him instead, to catch his breath and bury himself against him, and give up on ever going anywhere at all.
But he remains standing somehow, kind of, trembling faintly from it all, including Mettaton's encouraging stroke to his back (though he couldn't tell if it was an encouragement towards staying upright and attempting A Walk, or an encouragement towards giving up and succumbing to him). And he trembles that bit more when he feels Mettaton's understanding over what was taking place, what they both knew would happen if he made some ill-advised but brave hobble towards independence. Scarcely able to move of his own accord anyway, Emet-Selch is shuffled as Mettaton directs, tensing that bit more in place at the combination of a cock pressed to his thigh, and a hand moving to reach between them, fingers unerringly sliding over bruises made slick, trailing all the way to his entrance.
Between Mettaton's reaction, the damp kiss to his chest, and the intimacy of his finger- Emet-Selch lost any chance of moving of his own accord. So when his Bonded pushes him over, he catches himself against the bed, willingly spreads his legs for him, and shudders at the hold of his ass, of Mettaton naturally moving up and around him to get a better look of what he'd wrought. He can only imagine his own appearance, in both how thick come was dripping steadily from him, making his ass and thighs ever more of a sloppy mess, as well as how it fit into his composure as a whole. Or... lack of composure, really, as he existed only in these individual moments, feeling the ache of his body, a body that was there for Mettaton's perusal and for no other purpose.
Could it really be called standing, at this point? Hunched over the bed with his legs spread, his arms supporting himself against the mattress, his knees with a persistent tremble to them, barely even pretending to want to do anything other than kneel upon the covers he'd barely left. Emet-Selch would be exposed to him regardless, a sight made that much more explicit as Mettaton spreads his ass apart, and his breath hitches on a low, ragged moan. So ragged that it's barely recognizable as one, context mostly giving it away.
It felt uncontrollable, this display, because it was. Permitted some pretense of standing, an allowance only for the sake of this, a result they both wanted, as though drawn to this excess, this indulgence. To watch or feel Mettaton's claim of him spilling down his body, in a way that marked him even more by it- that he wasn't meant to only keep his come tidily hidden inside, but to show his possession in starkest detail. There could be no mistaking of who he belonged to, not with this proof coated between his legs.
Mettaton was pressing his glans to his sore, dripping entrance, and Emet-Selch is made to cry out- or try to, anyway- his shivering only becoming more pronounced, entirely conscious of the effect this sight was having upon his lover, how hard he was made by it. How his cock must look with his own come smeared across the swollen tip in a milky sheen. It's something he nudges back against, as though to assist in its spread, to demonstrate his want for it and him, this desire for his lover to take in this sight and this use of him. He was more empty now, wasn't he? Emet-Selch was made to hold both his cock and his come, and one of those had pulled free, while the other was in the process of escape.
And his body's priorities naturally shift away from any concerns about discomfort and onto to a favoring of lust, onto the promise of more sex, on having another erection stroking his body. It didn't matter that he was collapsing, sore, spent- pushed to his limits and left shaking. All of this: his exposure and vulnerability, his weakness, his lover's arousal, Mettaton's ejaculate smearing copiously between them, something he wished he had the balance to spare to move a hand between his legs to feel for himself- yes, how could he care about pain when he had everything else to contend with? More important things like Mettaton's erection and his pleasure? As though to assure him that his priorities were moving in the right direction, the Ascian's own cock begins to stiffen once more, as though attracted to obscenity itself. But it's a welcome heaviness between his legs, and he doesn't want to think about what that says about him, that a body so given over to fatigue would still find it in itself to stir one more time for this.]