[There was always another point of amusement to keeping his eyes on Emet-Selch: watching what he'd do. And without voice, every little detail of movement and flit of his gaze was worth his attention, watching him watch him in his explanation or action, from the following of his gaze as he offered him options to the way he'd grab for him, this close.
And if anything, these points of action offered perfect clarity for Mettaton. He knew what his lover wanted. There were options off the menu, and Emet-Selch just wanted Mettaton, and whatever Mettaton would do. But judging by his behavior, settling in place and wrapping his fingers around the back of his neck, staying just where he was would be fine for a while. To remain in bed, to be held, simple as that. That was congenial, and Mettaton smirks upon him for his attempts at kissing that fell flat, just as much as Emet-Selch fell back onto the pillows behind him.
(And, in a distant way, gazing upon Emet-Selch's body and smelling the sex on him, the scent of himself and Emet-Selch entwined together... It was primal, sure, but he relished the thought of his markings of blood and come remaining on his body, as though leaving them to stain skin. It was arousing, possessive, something worth his contentment and pride. ...He couldn't possibly help the way a spark of heat enters his gaze, in spite of their too-recent scare, the air between them fragile as anything. He just couldn't help wanting him, not when he was displayed before him like this.
...It was no wonder a feral-minded version of himself found this body impossible to resist. That he did it at all impressed Mettaton in the present, even though he'd do his best to resist him right now.)
To sate Emet-Selch's need for kisses, the Puca leans in to press one squarely, softly, against his lips. But it's only soft for so long, until it intensifies into a deeper, passionate affair, mouthing and sucking his lip, flicking him with tongue and tasting him, the knowledge of how much come Emet-Selch has consumed coming to the forefront of Mettaton's thoughts to entice. But he wouldn't let it distract him when he wants simply to foster contact, to be with him. At his core, for all of his desires, he only wanted to be touched and loved in return.
It's not a kiss to suffocate, and it has an end. Mettaton lingers against his lips, resting there for a spell as he keeps their fingers laced together — just as they are, squeezing tight and bowing his head to push their foreheads together for an added nudge of affection. ...For knowing each other for almost nine months, it felt like he'd known Emet-Selch for much longer. Perhaps it's their Bond, the way it penetrates them both... He could feel Emet-Selch at all hours of the day, and their interactions deepen with each encounter. Even seeing him in the morning, or wishing him goodnight, all of it compounded into a feeling of familiarity. Moments like these became ones to deepen their bond further, even if it tore them apart first to do it. How long had it been since Mettaton kept the company of someone steadily like this? ...Not as long as he imagines it's been for Emet-Selch, but he finds a renewed appreciation for it anyway. Here, against his lips, he closes his eye and soaks in the moment, all of its fears and its love and its weight. The intensity of it all impresses him and always entices him. Entertains him. Fascinates him. It was effortless.
Drawing back so slightly, Mettaton frees one of his hands to reach for that promised towel — rather, the throw he'd used earlier to wipe off Emet-Selch's face. (He doesn't keep towels near their bed. He should.) Though he appreciates the come and blood slathered on his lover's body, some of it... could go, if he wanted to nap at all comfortably under blankets. It was a different sort of contact, wiping at his abdomen with the dry face of a blanket; moving to a different part and repeating the process on the front of his blood-and-spit coated shoulders and chest, mindful of clotting wounds, to the best of his ability. He clicks his tongue.]
You're such a mess. Look at you. [As though chiding. He was part of the cause: Emet-Selch wouldn't have made all of this mess without Mettaton, after all. But Emet-Selch can't talk back, so he won't bother acknowledging that. The smile on his face suggests that he knows, and he's proud of it.] But we can at least get you dry enough for now...
[Changing his grip on the blanket again, Mettaton forces his way between Emet-Selch's thighs, lifting each and wiping him of any excess ejaculate. Toweling him and watching, his gaze fixed on come and bruise alike — and how much there is, really... Some of it has dried, and some of it yet remains on Emet-Selch's backside, but he wasn't trying to be extremely thorough. He still leans down to kiss his hips, letting go of the throw blanket for a moment to smooth his palms over his thighs, pressing fingers into taut, tender muscle, experimental and investigative.]
no subject
And if anything, these points of action offered perfect clarity for Mettaton. He knew what his lover wanted. There were options off the menu, and Emet-Selch just wanted Mettaton, and whatever Mettaton would do. But judging by his behavior, settling in place and wrapping his fingers around the back of his neck, staying just where he was would be fine for a while. To remain in bed, to be held, simple as that. That was congenial, and Mettaton smirks upon him for his attempts at kissing that fell flat, just as much as Emet-Selch fell back onto the pillows behind him.
(And, in a distant way, gazing upon Emet-Selch's body and smelling the sex on him, the scent of himself and Emet-Selch entwined together... It was primal, sure, but he relished the thought of his markings of blood and come remaining on his body, as though leaving them to stain skin. It was arousing, possessive, something worth his contentment and pride. ...He couldn't possibly help the way a spark of heat enters his gaze, in spite of their too-recent scare, the air between them fragile as anything. He just couldn't help wanting him, not when he was displayed before him like this.
...It was no wonder a feral-minded version of himself found this body impossible to resist. That he did it at all impressed Mettaton in the present, even though he'd do his best to resist him right now.)
To sate Emet-Selch's need for kisses, the Puca leans in to press one squarely, softly, against his lips. But it's only soft for so long, until it intensifies into a deeper, passionate affair, mouthing and sucking his lip, flicking him with tongue and tasting him, the knowledge of how much come Emet-Selch has consumed coming to the forefront of Mettaton's thoughts to entice. But he wouldn't let it distract him when he wants simply to foster contact, to be with him. At his core, for all of his desires, he only wanted to be touched and loved in return.
It's not a kiss to suffocate, and it has an end. Mettaton lingers against his lips, resting there for a spell as he keeps their fingers laced together — just as they are, squeezing tight and bowing his head to push their foreheads together for an added nudge of affection. ...For knowing each other for almost nine months, it felt like he'd known Emet-Selch for much longer. Perhaps it's their Bond, the way it penetrates them both... He could feel Emet-Selch at all hours of the day, and their interactions deepen with each encounter. Even seeing him in the morning, or wishing him goodnight, all of it compounded into a feeling of familiarity. Moments like these became ones to deepen their bond further, even if it tore them apart first to do it. How long had it been since Mettaton kept the company of someone steadily like this? ...Not as long as he imagines it's been for Emet-Selch, but he finds a renewed appreciation for it anyway. Here, against his lips, he closes his eye and soaks in the moment, all of its fears and its love and its weight. The intensity of it all impresses him and always entices him. Entertains him. Fascinates him. It was effortless.
Drawing back so slightly, Mettaton frees one of his hands to reach for that promised towel — rather, the throw he'd used earlier to wipe off Emet-Selch's face. (He doesn't keep towels near their bed. He should.) Though he appreciates the come and blood slathered on his lover's body, some of it... could go, if he wanted to nap at all comfortably under blankets. It was a different sort of contact, wiping at his abdomen with the dry face of a blanket; moving to a different part and repeating the process on the front of his blood-and-spit coated shoulders and chest, mindful of clotting wounds, to the best of his ability. He clicks his tongue.]
You're such a mess. Look at you. [As though chiding. He was part of the cause: Emet-Selch wouldn't have made all of this mess without Mettaton, after all. But Emet-Selch can't talk back, so he won't bother acknowledging that. The smile on his face suggests that he knows, and he's proud of it.] But we can at least get you dry enough for now...
[Changing his grip on the blanket again, Mettaton forces his way between Emet-Selch's thighs, lifting each and wiping him of any excess ejaculate. Toweling him and watching, his gaze fixed on come and bruise alike — and how much there is, really... Some of it has dried, and some of it yet remains on Emet-Selch's backside, but he wasn't trying to be extremely thorough. He still leans down to kiss his hips, letting go of the throw blanket for a moment to smooth his palms over his thighs, pressing fingers into taut, tender muscle, experimental and investigative.]