[There was a lot to observe, he knew. How marked he was, how claimed... every sign of his subjugation to him. Even if it had almost come at a price, it didn't erase how attractive of a look it was. And even though it meant living with being sticky and thoroughly unwashed for a time longer, to be surrounded by these signs of his lover's possession of him, to rest while still smelling their sex, still feeling it dried upon his skin- it wasn't the worst of things by far.
Emet-Selch tries to make some sort of low, pleased sound, ill-advised as it would be, but not much of anything emerges. Which is probably for the best anyway; it just would've sounded like a staticy rasp, context alone indicating pleasure or approval. And he had the rest of his manner to indicate that, tired as he was. But a soft kiss that turns into a deeper one- that was exactly what he wanted.
Even though he has no energy for any sort of followthrough or particular arousal, it's the sort of kiss that would've caused a moan, and which did cause his pulse to rise a notch. Mettaton's own passion was always catching, the sort of thing Emet-Selch had little resistance to- whenever he wasn't trying to incite it himself. Any effort to entice each another tended to be successful, attracted as they were to each other. Even now, when he knew they weren't actively trying to bed one another, weren't trying to tempt towards another round, it was impossible to remove all trace of heat between their contact. Whether it was represented through the threading of their fingers, or the depth of a kiss, the slipping of tongues against one another's, or the hint of suction- passion always remained. It was a natural part of them.
And it was hard to forget all that he'd taken into his mouth over this past... while. Both Mettaton's cock and his come, repeatedly- and the thought of how much he'd swallowed down, the memory of the taste of him thick in his mouth, was a deeply pleasurable one. He would always want to suck him off, or lick the excess from his fingers. And even if those earliest rounds had led to this, with the damaging of his throat, the rendering of him unable to speak and all that had followed because of his inability to vocalize sufficient praise- he didn't regret it. He didn't think they should've gone easier on him either, and he knew he'd want Mettaton to fuck his throat just as thoroughly in future. They would just... have to be a little more careful elsewhere, that was all.
Though he's a touch breathless at the end of the kiss, it's only a touch. Brushing his lips across his afterward in the faintest of nuzzles, with the press of their foreheads together, along with the union of their hands- he felt loved. And that in itself would be enough to take his breath, loving him in return just as severely. That it felt that bit sharper, heavier- Emet-Selch assumed that was due to what had just happened, heights of emotion finding a sort of catharsis, a release into utter affection and care that could reach ever deeper. But even when they weren't tearing each other open like this- physically, emotionally- he found the way they settled into one another reassuring. There was an ease there that was both restful and anything but, considering how frequently they turned towards passionate entwining. But even then, what was that but a somewhat more energetic display of affection?
Intensity was always there, no matter how gentle or impassioned they were being. They just had to find ways to channel it that wouldn't end with the Ascian's throat torn out.
But for now there was this. There was aftercare and love and soreness and mess, a considerable amount of them all. And Emet-Selch sighs quietly when Mettaton pulls back slightly, enough to take up a blanket that had become a towel, wiping up some of the excess... everything, that he'd been slathered in. Coated in. Stained by. Blood and come, sweat and saliva- the four cornerstones of their union.
Mettaton's comment does get a look of mild objection, as though to protest not only his current state, but his lover's hand in it (even if it was the result of his cock primarily, or his teeth... though his claws had played some role as well), along with his current non-verbal status. It's a very efficient look that way, far more so than any sort of speech would be. Mettaton's pride was also expected and- well. He can't blame him. To render him as thoroughly used as this, in absolute disarray, it was something worth appreciation (and as uncomfortable as it was, Emet-Selch found it no less impressive, even if he couldn't see it all).
Cleaning his thighs of excesses of come (there sure was a lot... which was satisfying to realize, and a point of strange smugness, to have inspired his lover to leave him with this much), he knew there would still be a certain amount of residue, but Emet-Selch appreciated Mettaton's overall gentleness towards him. And even if he did still feel like a mess and knew he looked like one, considering all that had already dried on him... it was better. The consideration alone made it better.
Tilting his head up a little (though not for too long, it wasn't exactly comfortable), Emet-Selch watches Mettaton's kiss to his hip, the palpitations over his thighs. Bruised skin and tired muscle- legs that had spent more time spread around his lover than otherwise, tight and tensing. Even now they twinged a little on reflex from being prodded. But even sore... it was nice to feel his touch on him regardless.]
no subject
Emet-Selch tries to make some sort of low, pleased sound, ill-advised as it would be, but not much of anything emerges. Which is probably for the best anyway; it just would've sounded like a staticy rasp, context alone indicating pleasure or approval. And he had the rest of his manner to indicate that, tired as he was. But a soft kiss that turns into a deeper one- that was exactly what he wanted.
Even though he has no energy for any sort of followthrough or particular arousal, it's the sort of kiss that would've caused a moan, and which did cause his pulse to rise a notch. Mettaton's own passion was always catching, the sort of thing Emet-Selch had little resistance to- whenever he wasn't trying to incite it himself. Any effort to entice each another tended to be successful, attracted as they were to each other. Even now, when he knew they weren't actively trying to bed one another, weren't trying to tempt towards another round, it was impossible to remove all trace of heat between their contact. Whether it was represented through the threading of their fingers, or the depth of a kiss, the slipping of tongues against one another's, or the hint of suction- passion always remained. It was a natural part of them.
And it was hard to forget all that he'd taken into his mouth over this past... while. Both Mettaton's cock and his come, repeatedly- and the thought of how much he'd swallowed down, the memory of the taste of him thick in his mouth, was a deeply pleasurable one. He would always want to suck him off, or lick the excess from his fingers. And even if those earliest rounds had led to this, with the damaging of his throat, the rendering of him unable to speak and all that had followed because of his inability to vocalize sufficient praise- he didn't regret it. He didn't think they should've gone easier on him either, and he knew he'd want Mettaton to fuck his throat just as thoroughly in future. They would just... have to be a little more careful elsewhere, that was all.
Though he's a touch breathless at the end of the kiss, it's only a touch. Brushing his lips across his afterward in the faintest of nuzzles, with the press of their foreheads together, along with the union of their hands- he felt loved. And that in itself would be enough to take his breath, loving him in return just as severely. That it felt that bit sharper, heavier- Emet-Selch assumed that was due to what had just happened, heights of emotion finding a sort of catharsis, a release into utter affection and care that could reach ever deeper. But even when they weren't tearing each other open like this- physically, emotionally- he found the way they settled into one another reassuring. There was an ease there that was both restful and anything but, considering how frequently they turned towards passionate entwining. But even then, what was that but a somewhat more energetic display of affection?
Intensity was always there, no matter how gentle or impassioned they were being. They just had to find ways to channel it that wouldn't end with the Ascian's throat torn out.
But for now there was this. There was aftercare and love and soreness and mess, a considerable amount of them all. And Emet-Selch sighs quietly when Mettaton pulls back slightly, enough to take up a blanket that had become a towel, wiping up some of the excess... everything, that he'd been slathered in. Coated in. Stained by. Blood and come, sweat and saliva- the four cornerstones of their union.
Mettaton's comment does get a look of mild objection, as though to protest not only his current state, but his lover's hand in it (even if it was the result of his cock primarily, or his teeth... though his claws had played some role as well), along with his current non-verbal status. It's a very efficient look that way, far more so than any sort of speech would be. Mettaton's pride was also expected and- well. He can't blame him. To render him as thoroughly used as this, in absolute disarray, it was something worth appreciation (and as uncomfortable as it was, Emet-Selch found it no less impressive, even if he couldn't see it all).
Cleaning his thighs of excesses of come (there sure was a lot... which was satisfying to realize, and a point of strange smugness, to have inspired his lover to leave him with this much), he knew there would still be a certain amount of residue, but Emet-Selch appreciated Mettaton's overall gentleness towards him. And even if he did still feel like a mess and knew he looked like one, considering all that had already dried on him... it was better. The consideration alone made it better.
Tilting his head up a little (though not for too long, it wasn't exactly comfortable), Emet-Selch watches Mettaton's kiss to his hip, the palpitations over his thighs. Bruised skin and tired muscle- legs that had spent more time spread around his lover than otherwise, tight and tensing. Even now they twinged a little on reflex from being prodded. But even sore... it was nice to feel his touch on him regardless.]