[And Mettaton's giggle gets an ever more pointed look from Emet-Selch, completely unsurprised by his reaction, and also completely unable to keep himself from responding to it anyway with demonstrative irritation and an added sigh. But it was little disguise from his underlying approval for the state Mettaton had left him in, his artistry evident on his body anywhere one cared to look. Despite the way they had been forced to stop, resulting in his lingering need for Mettaton's company (with the side of fear at the thought of not having it), and this exhibition of the dangers their mutual intensity posed... it was an attractive condition.
It was no wonder that his lover was drawn towards touching those stained places on his lower body, and the Ascian's muscles tense underneath his lips, fully conscious himself over the way his own come had dried against his abdomen, how each of his orgasms had mostly ended up resting there, or had been left to drip down along his cock. How aroused he'd been, and how desperate, and how blatant that record of it was, displayed upon his own body for Mettaton's amusement or delectation. This explicit proof that he was so enamored of and attracted to his lover's cock that his own required no stimulation in order to find climax.
It was an arousing memory, and Mettaton was in an arousing position, mouthing his skin and rubbing it, marking him all over again with his face, layers upon layers of claim. And the robot didn't need to have a visible erection for Emet-Selch to know of the man's arousal, how readily he was stoked, and how deeply he was desired. This encounter had led to any number of images to return to, each more alluring than the next. If he weren't so utterly spent, depleted, the sight of Mettaton anywhere near his lower body would've had him stiffening. Just having Mettaton anywhere near him at all could have that effect.
Mettaton lingered at his abdomen, and Emet-Selch recognized the mix of feelings going through him; even without the Bond, he would've known. Moving a hand, he touches the robot's hair, fingers slowly trailing through it, stroking him very gently. Desire remained, but so did discomfort... there was the memory of spread legs and thick white fluid dripping between them, the continued evidence of come decorating parts of his body, and the recollection of fury. Of spite, vindictiveness and malice, insult and distress. The consequence of indulging so far.
He can feel his lover gentling, and his touch to the idol's hair slows further, to the point of resting warmly against his head. Mettaton shifts himself upward, and his hand falls to the side, arm moving to try and wrap around the puca instead, to encourage him to stay close. Mettaton's own hand rested against his cheek, and he rubs his face into it, just a little. Affection, even if it wasn't quite simple.
The verbal admission of his lust gets a look of mixed empathy and apology. Desire was such a normal state between them, and to be unable to give into it was... unfortunate. But he was grateful for Mettaton's restraint, even if he disliked the conflict of it all. That they were given more proof that the strength of their emotions unfettered could lead to pained distress and nearly grievous consequence- it unsettled.
Attention turns instead to more visible scars, and Emet-Selch watches as his lover's gaze takes in those of his chest. Evident and clear, a mix of those unwanted and those asked for, on a day both difficult and necessary. He remembered the sight of his Bondmate so ill, his shape distorted; how warm the interior of his body was, and the texture of his organs. The recollection of traumas seen and experienced. The effort to try and face things side by side.... A complicated memory, as the most important ones often were.
His shoulder. Mettaton's comment has him tense it briefly as he meets his eyes again for a moment, before glancing aside, expression both contemplative and uncomfortable. It wasn't necessary for him to see it to know that it would scar. But he knew just as well that he wouldn't try to get it healed with magic, would keep it clean but otherwise leave it alone; another for his growing collection of permanent markings. But in the end, it was like the one on his neck: a reminder. Though he would carry the memory regardless of what was left etched on his skin, to be able to touch it made it that much more immediate. It wasn't a lesson to forget, and he wondered how many more he'd acquire before they found a way not to do this.
He sighs again, but it's a softer sound, tired and worn. Looking to Mettaton again, he shakes his head no; his lover really hadn't held back. Emet-Selch hadn't wanted him to, and on most occasions it went perfectly. It was only when the Ascian hadn't been able to live up to expectations that it had failed... scars were an appropriate price for that.
(Even now, it was hard not to think that if Mettaton had stayed to tear his throat out, that it would've been warranted. It was a feeling difficult to clamp down on, that went against not only ingrained habit and the fresh memory of all of that intense emotion (the desperation to quell his lover's rage at all cost), but what felt like some intrinsic part of him.)]
no subject
It was no wonder that his lover was drawn towards touching those stained places on his lower body, and the Ascian's muscles tense underneath his lips, fully conscious himself over the way his own come had dried against his abdomen, how each of his orgasms had mostly ended up resting there, or had been left to drip down along his cock. How aroused he'd been, and how desperate, and how blatant that record of it was, displayed upon his own body for Mettaton's amusement or delectation. This explicit proof that he was so enamored of and attracted to his lover's cock that his own required no stimulation in order to find climax.
It was an arousing memory, and Mettaton was in an arousing position, mouthing his skin and rubbing it, marking him all over again with his face, layers upon layers of claim. And the robot didn't need to have a visible erection for Emet-Selch to know of the man's arousal, how readily he was stoked, and how deeply he was desired. This encounter had led to any number of images to return to, each more alluring than the next. If he weren't so utterly spent, depleted, the sight of Mettaton anywhere near his lower body would've had him stiffening. Just having Mettaton anywhere near him at all could have that effect.
Mettaton lingered at his abdomen, and Emet-Selch recognized the mix of feelings going through him; even without the Bond, he would've known. Moving a hand, he touches the robot's hair, fingers slowly trailing through it, stroking him very gently. Desire remained, but so did discomfort... there was the memory of spread legs and thick white fluid dripping between them, the continued evidence of come decorating parts of his body, and the recollection of fury. Of spite, vindictiveness and malice, insult and distress. The consequence of indulging so far.
He can feel his lover gentling, and his touch to the idol's hair slows further, to the point of resting warmly against his head. Mettaton shifts himself upward, and his hand falls to the side, arm moving to try and wrap around the puca instead, to encourage him to stay close. Mettaton's own hand rested against his cheek, and he rubs his face into it, just a little. Affection, even if it wasn't quite simple.
The verbal admission of his lust gets a look of mixed empathy and apology. Desire was such a normal state between them, and to be unable to give into it was... unfortunate. But he was grateful for Mettaton's restraint, even if he disliked the conflict of it all. That they were given more proof that the strength of their emotions unfettered could lead to pained distress and nearly grievous consequence- it unsettled.
Attention turns instead to more visible scars, and Emet-Selch watches as his lover's gaze takes in those of his chest. Evident and clear, a mix of those unwanted and those asked for, on a day both difficult and necessary. He remembered the sight of his Bondmate so ill, his shape distorted; how warm the interior of his body was, and the texture of his organs. The recollection of traumas seen and experienced. The effort to try and face things side by side.... A complicated memory, as the most important ones often were.
His shoulder. Mettaton's comment has him tense it briefly as he meets his eyes again for a moment, before glancing aside, expression both contemplative and uncomfortable. It wasn't necessary for him to see it to know that it would scar. But he knew just as well that he wouldn't try to get it healed with magic, would keep it clean but otherwise leave it alone; another for his growing collection of permanent markings. But in the end, it was like the one on his neck: a reminder. Though he would carry the memory regardless of what was left etched on his skin, to be able to touch it made it that much more immediate. It wasn't a lesson to forget, and he wondered how many more he'd acquire before they found a way not to do this.
He sighs again, but it's a softer sound, tired and worn. Looking to Mettaton again, he shakes his head no; his lover really hadn't held back. Emet-Selch hadn't wanted him to, and on most occasions it went perfectly. It was only when the Ascian hadn't been able to live up to expectations that it had failed... scars were an appropriate price for that.
(Even now, it was hard not to think that if Mettaton had stayed to tear his throat out, that it would've been warranted. It was a feeling difficult to clamp down on, that went against not only ingrained habit and the fresh memory of all of that intense emotion (the desperation to quell his lover's rage at all cost), but what felt like some intrinsic part of him.)]