[It's a good thing Mettaton is graceful enough for both of them; though there's no stumbling, the Ascian still bears a noticeable limp, made slightly worse by how much he'd been ignoring the protests of that injured leg. It was a very unhappy limb, and he cared no more for its opinions than before.
But it doesn't take much in the way of coaxing to get Emet-Selch to fall back upon the bed, imagining in turn the sight of Mettaton above him, the touch of his hands and pressure of his body flush against his skin. Even the idea is absurdly appealing, and with his back against the mattress, it was hard to not dwell on it, closing his eyes for a few moments as he tries to fight off a shiver.
But practicalities remained. Half-assisting with the fastenings of his clothes, half-getting in the way of Mettaton's hands, half-again (somehow) getting distracted by running his own hands up the other man's arms and chest, Emet-Selch stole what scraps of contact that he could. As progressively more skin was exposed to air, his anticipation only grew with it, and though his gaze remains a bit unfocused, his expression conveys something of that sense of longing.
Unfortunately, his skin is not unmarked. It is quite severely marked, in fact, fresh scarring of various depths litters his abdomen and chest, one trailing upwards towards his throat. Perhaps most unpleasant is the sense of deliberation in the marks; this wasn't the result of haphazard battle, but a conscious act on the part of their captors during that week. At least most of the bruising has since faded, apart from some faint discoloration.
A similar pattern can be found at his legs, the very worst scar being the one that extends across the length of one thigh. It still looks sore, for all the healing it's received; the damage beneath it had been extensive.
Not that Emet-Selch particularly cares what he looks like, and he felt no sense of shame or dismay over it; it probably helped that he never viewed his hosts as really being himself. Of far more value was watching Mettaton watch him, and he wondered distantly how much experience the robot had ever had with humans, having lived in a monster-filled society.]
no subject
But it doesn't take much in the way of coaxing to get Emet-Selch to fall back upon the bed, imagining in turn the sight of Mettaton above him, the touch of his hands and pressure of his body flush against his skin. Even the idea is absurdly appealing, and with his back against the mattress, it was hard to not dwell on it, closing his eyes for a few moments as he tries to fight off a shiver.
But practicalities remained. Half-assisting with the fastenings of his clothes, half-getting in the way of Mettaton's hands, half-again (somehow) getting distracted by running his own hands up the other man's arms and chest, Emet-Selch stole what scraps of contact that he could. As progressively more skin was exposed to air, his anticipation only grew with it, and though his gaze remains a bit unfocused, his expression conveys something of that sense of longing.
Unfortunately, his skin is not unmarked. It is quite severely marked, in fact, fresh scarring of various depths litters his abdomen and chest, one trailing upwards towards his throat. Perhaps most unpleasant is the sense of deliberation in the marks; this wasn't the result of haphazard battle, but a conscious act on the part of their captors during that week. At least most of the bruising has since faded, apart from some faint discoloration.
A similar pattern can be found at his legs, the very worst scar being the one that extends across the length of one thigh. It still looks sore, for all the healing it's received; the damage beneath it had been extensive.
Not that Emet-Selch particularly cares what he looks like, and he felt no sense of shame or dismay over it; it probably helped that he never viewed his hosts as really being himself. Of far more value was watching Mettaton watch him, and he wondered distantly how much experience the robot had ever had with humans, having lived in a monster-filled society.]