[Somehow, the deepest part of their sex had taken a twist, and Mettaton wasn't immune to that. He could tell it was forced on Emet-Selch's part by the lack of sound, as he tamps himself down. And he couldn't even feel upset at him for it.
If anything, he just felt self-conscious. Upset, but a lot of it pointed toward himself. Emet-Selch is performing for his sake, or just to get through this and be done with it, and Mettaton felt his heart sink as the Ascian spills over in search of relief from his condition.
Even on his end, though, he found the pinpricks of pleasure in feeling Emet-Selch's load left between his thighs. Had he not been mourning the lack of something, aware that it was leaving Emet-Selch stuck between the rift of reality and fantasy. He could just feel the way Emet-Selch distanced himself, and as the mess is left behind, Mettaton closes his eye, burying himself in his lover's scent for a moment longer to pretend anything was the way it should be, him capable of performing as desired.
But with that moment passed, Mettaton felt no more relieved for it. Electricity courses, a livewire in his body that impels him to move and squirm, though he tries to still himself. Biting his lower lip, it was the most akin to arousal this body could manage—but there was no oversensitivity, no relief, and no end to it save for quiet despondency. It was too sorrowful, and a longing without reprieve, this particular session. It frustrated.
So Mettaton puts his energy toward lifting himself from Emet-Selch's body. His vision skirts over his waist, remaining downcast as he lifts himself from the bed. He doesn't regard the come between his own thighs as he wanders toward a neatly folded hand towel, placed here from the days of injury behind them, and then returns to Emet-Selch's side. Tucking his legs neatly underneath himself, he sits at about hip-level to Emet-Selch and moves in to carefully and effectively clean him, wanting to leave him more comfortable than before.]
.....
[But he can't find words. He felt almost near tears with his own longing, but he didn't even have his own magic. He couldn't cry.
It's his cock, first, that Mettaton quickly tidies. A thorough, but gentle wrap of his fist encased in towel, which then moves down to anywhere else that needed cleaning. With Emet-Selch relieved of that, Mettaton lifts his gaze to meet Emet-Selch's with heat, with electricity, with longing still alight in them, legs shifting in place despite his natural poise.
And he shifts himself to be closer to Emet-Selch's upper body. Towel set aside, Mettaton releases his shapeshift, back-folded ears disappearing as he places a hand just below the scar left over Emet-Selch's chest.]
I got ahead of myself. [And Emet-Selch, in the process. He wasn't sure whether to apologize over it. It simply felt unfortunate, but if he'd only the right anatomy... this wouldn't be an issue.]
no subject
If anything, he just felt self-conscious. Upset, but a lot of it pointed toward himself. Emet-Selch is performing for his sake, or just to get through this and be done with it, and Mettaton felt his heart sink as the Ascian spills over in search of relief from his condition.
Even on his end, though, he found the pinpricks of pleasure in feeling Emet-Selch's load left between his thighs. Had he not been mourning the lack of something, aware that it was leaving Emet-Selch stuck between the rift of reality and fantasy. He could just feel the way Emet-Selch distanced himself, and as the mess is left behind, Mettaton closes his eye, burying himself in his lover's scent for a moment longer to pretend anything was the way it should be, him capable of performing as desired.
But with that moment passed, Mettaton felt no more relieved for it. Electricity courses, a livewire in his body that impels him to move and squirm, though he tries to still himself. Biting his lower lip, it was the most akin to arousal this body could manage—but there was no oversensitivity, no relief, and no end to it save for quiet despondency. It was too sorrowful, and a longing without reprieve, this particular session. It frustrated.
So Mettaton puts his energy toward lifting himself from Emet-Selch's body. His vision skirts over his waist, remaining downcast as he lifts himself from the bed. He doesn't regard the come between his own thighs as he wanders toward a neatly folded hand towel, placed here from the days of injury behind them, and then returns to Emet-Selch's side. Tucking his legs neatly underneath himself, he sits at about hip-level to Emet-Selch and moves in to carefully and effectively clean him, wanting to leave him more comfortable than before.]
.....
[But he can't find words. He felt almost near tears with his own longing, but he didn't even have his own magic. He couldn't cry.
It's his cock, first, that Mettaton quickly tidies. A thorough, but gentle wrap of his fist encased in towel, which then moves down to anywhere else that needed cleaning. With Emet-Selch relieved of that, Mettaton lifts his gaze to meet Emet-Selch's with heat, with electricity, with longing still alight in them, legs shifting in place despite his natural poise.
And he shifts himself to be closer to Emet-Selch's upper body. Towel set aside, Mettaton releases his shapeshift, back-folded ears disappearing as he places a hand just below the scar left over Emet-Selch's chest.]
I got ahead of myself. [And Emet-Selch, in the process. He wasn't sure whether to apologize over it. It simply felt unfortunate, but if he'd only the right anatomy... this wouldn't be an issue.]