[And Emet-Selch would bring it up at some point, that of all the places Mettaton could have chosen to get semen onto, that it went right into his hair. And not even as a result of the robot shooting it onto his face, with some collateral damage, which would at least be justifiably erotic. ...Even so, for all that he does notice it, he doesn't voice that complaint, nor does he feel actually bothered.
It was too affectionate, for one thing. And it had felt so long since there had been any sort of sexual mess between, that there was something nostalgic about it. A strange thing for him to miss, but there it was.
(There were still things to regain. Mettaton's senses of smell and taste, as it was a small regret still that the robot couldn't experience their coupling in those particular ways. But in comparison to what they had regained, it was a minor detail- something to add when they had the choice.)
Despite their conversations, grief-stricken and hindered by flowers, that he knew very well that Mettaton was hurt by how he'd acted, the Ascian didn't think of it as having undermined his lover's confidence in himself. Whether it was denial or ignorance, turning away from something that was left him feeling worse about his own behavior, he thought of it as a pain more straightforward, akin to the loneliness he felt for himself.
And which had already been soothed immeasurably by what they'd done, and by the promise of what more they could do. In grasps that each of them could feel in their entirety, to the appreciation of the heat their bodies could collect when flush (and the contrasting coolness of the open air).
It was hard to shift any closer, but they both tried, the mage conscious of his lover's own shudders, both of them left exposed to each other. Raw and wanting, needs that they soothed and showed best through sex, it seemed- and all that went with it, such as embraces like this. Words too, which felt easier to find when they were surrounded by the signs of their particular intimacy.
A small noise comes from his throat as Mettaton kisses his neck. Naturally, he gives it to him, hair falling to the side as he tilts his head.]
I'll follow you, wherever your life or chance takes you. I've managed it this far, haven't I?
[If not consciously or deliberately; there hadn't been any choice to make, when he'd found himself here, in Mettaton's wake. Nor did he recall them being separated before being brought here. But if he had any power, any choice- how could he take any other path? If there was a way to feel not utterly alone, without giving in to rebirth and the true end of this life, it would be in Mettaton's persistent company.
And... he wanted that. To see Mettaton's happiness, to aid or encourage his ambitions (to criticise and complain), to provide whatever support was called for. To find some version of his own happiness with him... the closest thing to a normal life that he could still have.
And his desire for it all was most readily expressed bodily, in the shift of bodies and hitch of breaths. The quivers of tension that already wished to gather in him, even if he still needed time to recover. Mettaton's arousal was inescapable and appealing, and he wanted to encourage it, to feel it, and to give his lover all of his own responses in return. Exhaling another small, pleased noise, he leans into his touch.]
no subject
It was too affectionate, for one thing. And it had felt so long since there had been any sort of sexual mess between, that there was something nostalgic about it. A strange thing for him to miss, but there it was.
(There were still things to regain. Mettaton's senses of smell and taste, as it was a small regret still that the robot couldn't experience their coupling in those particular ways. But in comparison to what they had regained, it was a minor detail- something to add when they had the choice.)
Despite their conversations, grief-stricken and hindered by flowers, that he knew very well that Mettaton was hurt by how he'd acted, the Ascian didn't think of it as having undermined his lover's confidence in himself. Whether it was denial or ignorance, turning away from something that was left him feeling worse about his own behavior, he thought of it as a pain more straightforward, akin to the loneliness he felt for himself.
And which had already been soothed immeasurably by what they'd done, and by the promise of what more they could do. In grasps that each of them could feel in their entirety, to the appreciation of the heat their bodies could collect when flush (and the contrasting coolness of the open air).
It was hard to shift any closer, but they both tried, the mage conscious of his lover's own shudders, both of them left exposed to each other. Raw and wanting, needs that they soothed and showed best through sex, it seemed- and all that went with it, such as embraces like this. Words too, which felt easier to find when they were surrounded by the signs of their particular intimacy.
A small noise comes from his throat as Mettaton kisses his neck. Naturally, he gives it to him, hair falling to the side as he tilts his head.]
I'll follow you, wherever your life or chance takes you. I've managed it this far, haven't I?
[If not consciously or deliberately; there hadn't been any choice to make, when he'd found himself here, in Mettaton's wake. Nor did he recall them being separated before being brought here. But if he had any power, any choice- how could he take any other path? If there was a way to feel not utterly alone, without giving in to rebirth and the true end of this life, it would be in Mettaton's persistent company.
And... he wanted that. To see Mettaton's happiness, to aid or encourage his ambitions (to criticise and complain), to provide whatever support was called for. To find some version of his own happiness with him... the closest thing to a normal life that he could still have.
And his desire for it all was most readily expressed bodily, in the shift of bodies and hitch of breaths. The quivers of tension that already wished to gather in him, even if he still needed time to recover. Mettaton's arousal was inescapable and appealing, and he wanted to encourage it, to feel it, and to give his lover all of his own responses in return. Exhaling another small, pleased noise, he leans into his touch.]
I love you... after all.