[Emet-Selch had come to believe that intimacy and vulnerability- if not impossible in their prior bodily configurations, too bitter a thing to consider. But it increasingly seemed as though 'fixing' that problem didn't fix anything at all; the problem now wasn't a lack of lubrication.
And while he should have known as much, it felt especially bitter to realize, to experience. They would always be like this. Whatever they did, something would break down between them. And this time they'd been expecting different things, he guessed... and he didn't adapt when Mettaton decided on what course they should take. And rather than give in, Emet-Selch would spite them both, the penalty for trying to look after him when he was determined to wound himself.
Mettaton touches his face; he twitches, displeased, not in the mood to accept kindness and unwilling to face his lover's regrets. The show of it only left him feeling worse, somewhere between guilt and resentment.]
Stop that. [Comes the quick, sharp reply, eyes briefly flashing to him before closing entirely. He doesn't clarify what the 'that' is, whether it was his apologies, his being reasonable in the aftermath while the Ascian wasn't prepared to be, or anything else.] At least finish what you started, I'm not becoming any less sore.
[Or rather, it would only grow more noticeable the less aroused he became, and where he hadn't been thinking of it at the time, he was conscious of it now. While he'd been stuffing him inside himself, it had hurt, in a way that he knew it wasn't supposed to, but he had been stiff enough to counter it, the pleasure greatly increasing his tolerance. But now, though he hadn't yet gone soft, he could tell that fullness was depleting as rapidly as it could.
Of course, he knew he wasn't presenting Mettaton with a very appealing prospect: fucking a tense, upset man who was bound to be hurt by it. Nor did he know how to change things or fix that, to give in and deny his nature for long enough to convince him to continue. It wasn't dutiful, the way Emet-Selch regarded him or this; he wanted this combination still, if in a way entirely removed from the pleasure of sex. He missed him. Too much to tolerate going slowly, it seemed.
Aware of the irony of his reaction bringing things to a halt instead, it doesn't do anything to make him feel any better about the situation, his upset something that could feed on itself, indefinitely.]
no subject
And while he should have known as much, it felt especially bitter to realize, to experience. They would always be like this. Whatever they did, something would break down between them. And this time they'd been expecting different things, he guessed... and he didn't adapt when Mettaton decided on what course they should take. And rather than give in, Emet-Selch would spite them both, the penalty for trying to look after him when he was determined to wound himself.
Mettaton touches his face; he twitches, displeased, not in the mood to accept kindness and unwilling to face his lover's regrets. The show of it only left him feeling worse, somewhere between guilt and resentment.]
Stop that. [Comes the quick, sharp reply, eyes briefly flashing to him before closing entirely. He doesn't clarify what the 'that' is, whether it was his apologies, his being reasonable in the aftermath while the Ascian wasn't prepared to be, or anything else.] At least finish what you started, I'm not becoming any less sore.
[Or rather, it would only grow more noticeable the less aroused he became, and where he hadn't been thinking of it at the time, he was conscious of it now. While he'd been stuffing him inside himself, it had hurt, in a way that he knew it wasn't supposed to, but he had been stiff enough to counter it, the pleasure greatly increasing his tolerance. But now, though he hadn't yet gone soft, he could tell that fullness was depleting as rapidly as it could.
Of course, he knew he wasn't presenting Mettaton with a very appealing prospect: fucking a tense, upset man who was bound to be hurt by it. Nor did he know how to change things or fix that, to give in and deny his nature for long enough to convince him to continue. It wasn't dutiful, the way Emet-Selch regarded him or this; he wanted this combination still, if in a way entirely removed from the pleasure of sex. He missed him. Too much to tolerate going slowly, it seemed.
Aware of the irony of his reaction bringing things to a halt instead, it doesn't do anything to make him feel any better about the situation, his upset something that could feed on itself, indefinitely.]