[So he focuses on this. Emet-Selch's kiss occupies much of his attention with all other stimuli an accompaniment. Mettaton falls into the kiss, slackening somewhat as he relies upon locked knees to keep himself upright.
There's something enchanting about having his body touched by somebody who exhibits signs of transparent love for him. Mettaton feels he's completely worthy of the attention, but when turning into a human hangs in the balance, it charms him all the more that Emet-Selch would always fascinate himself over his long-awaited body. It's evident in his fingers and his deliberation. His attention follows the path of his fingers, too, even as his own travel down Emet-Selch's sternum and move to handle his chest with both hands, pressing into him with both fingertips and palms. Their kiss is a delectable focus: mutually, he tastes for his Bonded and knows that, given their history, this is a taste that'll soon be lost to his own mouth in due time. He hums around his lover's tongue, fingers and claws subconsciously curling into his skin as if attempting to grip onto him. He slides his tongue against the other man's, the entirety of his action enough to give Mettaton a good shiver.
The feeling of his thumb taking such a gentle path around the remnant shape of his eye is unique, something he feels just about as often as Emet-Selch regards it at all, which is rare. But it's reassuring: Mettaton's tactile in affection. It soothes him, all while serving to remind him of tangibility. It's always a problem with that, in the end: what's present, and what's disturbingly not.
And he's very present, in all senses of the word. Drinking in the way Emet-Selch asserts himself, the way his fingers trace over his chest, takes further claim upon his mouth (something Mettaton's sure they'll be doing plenty of to come, he can feel it and it sparks like electricity to consider), and to take his cue for touch. Mettaton's fingers trace over his skin, one hand pressing firmly into his torso while the other flicks one of his nipples before rubbing, and it's another point toward just wanting, all of it.
He wants to experience this. The idol doesn't see why he can't have his way. He wants Emet-Selch in every way possible, and this is one of those absurd possibilities afforded to him, after all. He opens his eye. Focuses on Emet-Selch's face, even from this close proximity. He wants to impress him, but he also wants to have him in every way. And, he wants Emet-Selch to have him in return.
So he shifts. It's all of him, all at once, a drastic change in texture and tenderness. Emet-Selch's fingers trace over skin now, a body built and lean and decently toned. Skin warm, perhaps warmer than a human's should be, it's a forgivable mistake coming from his own perceptions of temperature. Mettaton's claws are gone, replaced by proper fingers (though he still envisions the wrong number of them); and though his eyes are closed, they're dark as his hair, the perfect image of what Mettaton would have been if he were made human instead of machine.
Importantly, there aren't any nightmarish mistakes. No missing pieces or exposed insides, no disfigurement or dripping blood. Only benign hiccups, like too-hot temperatures and too-few fingers.
And he knows it's worked: he has an actual pulse, and he feels it jump in his throat. Real functional lungs he could be rendered breathless with. And he emits a noise of pleasure at the way the air chills against his naked body — it's not as though he was wearing anything to act as a buffer against it. He jolts in place before he wraps his arms around his Bonded's back, hungrily drawing him close to his body: for contact, for love, and for warmth, even though he feels feverishly hot already. Hot, and already aroused.
The contact of pulling Emet-Selch to his body shocks him. He gasps at the feeling, and he's forced to break the kiss in his excitement. He takes a gulp of air, delirious.]
Ah— Hades...! I...
[There's a lot for the idol to focus on. His success, first of all. But the sudden sensation of the Ascian's body pulled flush to his own, his arousal shoved against his figure... Mettaton's eye's wide, lips parted, hips automatically grinding into his lover as muscle tenses.]
no subject
There's something enchanting about having his body touched by somebody who exhibits signs of transparent love for him. Mettaton feels he's completely worthy of the attention, but when turning into a human hangs in the balance, it charms him all the more that Emet-Selch would always fascinate himself over his long-awaited body. It's evident in his fingers and his deliberation. His attention follows the path of his fingers, too, even as his own travel down Emet-Selch's sternum and move to handle his chest with both hands, pressing into him with both fingertips and palms. Their kiss is a delectable focus: mutually, he tastes for his Bonded and knows that, given their history, this is a taste that'll soon be lost to his own mouth in due time. He hums around his lover's tongue, fingers and claws subconsciously curling into his skin as if attempting to grip onto him. He slides his tongue against the other man's, the entirety of his action enough to give Mettaton a good shiver.
The feeling of his thumb taking such a gentle path around the remnant shape of his eye is unique, something he feels just about as often as Emet-Selch regards it at all, which is rare. But it's reassuring: Mettaton's tactile in affection. It soothes him, all while serving to remind him of tangibility. It's always a problem with that, in the end: what's present, and what's disturbingly not.
And he's very present, in all senses of the word. Drinking in the way Emet-Selch asserts himself, the way his fingers trace over his chest, takes further claim upon his mouth (something Mettaton's sure they'll be doing plenty of to come, he can feel it and it sparks like electricity to consider), and to take his cue for touch. Mettaton's fingers trace over his skin, one hand pressing firmly into his torso while the other flicks one of his nipples before rubbing, and it's another point toward just wanting, all of it.
He wants to experience this. The idol doesn't see why he can't have his way. He wants Emet-Selch in every way possible, and this is one of those absurd possibilities afforded to him, after all. He opens his eye. Focuses on Emet-Selch's face, even from this close proximity. He wants to impress him, but he also wants to have him in every way. And, he wants Emet-Selch to have him in return.
So he shifts. It's all of him, all at once, a drastic change in texture and tenderness. Emet-Selch's fingers trace over skin now, a body built and lean and decently toned. Skin warm, perhaps warmer than a human's should be, it's a forgivable mistake coming from his own perceptions of temperature. Mettaton's claws are gone, replaced by proper fingers (though he still envisions the wrong number of them); and though his eyes are closed, they're dark as his hair, the perfect image of what Mettaton would have been if he were made human instead of machine.
Importantly, there aren't any nightmarish mistakes. No missing pieces or exposed insides, no disfigurement or dripping blood. Only benign hiccups, like too-hot temperatures and too-few fingers.
And he knows it's worked: he has an actual pulse, and he feels it jump in his throat. Real functional lungs he could be rendered breathless with. And he emits a noise of pleasure at the way the air chills against his naked body — it's not as though he was wearing anything to act as a buffer against it. He jolts in place before he wraps his arms around his Bonded's back, hungrily drawing him close to his body: for contact, for love, and for warmth, even though he feels feverishly hot already. Hot, and already aroused.
The contact of pulling Emet-Selch to his body shocks him. He gasps at the feeling, and he's forced to break the kiss in his excitement. He takes a gulp of air, delirious.]
Ah— Hades...! I...
[There's a lot for the idol to focus on. His success, first of all. But the sudden sensation of the Ascian's body pulled flush to his own, his arousal shoved against his figure... Mettaton's eye's wide, lips parted, hips automatically grinding into his lover as muscle tenses.]