[Thank goodness that he'll do one normal human thing, which is pull out when he's done instead of find weird satisfaction in strangeness.
A grin spreading across his features, Mettaton shifts again, this time pulling out from Emet-Selch for real. He straddles his hips for just a moment long enough to take him by the back of his head and pull him into a kiss, a charge he needs to expel from his earlier kiss upon his neck, against an area that feels tender. (And therefore, surely a mark.)
From here, he springs from Emet-Selch's body and onto the floor, a weird shift of leg shapes over the course of his life: from none, to a wheel, to heels as a constant which he only got to enjoy for four months of his life at most, then onward to rabbit-shaped legs and the strange orientation of those. Strangely, however, he does not stumble upon landing. Equally as strange, he takes to these properly human-shaped legs with grace. Perhaps not as strange is how little he cares for decency, completely nude as he is yet possessing of all the same confidence. (He's in the room with his lover, it's fine! And even if he weren't Mettaton's the kind of human who would randomly start showing too much skin unbidden and unwanted...)
The idol doesn't hesitate to take to the mirror. He expects that what he sees will take him by surprise, yet it manages to shock him just how strongly it captivates him. He faces away from Emet-Selch, but his reflection's angled, making it easy to behold him from two angles at once.
In this transformed body of his own making, he stands just as tall as he usually does. Eye wide, Mettaton carries the sort of bearing one might have when they're meeting a familiar face for the first time in a long time. His fingers do all of the obvious prodding of his face, before he runs a hand through his hair, pushing dark, full locks away from his face, exposing the whole of his expression.
...He's mirrored Emet-Selch's scarring. It was easier (and far nicer) to do than whatever result he had before, and he reaches to feel it. It's agreeable, at least, but he'll have to work on aspiring for a form without this, he notes. But it doesn't earn any displeasure. He lets his hair cascade over his features again.
Mettaton pays some attention to the blood on his face, wiping at it a little with the side of his thumb as he expels a laugh, turning over his shoulder to face Emet-Selch. He doesn't quite succeed in wiping any of it clean off.]
You were going to leave me to find that, I see.
[His fingers move next to his neck. He leans in, taking in a long breath while pressing at bites of deep purple, of which there aren't many — but there's enough to arrest his attention, fingers skimming over shoulders and neck to finger each one. His eyelids drop a little, lips parting in his appreciation for what he sees there, and he sighs. He stares again at his face some more, which he's managed to get right: he doesn't want to forget what this looks like, instead of whatever the product was that caused him to spill blood all over the floor. (To see it some more, he tucks some of his bangs behind his ear. Some strands of hair cascade over his forehead still, but he can at least make eye contact with that hidden half of his face.)
His chest does not bear the same light marks as Emet-Selch's does, a body otherwise pristine of marks. The rest of his figure earns the same sort of extreme, careful deliberation, and he twists before the mirror to look at himself at multiple angles. Every part of this form earns a run-over with his hands, as though claiming this body as his own. For as dark as his eyes are, they remain just as bright as when they're golden.]
I did it... I really... This is what I wanted. I was struggling so much just a week ago...
[His hands run over his waist and over the curve of his hips, drinking in the sight of his impressively long legs as he postures them with an excitable smile, practically groping himself in how he takes in his own form.
Still prodding his body, fingers and palms picking up detail and grabbing at himself unabashedly, from his waist to his calves to his chest to his ass, Mettaton spares a moment of regard for his Bonded. His sheer dedication to his own body borders on pornographic, even when he's doing something as simple as admiring his chest.]
no subject
A grin spreading across his features, Mettaton shifts again, this time pulling out from Emet-Selch for real. He straddles his hips for just a moment long enough to take him by the back of his head and pull him into a kiss, a charge he needs to expel from his earlier kiss upon his neck, against an area that feels tender. (And therefore, surely a mark.)
From here, he springs from Emet-Selch's body and onto the floor, a weird shift of leg shapes over the course of his life: from none, to a wheel, to heels as a constant which he only got to enjoy for four months of his life at most, then onward to rabbit-shaped legs and the strange orientation of those. Strangely, however, he does not stumble upon landing. Equally as strange, he takes to these properly human-shaped legs with grace. Perhaps not as strange is how little he cares for decency, completely nude as he is yet possessing of all the same confidence. (He's in the room with his lover, it's fine! And even if he weren't Mettaton's the kind of human who would randomly start showing too much skin unbidden and unwanted...)
The idol doesn't hesitate to take to the mirror. He expects that what he sees will take him by surprise, yet it manages to shock him just how strongly it captivates him. He faces away from Emet-Selch, but his reflection's angled, making it easy to behold him from two angles at once.
In this transformed body of his own making, he stands just as tall as he usually does. Eye wide, Mettaton carries the sort of bearing one might have when they're meeting a familiar face for the first time in a long time. His fingers do all of the obvious prodding of his face, before he runs a hand through his hair, pushing dark, full locks away from his face, exposing the whole of his expression.
...He's mirrored Emet-Selch's scarring. It was easier (and far nicer) to do than whatever result he had before, and he reaches to feel it. It's agreeable, at least, but he'll have to work on aspiring for a form without this, he notes. But it doesn't earn any displeasure. He lets his hair cascade over his features again.
Mettaton pays some attention to the blood on his face, wiping at it a little with the side of his thumb as he expels a laugh, turning over his shoulder to face Emet-Selch. He doesn't quite succeed in wiping any of it clean off.]
You were going to leave me to find that, I see.
[His fingers move next to his neck. He leans in, taking in a long breath while pressing at bites of deep purple, of which there aren't many — but there's enough to arrest his attention, fingers skimming over shoulders and neck to finger each one. His eyelids drop a little, lips parting in his appreciation for what he sees there, and he sighs. He stares again at his face some more, which he's managed to get right: he doesn't want to forget what this looks like, instead of whatever the product was that caused him to spill blood all over the floor. (To see it some more, he tucks some of his bangs behind his ear. Some strands of hair cascade over his forehead still, but he can at least make eye contact with that hidden half of his face.)
His chest does not bear the same light marks as Emet-Selch's does, a body otherwise pristine of marks. The rest of his figure earns the same sort of extreme, careful deliberation, and he twists before the mirror to look at himself at multiple angles. Every part of this form earns a run-over with his hands, as though claiming this body as his own. For as dark as his eyes are, they remain just as bright as when they're golden.]
I did it... I really... This is what I wanted. I was struggling so much just a week ago...
[His hands run over his waist and over the curve of his hips, drinking in the sight of his impressively long legs as he postures them with an excitable smile, practically groping himself in how he takes in his own form.
Still prodding his body, fingers and palms picking up detail and grabbing at himself unabashedly, from his waist to his calves to his chest to his ass, Mettaton spares a moment of regard for his Bonded. His sheer dedication to his own body borders on pornographic, even when he's doing something as simple as admiring his chest.]
Well? Do I catch your eye, darling?