[It's enough to leave Emet-Selch a trace breathless. Both feeling and watching Mettaton express such joy at himself. It wasn't vanity alone (though even in that regard, his shameless confidence was something the Ascian could appreciate; it wasn't unwarranted, far better than false modesty, and nor was it based on the tearing down of others), but something that permeated the entirety of him. Someone that comfortable with himself could only be beautiful, he thought.
While Emet-Selch wasn't one for words of flowery sentiment, the feeling of his attachment is evident through Bond, through the deliberation of touch. From the way his gaze trailed over him as Mettaton returned to the bed, that ease of movement still apparent, even in small things like slipping back into place before him. From knees and thighs to hips, along his abdomen up to his chest and neck, and onto his face. All things he'd seen at a distance, and were now within easy grasp.
And when Mettaton settles in with a kiss, that's what he does. His hands slip to the idol's shoulders, curving along the shape of them, the texture of the skin underneath his hands, the thoroughly living warmth and structure to him. While one hand then moves up to rest against Mettaton's neck, feeling the suggestion of a pulse as he leans into the kiss, his other continues its re-learning of his body. His fingers trace along the delicate shape of a clavicle, before smoothing downward onto his chest. A broader, firm stroke of his entire hand, still appreciating the heat of his body, the slight give of muscle underneath his fingers. Brushing over a nipple, he lingers there for the moment, touch lightening as he rolls it between two fingers.
At the same time, Emet-Selch's attention remains on the kiss, the intensity of each other's wanting unmistakable, firm and undeniable, for all that they lingered at the level of lips. The suggestion of pressing deeper without committing to it; the trail of tongue across his lip leaves a line of damp, his press back against the other's mouth becoming slightly slick. His own tongue flicks out, barely grazing him, eyes closing as he focuses in on the sensations under his lips and hands. The sound Mettaton produced, the small mingling of breath- all of it causes his pulse to lift.
And even then, he still thinks on how happy Mettaton had looked when observing himself. A thought that has him wanting to press closer, feeling that much more affection towards him. Possessiveness as well as protectiveness; wanting Mettaton to always be so fulfilled. And perhaps, if he observed him enough, closely and intimately, he could begin to understand what it was like to feel that way.]
no subject
While Emet-Selch wasn't one for words of flowery sentiment, the feeling of his attachment is evident through Bond, through the deliberation of touch. From the way his gaze trailed over him as Mettaton returned to the bed, that ease of movement still apparent, even in small things like slipping back into place before him. From knees and thighs to hips, along his abdomen up to his chest and neck, and onto his face. All things he'd seen at a distance, and were now within easy grasp.
And when Mettaton settles in with a kiss, that's what he does. His hands slip to the idol's shoulders, curving along the shape of them, the texture of the skin underneath his hands, the thoroughly living warmth and structure to him. While one hand then moves up to rest against Mettaton's neck, feeling the suggestion of a pulse as he leans into the kiss, his other continues its re-learning of his body. His fingers trace along the delicate shape of a clavicle, before smoothing downward onto his chest. A broader, firm stroke of his entire hand, still appreciating the heat of his body, the slight give of muscle underneath his fingers. Brushing over a nipple, he lingers there for the moment, touch lightening as he rolls it between two fingers.
At the same time, Emet-Selch's attention remains on the kiss, the intensity of each other's wanting unmistakable, firm and undeniable, for all that they lingered at the level of lips. The suggestion of pressing deeper without committing to it; the trail of tongue across his lip leaves a line of damp, his press back against the other's mouth becoming slightly slick. His own tongue flicks out, barely grazing him, eyes closing as he focuses in on the sensations under his lips and hands. The sound Mettaton produced, the small mingling of breath- all of it causes his pulse to lift.
And even then, he still thinks on how happy Mettaton had looked when observing himself. A thought that has him wanting to press closer, feeling that much more affection towards him. Possessiveness as well as protectiveness; wanting Mettaton to always be so fulfilled. And perhaps, if he observed him enough, closely and intimately, he could begin to understand what it was like to feel that way.]