[Even - or especially - these little gestures of affection bring him joy. The way Emet-Selch folds his arm over his, places his hand over his fingers, letting fingers trace fingers and thumb run over his own. He's gone from no sensory input at all, to some, to increasing sensitivity, and now with this body, and these feelings... It feels so vivid, so unreal, that he could touch somebody with this depth. A tickling of warm skin, a delicate trace of fingertips, the variance of pressure against tissue, the heat of this embrace, the nuance of this moment they share, and all else that sits comfortably between them — for whatever space "between them" exists. There's hardly a concept like that anymore. They bleed right into each other, like this.
Mettaton shifts his head after a firm nuzzle, pressing his lips to his shoulder as he peers over it, straight ahead. At their reflections, the way his arms wrap around Emet-Selch's build. (And for as unfamiliar as these arms are, they're simultaneously familiar — an appearance he's fancied before, made reality.) Their mutual flush, their obviously post-coital dishevelment, the way Emet-Selch's knees brace around his own. Mettaton's legs spread, but Emet-Selch's spread further around his, the appearance of him sitting on his cock, his own fully visible. As visible as Mettaton's love for him, made physical in marks that he's sure will sting and ache.
His own marks that he has, not as plentiful, but ones he still feels on his shoulders. When he looks at them next, he'll still see them. They'll go away when he releases this transformation, he realizes, closing his eyes... But Mettaton thinks he can still relish the feeling and the knowledge regardless.
He sighs against his skin. The robot hardly realized he was holding his breath.]
It's beyond comprehension. [He could questions aloud if it was even real, if he wasn't imagining it all... But there's always been a trend of wondering if any of Aefenglom's real, lately. He doesn't need to go there. He'll accept it as his reality nonetheless.] Having you near. It helps. Talk about an incentive to get it right...
[Even in this moment, Mettaton doesn't think too hard on his mistakes. The silly, unfortunate ones, maybe: the time that he got ears in the wrong place and couldn't figure out what, precisely, was off, or the time that he felt his chest was lacking in detail, only to notice so much more about Emet-Selch's the next time he saw his body. But the other mistakes... They're still too disorienting to think on right now, so he doesn't. They're compartmentalized. Instead, he regards fondly the concept that he's had so much of his Bonded's magic to work with, with his close proximity. He's consumed more than his share, but it helps him maintain it all — not that a form so similar in shape to his own is too difficult, for as hard as it is to get right.
The smell of blood lingering on his shoulder coaxes him to lick, for all that he doesn't actually hit any wounds with his tongue from his angle. He ends up closer to his neck with a smile.]
And the things I can do with this body... I'm a real natural.
[at sex or at being a human . . . . ? mettaton...]
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Mettaton shifts his head after a firm nuzzle, pressing his lips to his shoulder as he peers over it, straight ahead. At their reflections, the way his arms wrap around Emet-Selch's build. (And for as unfamiliar as these arms are, they're simultaneously familiar — an appearance he's fancied before, made reality.) Their mutual flush, their obviously post-coital dishevelment, the way Emet-Selch's knees brace around his own. Mettaton's legs spread, but Emet-Selch's spread further around his, the appearance of him sitting on his cock, his own fully visible. As visible as Mettaton's love for him, made physical in marks that he's sure will sting and ache.
His own marks that he has, not as plentiful, but ones he still feels on his shoulders. When he looks at them next, he'll still see them. They'll go away when he releases this transformation, he realizes, closing his eyes... But Mettaton thinks he can still relish the feeling and the knowledge regardless.
He sighs against his skin. The robot hardly realized he was holding his breath.]
It's beyond comprehension. [He could questions aloud if it was even real, if he wasn't imagining it all... But there's always been a trend of wondering if any of Aefenglom's real, lately. He doesn't need to go there. He'll accept it as his reality nonetheless.] Having you near. It helps. Talk about an incentive to get it right...
[Even in this moment, Mettaton doesn't think too hard on his mistakes. The silly, unfortunate ones, maybe: the time that he got ears in the wrong place and couldn't figure out what, precisely, was off, or the time that he felt his chest was lacking in detail, only to notice so much more about Emet-Selch's the next time he saw his body. But the other mistakes... They're still too disorienting to think on right now, so he doesn't. They're compartmentalized. Instead, he regards fondly the concept that he's had so much of his Bonded's magic to work with, with his close proximity. He's consumed more than his share, but it helps him maintain it all — not that a form so similar in shape to his own is too difficult, for as hard as it is to get right.
The smell of blood lingering on his shoulder coaxes him to lick, for all that he doesn't actually hit any wounds with his tongue from his angle. He ends up closer to his neck with a smile.]
And the things I can do with this body... I'm a real natural.
[at sex or at being a human . . . . ? mettaton...]