[Is he hallucinating it? Emet-Selch's lips aren't just glossy with something slick... Sparkling, perhaps. He does notice this, though he continues not to draw a connection. He wouldn't guess that anything was different about his ejaculate so soon. Especially not without it on full display against skin.
MTT understands immediately what Emet-Selch finds the price to be, which extended beyond mere currency. He smiles, simple and bright- before exhaling his heat, eyelid lowering heavily in his lust at the sight presented before him. Emet-Selch... is a horrible tempter, even when he moves from planting semen-slick kisses against the tip of his slow-to-fade erection to rest against his thigh. Mettaton follows each point of contact with rapt attention, unable to ignore the pinpricks of feeling that shock him to his core. From the hand that lazily strokes over a hyper-sensitive arousal, to the way weight and pressure felt against... his bare thigh (another absurdity).
And the way that wet was drawn down his length from a slow stroke, which has Mettaton shift ever so slightly with a light grunt. He can't help but pet over his head some more, his hands roaming to his back, compelled to touch him all over- and with a productive result.
Especially becaue he did know the effect. His next sigh is a shudder, though his smile only grows, eagerness blooming despite his recent release. And warmth, ultimately, as Mettaton gropes softly over his shoulder blades needily.]
I did, too. [He missed this closeness. But he also missed this sensation, and the ways Emet-Selch always sought to bring it to him.
... Perhaps there was no one-to-one replacement, after all, even if there were other ways they could reach for each other's hearts and passions. A dance, Mettaton knew, would serve them similarly... but each time they'd ever danced there had always been an edge of arousal to it, and that would be lost in translation, for all that they would feel it. Like lacking a body to express with; like aching for form to feel with, to show with, to motion and react with, both the deliberate actions and the unintentional responses. This had become an integral part of himself, as necessary as having a body at all. He needed it like he needed a voice.
So he sighs, leaning in some more. With Emet-Selch having settled back and against his thigh, Mettaton can curl forward enough to nudge his nose into his scalp.] I missed it all.
[It had felt lonely. It had hurt. He doesn't know how he can come to terms with the months of ache. He doesn't resent Emet-Selch; he doesn't even resent himself anymore. ...It was a good thing he was corporealized, he thought, closing his eye. If he ever lost his body, the way he lost his sense of touch like this...
But Mettaton doesn't venture down that path. All of this had been fortunately returned, and he sighs, squeezing Emet-Selch's back and venturing up to the collar of his robes. Slipping fingers beneath, he slips a single hand beneath fabric so that he could touch and squeeze at the skin of his upper back while seconds tick by, while he smiles and breathes him in.]
But you wanted this as much as I do. I think you understand my heart, too. How it feels to want to feel you, and be felt. [To feel Emet-Selch closely, firmly, sensitively, and to have his sex, his want, his passion felt in return. And Emet-Selch wanted to be felt, Mettaton knew... To be heard without words, understood with the brush of fingertips and the collapse of his body and the sweat of his skin. Mettaton buries himself in his hair, planting a long, firm kiss there.
Before smiling again, more mischievous this time.] And I want to feel you, all right... Your body, against mine. None of this fabric, unless it's bedsheets. [His next sentiment is a hiss of a whisper, husky and heated.] Oh, I'm aching to have you flush to me...
no subject
MTT understands immediately what Emet-Selch finds the price to be, which extended beyond mere currency. He smiles, simple and bright- before exhaling his heat, eyelid lowering heavily in his lust at the sight presented before him. Emet-Selch... is a horrible tempter, even when he moves from planting semen-slick kisses against the tip of his slow-to-fade erection to rest against his thigh. Mettaton follows each point of contact with rapt attention, unable to ignore the pinpricks of feeling that shock him to his core. From the hand that lazily strokes over a hyper-sensitive arousal, to the way weight and pressure felt against... his bare thigh (another absurdity).
And the way that wet was drawn down his length from a slow stroke, which has Mettaton shift ever so slightly with a light grunt. He can't help but pet over his head some more, his hands roaming to his back, compelled to touch him all over- and with a productive result.
Especially becaue he did know the effect. His next sigh is a shudder, though his smile only grows, eagerness blooming despite his recent release. And warmth, ultimately, as Mettaton gropes softly over his shoulder blades needily.]
I did, too. [He missed this closeness. But he also missed this sensation, and the ways Emet-Selch always sought to bring it to him.
... Perhaps there was no one-to-one replacement, after all, even if there were other ways they could reach for each other's hearts and passions. A dance, Mettaton knew, would serve them similarly... but each time they'd ever danced there had always been an edge of arousal to it, and that would be lost in translation, for all that they would feel it. Like lacking a body to express with; like aching for form to feel with, to show with, to motion and react with, both the deliberate actions and the unintentional responses. This had become an integral part of himself, as necessary as having a body at all. He needed it like he needed a voice.
So he sighs, leaning in some more. With Emet-Selch having settled back and against his thigh, Mettaton can curl forward enough to nudge his nose into his scalp.] I missed it all.
[It had felt lonely. It had hurt. He doesn't know how he can come to terms with the months of ache. He doesn't resent Emet-Selch; he doesn't even resent himself anymore. ...It was a good thing he was corporealized, he thought, closing his eye. If he ever lost his body, the way he lost his sense of touch like this...
But Mettaton doesn't venture down that path. All of this had been fortunately returned, and he sighs, squeezing Emet-Selch's back and venturing up to the collar of his robes. Slipping fingers beneath, he slips a single hand beneath fabric so that he could touch and squeeze at the skin of his upper back while seconds tick by, while he smiles and breathes him in.]
But you wanted this as much as I do. I think you understand my heart, too. How it feels to want to feel you, and be felt. [To feel Emet-Selch closely, firmly, sensitively, and to have his sex, his want, his passion felt in return. And Emet-Selch wanted to be felt, Mettaton knew... To be heard without words, understood with the brush of fingertips and the collapse of his body and the sweat of his skin. Mettaton buries himself in his hair, planting a long, firm kiss there.
Before smiling again, more mischievous this time.] And I want to feel you, all right... Your body, against mine. None of this fabric, unless it's bedsheets. [His next sentiment is a hiss of a whisper, husky and heated.] Oh, I'm aching to have you flush to me...