[Emet-Selch would have to be breathless for the both of them, a condition he fell naturally into, given the passion of their arrangement. Still dizzied as though he had air to catch up on, his heart reluctant to slow, he was in no condition to do more than remain where he was- and no desire to do otherwise.
As it was hard to not be eternally inspired, when Mettaton reacted like that underneath his hands, when he wasn't even handling his cock. The shiver that went through him has his fingers dig harder for a moment, for his hips to even twitch, even as his erection was still in the process of fading, much less filling back up. But there was heat, and dripping stickiness smeared over their lengths, and with Mettaton tugging him closer, until they were chest to chest, his muscles still set to trembling from it all.
Emet-Selch had also drawn that uncomfortable comparison with his reaction to his sundered people. The memory of what he'd had, a way of life objectively better- and his refusal (and inability) to accept what came afterward. The determination instead to return things to what they had been, what they should always have been.
But while he couldn't love the broken remnants of his people, he still loved Mettaton as much as before. He would affirm that part was crucially different; he didn't view him as any less, no matter the condition of his body. But the way he was used to expressing that love, and having it felt- he couldn't see past that loss. He refused to live with something less than what they deserved.
In both cases he felt himself absolutely justified in his actions, his reactions. (The only guilt was in the distress it caused Mettaton, to feel rejected.)
Nudging his face against him in a form of nuzzle, he exhales heavily, very slowly beginning to collect himself. Still feeling exposed- still wanting to do nothing to hide it, he manages a less charged sort of reply.]
Then why am I the one who feels stunned.
[He mumbles against him, before kissing his throat, with an attention that softens as his heart continues to. They were each other's treasure; he knew it without question.
When he feels Mettaton's hand leave their lengths in favor of burying sticky fingers underneath his hair to touch his neck, he only sighs at it, pleased by the affection most of all. Though if their bodies hadn't been together like this, he would've been inclined to let one of his own hands slip between them to replace Mettaton's, conscious of his rising needs. To take up the 'duty' of squeezing their lengths together, to fondle and appreciate his husband's. But he holds off for now, especially since he could still feel Mettaton's cock nudged slickly against his, their bodily orientation ensuring that they would meet regardless. A squirm of his own (for the simple purpose of moving tighter, closer), further brushes them, inspiring aftercurrents of pleasure to run through his own body.
And with it, sentiment. Where he'd been about to raise his head to meet his eye or find his lips, held like this and spoken to, he remains. It touched him in ways that he, as ever, had trouble expressing verbally, or at all. But he holds the robot tighter, hands kneading tensely at him- his body itself the best tool he had to demonstrate his feelings for him, but still putting forth the effort to find the words to go with it.]
...Then... my being here has meaning.
[Not only this world, but to be alive again at all.]
You're my purpose.
[Which was a lot to put on someone... but he knew Mettaton could handle it.]
no subject
As it was hard to not be eternally inspired, when Mettaton reacted like that underneath his hands, when he wasn't even handling his cock. The shiver that went through him has his fingers dig harder for a moment, for his hips to even twitch, even as his erection was still in the process of fading, much less filling back up. But there was heat, and dripping stickiness smeared over their lengths, and with Mettaton tugging him closer, until they were chest to chest, his muscles still set to trembling from it all.
Emet-Selch had also drawn that uncomfortable comparison with his reaction to his sundered people. The memory of what he'd had, a way of life objectively better- and his refusal (and inability) to accept what came afterward. The determination instead to return things to what they had been, what they should always have been.
But while he couldn't love the broken remnants of his people, he still loved Mettaton as much as before. He would affirm that part was crucially different; he didn't view him as any less, no matter the condition of his body. But the way he was used to expressing that love, and having it felt- he couldn't see past that loss. He refused to live with something less than what they deserved.
In both cases he felt himself absolutely justified in his actions, his reactions. (The only guilt was in the distress it caused Mettaton, to feel rejected.)
Nudging his face against him in a form of nuzzle, he exhales heavily, very slowly beginning to collect himself. Still feeling exposed- still wanting to do nothing to hide it, he manages a less charged sort of reply.]
Then why am I the one who feels stunned.
[He mumbles against him, before kissing his throat, with an attention that softens as his heart continues to. They were each other's treasure; he knew it without question.
When he feels Mettaton's hand leave their lengths in favor of burying sticky fingers underneath his hair to touch his neck, he only sighs at it, pleased by the affection most of all. Though if their bodies hadn't been together like this, he would've been inclined to let one of his own hands slip between them to replace Mettaton's, conscious of his rising needs. To take up the 'duty' of squeezing their lengths together, to fondle and appreciate his husband's. But he holds off for now, especially since he could still feel Mettaton's cock nudged slickly against his, their bodily orientation ensuring that they would meet regardless. A squirm of his own (for the simple purpose of moving tighter, closer), further brushes them, inspiring aftercurrents of pleasure to run through his own body.
And with it, sentiment. Where he'd been about to raise his head to meet his eye or find his lips, held like this and spoken to, he remains. It touched him in ways that he, as ever, had trouble expressing verbally, or at all. But he holds the robot tighter, hands kneading tensely at him- his body itself the best tool he had to demonstrate his feelings for him, but still putting forth the effort to find the words to go with it.]
...Then... my being here has meaning.
[Not only this world, but to be alive again at all.]
You're my purpose.
[Which was a lot to put on someone... but he knew Mettaton could handle it.]