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Is it...?
[Is it a poor choice? It seems, based on Mettaton's wide-eyed wonder, gazing ceiling-ward in thought. Imagining the texture of icing, slick and sticky, it seemed right to him... But Emet-Selch is convinced otherwise. It sure could get caught up in fur, much like come would, and...
Mettaton considers icing in hair, at least, and decides he understands with a hum. That bit makes sense, and he decides that icing, while some kind of answer, isn't his husband's idea of one. And he drops it, respecting that preference—and perhaps even the wisdom of it.
From there, he draws his attention back down to earth, down to Emet-Selch in acceptance. No food-related sex. It's something Mettaton enjoys the thought of, but not so much that he would subject Emet-Selch to it if he didn't like it.]
I can communicate what I want, even without icing. You're right. [He puffs up, deciding that this is a testament to his ability to work his body and communicate what he wants by way of touch alone. He stoops in, giving Emet-Selch a peck on the cheek.] Though I hope you'll indulge my needs, insofar as my requirement for lubricant.
[Which would have to be sourced elsewhere, since he couldn't provide it on his own. Something worthy of a brief, self-conscious glance askance, as Mettaton shifts even closer between spread legs, like he might be able to hide there for a moment. But he settles comfortably, secure in the knowledge that he and Emet-Selch are on the same page.
Relaxing enough that his chest taps into the shell of the dragon's egg, he fixes Emet-Selch with a smile.]
Whatever works best. What do men use to stroke themselves off, if not proper lube...? [ENGINE GREASE? No. Petroleum jelly?!?!? ...No petroleum, he is made of silicone. Mettaton's expression scrunches in thought.]
[Is it a poor choice? It seems, based on Mettaton's wide-eyed wonder, gazing ceiling-ward in thought. Imagining the texture of icing, slick and sticky, it seemed right to him... But Emet-Selch is convinced otherwise. It sure could get caught up in fur, much like come would, and...
Mettaton considers icing in hair, at least, and decides he understands with a hum. That bit makes sense, and he decides that icing, while some kind of answer, isn't his husband's idea of one. And he drops it, respecting that preference—and perhaps even the wisdom of it.
From there, he draws his attention back down to earth, down to Emet-Selch in acceptance. No food-related sex. It's something Mettaton enjoys the thought of, but not so much that he would subject Emet-Selch to it if he didn't like it.]
I can communicate what I want, even without icing. You're right. [He puffs up, deciding that this is a testament to his ability to work his body and communicate what he wants by way of touch alone. He stoops in, giving Emet-Selch a peck on the cheek.] Though I hope you'll indulge my needs, insofar as my requirement for lubricant.
[Which would have to be sourced elsewhere, since he couldn't provide it on his own. Something worthy of a brief, self-conscious glance askance, as Mettaton shifts even closer between spread legs, like he might be able to hide there for a moment. But he settles comfortably, secure in the knowledge that he and Emet-Selch are on the same page.
Relaxing enough that his chest taps into the shell of the dragon's egg, he fixes Emet-Selch with a smile.]
Whatever works best. What do men use to stroke themselves off, if not proper lube...? [ENGINE GREASE? No. Petroleum jelly?!?!? ...No petroleum, he is made of silicone. Mettaton's expression scrunches in thought.]
[Maybe his dislike and dismissal of it was rooted in the same hesitation that had led him to be less open to the idea of sex at all. Another means of putting off what he didn't want to put off, the intimacy that he missed. But from flower-based illness as an excuse, there was now the lack of ready lubrication to further serve as a delay. And possibly a dragon egg as well, to be in the way, to get between them. And as Mettaton moves tighter between his legs, in a gesture that felt less seductive and more a seeking of security, he felt guilty all over again.
Guilt and frustration were an uncomfortable mix, but his ambivalence remained, even as he wrapped an arm around Mettaton with a sigh as the other man kisses his cheek.]
Well, even were you exactly as you were before, this is something we would have to find a solution to.
[For full penetrative purposes rather than fellatio-related, but still. They would've had to work out an answer for themselves at some point, and it was still one that he hoped wouldn't include ingredients. That would never appeal to him. But as for what other options there were outside lube/icing:]
What do- [He snorts at the question, glancing aside.] Most men are less particular than I.
[Which was to say that he'd never felt so pressed as to grab for something, anything, to rub on his erection. Before Mettaton, he hadn't given much thought to his libido, but he would have assumed it to be low, or understandably dampened by the end of the world.]
Choice varies based on technological era, and degree of desperation. [His tone is as dry as his cock, and as disinterested in the idea. But in the end he concedes:] Your instinct towards oils isn't wrong.
Guilt and frustration were an uncomfortable mix, but his ambivalence remained, even as he wrapped an arm around Mettaton with a sigh as the other man kisses his cheek.]
Well, even were you exactly as you were before, this is something we would have to find a solution to.
[For full penetrative purposes rather than fellatio-related, but still. They would've had to work out an answer for themselves at some point, and it was still one that he hoped wouldn't include ingredients. That would never appeal to him. But as for what other options there were outside lube/icing:]
What do- [He snorts at the question, glancing aside.] Most men are less particular than I.
[Which was to say that he'd never felt so pressed as to grab for something, anything, to rub on his erection. Before Mettaton, he hadn't given much thought to his libido, but he would have assumed it to be low, or understandably dampened by the end of the world.]
Choice varies based on technological era, and degree of desperation. [His tone is as dry as his cock, and as disinterested in the idea. But in the end he concedes:] Your instinct towards oils isn't wrong.
[Without the power of his body and its prominent arousal, Mettaton could tell every chance where Emet-Selch shirked him. Where he dodged any of Mettaton's advances... But even in this moment, as they held each other's eyes, as Mettaton missed his touch and his body, he knew that even he was still dodging the inevitability. Wanting, but still disappointed in himself and his lack of bodily expression.
He could make all the moves, and he could say anything he wished. But he couldn't show Emet-Selch the need in him the way he used to. It was a sore spot even still.
It's only after he asks the question that Mettaton realizes the absurdity of it. The not-so-innocent innocence of it, the naïveté of it as well, and he snorts alongside the mage at himself for it. What do men use. As if he isn't one, and as if he hasn't desperately sourced lubricant out of things before... But he can see Emet-Selch's particularity if he just thinks back, at how the Ascian had only ever been driven enough to demand he go in dry in their house of mirrors. Not that there was anything else for them to use, much less anything in a dream-house for them to seek out...
Oil is a good lead, and Mettaton feels it's intuitively appropriate. Like massage oil. He nods. But it was true enough that some people would use things out of desperation.]
Desperation... and kink, darling. [He corrects, lifting a finger.] But it's clear to me you're a choosy man. As choosy as you are handsome.
[Another kiss, closer to his lips this time. He appreciated the remark that it would've still been a hurdle regardless of his anatomy, though even Mettaton knew that at least he would've had saliva to rely on. The ability to suck Emet-Selch off... and be sucked off, would have remained. A past, and future, worthy of a sigh, as Mettaton settles in his place of safety, the egg safest of all between them. He snuggles into that half-embrace, letting his fingers drift deeper into light strands of hair, his hand dropping not back to his waist but to the arm of the couch behind Emet-Selch instead, bracing himself there so he doesn't lose balance in his lean.
With a bit of a light chuckle, Mettaton leans sideways, so that he's slightly crashing into the side of the couch and looking at Emet-Selch from the side.]
I still think that I could convince you to be just as desperate. Maybe, [He similarly concedes, a hesitation in his voice.] Maybe not as I am, right now. But in the future.
[See: they used 1. nothing, 2. Mettaton's spit, which wasn't much better. A lot of it had to do with Mettaton's need combined with Emet-Selch's. And right now... Mettaton's needs were never so pressing. He could feel arousal of a different kind, but it wasn't quite what they were accustomed to, and didn't require the same sort of relief that could be obtained.
...Perhaps he needed to acknowledge it, without feeling lesser because of it. His smile is small, if open, if a touch rueful, while his hand wanders from bracing the back of the couch, to extending so he could squeeze Emet-Selch's shoulder.]
He could make all the moves, and he could say anything he wished. But he couldn't show Emet-Selch the need in him the way he used to. It was a sore spot even still.
It's only after he asks the question that Mettaton realizes the absurdity of it. The not-so-innocent innocence of it, the naïveté of it as well, and he snorts alongside the mage at himself for it. What do men use. As if he isn't one, and as if he hasn't desperately sourced lubricant out of things before... But he can see Emet-Selch's particularity if he just thinks back, at how the Ascian had only ever been driven enough to demand he go in dry in their house of mirrors. Not that there was anything else for them to use, much less anything in a dream-house for them to seek out...
Oil is a good lead, and Mettaton feels it's intuitively appropriate. Like massage oil. He nods. But it was true enough that some people would use things out of desperation.]
Desperation... and kink, darling. [He corrects, lifting a finger.] But it's clear to me you're a choosy man. As choosy as you are handsome.
[Another kiss, closer to his lips this time. He appreciated the remark that it would've still been a hurdle regardless of his anatomy, though even Mettaton knew that at least he would've had saliva to rely on. The ability to suck Emet-Selch off... and be sucked off, would have remained. A past, and future, worthy of a sigh, as Mettaton settles in his place of safety, the egg safest of all between them. He snuggles into that half-embrace, letting his fingers drift deeper into light strands of hair, his hand dropping not back to his waist but to the arm of the couch behind Emet-Selch instead, bracing himself there so he doesn't lose balance in his lean.
With a bit of a light chuckle, Mettaton leans sideways, so that he's slightly crashing into the side of the couch and looking at Emet-Selch from the side.]
I still think that I could convince you to be just as desperate. Maybe, [He similarly concedes, a hesitation in his voice.] Maybe not as I am, right now. But in the future.
[See: they used 1. nothing, 2. Mettaton's spit, which wasn't much better. A lot of it had to do with Mettaton's need combined with Emet-Selch's. And right now... Mettaton's needs were never so pressing. He could feel arousal of a different kind, but it wasn't quite what they were accustomed to, and didn't require the same sort of relief that could be obtained.
...Perhaps he needed to acknowledge it, without feeling lesser because of it. His smile is small, if open, if a touch rueful, while his hand wanders from bracing the back of the couch, to extending so he could squeeze Emet-Selch's shoulder.]
[More than ever, he knew it was a mutual hesitation. Where there wouldn't have been any delay, any pause in the past to reach for each other, to be drawn in by looks, kisses, nearness itself, to indulge in wanting and need that felt endless... and with no regard for their surroundings. Not in terms of the mess they made, or the stains they might leave behind, not when they had so much to express.
And far less now, he supposed. It was a strange thing, to feel both pent up and completely ambivalent, wondering if he should get it over with and ask Mettaton to get him off somehow, but also not really wanting to. It wasn't as though he were without his own desires, and while he knew he'd drawn heavily on Mettaton's own needs- he hadn't thought it to be so absolute as this.]
A poor choice of kink.
[He responds absently, accepting the kiss without thinking to match it. And he remains still in the end, apathetic. A lack of certainty leading to a drain of energy- and he never had much of that to start with. Mettaton snuggles close, on a couch that really didn't fit the both of them, and he shifts in place, before settling back in the same position that he'd been to start with.
Exhales. Listens to the idea of being convinced into recklessness, without feeling much either way about it. Just loosely holds onto him.]
Maybe. [And where Mettaton's voice is hesitant, his own is distant, less a concession and more just not wanting to argue over it, not wanting to seek convincing. Not wanting to actively deny it. But with Mettaton's needs less pressing, his own dwindled. Were it not for their history, he wouldn't have thought anything of it, but as it was he was conscious of the difference. His eyes are closed.] Some other time.
And far less now, he supposed. It was a strange thing, to feel both pent up and completely ambivalent, wondering if he should get it over with and ask Mettaton to get him off somehow, but also not really wanting to. It wasn't as though he were without his own desires, and while he knew he'd drawn heavily on Mettaton's own needs- he hadn't thought it to be so absolute as this.]
A poor choice of kink.
[He responds absently, accepting the kiss without thinking to match it. And he remains still in the end, apathetic. A lack of certainty leading to a drain of energy- and he never had much of that to start with. Mettaton snuggles close, on a couch that really didn't fit the both of them, and he shifts in place, before settling back in the same position that he'd been to start with.
Exhales. Listens to the idea of being convinced into recklessness, without feeling much either way about it. Just loosely holds onto him.]
Maybe. [And where Mettaton's voice is hesitant, his own is distant, less a concession and more just not wanting to argue over it, not wanting to seek convincing. Not wanting to actively deny it. But with Mettaton's needs less pressing, his own dwindled. Were it not for their history, he wouldn't have thought anything of it, but as it was he was conscious of the difference. His eyes are closed.] Some other time.
[The paradoxical dance they stepped in tandem to involved the disconnect they felt from their bodies, right alongside the overwhelming awareness of it. And the fact that they were on the same page entirely was similarly paradoxical, given how apart it all felt. Mettaton feels his kiss lacking reciprocation. He feels his stillness, his drain... and it's contagious.
The robot slumps. Some other time. Emet-Selch shuts it down for now, but even Mettaton believed it would have to be some other time to start.
(That it might even have to wait until he could satisfy his husband with something he doesn't natively have. Like he couldn't satisfy an audience without a body he didn't natively have. Mettaton trips himself up about anatomy; he trips himself into wanting more.)
He closes his eye too. He's not politely drawn back, still bent over slightly, but he practically curls around the egg and slightly to the side. He relaxes, but it's a bit of a pitiful sort of relaxing that comes from drain.]
Maybe so.
[A resignation. Mettaton's hope didn't exist. It required kindling; it wasn't a spark self-sustained, not as he is. Similarly pent up, Mettaton keeps the egg between them, and the two of them inadvertently nurse that growing dragon with their feelings of unease.
He wanted to kiss him deeper. He closes his eyes and thinks about the ways he wants him, and the ways he wanted to show him he wanted him... The ways he wanted to arouse Emet-Selch, and satisfy him. And he feels helpless to show it, or to perform. (Ridiculousness. He would've never been so self-conscious before...)]
The robot slumps. Some other time. Emet-Selch shuts it down for now, but even Mettaton believed it would have to be some other time to start.
(That it might even have to wait until he could satisfy his husband with something he doesn't natively have. Like he couldn't satisfy an audience without a body he didn't natively have. Mettaton trips himself up about anatomy; he trips himself into wanting more.)
He closes his eye too. He's not politely drawn back, still bent over slightly, but he practically curls around the egg and slightly to the side. He relaxes, but it's a bit of a pitiful sort of relaxing that comes from drain.]
Maybe so.
[A resignation. Mettaton's hope didn't exist. It required kindling; it wasn't a spark self-sustained, not as he is. Similarly pent up, Mettaton keeps the egg between them, and the two of them inadvertently nurse that growing dragon with their feelings of unease.
He wanted to kiss him deeper. He closes his eyes and thinks about the ways he wants him, and the ways he wanted to show him he wanted him... The ways he wanted to arouse Emet-Selch, and satisfy him. And he feels helpless to show it, or to perform. (Ridiculousness. He would've never been so self-conscious before...)]
Hades!! The dragon... It left some manner of intricate print all over my beautiful body, and I can't wash it off!! Can you grab something stronger than some soap and water? Post-haste! Please, darling!!
[... Well, that's the message he sends. But their dragon hatched nicely. A deep blue dragon, dark as night, was quick to show off the flare of luminous blue to its scales that dotted its wings and body when in the presence of its 'parents.' Mettaton thought it beautiful, and had remarked upon its hatching, "Oh! Doesn't it remind you a little of Waterfall?"
And he'd smiled at Emet-Selch with his teeth, silly and—a bit taken aback at the notion that yes, Emet-Selch had seen Waterfall with him. A simple pleasure to bask in, to be known like that. Like an echo flower, he'd been sure to mention—but it was a broader thing than that, with all of the specks and sparkles of the deep caverns of Mettaton's home. And all things considered... Perhaps this dragonling was considered "mature" for its kind, and its age.
Though apparently, it still enjoyed a bit of mischief. And Mettaton was about to cause a fuss about it—but it wasn't the bite alone that would provoke Mettaton to call upon his husband. Something like Ruining Mettaton's Body would be enough for the vain idol to message him, though. Apparently.
None the wiser to whatever Emet-Selch was getting himself up to, nor what reciprocal "print" might be transferred to the other parent, no matter how distant.]
[... Well, that's the message he sends. But their dragon hatched nicely. A deep blue dragon, dark as night, was quick to show off the flare of luminous blue to its scales that dotted its wings and body when in the presence of its 'parents.' Mettaton thought it beautiful, and had remarked upon its hatching, "Oh! Doesn't it remind you a little of Waterfall?"
And he'd smiled at Emet-Selch with his teeth, silly and—a bit taken aback at the notion that yes, Emet-Selch had seen Waterfall with him. A simple pleasure to bask in, to be known like that. Like an echo flower, he'd been sure to mention—but it was a broader thing than that, with all of the specks and sparkles of the deep caverns of Mettaton's home. And all things considered... Perhaps this dragonling was considered "mature" for its kind, and its age.
Though apparently, it still enjoyed a bit of mischief. And Mettaton was about to cause a fuss about it—but it wasn't the bite alone that would provoke Mettaton to call upon his husband. Something like Ruining Mettaton's Body would be enough for the vain idol to message him, though. Apparently.
None the wiser to whatever Emet-Selch was getting himself up to, nor what reciprocal "print" might be transferred to the other parent, no matter how distant.]
[For a moment- a brief moment- when Emet-Selch hears the sound of an incoming message, he knew a flash of hope.
It wasn't a daily walk that he took to the Crystal. But it wasn't so rarely that Emet-Selch found himself there either, as a part of his meanderings, absent or otherwise. The village wasn't so large, and the Crystal somewhat central; it would've been more difficult than otherwise to not see it on the regular. And even when he did, he didn't always wish for anything. It still grated, the need to ask for things he had every right to- but if this was the only way, then he'd suffer through it.
And this was one of those occasions where he... tried, on some hesitant whim. Complicated as his feelings were about this request, desire warring with ambivalence (As wasn't this the same as saying Mettaton's body as it is wasn't good enough for him? Even though this was something they both wanted and missed--), it wasn't enough to keep him from asking. Once more, he committed his request to silent facets, and waited for nothing.
A nothing that was broken by a simple chime. With more haste than he'd admit to, he whips his phone out, and sees that the message is indeed from Mettaton. But as soon as he scans it... he finds himself more disappointed than he might have expected.
It was nothing related to his wish at all, but some sort of strange crisis. Struggling to focus on the actual text, he frowns at it, confused over what had actually happened. Had their dragon gotten into some sort of paint...? But from where? It wasn't as though they had any lying about in the cottage. Did they have anything that would stain or stick to a robot? If it was that bad, it was surely more dangerous to the dragon.]
Isn't it your fault for not minding it? This is the price of being inattentive.
[More annoyed than he otherwise would be, given his sharp disappointment, he tries to shake it off. Concern was there too (for Mettaton, and more reluctantly the dragon), because it wasn't just anything that could damage his lover's body. Would he have to wish for another repair instead? At least he had experience with that working--
Exhaling heavily, he types a more practical reply.]
What did it even get into? I need to know what sort of substance I'm countering.
[He's not thinking about bites, given Mettaton's description. Besides, he'd been nipped multiple times himself by their dragonlet (usually in an effort to wake him up), and it hadn't even broken skin.]
It wasn't a daily walk that he took to the Crystal. But it wasn't so rarely that Emet-Selch found himself there either, as a part of his meanderings, absent or otherwise. The village wasn't so large, and the Crystal somewhat central; it would've been more difficult than otherwise to not see it on the regular. And even when he did, he didn't always wish for anything. It still grated, the need to ask for things he had every right to- but if this was the only way, then he'd suffer through it.
And this was one of those occasions where he... tried, on some hesitant whim. Complicated as his feelings were about this request, desire warring with ambivalence (As wasn't this the same as saying Mettaton's body as it is wasn't good enough for him? Even though this was something they both wanted and missed--), it wasn't enough to keep him from asking. Once more, he committed his request to silent facets, and waited for nothing.
A nothing that was broken by a simple chime. With more haste than he'd admit to, he whips his phone out, and sees that the message is indeed from Mettaton. But as soon as he scans it... he finds himself more disappointed than he might have expected.
It was nothing related to his wish at all, but some sort of strange crisis. Struggling to focus on the actual text, he frowns at it, confused over what had actually happened. Had their dragon gotten into some sort of paint...? But from where? It wasn't as though they had any lying about in the cottage. Did they have anything that would stain or stick to a robot? If it was that bad, it was surely more dangerous to the dragon.]
Isn't it your fault for not minding it? This is the price of being inattentive.
[More annoyed than he otherwise would be, given his sharp disappointment, he tries to shake it off. Concern was there too (for Mettaton, and more reluctantly the dragon), because it wasn't just anything that could damage his lover's body. Would he have to wish for another repair instead? At least he had experience with that working--
Exhaling heavily, he types a more practical reply.]
What did it even get into? I need to know what sort of substance I'm countering.
[He's not thinking about bites, given Mettaton's description. Besides, he'd been nipped multiple times himself by their dragonlet (usually in an effort to wake him up), and it hadn't even broken skin.]
I will have you know that I HAVE been minding it. I was just taking selfies together with it! Junior here decided that for our next pose, a little kiss was in order... but, you know how lizards are. Ha-ha. And before you know it, I'm printed up! It's as though they took a paintbrush...
And, darling. They have a VERY steady hand. These circles would envy even a machine, designed specifically for circle-printing.
[...He's just going to pretend that was more clever. (What kind of machine just prints circles...)]
All said, I was paying them plenty of attention! [And also his phone, and himself...]
And, darling. They have a VERY steady hand. These circles would envy even a machine, designed specifically for circle-printing.
[...He's just going to pretend that was more clever. (What kind of machine just prints circles...)]
All said, I was paying them plenty of attention! [And also his phone, and himself...]
Edited 2023-06-03 18:15 (UTC)
[Okay, this sounded less and less as though the dragon had gotten into something... but what had happened? The more Mettaton described, the less sense it made, and the more he felt a headache coming on. Selfies, circles, circle-printing machines....]
So it bit you [Not kissed. Though, granted, in their household was there a practical difference? Not that he had many bites on him, really, in comparison to their past....] and some strange mark appeared.
[A strangely circular mark. Marks. Which didn't sound like an imprint of jaws or teeth, or any sort of physical scarring at all.]
All because you were boring it to death, your attention centered on your own face and naught else.
Send me a picture of the damage.
So it bit you [Not kissed. Though, granted, in their household was there a practical difference? Not that he had many bites on him, really, in comparison to their past....] and some strange mark appeared.
[A strangely circular mark. Marks. Which didn't sound like an imprint of jaws or teeth, or any sort of physical scarring at all.]
All because you were boring it to death, your attention centered on your own face and naught else.
Send me a picture of the damage.
Kiss. Bit. Really, does it matter, in the end?
[Yea it was a bite. And Mettaton knows they have a household where bites and kisses are often one in the same, though he doesn't impress that upon their charge.]
Anyway. While we were having a mesmerizing time together, gazing upon our beautiful faces captured in time... yes. I was nipped. A little nibble, perhaps. But I felt it so sharply, Hades! As though it were biting me down to my core... Here! Take a look. And you know its teeth look nothing like this.
[Attached is a photo of Mettaton's rectangular body. Beneath his tubular arm, which is lifted, is an obvious, clear-as-day marking, deliberate and precise. Clean, symmetrical—sigil-like in appearance, and roughly the size of his own hand, fingers splayed.]
[Yea it was a bite. And Mettaton knows they have a household where bites and kisses are often one in the same, though he doesn't impress that upon their charge.]
Anyway. While we were having a mesmerizing time together, gazing upon our beautiful faces captured in time... yes. I was nipped. A little nibble, perhaps. But I felt it so sharply, Hades! As though it were biting me down to my core... Here! Take a look. And you know its teeth look nothing like this.
[Attached is a photo of Mettaton's rectangular body. Beneath his tubular arm, which is lifted, is an obvious, clear-as-day marking, deliberate and precise. Clean, symmetrical—sigil-like in appearance, and roughly the size of his own hand, fingers splayed.]
Edited (wait i realized perfect opportunity for SENSATION) 2023-06-03 21:46 (UTC)
To you, no. You can't blame me if your charge picks up your bad habits.
[Like considering biting as affection. That Mettaton felt it sharply does pique his interest, if not raise his hopes- as the robot hadn't mentioned anything else unusual in that regard. It was most likely the result of startle and memory of what a bite should have felt like- so Emet-Selch doesn't dwell overly long on that detail.
Not when he's sent an image of a rectangular side, engraved(?) on metal a very distinct set of patterned rings (and an unfamiliar bit in the middle). It wasn't anything like any sort of bite, and the mage halts entirely in his slow steps to stare at his phone.]
Mettaton, apart from the piece at the center, the rest is a symbol that I use in my magics. I would know it anywhere.
[Magics that he couldn't use, which felt like an added mockery, to see it drawn on another. But mainly it bewildered.]
But what's it doing on you?
[And how did a dragon put it there?]
[Like considering biting as affection. That Mettaton felt it sharply does pique his interest, if not raise his hopes- as the robot hadn't mentioned anything else unusual in that regard. It was most likely the result of startle and memory of what a bite should have felt like- so Emet-Selch doesn't dwell overly long on that detail.
Not when he's sent an image of a rectangular side, engraved(?) on metal a very distinct set of patterned rings (and an unfamiliar bit in the middle). It wasn't anything like any sort of bite, and the mage halts entirely in his slow steps to stare at his phone.]
Mettaton, apart from the piece at the center, the rest is a symbol that I use in my magics. I would know it anywhere.
[Magics that he couldn't use, which felt like an added mockery, to see it drawn on another. But mainly it bewildered.]
But what's it doing on you?
[And how did a dragon put it there?]
[Circumstances were aligning just so, that Mettaton hasn't had a single moment to assess himself, aside from the unwelcome mark that showed up in his next selfie. Since then, the dragon has shifted into a sunbeam, and curled up in a nice, cat-like donut. Mettaton sits on the other side of the couch, tapping away on his phone—and between Emet-Selch's responses and his own, he glances back down at the tattoo.
He observes it. He can't feel it, but the marking's circles gently... move, a hypnotic rotation around the center stage light—which Mettaton recognizes instantly. Not necessarily as a symbol of his own, but its shape was obvious to him. The circular signs, though, looked familiar in some way...
When his phone beeps at him, he picks it up. The dragon readjusts, grumpy at the interruption of sound.]
Your magics... Oh! That's right! I was wondering where I'd see these marks before. But darling, the center is a stage light, of course. Though I would know best, given that I'm so often staring right into them!
[This deserves another healthy regard to this tattoo. Its rings drift, though the center remains still, and Mettaton tries to touch it with his free hand. Out of... what he decides is a sensitivity to the sudden presence of this magical marking??... he flinches; it's sore, it feels like.
(It's not sore, not really. But it feels like it, to Mettaton, who feels... suddenly, if gradually, overwhelmed by the air itself. The robot gasps to himself, for all that he doesn't use the air for any purpose.)]
Maybe, darling...
[He sends just that. No quips about the dragon picking up his habits, as he's increasingly distracted by... all else. For a moment, he flexes his fingers; the buttons feel... quite pronounced against his fingertips. Like pinpricks. He soldiers on.]
I'd have you come home straightaway, instead of embarking on your shopping errand for cleaners. Please.
He observes it. He can't feel it, but the marking's circles gently... move, a hypnotic rotation around the center stage light—which Mettaton recognizes instantly. Not necessarily as a symbol of his own, but its shape was obvious to him. The circular signs, though, looked familiar in some way...
When his phone beeps at him, he picks it up. The dragon readjusts, grumpy at the interruption of sound.]
Your magics... Oh! That's right! I was wondering where I'd see these marks before. But darling, the center is a stage light, of course. Though I would know best, given that I'm so often staring right into them!
[This deserves another healthy regard to this tattoo. Its rings drift, though the center remains still, and Mettaton tries to touch it with his free hand. Out of... what he decides is a sensitivity to the sudden presence of this magical marking??... he flinches; it's sore, it feels like.
(It's not sore, not really. But it feels like it, to Mettaton, who feels... suddenly, if gradually, overwhelmed by the air itself. The robot gasps to himself, for all that he doesn't use the air for any purpose.)]
Maybe, darling...
[He sends just that. No quips about the dragon picking up his habits, as he's increasingly distracted by... all else. For a moment, he flexes his fingers; the buttons feel... quite pronounced against his fingertips. Like pinpricks. He soldiers on.]
I'd have you come home straightaway, instead of embarking on your shopping errand for cleaners. Please.
A stage light. I see it now.
[Which answered one question, and provided further information besides: somehow, somewhy, their dragon had bitten a pattern that represented both of them onto Mettaton's body.
Unbeknownst to him, when Mettaton touches the sigil scrawled into metal, a part of the Ascian's own body twinges- just about his hip, towards his own side. Distracted by what he'd seen on the phone, and considering what any of it meant, he ignored it; at his age, twinges happened.
Equally unknown is the faint movement of its patterned rings, given that all he had to look at was a static image. That, and any other strangeness the robot had noticed is beyond him, and even the sudden insistence that he return home immediately doesn't strike him oddly.]
I was planning on it. Something like that, I don't think can be rubbed off. Not without taking your side with it.
[Not that he'd given up, or was refusing to help with it- but it seemed neither immediately dangerous nor disfiguring. Additionally, it was mysterious, bizarre, and worthy of closer inspection before mulling over how to remove it. All of which he needed to do in person.]
I'm not too distant. We can see about what to do for it once I've returned.
[Which answered one question, and provided further information besides: somehow, somewhy, their dragon had bitten a pattern that represented both of them onto Mettaton's body.
Unbeknownst to him, when Mettaton touches the sigil scrawled into metal, a part of the Ascian's own body twinges- just about his hip, towards his own side. Distracted by what he'd seen on the phone, and considering what any of it meant, he ignored it; at his age, twinges happened.
Equally unknown is the faint movement of its patterned rings, given that all he had to look at was a static image. That, and any other strangeness the robot had noticed is beyond him, and even the sudden insistence that he return home immediately doesn't strike him oddly.]
I was planning on it. Something like that, I don't think can be rubbed off. Not without taking your side with it.
[Not that he'd given up, or was refusing to help with it- but it seemed neither immediately dangerous nor disfiguring. Additionally, it was mysterious, bizarre, and worthy of closer inspection before mulling over how to remove it. All of which he needed to do in person.]
I'm not too distant. We can see about what to do for it once I've returned.
Your magics, and... a stage light. An interesting choice. Why didn't it transfer my brand??
[Just imagine it...
In something of a haze, palms let to press carefully on the couch, Mettaton too draws the connection from bite, to the two 'parents' belonging to this dragon. A sigil, representative of the two that reared it into being... Turning his body he spares the snoozing dragon a look, before murmuring in a softer, more pleasant voice,]
(And why was I the one who you marked...?)
[Emet-Selch was more often the one who bore markings of their love! On him, he'd be hard-pressed to do anything about this, and it'd never heal. Gingerly he leaves the markings alone, reuctant to agitate it lest there's some magic to it. (There is; he would learn this for sure, atop all other magic going on in this house.) For now he would have a mark on his body, and no rushing would see it gone any quicker... If at all. Mettaton considers this possibility, given the nature of magic, and of love.
A mark representative of them... He folds his hands over his front, and attempts to lean back, contemplative. Over the fact that he doesn't particularly mind that thought, and over the feeling of the couch, and of his own fingers laced together. The back of the couch feels more... scratchy than usual. Mettaton's screen flickers, nonplussed. Should he accept this sudden nuance of Couch Texture, or make a deal out of it...]
I'll await your return. I know bidding you to 'hurry on home' is pointless, given your lack of teleportation... And I'm able to hang tight. But I'm beginning to wonder if this bite has... infected me, somehow.
[He wouldn't be able to put it into words. He holds the phone against his body... and finds that the sensation of its wooden case is... strangely firm in sensation. Is he hallucinating? All things feel like pressure of some kind, but it was as though he was remembering all over again what it was like to feel... material differences. He taps the phone against his body, screen a very dim red.]
..... [Like this, he would wait, as still as he can remain.]
[Just imagine it...
In something of a haze, palms let to press carefully on the couch, Mettaton too draws the connection from bite, to the two 'parents' belonging to this dragon. A sigil, representative of the two that reared it into being... Turning his body he spares the snoozing dragon a look, before murmuring in a softer, more pleasant voice,]
(And why was I the one who you marked...?)
[Emet-Selch was more often the one who bore markings of their love! On him, he'd be hard-pressed to do anything about this, and it'd never heal. Gingerly he leaves the markings alone, reuctant to agitate it lest there's some magic to it. (There is; he would learn this for sure, atop all other magic going on in this house.) For now he would have a mark on his body, and no rushing would see it gone any quicker... If at all. Mettaton considers this possibility, given the nature of magic, and of love.
A mark representative of them... He folds his hands over his front, and attempts to lean back, contemplative. Over the fact that he doesn't particularly mind that thought, and over the feeling of the couch, and of his own fingers laced together. The back of the couch feels more... scratchy than usual. Mettaton's screen flickers, nonplussed. Should he accept this sudden nuance of Couch Texture, or make a deal out of it...]
I'll await your return. I know bidding you to 'hurry on home' is pointless, given your lack of teleportation... And I'm able to hang tight. But I'm beginning to wonder if this bite has... infected me, somehow.
[He wouldn't be able to put it into words. He holds the phone against his body... and finds that the sensation of its wooden case is... strangely firm in sensation. Is he hallucinating? All things feel like pressure of some kind, but it was as though he was remembering all over again what it was like to feel... material differences. He taps the phone against his body, screen a very dim red.]
..... [Like this, he would wait, as still as he can remain.]
Why not, indeed.
[There's a certain dryness in every letter of that text.
This talk of 'infection', though... he doesn't argue Mettaton's immunity, his lack of blood or organs to be tainted by anything untoward. Magic could affect him as readily as anyone else (and their recent history with the lung blossoms only proved it), and if their dragon had bitten him in such a way as to mark him... it was wholly possible that some other magic had been left behind with it.
Concerning, if not outright alarming. This mark itself seemed relatively benign- even a touch sentimental in feeling, to have some mixture of themselves transcribed over metal. Emet-Selch had never been the one to leave permanent or semi-permanent traces of himself on the robot's body (ignoring the lovebites of a werewolf, which had needed to be repaired). That was just the nature of their respective compositions; he was organic, full of blood that could spill, and skin that could bruise or scar, and Mettaton was not.
(He was retroactively a touch miffed that Mettaton's first response to seeing his magic inscribed on him was to want to wash it off. Neverminding that the idol didn't know what it was....)
Regardless, if there was some other magic afoot, dragon-inspired, it was hopefully as harmless as some impromptu engraving.]
Thank you for reminding me of one of my more irritating deficiencies. You'll wait for as long as it takes. A test of your patience and my legs.
[His legs were fine. Even without teleportation, it's only a handful of minutes later that he's at the door, and returned inside. An outing uneventful, while all the drama was contained at home... though a glance around reveals their dragonlet napping contentedly in the sun, looking pleased as anything about what it had done (or it was just enjoying the warmth). Emet-Selch frowns at it habitually, before plodding onward to the couch and the rectangle reclining patiently upon it.]
Whatever's wrong had best not be contagious.
[He offers in greeting, as his eyes soon land on the design, which seemed that much more vivid in person. Sitting down next to him, he turns towards it, reaching out a hand to brush the very edge of the pattern- not that he expects to discover much of anything by prodding it.]
[There's a certain dryness in every letter of that text.
This talk of 'infection', though... he doesn't argue Mettaton's immunity, his lack of blood or organs to be tainted by anything untoward. Magic could affect him as readily as anyone else (and their recent history with the lung blossoms only proved it), and if their dragon had bitten him in such a way as to mark him... it was wholly possible that some other magic had been left behind with it.
Concerning, if not outright alarming. This mark itself seemed relatively benign- even a touch sentimental in feeling, to have some mixture of themselves transcribed over metal. Emet-Selch had never been the one to leave permanent or semi-permanent traces of himself on the robot's body (ignoring the lovebites of a werewolf, which had needed to be repaired). That was just the nature of their respective compositions; he was organic, full of blood that could spill, and skin that could bruise or scar, and Mettaton was not.
(He was retroactively a touch miffed that Mettaton's first response to seeing his magic inscribed on him was to want to wash it off. Neverminding that the idol didn't know what it was....)
Regardless, if there was some other magic afoot, dragon-inspired, it was hopefully as harmless as some impromptu engraving.]
Thank you for reminding me of one of my more irritating deficiencies. You'll wait for as long as it takes. A test of your patience and my legs.
[His legs were fine. Even without teleportation, it's only a handful of minutes later that he's at the door, and returned inside. An outing uneventful, while all the drama was contained at home... though a glance around reveals their dragonlet napping contentedly in the sun, looking pleased as anything about what it had done (or it was just enjoying the warmth). Emet-Selch frowns at it habitually, before plodding onward to the couch and the rectangle reclining patiently upon it.]
Whatever's wrong had best not be contagious.
[He offers in greeting, as his eyes soon land on the design, which seemed that much more vivid in person. Sitting down next to him, he turns towards it, reaching out a hand to brush the very edge of the pattern- not that he expects to discover much of anything by prodding it.]
[Fascinating over the feeling of a simple, if unyielding, phone against his body, Mettaton feels the thing... vibrate. He gasps, his entire body let to vibrate in its wake- and from there, time doesn't feel as though it has as much meaning to him, while he simply processes the feeling of a phone's notification vibration. And moreover, while he began to become more and more aware of the vividity of his surrounds, impressing itself upon his deserving body...
So he wait easily, given his distraction. He waves Emet-Selch in as soon as the door opens, clutching his phoe reflexively against his own body while he lumbers close.
...Mettaton can't help the heart that blooms on his screen at the sight of him, fond of him as he is. But he otherwise remains still, phone case against his body- just in case, on the off chance, he receives another notification (that he could feel???).]
If it is, don't you think our mutual parenting efforts would get us all infected? [He raises a pointer finger.] Thaaat's family li- Ah!!
[Emet-Selch had taken his seat, and reached for the slow, easy orbit of its rings. And of course, Mettaton allowed it; and even before the Ascian closes that distance, its colors become more vivid, luminescent. It brings out the glow of those rings, a deep purple, a perfect replica of his magic... where the center 'light' brightens intensely, a white like Mettaton's soul.
But that's not the part where MTT reacts as he does. It's the sensation of his husband's fingertips against his body- a sensation he feels is so deep-reaching that he can't help but wonder if it's the work of this tattoo. Mettaton jolts completely, and though he flinches away, he does nothing to push Emet-Selch away. It's comparatively intense... but it's definitely far from unpleasant.
Using his palm against the couch to swivel his body to face Emet-Selch, his screen has flushed a deep, dim red again.] I... I can't explain it. But your touch feels like voltage, darling. ...Please continue.
So he wait easily, given his distraction. He waves Emet-Selch in as soon as the door opens, clutching his phoe reflexively against his own body while he lumbers close.
...Mettaton can't help the heart that blooms on his screen at the sight of him, fond of him as he is. But he otherwise remains still, phone case against his body- just in case, on the off chance, he receives another notification (that he could feel???).]
If it is, don't you think our mutual parenting efforts would get us all infected? [He raises a pointer finger.] Thaaat's family li- Ah!!
[Emet-Selch had taken his seat, and reached for the slow, easy orbit of its rings. And of course, Mettaton allowed it; and even before the Ascian closes that distance, its colors become more vivid, luminescent. It brings out the glow of those rings, a deep purple, a perfect replica of his magic... where the center 'light' brightens intensely, a white like Mettaton's soul.
But that's not the part where MTT reacts as he does. It's the sensation of his husband's fingertips against his body- a sensation he feels is so deep-reaching that he can't help but wonder if it's the work of this tattoo. Mettaton jolts completely, and though he flinches away, he does nothing to push Emet-Selch away. It's comparatively intense... but it's definitely far from unpleasant.
Using his palm against the couch to swivel his body to face Emet-Selch, his screen has flushed a deep, dim red again.] I... I can't explain it. But your touch feels like voltage, darling. ...Please continue.
[Emet-Selch didn't need to see the heart light up on his husband's front to know of his feelings for him... but he was fond of it all the same, just as he was of the angular robot waiting on the couch for him. When they had been Bonded, he remembered that slight rush he often felt when entering his presence- something that he still felt, even when that emotion couldn't be directly echoed and shared. It had taken longer for him to recognize it as love, but there was no escaping his awareness of it now.
Just as unmistakable was the way that the orbiting rings and their center light had grown more vivid on his approach. Though already clearly defined, they seemed that much more so as Emet-Selch sat down next to the robot, as if reacting to his presence, or Mettaton's feelings for him.
Whatever ability was at work here, it was an intriguing one. And where he's all set to sigh at the idol's verbal answer to him, both that and all thought is shaken from him at the reaction to the gentle contact between them.
Mettaton cries out, flinches, and Emet-Selch flinches with him, jerking his hand back as though he had been the one shocked. Gold eyes briefly widen, startled, before narrowing as he soon assesses that he felt nothing unpleasant himself- and nor had Mettaton, somehow, as the other man offers some small description of what had happened. A glance down to his fingers revealed them as unharmed too, but strangest of all was how certain he was of having pressed quite lightly; the sort of lightly he was sure that his lover wouldn't have been able to feel at all. He frowns at the tattoo and its rectangular canvas; the skepticism in his face matches his tone as he flexes his hand.]
--What kind of infection does this? Are you sure you're not damaged? Has something knocked loose in there?
[But it's without reluctance that he presses the tips of his fingers once more over the strange pattern, attention flitting between his slow trace of the design, and up to Mettaton's 'face', to watch his reaction. It wasn't so much an unheard of amount of sensitivity, but an impossible one; even as a puca, Mettaton's classic body had known lesser degrees of it. It was probably a coincidence, something to do with the dragon bite....
But this had been a part of what he'd wished for, when facing the Crystal. For Mettaton to feel things as he'd used to, to be able to touch his husband and be touched, and to know that they were sharing in it completely. It was a crucial part of what he'd asked for- if not the whole of it, and the rest had yet to make itself known. And given the timing, it seemed no less likely that this was the work of their dragonlet. Even if what that work was had yet to be understood.
His touch drifts up Mettaton's side, not yet daring to hope that it was more than the sigil that was sensitive.]
Can you- ...what is it like?
Just as unmistakable was the way that the orbiting rings and their center light had grown more vivid on his approach. Though already clearly defined, they seemed that much more so as Emet-Selch sat down next to the robot, as if reacting to his presence, or Mettaton's feelings for him.
Whatever ability was at work here, it was an intriguing one. And where he's all set to sigh at the idol's verbal answer to him, both that and all thought is shaken from him at the reaction to the gentle contact between them.
Mettaton cries out, flinches, and Emet-Selch flinches with him, jerking his hand back as though he had been the one shocked. Gold eyes briefly widen, startled, before narrowing as he soon assesses that he felt nothing unpleasant himself- and nor had Mettaton, somehow, as the other man offers some small description of what had happened. A glance down to his fingers revealed them as unharmed too, but strangest of all was how certain he was of having pressed quite lightly; the sort of lightly he was sure that his lover wouldn't have been able to feel at all. He frowns at the tattoo and its rectangular canvas; the skepticism in his face matches his tone as he flexes his hand.]
--What kind of infection does this? Are you sure you're not damaged? Has something knocked loose in there?
[But it's without reluctance that he presses the tips of his fingers once more over the strange pattern, attention flitting between his slow trace of the design, and up to Mettaton's 'face', to watch his reaction. It wasn't so much an unheard of amount of sensitivity, but an impossible one; even as a puca, Mettaton's classic body had known lesser degrees of it. It was probably a coincidence, something to do with the dragon bite....
But this had been a part of what he'd wished for, when facing the Crystal. For Mettaton to feel things as he'd used to, to be able to touch his husband and be touched, and to know that they were sharing in it completely. It was a crucial part of what he'd asked for- if not the whole of it, and the rest had yet to make itself known. And given the timing, it seemed no less likely that this was the work of their dragonlet. Even if what that work was had yet to be understood.
His touch drifts up Mettaton's side, not yet daring to hope that it was more than the sigil that was sensitive.]
Can you- ...what is it like?
Oh, come on. They didn't bite that hard. Its teeth could never hope to puncture this studly metal body of mine. [One hand is brought up to hover over his own cheek, coquettish.] But the invitation still stands. You're free to take a look as you'd like... hubby.
[To pry him apart and look, which Mettaton keeps insinuating would be kinky somehow. Not like he's ever done that with Emet-Selch, and more likely it would be similar to what happens with Alphys, as it ever had... which was fun, Mettaton thought, if dull. He just had to sit there and stay still. Best to make it entertaining for himself by making her sweat through the power of insiutation. That was fun. Mettaton enjoys a good streak of mischief now and again. Or, frequently.
He really was suited to being a Puca...
Now that Emet-Selch is home, Mettaton deposits his device on the side table, no longer finding it needed for their interaction. (This would also mean that he wouldn't be able to see his own tattoo like this, given his inability to swivel and examine his own body... It was the work of taking selfies at all that alerted him to the presence of the tattoo.) But he, too, is completely attuned to whatever is causing him to feel so acutely- and with Emet-Selch in his presence, what was once overwhelming and a touch startling (given the recent dragon bite) was vivid, interesting, and still overwhelming. Because he felt safe; because he knew that any ill that might befall him would be cared for.
Mettaton sighs, audibly. And then Emet-Selch's fingers return to his side, and his screen dims to black in some equivalent of closing his eyes, as Mettaton shuts out all awareness other than... touch. How firmly was Emet-Selch touching him, anyway? It felt like just a simple touch, but one with so much charge. To indicate that he was not hurt, nor uncomfortable, he hums softly, fingers curling into the couch. (The sensation of the couch... was still an awful, coarse fiber, and he finds himself twitching his fingertips against it. Interesting... but the sensation of it all still finds him too overwhelmed to connect any dots.)
Emet-Selch's finger drifts, and it catches the contemplative Mettaton off-guard. His screen alights again in pink of all things, before settling back in yellow, with the occasional flashing red square where he neglects to keep control of his "expression." The hand that formerly hovered over his "cheek" balls up, but he doesn't dare touch his own body.]
Hades... [Faintly, he sighs his name. He maneuvers himself that bit closer.] I don't know- it didn't feel like this when they first... From the hideous weave of the couch, to this oh-so-hypnotic path of your fingertips... I'm overcome.
[Not that he ever disliked being overcome, and he knew Emet-Selch knew that. (Though he could do without the discomforts the couch offered. And Emet-Selch had napped here? (Was Mettaton going to be princess and the pea for a while after his drought of sensation?)) Nonetheless, he's sure of it: the dragon bit him a good half-hour ago, and it took his selfie-ing to notice- but he'd realized that before the bite, and after the bite, was where the sigil had come into being. And this development came after, by a while... Therefore, if it was related, it was part of a grander development.
But Mettaton's not thinking too hard about the why's right now, nor is he sure that this is because of the dragon's bite. For now, his attention's drawn entirely on the fingers that run up his side, a feeling he sighs into, watching the movement of Emet-Selch's arm with eager want.]
Let me... [Being overwhelmed meant something else, too. He was in disbelief. Mettaton reaches for Emet-Selch's face, longing to press a palm to the Ascian's cheek. To... feel it. He could always feel it before... but if he could feel the scratchy, thready sensation of the couch- what could he feel of Emet-Selch?]
[To pry him apart and look, which Mettaton keeps insinuating would be kinky somehow. Not like he's ever done that with Emet-Selch, and more likely it would be similar to what happens with Alphys, as it ever had... which was fun, Mettaton thought, if dull. He just had to sit there and stay still. Best to make it entertaining for himself by making her sweat through the power of insiutation. That was fun. Mettaton enjoys a good streak of mischief now and again. Or, frequently.
He really was suited to being a Puca...
Now that Emet-Selch is home, Mettaton deposits his device on the side table, no longer finding it needed for their interaction. (This would also mean that he wouldn't be able to see his own tattoo like this, given his inability to swivel and examine his own body... It was the work of taking selfies at all that alerted him to the presence of the tattoo.) But he, too, is completely attuned to whatever is causing him to feel so acutely- and with Emet-Selch in his presence, what was once overwhelming and a touch startling (given the recent dragon bite) was vivid, interesting, and still overwhelming. Because he felt safe; because he knew that any ill that might befall him would be cared for.
Mettaton sighs, audibly. And then Emet-Selch's fingers return to his side, and his screen dims to black in some equivalent of closing his eyes, as Mettaton shuts out all awareness other than... touch. How firmly was Emet-Selch touching him, anyway? It felt like just a simple touch, but one with so much charge. To indicate that he was not hurt, nor uncomfortable, he hums softly, fingers curling into the couch. (The sensation of the couch... was still an awful, coarse fiber, and he finds himself twitching his fingertips against it. Interesting... but the sensation of it all still finds him too overwhelmed to connect any dots.)
Emet-Selch's finger drifts, and it catches the contemplative Mettaton off-guard. His screen alights again in pink of all things, before settling back in yellow, with the occasional flashing red square where he neglects to keep control of his "expression." The hand that formerly hovered over his "cheek" balls up, but he doesn't dare touch his own body.]
Hades... [Faintly, he sighs his name. He maneuvers himself that bit closer.] I don't know- it didn't feel like this when they first... From the hideous weave of the couch, to this oh-so-hypnotic path of your fingertips... I'm overcome.
[Not that he ever disliked being overcome, and he knew Emet-Selch knew that. (Though he could do without the discomforts the couch offered. And Emet-Selch had napped here? (Was Mettaton going to be princess and the pea for a while after his drought of sensation?)) Nonetheless, he's sure of it: the dragon bit him a good half-hour ago, and it took his selfie-ing to notice- but he'd realized that before the bite, and after the bite, was where the sigil had come into being. And this development came after, by a while... Therefore, if it was related, it was part of a grander development.
But Mettaton's not thinking too hard about the why's right now, nor is he sure that this is because of the dragon's bite. For now, his attention's drawn entirely on the fingers that run up his side, a feeling he sighs into, watching the movement of Emet-Selch's arm with eager want.]
Let me... [Being overwhelmed meant something else, too. He was in disbelief. Mettaton reaches for Emet-Selch's face, longing to press a palm to the Ascian's cheek. To... feel it. He could always feel it before... but if he could feel the scratchy, thready sensation of the couch- what could he feel of Emet-Selch?]
[The offer to inspect Mettaton's internals earns him a humorless look- almost entirely due to the word 'hubby'. But he doesn't argue it; for all that he'd never properly seen inside him or been responsible for his maintenance, that didn't mean he wasn't willing or interested to learn. Not that there was much he could do if something genuinely needed replaced rather than repaired, given his inability to create anything.
And not that he thought the dragon had caused any sort of physical damage. Not with those tiny jaws and Mettaton's sturdy body, and not with the lack of any prior sign of aggression on the lizard's part either.
More applicable was their current situation, this current assessment of whatever it was that was going on with Mettaton's body. Still reluctant to not link bite-to-sensation (since as far as he knew bite/mark discovery/new sensitivity(?) had occurred at the same moment), his breath can't help but catch slightly at his lover's series of reactions. The different colors his screen went through, the grip he took on the couch- it all spoke of something earnestly felt.
There's no more recoiling from him, anyway. Even with the robot's... eyes (sensors? could he even ever turn those off) closed, the Ascian was increasingly certain that the other man could feel what he was doing, that the sounds he made weren't caused by his imagination. ...Or at least, he found himself hoping in that direction, as the soft caress of his hand along the smooth, flat surface seemed to elicit a more genuine response than that....
And he hums quietly to himself at Mettaton's answer, the surprising detail of his notice of the couch, its scratchy quality- definitely not something to recline nude upon.]
It's not the nicest texture, is it. [That gets a softer sigh, as he edges closer himself, hand moving from Mettaton's side to his front, skirting around his screen.] Do we have any furniture in this house that's worth keeping?
[A question mostly rhetorical as he assumed the answer was: no. For reasons of aesthetics or durability or comfort, there was nothing that wouldn't benefit from being replaced. It also wasn't something that mattered in this moment, not when they had whatever this was to focus on, an exploration that felt almost delicate--
A feeling that persists when Mettaton raises his hand, and Emet-Selch has his face cupped by it. Delicate, but intense in the same gesture, and it's automatically that he nudges into his palm before holding still. Inviting his touch, his own exploration- everything that he might be able to feel.]
--I passed by the Crystal while I was out. [He mentions in a low tone, hand lowering to grip onto Mettaton's side again, thumbing near one of his dials.] Like times before, I asked it for something.
And not that he thought the dragon had caused any sort of physical damage. Not with those tiny jaws and Mettaton's sturdy body, and not with the lack of any prior sign of aggression on the lizard's part either.
More applicable was their current situation, this current assessment of whatever it was that was going on with Mettaton's body. Still reluctant to not link bite-to-sensation (since as far as he knew bite/mark discovery/new sensitivity(?) had occurred at the same moment), his breath can't help but catch slightly at his lover's series of reactions. The different colors his screen went through, the grip he took on the couch- it all spoke of something earnestly felt.
There's no more recoiling from him, anyway. Even with the robot's... eyes (sensors? could he even ever turn those off) closed, the Ascian was increasingly certain that the other man could feel what he was doing, that the sounds he made weren't caused by his imagination. ...Or at least, he found himself hoping in that direction, as the soft caress of his hand along the smooth, flat surface seemed to elicit a more genuine response than that....
And he hums quietly to himself at Mettaton's answer, the surprising detail of his notice of the couch, its scratchy quality- definitely not something to recline nude upon.]
It's not the nicest texture, is it. [That gets a softer sigh, as he edges closer himself, hand moving from Mettaton's side to his front, skirting around his screen.] Do we have any furniture in this house that's worth keeping?
[A question mostly rhetorical as he assumed the answer was: no. For reasons of aesthetics or durability or comfort, there was nothing that wouldn't benefit from being replaced. It also wasn't something that mattered in this moment, not when they had whatever this was to focus on, an exploration that felt almost delicate--
A feeling that persists when Mettaton raises his hand, and Emet-Selch has his face cupped by it. Delicate, but intense in the same gesture, and it's automatically that he nudges into his palm before holding still. Inviting his touch, his own exploration- everything that he might be able to feel.]
--I passed by the Crystal while I was out. [He mentions in a low tone, hand lowering to grip onto Mettaton's side again, thumbing near one of his dials.] Like times before, I asked it for something.
[A dim screen was the best way he could convey it, and he knew Emet-Selch would read into it, that the robot was at least blocking out visual input in favor of tactile. Because there's plenty to focus on... and as Emet-Selch maps out the front plane of his body, Mettaton nearly leans, his free hand hovering close to his own face in a tight fist that grows only tighter with anticipation. His other, of course, is occupied with Emet-Selch, and no longer the couch.
The comment on the furniture gets a chuckle from Mettaton, no matter how rhetorical.]
Oh, god no. All of it's getting the boot at the earliest opportunity!
[But they can't just go without furniture for either of them to lounge on... Even if none of it was worth their touch. It's because they had other priorities with their shards, and had to live frugally because of it, that it was even still here at all. Couch included, though Mettaton grows a clearer understanding of what a good couch should feature. Tawdry would not be in their future, even if the couch were ostentatious. Guaranteed to be that, at least, but definitely something worth lounging upon.
Furniture is barely in his periphery right now, though. Especially as he makes contact with the Ascian's face, and he leans right into it. With a gasp, the robot's fingers curl slightly, enhancing his grip, before reaching for his other cheek with his other hand.
He was... warm, Mettaton knew. Emet-Selch's face was soft and warm, the structure of bone beneath skin at his cheeks; but god he was warm, and that was a sensation that nearly distracts him from processing anything else Emet-Selch was describing. Display the brightest possible yellow it can be, Mettaton becomes acutely aware of something as soon as he feels the soothing warmth of skin. The feeling he felt... the air. It was slightly cooler than his own body, and he could feel that much so severely that it felt like winter's chill, only... not. He knew winter's chill. He knew this was nothing like it- but it felt so stark and so impossible against his metal body that he gasps again to notice it.
And to register what Emet-Selch's saying- the Crystal. Emet-Selch had been at the Crystal, and the robot almost... envisions the path he took to return home from its violet side. Nearly like a memory... but perhaps it was just one of his own. Only the Overseer knows how often Mettaton himself has charted that path himself. It all becomes clear, though.
Cupping Emet-Selch's face, Mettaton strokes him with his thumb as well.]
Hades...! You're so warm! You're warm, and soft!! [He knew these sensations. He knew them from wearing a human's body; he could feel so starkly the texture of his skin, and feel the warmth from his blood.] You asked...
[This wasn't the dragon's work. Emet-Selch had wished for Mettaton's ability to feel. The robot doesn't register it as a desire to make up for inadequacy, even though this was something that caused the couple much grief. After all, he did want this... and to be provided it again, more sharply than ever, was nothing short of a kindness. Without thinking, the idol unhands Emet-Selch, and pounces on him to draw him into a tight embrace. Pulling him flush to his screen, Mettaton trembles at the feeling of him, his robes, his solid figure so soft, against himself- and is overwhelmed all over again.]
You asked for my ability to touch, and feel... Ohhh, you're so...
[With his body pulled against him, Mettaton finds himsef taking handfuls of hs body wherever he could. He was so remarkably warm- and when his fingertips rub into his upper back, then down to his waist, then round to his arms, he realizes all over again the vivid world of texture, when warmed with heat.]
The comment on the furniture gets a chuckle from Mettaton, no matter how rhetorical.]
Oh, god no. All of it's getting the boot at the earliest opportunity!
[But they can't just go without furniture for either of them to lounge on... Even if none of it was worth their touch. It's because they had other priorities with their shards, and had to live frugally because of it, that it was even still here at all. Couch included, though Mettaton grows a clearer understanding of what a good couch should feature. Tawdry would not be in their future, even if the couch were ostentatious. Guaranteed to be that, at least, but definitely something worth lounging upon.
Furniture is barely in his periphery right now, though. Especially as he makes contact with the Ascian's face, and he leans right into it. With a gasp, the robot's fingers curl slightly, enhancing his grip, before reaching for his other cheek with his other hand.
He was... warm, Mettaton knew. Emet-Selch's face was soft and warm, the structure of bone beneath skin at his cheeks; but god he was warm, and that was a sensation that nearly distracts him from processing anything else Emet-Selch was describing. Display the brightest possible yellow it can be, Mettaton becomes acutely aware of something as soon as he feels the soothing warmth of skin. The feeling he felt... the air. It was slightly cooler than his own body, and he could feel that much so severely that it felt like winter's chill, only... not. He knew winter's chill. He knew this was nothing like it- but it felt so stark and so impossible against his metal body that he gasps again to notice it.
And to register what Emet-Selch's saying- the Crystal. Emet-Selch had been at the Crystal, and the robot almost... envisions the path he took to return home from its violet side. Nearly like a memory... but perhaps it was just one of his own. Only the Overseer knows how often Mettaton himself has charted that path himself. It all becomes clear, though.
Cupping Emet-Selch's face, Mettaton strokes him with his thumb as well.]
Hades...! You're so warm! You're warm, and soft!! [He knew these sensations. He knew them from wearing a human's body; he could feel so starkly the texture of his skin, and feel the warmth from his blood.] You asked...
[This wasn't the dragon's work. Emet-Selch had wished for Mettaton's ability to feel. The robot doesn't register it as a desire to make up for inadequacy, even though this was something that caused the couple much grief. After all, he did want this... and to be provided it again, more sharply than ever, was nothing short of a kindness. Without thinking, the idol unhands Emet-Selch, and pounces on him to draw him into a tight embrace. Pulling him flush to his screen, Mettaton trembles at the feeling of him, his robes, his solid figure so soft, against himself- and is overwhelmed all over again.]
You asked for my ability to touch, and feel... Ohhh, you're so...
[With his body pulled against him, Mettaton finds himsef taking handfuls of hs body wherever he could. He was so remarkably warm- and when his fingertips rub into his upper back, then down to his waist, then round to his arms, he realizes all over again the vivid world of texture, when warmed with heat.]
[The briefest flicker of a smile crosses his expression, at Mettaton's concurrence when it came to the future of their household goods. He remembered once waking up in a room he didn't recognize- because the robot had enthusiastically redecorated while he'd been thoroughly unconscious. All his institutional, depressingly default furniture had been thrown out, replaced with things to suit his lover's tastes. And which he'd found acceptable, in the end; more than that, he'd recognized the effort gone to on his behalf.
It still couldn't be a priority, changing out their furniture here. There was too much else they needed, and so long as they had places to sit (and sleep, for himself), they would have to make do. Until it was all broken beyond repair, they would have to manage.
But Mettaton's unenhanced robotic body- was that something that they couldn't make do with? Was that why, when his steps took him before crystalline facets, the mage's thoughts often drifted to what they were lacking. What was missed, ached for, sometimes bitterly. It was something they both wanted, so Emet-Selch didn't feel the need to ask permission to try. So now and again, he'd tried. Whenever whim and weakness struck him, he'd wished.
Had he finally been heard? Even if this meant an admittance that he'd failed to manage after all, that he couldn't move past, couldn't bridge the space between them- he didn't regret it, when hearing the wonder in his lover's voice. In feeling the slight tremble in a body so sturdy, as these simple sensations seemed enough to overwhelm. Even if it wasn't so straightforward an act, it felt worth it just for this.
From his face being cupped, Mettaton lets go of him- but only to lunge fully upon his robed and seated self. Apart from a small grunt of impact, Emet-Selch offers no protest, no resistance. None verbal, and none physical either, as he leans, is crushed willingly to the front of the robotic star with firm insistence, a faint shudder wracking his own body.]
Did it truly....
[He can barely breathe it, even as his arms wrap tight around him- as much as he can, given a robotic shape even less forgiving than what he more commonly held. As Mettaton feels him up, he imagines what distinctions he might be able to make now, even through thick fabric. The warmth, but give of muscle, and the sturdiness of bone underneath. The texture of his robes themselves, something soft enough to be pleasant against skin, not at all like the couch beneath them. Every tremble or squirm, or tensing of muscle.]
Did it finally- truly--
[He wasn't even the one with a sense regained, but he felt overwhelmed in his own way, voice fading to an even softer whisper. Disbelieving, he shakes his head, startled at the strength of his own response, the relief of being held, and imagining that Mettaton could feel it. It didn't explain what had happened with their dragon, but even that thought is pushed to the side as he holds tight, with fingers that would have bruised, had Emet-Selch been digging in to something other than metal.]
It still couldn't be a priority, changing out their furniture here. There was too much else they needed, and so long as they had places to sit (and sleep, for himself), they would have to make do. Until it was all broken beyond repair, they would have to manage.
But Mettaton's unenhanced robotic body- was that something that they couldn't make do with? Was that why, when his steps took him before crystalline facets, the mage's thoughts often drifted to what they were lacking. What was missed, ached for, sometimes bitterly. It was something they both wanted, so Emet-Selch didn't feel the need to ask permission to try. So now and again, he'd tried. Whenever whim and weakness struck him, he'd wished.
Had he finally been heard? Even if this meant an admittance that he'd failed to manage after all, that he couldn't move past, couldn't bridge the space between them- he didn't regret it, when hearing the wonder in his lover's voice. In feeling the slight tremble in a body so sturdy, as these simple sensations seemed enough to overwhelm. Even if it wasn't so straightforward an act, it felt worth it just for this.
From his face being cupped, Mettaton lets go of him- but only to lunge fully upon his robed and seated self. Apart from a small grunt of impact, Emet-Selch offers no protest, no resistance. None verbal, and none physical either, as he leans, is crushed willingly to the front of the robotic star with firm insistence, a faint shudder wracking his own body.]
Did it truly....
[He can barely breathe it, even as his arms wrap tight around him- as much as he can, given a robotic shape even less forgiving than what he more commonly held. As Mettaton feels him up, he imagines what distinctions he might be able to make now, even through thick fabric. The warmth, but give of muscle, and the sturdiness of bone underneath. The texture of his robes themselves, something soft enough to be pleasant against skin, not at all like the couch beneath them. Every tremble or squirm, or tensing of muscle.]
Did it finally- truly--
[He wasn't even the one with a sense regained, but he felt overwhelmed in his own way, voice fading to an even softer whisper. Disbelieving, he shakes his head, startled at the strength of his own response, the relief of being held, and imagining that Mettaton could feel it. It didn't explain what had happened with their dragon, but even that thought is pushed to the side as he holds tight, with fingers that would have bruised, had Emet-Selch been digging in to something other than metal.]
[Something had to give eventually. It wasn't a weakness, even if Mettaton had faith that they would... manage. But if they didn't have to, why should they? It was one more second he had to be deprived of the full scope of the world when he wanted otherwise, and he knew he couldn't stand to wait until they figured out their feelings.
And he'd since calmed down on his advances, knowing that it brought Emet-Selch embitterment. He was such a soft-hearted man, he thought... And when he had something to miss, he wondered if Emet-Selch missed it even more than he did.
In a way, Mettaton had made peace with that. Intimacy could be sought in other ways, like raising a dragon together, or sharing thoughts, feelings. And of course, in sharing financial endeavors- such as the purchasing of his sensation back, apparently, even though Mettaton is beside himself at Emet-Selch solely shouldering that burden. Beside himself, and touched. Ultimately touched, as of course they would feel sad at what was lost. Maybe all along, he needed to accept that... And he had, in small ways, even when it frustrated. Even when he wished everything could be normal so hard, that he'd convince himself that he could still feel, still touch, still be reached.
Emet-Selch wanted to reach him further. Mettaton respected that... even when it frustrated to feel so incapable. It hurt. It was bound to hurt.
But he's here in the moment, touching Emet-Selch, palpating flesh and muscle and bone underneath, the softness of fabric a plush shell around soft, smooth skin. Mettaton's screen dims to a heated red, as he squeezes the smaller man against himself, Emet-Selch making it that much easier by wrapping his arms about his bulky figure. Flush to his front, the robot pets down his spine, careful to soak in the feeling of bone, of muscle, of the sleekness of flesh...]
It's unmistakable... It's more than I even had...
[As a robot. It was akin to the sensation of being human, when he felt the chill of air or the nauseating warmth of heat. It was familiar, while completely new all at once, and he squeezes Emet-Selch, compressing him against his front. Crossing his arms along his back, Mettaton leans into him, pressing them so close that Emet-Selch is made to press into him entirely.
... See, this was what they wanted. Mettaton had been aching to live vicariously through Emet-Selch... but the smaller man was the one who wanted it more than he. The pleasure he sees in him now makes everything worth it, from what they endured without, to... the shards MTT didn't have to spend, but that that his husband did. With a shivering sigh, Mettaton's screen dims, pleased to feel Emet-Selch so overcome with that relief.]
... You have a death grip on me, sweetheart. Oh, you drive me wild. [And he wouldn't have it any other way, enjoying the rapture with which Emet-Selch clung to him.
All the while, their dragon young snoozes away. It's sort of flopped onto its side, fanning its wing over its body to better soak in the sun.]
And he'd since calmed down on his advances, knowing that it brought Emet-Selch embitterment. He was such a soft-hearted man, he thought... And when he had something to miss, he wondered if Emet-Selch missed it even more than he did.
In a way, Mettaton had made peace with that. Intimacy could be sought in other ways, like raising a dragon together, or sharing thoughts, feelings. And of course, in sharing financial endeavors- such as the purchasing of his sensation back, apparently, even though Mettaton is beside himself at Emet-Selch solely shouldering that burden. Beside himself, and touched. Ultimately touched, as of course they would feel sad at what was lost. Maybe all along, he needed to accept that... And he had, in small ways, even when it frustrated. Even when he wished everything could be normal so hard, that he'd convince himself that he could still feel, still touch, still be reached.
Emet-Selch wanted to reach him further. Mettaton respected that... even when it frustrated to feel so incapable. It hurt. It was bound to hurt.
But he's here in the moment, touching Emet-Selch, palpating flesh and muscle and bone underneath, the softness of fabric a plush shell around soft, smooth skin. Mettaton's screen dims to a heated red, as he squeezes the smaller man against himself, Emet-Selch making it that much easier by wrapping his arms about his bulky figure. Flush to his front, the robot pets down his spine, careful to soak in the feeling of bone, of muscle, of the sleekness of flesh...]
It's unmistakable... It's more than I even had...
[As a robot. It was akin to the sensation of being human, when he felt the chill of air or the nauseating warmth of heat. It was familiar, while completely new all at once, and he squeezes Emet-Selch, compressing him against his front. Crossing his arms along his back, Mettaton leans into him, pressing them so close that Emet-Selch is made to press into him entirely.
... See, this was what they wanted. Mettaton had been aching to live vicariously through Emet-Selch... but the smaller man was the one who wanted it more than he. The pleasure he sees in him now makes everything worth it, from what they endured without, to... the shards MTT didn't have to spend, but that that his husband did. With a shivering sigh, Mettaton's screen dims, pleased to feel Emet-Selch so overcome with that relief.]
... You have a death grip on me, sweetheart. Oh, you drive me wild. [And he wouldn't have it any other way, enjoying the rapture with which Emet-Selch clung to him.
All the while, their dragon young snoozes away. It's sort of flopped onto its side, fanning its wing over its body to better soak in the sun.]
[So he'd given in, repeatedly; at best, Emet-Selch had accepted that he always would. He couldn't move on, couldn't accept what they had left without persistent grief. Even while Mettaton had approached him less often with the more physical forms of intimacy (and that the smaller man had tried to view them as something other than an attempted prelude to sex), Emet-Selch had felt less relief, and more guilt. A reminder of what he wasn't doing- which of course did little to put him in the mood for anything. But he'd tried to offer affection, contact, to not withdraw as he had been, if with only mixed success. It was a process.
And it hurt, from every angle. Even wishing wasn't a painless thing.
But right now, it was worth it; if there was hurt to follow, he could dwell on it later, could fail to work out the more complicated feelings that went with this wish being granted. That he did it on his own went without saying, to him; he'd stubbornly told Mettaton that he would restore everything they needed, with his own shards, without help. This... just happened to be first. What felt the most important to bring back, somehow.
And to enhance it? More than he ever had. While he hadn't expressly wished for that, something that went beyond what Mettaton had experienced as a robotic puca, it was a positive bonus, and the mage makes a small noise against him. Presses his lips to the top of the rectangle, while he shifts in place, wanting to arch into the pet of his spine, to soak in every touch, just as Mettaton was doing with him. Melding into him, it was a plea for closeness more than it was a demand, and for all that it was his own fault that he felt so bereft of it... it wouldn't stop him from reaching out now, for holding and touching him now, with a grip that might bruise himself.
Although... this hadn't been all that he'd wished for. It was enough, though; he wasn't disappointed. Knowing that Mettaton could hold him, could experience the world with him in greater depth- if that was the entirety of what he'd been granted, he wouldn't resent it.
Barely managing to loosen his grip as Mettaton comments on it, he strokes tensely down his sides. It's not quite awkward, but there's a heavy kind of silence to him, as he weighs whether to ask about it.]
...It wasn't only your sensation that I wished for.
[He says it like a confession, lips against smooth metal. The grip of his arms tight enough to leave angled imprints through the sleeves of his robe, his fingers rub more absently at Mettaton as he hesitates. He hadn't specified how he'd wanted Mettaton to, well, have access to a cock. He'd tried more specific wishes in the past, and been ignored. In case that was the problem, he left it vague. Heartfelt, but vague. Which also meant he didn't know how this part of his wish would choose to manifest, if it even would.]
And it hurt, from every angle. Even wishing wasn't a painless thing.
But right now, it was worth it; if there was hurt to follow, he could dwell on it later, could fail to work out the more complicated feelings that went with this wish being granted. That he did it on his own went without saying, to him; he'd stubbornly told Mettaton that he would restore everything they needed, with his own shards, without help. This... just happened to be first. What felt the most important to bring back, somehow.
And to enhance it? More than he ever had. While he hadn't expressly wished for that, something that went beyond what Mettaton had experienced as a robotic puca, it was a positive bonus, and the mage makes a small noise against him. Presses his lips to the top of the rectangle, while he shifts in place, wanting to arch into the pet of his spine, to soak in every touch, just as Mettaton was doing with him. Melding into him, it was a plea for closeness more than it was a demand, and for all that it was his own fault that he felt so bereft of it... it wouldn't stop him from reaching out now, for holding and touching him now, with a grip that might bruise himself.
Although... this hadn't been all that he'd wished for. It was enough, though; he wasn't disappointed. Knowing that Mettaton could hold him, could experience the world with him in greater depth- if that was the entirety of what he'd been granted, he wouldn't resent it.
Barely managing to loosen his grip as Mettaton comments on it, he strokes tensely down his sides. It's not quite awkward, but there's a heavy kind of silence to him, as he weighs whether to ask about it.]
...It wasn't only your sensation that I wished for.
[He says it like a confession, lips against smooth metal. The grip of his arms tight enough to leave angled imprints through the sleeves of his robe, his fingers rub more absently at Mettaton as he hesitates. He hadn't specified how he'd wanted Mettaton to, well, have access to a cock. He'd tried more specific wishes in the past, and been ignored. In case that was the problem, he left it vague. Heartfelt, but vague. Which also meant he didn't know how this part of his wish would choose to manifest, if it even would.]
[His passion for Mettaton goes heard. Mettaton can feel his plea in the curve of his body, in the shift of his posture, in the gentlest suggestion of an arch to his spine... he could feel so much now, after all, and it only felt like he had to wait years for it. A drought of sensation that left him feeling... all of this.
He'd be lying if he said it wasn't extraordinarily overwhelming. Emphasis on the extraordinary. Is this really how humans felt all the time...? How Emet-Selch felt?
Mettaton can't dwell on what this meant before. He doesn't have the headspace to mourn how Emet-Selch must've felt, knowing that the robot couldn't answer this depth of feeling, that their embraces, admittedly, paled in comparison to what they could be. To be on his end, feeling everything and knowing the other party couldn't feel... it was suffering on either end, as Mettaton pined for something deeper, while Emet-Selch longed for a time where he could be felt. He understood, and had understood to start... but to have this- Mettaton knew instantly that at least something between them had been righted. What progress they had made had been a process... and with the ability to wish it all back, it would be more of a process of suffering than it had to be.
Because he could feel him so sharply, all over again. No longer would the onus be placed on Emet-Selch, as much as Mettaton had ever regretted that. They could experience with each other, and the idol knew how much Emet-Selch treasured Mettaton's ability for sensation. The answer: almost as much as he did for himself, really, which was flattering and worth fondness.
Emet-Selch clings tighter to him, only to let loose slightly. Sensitive to it all, Mettaton relinquishes him just enough for him to adjust himself, to shift against his body as he asks after... another wish.]
Hmm? ... Ah...
[It dawns on him quickly, what Emet-Selch means by this. And the fact of the matter is: it's a question, if tinged like a statement, one colored by confession. Mettaton unconsciously grips Emet-Selch tighter; he feels that electricity jolt in his body. A heady excitement sinks heavily in him, and he returns the stroke of his side with a similarly tense one down Emet-Selch's, from his chest to his waist. (Almost his hip. But he stops short.)]
... Given all else I feel differently, it's hard to tell what else is new. [Could it be part of his shapeshifting repertoire? He considers it, as he forces Emet-Selch to separate just slightly from him.] Shall I do the honors, and... check for any new developments?
[It's not impossible to shapeshift something as a box-bot, of course, and Mettaton tries to think about how this world does shapeshifting... But for now, he can barely separate them- and he finds himself crushing the smaller man against his front again, too lured by the sensation of his body, his lips, aginst himself.]
He'd be lying if he said it wasn't extraordinarily overwhelming. Emphasis on the extraordinary. Is this really how humans felt all the time...? How Emet-Selch felt?
Mettaton can't dwell on what this meant before. He doesn't have the headspace to mourn how Emet-Selch must've felt, knowing that the robot couldn't answer this depth of feeling, that their embraces, admittedly, paled in comparison to what they could be. To be on his end, feeling everything and knowing the other party couldn't feel... it was suffering on either end, as Mettaton pined for something deeper, while Emet-Selch longed for a time where he could be felt. He understood, and had understood to start... but to have this- Mettaton knew instantly that at least something between them had been righted. What progress they had made had been a process... and with the ability to wish it all back, it would be more of a process of suffering than it had to be.
Because he could feel him so sharply, all over again. No longer would the onus be placed on Emet-Selch, as much as Mettaton had ever regretted that. They could experience with each other, and the idol knew how much Emet-Selch treasured Mettaton's ability for sensation. The answer: almost as much as he did for himself, really, which was flattering and worth fondness.
Emet-Selch clings tighter to him, only to let loose slightly. Sensitive to it all, Mettaton relinquishes him just enough for him to adjust himself, to shift against his body as he asks after... another wish.]
Hmm? ... Ah...
[It dawns on him quickly, what Emet-Selch means by this. And the fact of the matter is: it's a question, if tinged like a statement, one colored by confession. Mettaton unconsciously grips Emet-Selch tighter; he feels that electricity jolt in his body. A heady excitement sinks heavily in him, and he returns the stroke of his side with a similarly tense one down Emet-Selch's, from his chest to his waist. (Almost his hip. But he stops short.)]
... Given all else I feel differently, it's hard to tell what else is new. [Could it be part of his shapeshifting repertoire? He considers it, as he forces Emet-Selch to separate just slightly from him.] Shall I do the honors, and... check for any new developments?
[It's not impossible to shapeshift something as a box-bot, of course, and Mettaton tries to think about how this world does shapeshifting... But for now, he can barely separate them- and he finds himself crushing the smaller man against his front again, too lured by the sensation of his body, his lips, aginst himself.]
[Even if sensation at all was a boon, something to be grateful for, Mettaton's bodies tangible and able to be held, noticed, this was a step far advanced of that. And he'd missed it, sorely and terribly, even when he'd burrowed against him in search of what company he could claim. A burrowing, a clinging that felt wholly different from what he was doing now, as though he'd finally reached him, even if it had taken magic to do it.
And immense as it was, could there be more? What else he'd wished for... Emet-Selch could feel that his husband had caught on quickly enough to his meaning; that tighter grip was answer enough. Their desires weren't exactly hidden from each other, their history of gratuitous sexual contact something difficult to forget, even when it hurt. And where they could do so much with this greater sensitivity, he was certain- there was no reason to not see whether they could go even further than that. (No reason beyond the risk of disappointment.)
He feels a rush of something like expectation, hope- though he also attempts to temper it somewhat, even at the lure of a hand running down his chest, side, and the accompanying heady awareness that Mettaton could feel what he was doing. The muffling of fabric would be a tease rather than dullness on top of dullness; like this, there was the promise of more (though the sharpness of the pang of want that he felt at the idea- it was greater than he would've expected, exasperatingly so).]
I didn't specify how it should manifest. [He adds, as another admittance; he couldn't suggest for what Mettaton should be looking for. It was perhaps too trusting, to leave it up to whatever force was granting these wishes- but from what he'd heard and seen of other wishes being granted, they weren't delivered in a twisted way. It would be something acceptable, or nothing. (Not that he could rule out some cruel disappointment. He never could.)] If there's anything more out of place... a new ability, or....
[Knowing, trusting that Mettaton wouldn't be moving far, his own hold relents slightly to permit the robot the space to lean back. Nor does he question his lover's apparent intent to feel out for something new while in his current rectangular configuration. It was true that they'd never indulged in it together, but not for lack of ability.
...Not that either of them seemed inclined to move far from each other. Space was difficult to claim, and when he finds himself clutched tight to the front of Mettaton again, there was nothing he could do but return that grasp. If the robot had possessed a lap, he would have crawled into it by now. Kissing ardently to metal, it was true that he had no lips to meet, no mouth to claim- but he was enticed all the same by the idea that his lover could properly feel what he was doing, from the warmth of his face to the grip of his hands.]
And immense as it was, could there be more? What else he'd wished for... Emet-Selch could feel that his husband had caught on quickly enough to his meaning; that tighter grip was answer enough. Their desires weren't exactly hidden from each other, their history of gratuitous sexual contact something difficult to forget, even when it hurt. And where they could do so much with this greater sensitivity, he was certain- there was no reason to not see whether they could go even further than that. (No reason beyond the risk of disappointment.)
He feels a rush of something like expectation, hope- though he also attempts to temper it somewhat, even at the lure of a hand running down his chest, side, and the accompanying heady awareness that Mettaton could feel what he was doing. The muffling of fabric would be a tease rather than dullness on top of dullness; like this, there was the promise of more (though the sharpness of the pang of want that he felt at the idea- it was greater than he would've expected, exasperatingly so).]
I didn't specify how it should manifest. [He adds, as another admittance; he couldn't suggest for what Mettaton should be looking for. It was perhaps too trusting, to leave it up to whatever force was granting these wishes- but from what he'd heard and seen of other wishes being granted, they weren't delivered in a twisted way. It would be something acceptable, or nothing. (Not that he could rule out some cruel disappointment. He never could.)] If there's anything more out of place... a new ability, or....
[Knowing, trusting that Mettaton wouldn't be moving far, his own hold relents slightly to permit the robot the space to lean back. Nor does he question his lover's apparent intent to feel out for something new while in his current rectangular configuration. It was true that they'd never indulged in it together, but not for lack of ability.
...Not that either of them seemed inclined to move far from each other. Space was difficult to claim, and when he finds himself clutched tight to the front of Mettaton again, there was nothing he could do but return that grasp. If the robot had possessed a lap, he would have crawled into it by now. Kissing ardently to metal, it was true that he had no lips to meet, no mouth to claim- but he was enticed all the same by the idea that his lover could properly feel what he was doing, from the warmth of his face to the grip of his hands.]
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