[He CAN NOT restrain his excitement, at Emet-Selch's comment about wearing an apron. It sounded as good as acceptance, if he feels fortunate that an apron is about as bad as it gets in this particular fantasy. His ears would be sprung, and his tail would be up—but all Mettaton can express with his current anatomy is some sort of carry-over, as he lifts slightly, and wriggles his hips side-to-side.]
I hardly find icing a detractor, if it's an inspiration toward imagination! But, Hades... Ah...
[He's way too excited about Emet-Selch In An Apron, grinning madly against his lips. He knows he's not outright accepting... but that he'd consider it was a thrill. That imagery is inspiring, and to be permitted the imagining of it as a potential reality... Mettaton can't help himself as he leans even farther forward, nudging deeper into his husband's spread legs.
Even though he's just now being reminded of how little he wears, as a constant. He hums thoughtfully, equipped with a retort that dies in favor of imagining what else he could be marked up by. His hum deepens in pitch, as he presses a slower kiss, deliberate as he sucks gently at his lower lip, in thought.]
Mark me... See, Hades? The icing. It provokes you into action. [He smirks.] You and I both know it'd do us both, for you to replace it. It's hardly overrated, if it inspires you to act... and to claim what's yours.
[Which is him. Thumbing the back of his skull, tracing his hairline, Mettaton's fingers drift from his hip to his waist, leaning over the dragon's egg with a prominent curve of his metal body, as if it weren't there. Another full, if quicker, kiss later, and Mettaton's still talking on a smile. His argument for food and sex:]
Just like the icing I could scoop up with my tongue... would be better replaced by anything you have to give me, my darling. But I would be thinking of it all the while... And with every lap of icing, you know I'd be asking for more.
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I hardly find icing a detractor, if it's an inspiration toward imagination! But, Hades... Ah...
[He's way too excited about Emet-Selch In An Apron, grinning madly against his lips. He knows he's not outright accepting... but that he'd consider it was a thrill. That imagery is inspiring, and to be permitted the imagining of it as a potential reality... Mettaton can't help himself as he leans even farther forward, nudging deeper into his husband's spread legs.
Even though he's just now being reminded of how little he wears, as a constant. He hums thoughtfully, equipped with a retort that dies in favor of imagining what else he could be marked up by. His hum deepens in pitch, as he presses a slower kiss, deliberate as he sucks gently at his lower lip, in thought.]
Mark me... See, Hades? The icing. It provokes you into action. [He smirks.] You and I both know it'd do us both, for you to replace it. It's hardly overrated, if it inspires you to act... and to claim what's yours.
[Which is him. Thumbing the back of his skull, tracing his hairline, Mettaton's fingers drift from his hip to his waist, leaning over the dragon's egg with a prominent curve of his metal body, as if it weren't there. Another full, if quicker, kiss later, and Mettaton's still talking on a smile. His argument for food and sex:]
Just like the icing I could scoop up with my tongue... would be better replaced by anything you have to give me, my darling. But I would be thinking of it all the while... And with every lap of icing, you know I'd be asking for more.