[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.]
no subject
[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.]