[Even if they might have managed some acceptance towards their limitations someday- no. Emet-Selch couldn't believe even that. That they would survive as they had been, yes, but no more. It wouldn't get easier; he wouldn't become inured to it, because that would be the same as giving up. One way or another, this was how they were meant to be.
Some details were interchangeable; whether Mettaton could shapeshift, or whether he had a permanent (if potentially detachable?) endowment, that much mattered less so long as it functioned. Whether Mettaton's greater sensitivity came about with a partial fusion as an organic entity, or something as purely magical as this... this was probably, strictly speaking, better. (As a puca allergic to himself was its own unique cruelty. And for all that Emet-Selch found the ears and fur and even some of the behavior reluctantly charming- he knew some of those aspects aggravated his husband.)
Most of all, he wants to dwell on this pleasure, this relief, this anticipation- for what both of them might continue to feel as they continued. The conversion of the ache of yearning into the ache of overuse. There was nothing that would erase what they'd lived through, the loneliness they'd felt even while resting in each other's company- but they'd reached the end of it now.
(Emet-Selch still needed his magic, his aetherial sensitivity. He hadn't forgotten it; his own senses felt deadened in that way. But he'd never relied on it to reach Mettaton- and right now, reaching him had been the greatest priority of all. His own losses would be easier to bear, like this.)
A small noise is his response to the way Mettaton seemed to curl over him, containing him, the warmth of his face in his hair. Rubbing his cheek more firmly to him, nearly burrowing against him, the mage finds his refuge there. Not quite able to speak, he nods; he'd wanted this, the same as him. As much as him. They'd yearned for this together, had reached for it however they could. For this moment, he was safe.
A security that wasn't quite restful, not with as stiff as he was, and as stiff as he knew Mettaton could be brought to again (while he savored how reluctantly the robot ever became anything less than firm). And with the way Mettaton slipped his hands under fabric, seeking bare skin, it was difficult to not squirm, to lean into that touch however he could. So he doesn't deny the impulse, groaning low as his own body felt oversensitive, keen for any sort of touch.
Oblivious to whatever extra had been left in his husband's ejaculate, Emet-Selch kisses Mettaton's thigh with sticky lips, before licking from him that small residue- still feeling inclined to claim it all for himself, his breath damp and warm against him.]
You could help, [He responds in a similar whisper, rougher, but just as heated.] to strip these robes from me, if you're feeling impatient. Even if I'm left to remove the rest myself.
[His podea, shoes... he was really quite overdressed for what would presumably occupy the rest of the day. For the way he wanted to be, with him, decorated only in the results of their ardor.
Emet-Selch huffs, even nips the inside of Mettaton's thigh, while giving his cock a loving squeeze.]
You're not the only one aching... for that, for everything we've dreamt of.
[Though it was more than his cock that wanted to be pressed to him, shown to him; that ache went deeper than that.]
no subject
Some details were interchangeable; whether Mettaton could shapeshift, or whether he had a permanent (if potentially detachable?) endowment, that much mattered less so long as it functioned. Whether Mettaton's greater sensitivity came about with a partial fusion as an organic entity, or something as purely magical as this... this was probably, strictly speaking, better. (As a puca allergic to himself was its own unique cruelty. And for all that Emet-Selch found the ears and fur and even some of the behavior reluctantly charming- he knew some of those aspects aggravated his husband.)
Most of all, he wants to dwell on this pleasure, this relief, this anticipation- for what both of them might continue to feel as they continued. The conversion of the ache of yearning into the ache of overuse. There was nothing that would erase what they'd lived through, the loneliness they'd felt even while resting in each other's company- but they'd reached the end of it now.
(Emet-Selch still needed his magic, his aetherial sensitivity. He hadn't forgotten it; his own senses felt deadened in that way. But he'd never relied on it to reach Mettaton- and right now, reaching him had been the greatest priority of all. His own losses would be easier to bear, like this.)
A small noise is his response to the way Mettaton seemed to curl over him, containing him, the warmth of his face in his hair. Rubbing his cheek more firmly to him, nearly burrowing against him, the mage finds his refuge there. Not quite able to speak, he nods; he'd wanted this, the same as him. As much as him. They'd yearned for this together, had reached for it however they could. For this moment, he was safe.
A security that wasn't quite restful, not with as stiff as he was, and as stiff as he knew Mettaton could be brought to again (while he savored how reluctantly the robot ever became anything less than firm). And with the way Mettaton slipped his hands under fabric, seeking bare skin, it was difficult to not squirm, to lean into that touch however he could. So he doesn't deny the impulse, groaning low as his own body felt oversensitive, keen for any sort of touch.
Oblivious to whatever extra had been left in his husband's ejaculate, Emet-Selch kisses Mettaton's thigh with sticky lips, before licking from him that small residue- still feeling inclined to claim it all for himself, his breath damp and warm against him.]
You could help, [He responds in a similar whisper, rougher, but just as heated.] to strip these robes from me, if you're feeling impatient. Even if I'm left to remove the rest myself.
[His podea, shoes... he was really quite overdressed for what would presumably occupy the rest of the day. For the way he wanted to be, with him, decorated only in the results of their ardor.
Emet-Selch huffs, even nips the inside of Mettaton's thigh, while giving his cock a loving squeeze.]
You're not the only one aching... for that, for everything we've dreamt of.
[Though it was more than his cock that wanted to be pressed to him, shown to him; that ache went deeper than that.]