[(Had Emet-Selch been gifted his powers before Mettaton's sensitivities and anatomy, would they have found something different together? What of Mettaton's powers to boot? Again, the biggest point of lament was this setting and its apparent need to strip its inhabitants of what made them, them. From the mundane to the important. Not all was solved or perfect... and Mettaton understood Emet-Selch's interest in his own powers. In a world where they awoke with only their native powers, what would become of them and their need for closeness? What would they do, with their abilities to manipulate souls- to take them, and to see them, to combine?)
Mettaton only skirts around these kinds of thoughts, thinking instead of his own loss, then gain, and his gratitude over having it back. Over the man who wished for it to be so- and what he could have wished for in himself. But all things would come to them, thought Mettaton, even if they shouldn't have to wish for something fundamentally them back into being.
That's the nature of it. And right now, Mettaton was grateful that this method of his expression was returned to him. He and his husband could connect like this; they'd grown accustomed to having this much, and found it to be plenty.
As fingers smooth over skin, Mettaton sighs, shivering as tactile input shot through his arms and left him feeling... a lot of things. The softness of skin beneath robes, the warmth of his body beneath all of that fabric, the palpable firmness of muscle and bone beneath- the every last detail of his spine, of his much-softer waist... Mettaton could become lost in soaking in these details all over again, he knew with a smile and shiver, as Emet-Selch invites him to help, if he were impatient. Was he?
Well, he ached. That much was for sure. Mettaton chuckles- though he gasps, closing his thighs slightly around Emet-Selch's face at the sensation of teeth in silicone. (That... is a sensation to revisit. Mettaton shudders, rubbing the smaller man between his legs appreciatively.)]
Let's see... Can I be impatient and patient, at once? [A rhetorical question. Mettaton knew how he felt.] Because I'd tear these robes from your body... but I want to savor you, too. And, well. You know. [He pecks the top of his head.] Not rip your clothes.
[Important. Even if Emet-Selch had his magic to repair it, Mettaton did not want to rip his clothes. But he didwant him stripped post-haste, that much was true, and he'd agree that Emet-Selch was very over-dressed for their late afternoon together, that would progress into the evening.
(The dragon youngling would likely want dinner once roused from its nap. Mettaton is not thinking about them right now. Good parenting. Perhaps he'd be reminded of them shortly...)
It's easy to draw his hands up Emet-Selch's back, fingers probing over the softness-and-firmness of skin until he's at the collars of his clothes. And even if it has proper closures, it's spaciousness means that Mettaton can whisk the cowl over the top of Emet-Selch's head to start, flicking it off to the side of the bed. His robes are next- similarly spacious enough to coax up and over his head, even if there was some other way to remove them. The robot gathers fabric in his fists and tugs, drawing it up until he could pull it over his husband's head with an urgency that definitely felt impatient but eager more than anything.]
Off with this bulk! Give me your warmth, Hades... I'm getting more than I dreamt of, at this rate. [Because damn. Warmth and chill were already making his head spin, in addition to all else. Even while he grips onto fabric, Mettaton attempts to urge Emet-Selch to join him up on the bed, gentle pushes and nudges while he pulls and coaxes fabric up- and finally, draws it up enough that he can provide the suggestion for Emet-Selch to move arms, to slip them from sleeves.]
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Mettaton only skirts around these kinds of thoughts, thinking instead of his own loss, then gain, and his gratitude over having it back. Over the man who wished for it to be so- and what he could have wished for in himself. But all things would come to them, thought Mettaton, even if they shouldn't have to wish for something fundamentally them back into being.
That's the nature of it. And right now, Mettaton was grateful that this method of his expression was returned to him. He and his husband could connect like this; they'd grown accustomed to having this much, and found it to be plenty.
As fingers smooth over skin, Mettaton sighs, shivering as tactile input shot through his arms and left him feeling... a lot of things. The softness of skin beneath robes, the warmth of his body beneath all of that fabric, the palpable firmness of muscle and bone beneath- the every last detail of his spine, of his much-softer waist... Mettaton could become lost in soaking in these details all over again, he knew with a smile and shiver, as Emet-Selch invites him to help, if he were impatient. Was he?
Well, he ached. That much was for sure. Mettaton chuckles- though he gasps, closing his thighs slightly around Emet-Selch's face at the sensation of teeth in silicone. (That... is a sensation to revisit. Mettaton shudders, rubbing the smaller man between his legs appreciatively.)]
Let's see... Can I be impatient and patient, at once? [A rhetorical question. Mettaton knew how he felt.] Because I'd tear these robes from your body... but I want to savor you, too. And, well. You know. [He pecks the top of his head.] Not rip your clothes.
[Important. Even if Emet-Selch had his magic to repair it, Mettaton did not want to rip his clothes. But he didwant him stripped post-haste, that much was true, and he'd agree that Emet-Selch was very over-dressed for their late afternoon together, that would progress into the evening.
(The dragon youngling would likely want dinner once roused from its nap. Mettaton is not thinking about them right now. Good parenting. Perhaps he'd be reminded of them shortly...)
It's easy to draw his hands up Emet-Selch's back, fingers probing over the softness-and-firmness of skin until he's at the collars of his clothes. And even if it has proper closures, it's spaciousness means that Mettaton can whisk the cowl over the top of Emet-Selch's head to start, flicking it off to the side of the bed. His robes are next- similarly spacious enough to coax up and over his head, even if there was some other way to remove them. The robot gathers fabric in his fists and tugs, drawing it up until he could pull it over his husband's head with an urgency that definitely felt impatient but eager more than anything.]
Off with this bulk! Give me your warmth, Hades... I'm getting more than I dreamt of, at this rate. [Because damn. Warmth and chill were already making his head spin, in addition to all else. Even while he grips onto fabric, Mettaton attempts to urge Emet-Selch to join him up on the bed, gentle pushes and nudges while he pulls and coaxes fabric up- and finally, draws it up enough that he can provide the suggestion for Emet-Selch to move arms, to slip them from sleeves.]