[(Briefly, they'd been in that situation in Nippon, after their memories of one another had returned, but before Mettaton's pucahood had joined it. There had been less time for frustration to build, given that their collected recollection- for all that they were certainly and solidly in love, attached and dedicated- wasn't complete. And that they'd shared a night of godhood, of being united in soul, only to break apart when morning finally came for them. It had... hurt, in a way unique that Emet-Selch hadn't felt before or since.
However. If given enough time, he suspected that the trauma of interrupted divinity would be outdone by exactly what they'd been going through now. Or if not exactly (as they would be able to reach, to interact with one another's souls to some degree, even when they weren't merged), close enough that shedding his body another time would've become the only possible option. They would have one another, in all the ways they wanted, even if it took being a god to do it.)
It was unreasonable, how responsive he felt to simple touches to his back, as though his own sensitivity had not only been restored but enhanced. Every nerve was charged, reactive to Mettaton's investigative stroking, as he noted the places that gave and the places that couldn't. Muscle and bone, as the complement to Mettaton's metal and silicone.
But Mettaton's fresh sensitivity was similarly inescapable, the sharp reaction to a simple bite something he knew he'd be replaying, savoring the immediacy of it. It was difficult to not keep biting, but he wanted to hear what Mettaton was saying... and he wanted to be undressed, and distracting his lover wouldn't get him any closer to that. (He kisses him instead- with a hint of teeth, if not a full-on bite- as a reminder to them both of this.)
And snorts, at Mettaton's contradictory response.]
You can't have it both ways. Even you have to choose one or the other. [Emet-Selch responds to the rhetorical question anyway, for all that his own reply wasn't a serious one. But he knew how Mettaton felt. His own mood was similar, expectant and desperate to be undone, but appreciating every step of the process, every minute he was made to ache and wait.] But my robes and I appreciate your courtesy.
[It's dry. Also muffled, as he kisses further up Mettaton's thigh before drawing back, resigning himself to the need for a small amount of separation, if the taller man was to strip him. It was hard... and harder still to stop from groaning as fingers trailed up his spine, even if they finally left him to undo and remove his cowl.
(If their dragon came scratching at their door to be let in, would they even hear it...? The dragonlet was about to learn how to hunt for themself.)
And from his cowl, his robes are dragged from him entirely, the mage making an amused sound somewhere in the middle of all that fabric Mettaton sought to gather up and pull off.]
If your dreams are so readily surpassed that a warm body to yours would do it, then... there's space for more, isn't there?
[Letting go of the robot's cock and lifting his arms, shifting his knees so that Mettaton could take up anything that had gotten bunched beneath them, he sighs (it's close to a moan) a breath of relief as it all finally clears his head, and his body down to his waist is left to the comparatively cooler air. The swelling of his erection, too, is more evident, if still protected by his remaining layers.
What was also beginning to be evident was the edge of a very specific pattern crawling over the Ascian's hip. Only part of the gently-glowing circles are visible, and given their positioning, Emet-Selch doesn't immediately notice their presence. It wasn't as though he were looking for a tattoo, much less one in a roughly-approximate-if-inversed location to Mettaton's. Guided upward, he climbs back onto the bed, thigh pressed firm to the robot's. His eyes were back on Mettaton's face, his body leaning for his, not making good at all on his threat of removing his podea himself- or rather, distracted even from that by the want to reach for him.
While he'd been on the floor, he'd been taken by the idea of fitting him into his throat, no matter the damage it would do to his stamina when it came to holding out. (Where were the godsdamned sex shops on this world... what star could manage without lube and cock rings? Some things were fundamental!) Now, though, it was a challenge not to crawl his way into his lap, to straddle his hips and press their chests together- and all else they could manage. Truly, the only thing keeping him was the existence of his pants (on), though he does nothing to rectify that yet. Not when he could draw Mettaton into a kiss, his hand reaching for his face instead.]
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However. If given enough time, he suspected that the trauma of interrupted divinity would be outdone by exactly what they'd been going through now. Or if not exactly (as they would be able to reach, to interact with one another's souls to some degree, even when they weren't merged), close enough that shedding his body another time would've become the only possible option. They would have one another, in all the ways they wanted, even if it took being a god to do it.)
It was unreasonable, how responsive he felt to simple touches to his back, as though his own sensitivity had not only been restored but enhanced. Every nerve was charged, reactive to Mettaton's investigative stroking, as he noted the places that gave and the places that couldn't. Muscle and bone, as the complement to Mettaton's metal and silicone.
But Mettaton's fresh sensitivity was similarly inescapable, the sharp reaction to a simple bite something he knew he'd be replaying, savoring the immediacy of it. It was difficult to not keep biting, but he wanted to hear what Mettaton was saying... and he wanted to be undressed, and distracting his lover wouldn't get him any closer to that. (He kisses him instead- with a hint of teeth, if not a full-on bite- as a reminder to them both of this.)
And snorts, at Mettaton's contradictory response.]
You can't have it both ways. Even you have to choose one or the other. [Emet-Selch responds to the rhetorical question anyway, for all that his own reply wasn't a serious one. But he knew how Mettaton felt. His own mood was similar, expectant and desperate to be undone, but appreciating every step of the process, every minute he was made to ache and wait.] But my robes and I appreciate your courtesy.
[It's dry. Also muffled, as he kisses further up Mettaton's thigh before drawing back, resigning himself to the need for a small amount of separation, if the taller man was to strip him. It was hard... and harder still to stop from groaning as fingers trailed up his spine, even if they finally left him to undo and remove his cowl.
(If their dragon came scratching at their door to be let in, would they even hear it...? The dragonlet was about to learn how to hunt for themself.)
And from his cowl, his robes are dragged from him entirely, the mage making an amused sound somewhere in the middle of all that fabric Mettaton sought to gather up and pull off.]
If your dreams are so readily surpassed that a warm body to yours would do it, then... there's space for more, isn't there?
[Letting go of the robot's cock and lifting his arms, shifting his knees so that Mettaton could take up anything that had gotten bunched beneath them, he sighs (it's close to a moan) a breath of relief as it all finally clears his head, and his body down to his waist is left to the comparatively cooler air. The swelling of his erection, too, is more evident, if still protected by his remaining layers.
What was also beginning to be evident was the edge of a very specific pattern crawling over the Ascian's hip. Only part of the gently-glowing circles are visible, and given their positioning, Emet-Selch doesn't immediately notice their presence. It wasn't as though he were looking for a tattoo, much less one in a roughly-approximate-if-inversed location to Mettaton's. Guided upward, he climbs back onto the bed, thigh pressed firm to the robot's. His eyes were back on Mettaton's face, his body leaning for his, not making good at all on his threat of removing his podea himself- or rather, distracted even from that by the want to reach for him.
While he'd been on the floor, he'd been taken by the idea of fitting him into his throat, no matter the damage it would do to his stamina when it came to holding out. (Where were the godsdamned sex shops on this world... what star could manage without lube and cock rings? Some things were fundamental!) Now, though, it was a challenge not to crawl his way into his lap, to straddle his hips and press their chests together- and all else they could manage. Truly, the only thing keeping him was the existence of his pants (on), though he does nothing to rectify that yet. Not when he could draw Mettaton into a kiss, his hand reaching for his face instead.]