[Was it a terrible thing to imagine? He frowns at the question, glancing aside. Of course it wasn't, as he naturally envisions it: Mettaton between his spread legs, tongue firm and warm against his erection, smearing melting sugar along his length. ...Which would be a mess, and with little to gain from the particular topping.]
--Suggestive aspect aside, the icing would only detract. Food and sex is an overrated combination.
[With Mettaton bracing his neck, Emet-Selch meets his eye again, despite the closeness of their faces. A closeness where a kiss would be readily achievable- but he holds off with a briefly caught breath; despite himself, his moods, Mettaton was awfully effective on him. Just the sight of him licking his lips was enticing, given the subject he'd just broached- for all that the mage would still prefer to leave out the icing.
As Mettaton chooses to add to the imagery, though, he lifts a hand to brush against the robot's side.]
An apron though- [He murmurs it, as if taking time to consider the sight it would make, assuming that he wouldn't be wearing much else.] if that's the worst you would ask me to don, I'll consider myself fortunate.
[Which was to say he grudgingly approved- or at least, accepted- the concept. With imagery being especially important now, to make up for what they were missing- not that they couldn't enjoy it at any time. Even so--]
However, in your case... Mettaton, you habitually wear nothing. [Unlike his own fine Amaurotine robes which left everything to the imagination, all of the robot was normally on display. Which he didn't mind gazing on- and didn't care that the world got to gaze on him too- but the idea of obscuring parts that were always there felt a touch absurd. ...Especially given anatomical limitations. But he's not about to say that part.] And if you were to be marked up, I would prefer it to be with something other than icing.
[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.
[The level of excitement Mettaton showed at his half-acceptance over wearing an apron surprised. But as concessions or indulgences went, it felt a minor thing, something he didn't think he'd have any trouble with. Even if the specific appeal did little for him, if his lover's level of enthusiasm towards the actual show was anything like this, then it would likely be infectious enough to carry him along.
Icing, though. That, Emet-Selch was more dubious about. A mess no matter how they went about it, and a stickiness that was more of a nuisance than something he found sexy. It would be an awful lubrication, besides, which had been the actual point of it being there in the first place; might as well use glue, for all the use it would be.
Mettaton's smugness over it didn't help, and only develops his annoyance further, no matter how far the other man shuffled between his legs, nearly mounting him. He remained conscious still of the egg sequestered between them, something else he'd have to trouble himself with. No amount (or lack) of frosting would change that.]
The icing provokes me into nothing. [He insists against his lips, once Mettaton had released his own. Pleasant as the (notably dry) suck of his lip had been, it's not about to distract him.] It inspires me into imagining you washing it off... or the hassle it will make for me later if you don't.
[The smears and stains it would leave over furniture or bedding, that he might be finding days later, and that he couldn't use magic to clean off. ...Not that he'd cared in the past, when it had been come he'd been tidying off of everything, but that was different.]
And I still don't want it on me. [That was even worse, and getting to feel Mettaton's mouth on him wasn't enough to override that. Exasperation enters his tone, and he does nothing to answer his kisses.] If the prospect of sucking me is so unappealing that you require a treat you can't even taste, then I would prefer you not to even try.
[He knew this was all just fantasy, something that they weren't even currently up to, but he was in no mood to play with it, to pretend. Not when it would leave him with the possible future of icing being used as an actual component of their sex.]
[The hassle, he gathers, is the mess. Mettaton knows Emet-Selch knows better than to believe that he'd ever require the lure of sugar to taste him, and that wasn't only because he couldn't taste it. He doesn't argue about how the goal would be to wash him of it entirely, because that would be the goal. To lick him clean, and to continue demanding more in its wake...
This mess was different from semen, sure. Mettaton would accept that, too. It wasn't a product of their ardor, but a precursor, part of a show that Emet-Selch was repulsed by to start. Thoughtfully, Mettaton taps Emet-Selch's side, tilting his head.
Kitchen sex could still work, he thought. Even without food... But the tease of licking cream of his finger- surely, surely Emet-Selch would see the appeal if it were happening right before his eyes. The thought of it didn't seem to inspire much, even though they both found the notion of him wearing an apron at least acceptable. And that was important. Mettaton nods shortly.]
The same fantasy works, even without the icing. [To that, he concedes with an easy smile.] Licking you up, and making sure you know that I want something from you. Even still... right now, as I am, I still require something slippery to work on you.
[To that, Mettaton makes clear by backing up slightly and pressing a hand to his own chest in emphasis. His gaze is clear and even: this is a vulnerable part of him that is the original source of the conversation, of the idea. And if they were ever going to make good on their desire for intimacy, it would require closing distances between their bodies.]
[Could he be convinced towards kitchen sex in a more general sense? Probably, though he wasn't thinking much in that direction, distracted more by the idea of a frosted cock. Without the use of inappropriate condiments, kitchen sex was just sex in a kitchen. When he knew they were capable of fucking anywhere given the right motivation, he didn't see anything in singling it out.
But he relents a little, when Mettaton seemed willing to drop the insistence on icing. He knew this was a vulnerable point. A sore point, even. If they were to do anything at all, they required something a bit slick, and the robot's lack of saliva production was a hindrance for anything involving his mouth. Even if they might manage without a slick supplementary, they would vastly benefit from its inclusion. And without anyone selling anything appropriate, they would have to find that supplement elsewhere.
Exhaling slowly, he fixes the other man with an even stare.]
Then, Mettaton- icing is a poor choice regardless, if the idea is for anything to feel better.
[And when he found it unappealing in its own right, at best something he could tolerate if not enjoy, when it didn't provide a practical function either- he turned against it entirely.
(Not that slathering anything food-related on him appealed. Nor in cleaning it off of Mettaton.)]
Nor do I need to watch you lick something else off, to know that you want something from me.
[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.]
[Maybe his dislike and dismissal of it was rooted in the same hesitation that had led him to be less open to the idea of sex at all. Another means of putting off what he didn't want to put off, the intimacy that he missed. But from flower-based illness as an excuse, there was now the lack of ready lubrication to further serve as a delay. And possibly a dragon egg as well, to be in the way, to get between them. And as Mettaton moves tighter between his legs, in a gesture that felt less seductive and more a seeking of security, he felt guilty all over again.
Guilt and frustration were an uncomfortable mix, but his ambivalence remained, even as he wrapped an arm around Mettaton with a sigh as the other man kisses his cheek.]
Well, even were you exactly as you were before, this is something we would have to find a solution to.
[For full penetrative purposes rather than fellatio-related, but still. They would've had to work out an answer for themselves at some point, and it was still one that he hoped wouldn't include ingredients. That would never appeal to him. But as for what other options there were outside lube/icing:]
What do- [He snorts at the question, glancing aside.] Most men are less particular than I.
[Which was to say that he'd never felt so pressed as to grab for something, anything, to rub on his erection. Before Mettaton, he hadn't given much thought to his libido, but he would have assumed it to be low, or understandably dampened by the end of the world.]
Choice varies based on technological era, and degree of desperation. [His tone is as dry as his cock, and as disinterested in the idea. But in the end he concedes:] Your instinct towards oils isn't wrong.
[Without the power of his body and its prominent arousal, Mettaton could tell every chance where Emet-Selch shirked him. Where he dodged any of Mettaton's advances... But even in this moment, as they held each other's eyes, as Mettaton missed his touch and his body, he knew that even he was still dodging the inevitability. Wanting, but still disappointed in himself and his lack of bodily expression.
He could make all the moves, and he could say anything he wished. But he couldn't show Emet-Selch the need in him the way he used to. It was a sore spot even still.
It's only after he asks the question that Mettaton realizes the absurdity of it. The not-so-innocent innocence of it, the naïveté of it as well, and he snorts alongside the mage at himself for it. What do men use. As if he isn't one, and as if he hasn't desperately sourced lubricant out of things before... But he can see Emet-Selch's particularity if he just thinks back, at how the Ascian had only ever been driven enough to demand he go in dry in their house of mirrors. Not that there was anything else for them to use, much less anything in a dream-house for them to seek out...
Oil is a good lead, and Mettaton feels it's intuitively appropriate. Like massage oil. He nods. But it was true enough that some people would use things out of desperation.]
Desperation... and kink, darling. [He corrects, lifting a finger.] But it's clear to me you're a choosy man. As choosy as you are handsome.
[Another kiss, closer to his lips this time. He appreciated the remark that it would've still been a hurdle regardless of his anatomy, though even Mettaton knew that at least he would've had saliva to rely on. The ability to suck Emet-Selch off... and be sucked off, would have remained. A past, and future, worthy of a sigh, as Mettaton settles in his place of safety, the egg safest of all between them. He snuggles into that half-embrace, letting his fingers drift deeper into light strands of hair, his hand dropping not back to his waist but to the arm of the couch behind Emet-Selch instead, bracing himself there so he doesn't lose balance in his lean.
With a bit of a light chuckle, Mettaton leans sideways, so that he's slightly crashing into the side of the couch and looking at Emet-Selch from the side.]
I still think that I could convince you to be just as desperate. Maybe, [He similarly concedes, a hesitation in his voice.] Maybe not as I am, right now. But in the future.
[See: they used 1. nothing, 2. Mettaton's spit, which wasn't much better. A lot of it had to do with Mettaton's need combined with Emet-Selch's. And right now... Mettaton's needs were never so pressing. He could feel arousal of a different kind, but it wasn't quite what they were accustomed to, and didn't require the same sort of relief that could be obtained.
...Perhaps he needed to acknowledge it, without feeling lesser because of it. His smile is small, if open, if a touch rueful, while his hand wanders from bracing the back of the couch, to extending so he could squeeze Emet-Selch's shoulder.]
[More than ever, he knew it was a mutual hesitation. Where there wouldn't have been any delay, any pause in the past to reach for each other, to be drawn in by looks, kisses, nearness itself, to indulge in wanting and need that felt endless... and with no regard for their surroundings. Not in terms of the mess they made, or the stains they might leave behind, not when they had so much to express.
And far less now, he supposed. It was a strange thing, to feel both pent up and completely ambivalent, wondering if he should get it over with and ask Mettaton to get him off somehow, but also not really wanting to. It wasn't as though he were without his own desires, and while he knew he'd drawn heavily on Mettaton's own needs- he hadn't thought it to be so absolute as this.]
A poor choice of kink.
[He responds absently, accepting the kiss without thinking to match it. And he remains still in the end, apathetic. A lack of certainty leading to a drain of energy- and he never had much of that to start with. Mettaton snuggles close, on a couch that really didn't fit the both of them, and he shifts in place, before settling back in the same position that he'd been to start with.
Exhales. Listens to the idea of being convinced into recklessness, without feeling much either way about it. Just loosely holds onto him.]
Maybe. [And where Mettaton's voice is hesitant, his own is distant, less a concession and more just not wanting to argue over it, not wanting to seek convincing. Not wanting to actively deny it. But with Mettaton's needs less pressing, his own dwindled. Were it not for their history, he wouldn't have thought anything of it, but as it was he was conscious of the difference. His eyes are closed.] Some other time.
[The paradoxical dance they stepped in tandem to involved the disconnect they felt from their bodies, right alongside the overwhelming awareness of it. And the fact that they were on the same page entirely was similarly paradoxical, given how apart it all felt. Mettaton feels his kiss lacking reciprocation. He feels his stillness, his drain... and it's contagious.
The robot slumps. Some other time. Emet-Selch shuts it down for now, but even Mettaton believed it would have to be some other time to start.
(That it might even have to wait until he could satisfy his husband with something he doesn't natively have. Like he couldn't satisfy an audience without a body he didn't natively have. Mettaton trips himself up about anatomy; he trips himself into wanting more.)
He closes his eye too. He's not politely drawn back, still bent over slightly, but he practically curls around the egg and slightly to the side. He relaxes, but it's a bit of a pitiful sort of relaxing that comes from drain.]
Maybe so.
[A resignation. Mettaton's hope didn't exist. It required kindling; it wasn't a spark self-sustained, not as he is. Similarly pent up, Mettaton keeps the egg between them, and the two of them inadvertently nurse that growing dragon with their feelings of unease.
He wanted to kiss him deeper. He closes his eyes and thinks about the ways he wants him, and the ways he wanted to show him he wanted him... The ways he wanted to arouse Emet-Selch, and satisfy him. And he feels helpless to show it, or to perform. (Ridiculousness. He would've never been so self-conscious before...)]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
--Suggestive aspect aside, the icing would only detract. Food and sex is an overrated combination.
[With Mettaton bracing his neck, Emet-Selch meets his eye again, despite the closeness of their faces. A closeness where a kiss would be readily achievable- but he holds off with a briefly caught breath; despite himself, his moods, Mettaton was awfully effective on him. Just the sight of him licking his lips was enticing, given the subject he'd just broached- for all that the mage would still prefer to leave out the icing.
As Mettaton chooses to add to the imagery, though, he lifts a hand to brush against the robot's side.]
An apron though- [He murmurs it, as if taking time to consider the sight it would make, assuming that he wouldn't be wearing much else.] if that's the worst you would ask me to don, I'll consider myself fortunate.
[Which was to say he grudgingly approved- or at least, accepted- the concept. With imagery being especially important now, to make up for what they were missing- not that they couldn't enjoy it at any time. Even so--]
However, in your case... Mettaton, you habitually wear nothing. [Unlike his own fine Amaurotine robes which left everything to the imagination, all of the robot was normally on display. Which he didn't mind gazing on- and didn't care that the world got to gaze on him too- but the idea of obscuring parts that were always there felt a touch absurd. ...Especially given anatomical limitations. But he's not about to say that part.] And if you were to be marked up, I would prefer it to be with something other than icing.
no subject
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.
no subject
Icing, though. That, Emet-Selch was more dubious about. A mess no matter how they went about it, and a stickiness that was more of a nuisance than something he found sexy. It would be an awful lubrication, besides, which had been the actual point of it being there in the first place; might as well use glue, for all the use it would be.
Mettaton's smugness over it didn't help, and only develops his annoyance further, no matter how far the other man shuffled between his legs, nearly mounting him. He remained conscious still of the egg sequestered between them, something else he'd have to trouble himself with. No amount (or lack) of frosting would change that.]
The icing provokes me into nothing. [He insists against his lips, once Mettaton had released his own. Pleasant as the (notably dry) suck of his lip had been, it's not about to distract him.] It inspires me into imagining you washing it off... or the hassle it will make for me later if you don't.
[The smears and stains it would leave over furniture or bedding, that he might be finding days later, and that he couldn't use magic to clean off. ...Not that he'd cared in the past, when it had been come he'd been tidying off of everything, but that was different.]
And I still don't want it on me. [That was even worse, and getting to feel Mettaton's mouth on him wasn't enough to override that. Exasperation enters his tone, and he does nothing to answer his kisses.] If the prospect of sucking me is so unappealing that you require a treat you can't even taste, then I would prefer you not to even try.
[He knew this was all just fantasy, something that they weren't even currently up to, but he was in no mood to play with it, to pretend. Not when it would leave him with the possible future of icing being used as an actual component of their sex.]
no subject
[The hassle, he gathers, is the mess. Mettaton knows Emet-Selch knows better than to believe that he'd ever require the lure of sugar to taste him, and that wasn't only because he couldn't taste it. He doesn't argue about how the goal would be to wash him of it entirely, because that would be the goal. To lick him clean, and to continue demanding more in its wake...
This mess was different from semen, sure. Mettaton would accept that, too. It wasn't a product of their ardor, but a precursor, part of a show that Emet-Selch was repulsed by to start. Thoughtfully, Mettaton taps Emet-Selch's side, tilting his head.
Kitchen sex could still work, he thought. Even without food... But the tease of licking cream of his finger- surely, surely Emet-Selch would see the appeal if it were happening right before his eyes. The thought of it didn't seem to inspire much, even though they both found the notion of him wearing an apron at least acceptable. And that was important. Mettaton nods shortly.]
The same fantasy works, even without the icing. [To that, he concedes with an easy smile.] Licking you up, and making sure you know that I want something from you. Even still... right now, as I am, I still require something slippery to work on you.
[To that, Mettaton makes clear by backing up slightly and pressing a hand to his own chest in emphasis. His gaze is clear and even: this is a vulnerable part of him that is the original source of the conversation, of the idea. And if they were ever going to make good on their desire for intimacy, it would require closing distances between their bodies.]
no subject
But he relents a little, when Mettaton seemed willing to drop the insistence on icing. He knew this was a vulnerable point. A sore point, even. If they were to do anything at all, they required something a bit slick, and the robot's lack of saliva production was a hindrance for anything involving his mouth. Even if they might manage without a slick supplementary, they would vastly benefit from its inclusion. And without anyone selling anything appropriate, they would have to find that supplement elsewhere.
Exhaling slowly, he fixes the other man with an even stare.]
Then, Mettaton- icing is a poor choice regardless, if the idea is for anything to feel better.
[And when he found it unappealing in its own right, at best something he could tolerate if not enjoy, when it didn't provide a practical function either- he turned against it entirely.
(Not that slathering anything food-related on him appealed. Nor in cleaning it off of Mettaton.)]
Nor do I need to watch you lick something else off, to know that you want something from me.
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.]
no subject
Guilt and frustration were an uncomfortable mix, but his ambivalence remained, even as he wrapped an arm around Mettaton with a sigh as the other man kisses his cheek.]
Well, even were you exactly as you were before, this is something we would have to find a solution to.
[For full penetrative purposes rather than fellatio-related, but still. They would've had to work out an answer for themselves at some point, and it was still one that he hoped wouldn't include ingredients. That would never appeal to him. But as for what other options there were outside lube/icing:]
What do- [He snorts at the question, glancing aside.] Most men are less particular than I.
[Which was to say that he'd never felt so pressed as to grab for something, anything, to rub on his erection. Before Mettaton, he hadn't given much thought to his libido, but he would have assumed it to be low, or understandably dampened by the end of the world.]
Choice varies based on technological era, and degree of desperation. [His tone is as dry as his cock, and as disinterested in the idea. But in the end he concedes:] Your instinct towards oils isn't wrong.
no subject
He could make all the moves, and he could say anything he wished. But he couldn't show Emet-Selch the need in him the way he used to. It was a sore spot even still.
It's only after he asks the question that Mettaton realizes the absurdity of it. The not-so-innocent innocence of it, the naïveté of it as well, and he snorts alongside the mage at himself for it. What do men use. As if he isn't one, and as if he hasn't desperately sourced lubricant out of things before... But he can see Emet-Selch's particularity if he just thinks back, at how the Ascian had only ever been driven enough to demand he go in dry in their house of mirrors. Not that there was anything else for them to use, much less anything in a dream-house for them to seek out...
Oil is a good lead, and Mettaton feels it's intuitively appropriate. Like massage oil. He nods. But it was true enough that some people would use things out of desperation.]
Desperation... and kink, darling. [He corrects, lifting a finger.] But it's clear to me you're a choosy man. As choosy as you are handsome.
[Another kiss, closer to his lips this time. He appreciated the remark that it would've still been a hurdle regardless of his anatomy, though even Mettaton knew that at least he would've had saliva to rely on. The ability to suck Emet-Selch off... and be sucked off, would have remained. A past, and future, worthy of a sigh, as Mettaton settles in his place of safety, the egg safest of all between them. He snuggles into that half-embrace, letting his fingers drift deeper into light strands of hair, his hand dropping not back to his waist but to the arm of the couch behind Emet-Selch instead, bracing himself there so he doesn't lose balance in his lean.
With a bit of a light chuckle, Mettaton leans sideways, so that he's slightly crashing into the side of the couch and looking at Emet-Selch from the side.]
I still think that I could convince you to be just as desperate. Maybe, [He similarly concedes, a hesitation in his voice.] Maybe not as I am, right now. But in the future.
[See: they used 1. nothing, 2. Mettaton's spit, which wasn't much better. A lot of it had to do with Mettaton's need combined with Emet-Selch's. And right now... Mettaton's needs were never so pressing. He could feel arousal of a different kind, but it wasn't quite what they were accustomed to, and didn't require the same sort of relief that could be obtained.
...Perhaps he needed to acknowledge it, without feeling lesser because of it. His smile is small, if open, if a touch rueful, while his hand wanders from bracing the back of the couch, to extending so he could squeeze Emet-Selch's shoulder.]
no subject
And far less now, he supposed. It was a strange thing, to feel both pent up and completely ambivalent, wondering if he should get it over with and ask Mettaton to get him off somehow, but also not really wanting to. It wasn't as though he were without his own desires, and while he knew he'd drawn heavily on Mettaton's own needs- he hadn't thought it to be so absolute as this.]
A poor choice of kink.
[He responds absently, accepting the kiss without thinking to match it. And he remains still in the end, apathetic. A lack of certainty leading to a drain of energy- and he never had much of that to start with. Mettaton snuggles close, on a couch that really didn't fit the both of them, and he shifts in place, before settling back in the same position that he'd been to start with.
Exhales. Listens to the idea of being convinced into recklessness, without feeling much either way about it. Just loosely holds onto him.]
Maybe. [And where Mettaton's voice is hesitant, his own is distant, less a concession and more just not wanting to argue over it, not wanting to seek convincing. Not wanting to actively deny it. But with Mettaton's needs less pressing, his own dwindled. Were it not for their history, he wouldn't have thought anything of it, but as it was he was conscious of the difference. His eyes are closed.] Some other time.
no subject
The robot slumps. Some other time. Emet-Selch shuts it down for now, but even Mettaton believed it would have to be some other time to start.
(That it might even have to wait until he could satisfy his husband with something he doesn't natively have. Like he couldn't satisfy an audience without a body he didn't natively have. Mettaton trips himself up about anatomy; he trips himself into wanting more.)
He closes his eye too. He's not politely drawn back, still bent over slightly, but he practically curls around the egg and slightly to the side. He relaxes, but it's a bit of a pitiful sort of relaxing that comes from drain.]
Maybe so.
[A resignation. Mettaton's hope didn't exist. It required kindling; it wasn't a spark self-sustained, not as he is. Similarly pent up, Mettaton keeps the egg between them, and the two of them inadvertently nurse that growing dragon with their feelings of unease.
He wanted to kiss him deeper. He closes his eyes and thinks about the ways he wants him, and the ways he wanted to show him he wanted him... The ways he wanted to arouse Emet-Selch, and satisfy him. And he feels helpless to show it, or to perform. (Ridiculousness. He would've never been so self-conscious before...)]