[(It's fortunately a less glitzy choice, something weather-appropriate, black in color. A cowl-necked trenchcoat with a hood, a high-low cut with a flattering, tapered waist, one could almost track the way Mettaton was thinking when he got it. It offers some sort of disguising... but it catches the eye from its fit alone, defying its own intent for anonymity. It's daring; but it's not ostentatious in the glittering direction.)
On one hand, Emet-Selch could find himself coaxed toward greater frustration just with his anatomy properly played and enticed. He could be made to demonstrate his ache, and could also be given attention applied directly upon a sweet sport. Mettaton envied that outlet: even if it only served to entice, it was relief at the same time. But it was also a double-edged sword: greater, more direct relief could also mean more direct provocation. Mettaton, on the other hand, had no anatomy to directly provoke. It also meant he had absolutely no outlet for such sublime relief: nothing to treat, nothing sensitive that he could stroke, just as Emet-Selch does against his hip.
Mettaton sighs, pleased. He pets over the swell of Emet-Selch's ass appreciatively, flirting too low, too close to his inner thighs, starved for deepening contact... But as soon as Emet-Selch convinces himself to still, so too does the idol. His hand rests upon Emet-Selch's lower back, applying only a gentle, familiar pressure there.
It's probably because of how long they've gone without, he thought. That, he could accept. He doesn't quite link it to the time of year, because it's Feoveuer... Valentine's Day lust, he supposes, and laughs softly to himself with an incredulous shake of his head. They didn't get to celebrate that, and would have to make up for it once they left. (Maybe, in the days to follow, they could take some of the dimness of the nighttime hours to go further than this... Mettaton's not distracted by sex, per se, but he is enticed beyond reason.)
But not now. Not now, he reminds himself over and again, in their mutual stillness. (He wants to rock his hips against Emet-Selch. He feels him, he wants him, he can't resist...)
He resists with a hard swallow and another softer laugh.]
Can't be satisfied. You're right about that. [When could they ever be satisfied, even when they were trying for it? Mettaton nuzzles in answer against Emet-Selch's lips.] We'll heal quickly, and earn back all of that limitless stamina you had. Or, I'll just have to test it soon.
[Emet-Selch's oodles of stamina that he's always had. And it's a facetious comment and an honest one together, isn't it? Emet-Selch had a wellspring of effort to pay to Mettaton when it was him demanding it, pulling it from somewhere sourced out of stubbornness or something of that ilk. Mettaton knew how to motivate Emet-Selch, and had rewards aplenty to provide.
For now, the Puca tries to settle. His body's increased dramatically in temperature, his ears doing a poor job at performing their regular duties. Against his better judgement he wants to move so badly, but he refrains with as much focus as he can muster. This is how it would be between them for the moment. They want it all, but they're healing, they're growing close all over again, and Mettaton leans his forehead into Emet-Selch's out of a hunger for all of the magic he's not using.
He would always be consuming his Witch, one way or another, it seemed. It was his fate, but it was his responsibility to keep him safe any time he did.]
I love you, Hades. [His voice is softer and lacking of the same heat from before, though it remains warm and smooth.] We'll be out of here in no time.
[And he knew their Bond would help them heal. Maybe not in any sort of physical capacity, but to hear their wounds unseen, it would do a great deal for them. It's shocking, how much of an important connection it had become to them both. They were hooked. But this world touted it as a good thing, and was there ever too much of a good thing like this? Mettaton gives Emet-Selch a small, slight peck to his lips, a nuzzle of their noses, and a comfortable settling of his body to indicate that he was more than ready to cozy back up with Emet-Selch under the covers like this. Bodies flush and temptation alive still, they could both resist for the sake of recovery.]
no subject
On one hand, Emet-Selch could find himself coaxed toward greater frustration just with his anatomy properly played and enticed. He could be made to demonstrate his ache, and could also be given attention applied directly upon a sweet sport. Mettaton envied that outlet: even if it only served to entice, it was relief at the same time. But it was also a double-edged sword: greater, more direct relief could also mean more direct provocation. Mettaton, on the other hand, had no anatomy to directly provoke. It also meant he had absolutely no outlet for such sublime relief: nothing to treat, nothing sensitive that he could stroke, just as Emet-Selch does against his hip.
Mettaton sighs, pleased. He pets over the swell of Emet-Selch's ass appreciatively, flirting too low, too close to his inner thighs, starved for deepening contact... But as soon as Emet-Selch convinces himself to still, so too does the idol. His hand rests upon Emet-Selch's lower back, applying only a gentle, familiar pressure there.
Another sigh; another effort toward talking himself down from incitement. He thinks too vividly, too focus on his fiancé straddling his hip, legs spread around his own with so much of him so readily palpable. Mettaton knows he's too easy, but the amount of desire he feels is slightly ridiculous.
It's probably because of how long they've gone without, he thought. That, he could accept. He doesn't quite link it to the time of year, because it's Feoveuer... Valentine's Day lust, he supposes, and laughs softly to himself with an incredulous shake of his head. They didn't get to celebrate that, and would have to make up for it once they left. (Maybe, in the days to follow, they could take some of the dimness of the nighttime hours to go further than this... Mettaton's not distracted by sex, per se, but he is enticed beyond reason.)
But not now. Not now, he reminds himself over and again, in their mutual stillness. (He wants to rock his hips against Emet-Selch. He feels him, he wants him, he can't resist...)
He resists with a hard swallow and another softer laugh.]
Can't be satisfied. You're right about that. [When could they ever be satisfied, even when they were trying for it? Mettaton nuzzles in answer against Emet-Selch's lips.] We'll heal quickly, and earn back all of that limitless stamina you had. Or, I'll just have to test it soon.
[Emet-Selch's oodles of stamina that he's always had. And it's a facetious comment and an honest one together, isn't it? Emet-Selch had a wellspring of effort to pay to Mettaton when it was him demanding it, pulling it from somewhere sourced out of stubbornness or something of that ilk. Mettaton knew how to motivate Emet-Selch, and had rewards aplenty to provide.
For now, the Puca tries to settle. His body's increased dramatically in temperature, his ears doing a poor job at performing their regular duties. Against his better judgement he wants to move so badly, but he refrains with as much focus as he can muster. This is how it would be between them for the moment. They want it all, but they're healing, they're growing close all over again, and Mettaton leans his forehead into Emet-Selch's out of a hunger for all of the magic he's not using.
He would always be consuming his Witch, one way or another, it seemed. It was his fate, but it was his responsibility to keep him safe any time he did.]
I love you, Hades. [His voice is softer and lacking of the same heat from before, though it remains warm and smooth.] We'll be out of here in no time.
[And he knew their Bond would help them heal. Maybe not in any sort of physical capacity, but to hear their wounds unseen, it would do a great deal for them. It's shocking, how much of an important connection it had become to them both. They were hooked. But this world touted it as a good thing, and was there ever too much of a good thing like this? Mettaton gives Emet-Selch a small, slight peck to his lips, a nuzzle of their noses, and a comfortable settling of his body to indicate that he was more than ready to cozy back up with Emet-Selch under the covers like this. Bodies flush and temptation alive still, they could both resist for the sake of recovery.]