[Despite being an actor himself, Mettaton did not want to have sex with his husband feeling as though acting were a requirement. He doesn't know what he would've rather had: Emet-Selch rejecting him, or this... But he was alright with the outcome in the end, in that Emet-Selch had tried. They were enjoying themselves, but as soon as it came to the physical contact, as soon as Mettaton had wantonly pressed his body to Emet-Selch's as though he had an erection of his own that needed stroking, something had given way. It was made out of fantasy, and the unyielding truth of reality. There was nothing but metal and silicone.
His suddenness was because he was so full of fire that he wasn't sure how to deal with it like this. Electric current made his body almost itch with need, and even while he settles, seated with gentle poise, he rhythmically presses his thighs together. He rolls his ankles. He moves, the bed unable to disguise the minute ways the robot sought some kind of relief. There was no erogenous zone on him now, for all that he possessed sensation as a corporealized ghost.
With his fur gone, Mettaton moves just enough to spread his legs. The sight of seed between them could've been an arousing sight, whether his body was properly endowed or not... and maybe five minutes ago, it would have been. But right now he merely wipes the mess away, before slinking into the covers, removing his shoulder guards, and laying upon his side.]
Thank you. For trying with me. [And he felt sorry most of all, though not in any personal way. This wasn't his fault, for all that it was his body that was the reason for their current incompatibility. For what used to be, that he fantasized about; for what he couldn't feel and longed to, and for the pleasure Emet-Selch had once enjoyed seeing in him but he couldn't feel.
He still felt reassured that they might have a better chance at some other point. But right now, they'd swung into a different route where the present was mismatched with what was desired. He squeezes his legs together; he wriggles, the need to move still zapping him, making him continuously readjust his legs. The rest of him, though, is gently applied, his arm draped over Emet-Selch's chest.
Frustrated, Mettaton turns slightly so that his face is buried against the pillows and Emet-Selch's shoulder. He tries to shut out the din of fantasy and all of the bottled-up want he couldn't express; he tries to avoid the grief of it for the inability to even express that grief. This was their reality, but he mourned his state, his body, and what he could no longer achieve with it. A bridge of physical intimacy which they'd so loved to express...]
... I think, we could still find something we'd enjoy. [He offers softly, voice feather-light against the pillows.]
no subject
His suddenness was because he was so full of fire that he wasn't sure how to deal with it like this. Electric current made his body almost itch with need, and even while he settles, seated with gentle poise, he rhythmically presses his thighs together. He rolls his ankles. He moves, the bed unable to disguise the minute ways the robot sought some kind of relief. There was no erogenous zone on him now, for all that he possessed sensation as a corporealized ghost.
With his fur gone, Mettaton moves just enough to spread his legs. The sight of seed between them could've been an arousing sight, whether his body was properly endowed or not... and maybe five minutes ago, it would have been. But right now he merely wipes the mess away, before slinking into the covers, removing his shoulder guards, and laying upon his side.]
Thank you. For trying with me. [And he felt sorry most of all, though not in any personal way. This wasn't his fault, for all that it was his body that was the reason for their current incompatibility. For what used to be, that he fantasized about; for what he couldn't feel and longed to, and for the pleasure Emet-Selch had once enjoyed seeing in him but he couldn't feel.
He still felt reassured that they might have a better chance at some other point. But right now, they'd swung into a different route where the present was mismatched with what was desired. He squeezes his legs together; he wriggles, the need to move still zapping him, making him continuously readjust his legs. The rest of him, though, is gently applied, his arm draped over Emet-Selch's chest.
Frustrated, Mettaton turns slightly so that his face is buried against the pillows and Emet-Selch's shoulder. He tries to shut out the din of fantasy and all of the bottled-up want he couldn't express; he tries to avoid the grief of it for the inability to even express that grief. This was their reality, but he mourned his state, his body, and what he could no longer achieve with it. A bridge of physical intimacy which they'd so loved to express...]
... I think, we could still find something we'd enjoy. [He offers softly, voice feather-light against the pillows.]