[He knew and accepted that sometimes it was entirely the case that one was made to... make do with whatever materials were currently at hand. Especially in all his years of having to maintain a particular facade, where he couldn't create something more useful without inspiring questions. Instead, he'd learned what worked and what wouldn't; he'd endured.

And now he was living that magicless facade for real, with a lover on top of him suggesting olive oil and icing... probably at the same time, knowing Mettaton. His libido was libidone.

If Emet-Selch could deflate any more, he would, but his eyes close again for a moment, not feeling especially inspired or encouraged by Mettaton's enthusiasm, by his willingness to offer one kitchen product after another. Not even at the way he was being touched, handled, groped. Though he tolerates it, it's with something of a flattened look that he eventually regards him again.]

Convincing as you think you are, I wouldn't try your chances now.

[He'd roll over and bury himself into the back cushions if he weren't being topped by: 1. egg, and 2. Mettaton. Even if he knew he wasn't supposed to reject the robot's advances... it was difficult to feel excited due to: 1. egg (again), and 2. existing annoyance (towards Mettaton).]

Neither do I feel particularly creative, nor motivated to find something with better appeal.