[A heavy sigh, as MTT gathers his bearings with little success. The Ascian pushes into him and Mettaton curls close, settling into his arms comfortably, with a pronounced squirm. Fur. That was about all that could help Emet-Selch slide along his body now, as silicone without wetness wasn't very forgiving. But the softness of fur, at least, was more permitting of some kind of slide.
And the rocking of Emet-Selch's hips is provocative and definitely inspiring, even more than a dream. Maddening, too. It reminds him of those times he'd craved something more all over again, as if he hasn't been craving it all along. But this time, it was in that same desperate sense as ever, when he'd wanted something he couldn't begin to fathom. And here, now, his mind races for something that would suit to express his deepest ache, only for his lips to part, for him to gasp in almost a pitiful way, before he groans again.
And he breaks again for a single laugh.]
You're appealing! [GOTTEMMMMM] If you don't think it creative... it's because I want you, plain and simple. Hades...
[He wanted to fill him, to claim him, to stuff him full of himself, and for that Mettaton groans, Mettaton shifts, burying his face into Emet-Selch's neck. He nuzzles deep before kissing him, nipping him, gasping with hot air and none of the same dampness his body had once produced. He could have a fantasy of any kind, and no matter how vanilla, he'd find it arousing, attractive.
Which is why even if he couldn't take Emet-Selch the way he wanted deepest of all, this still does it for him. Mettaton couldn't come; he couldn't be teased into coming. His would be a maddening spiral into deeper and deeper ache, a craving for sensation he can never quite attain, but he'd try against all sense.
The feeling of Emet-Selch's arms around his waist is a reassurance Mettaton thought might render him into putty. Though one hand still grips onto his ass, Mettaton's other works itself around Emet-Selch's shoulder in a half-embrace, clinging to him.
Emet-Selch rocks into him, and Mettaton squeezes his legs together rhythmically while doing just the same. The movement of thrusting is tied to the memory of satisfaction, and he groans just beneath Emet-Selch's ears. Even if he lacked the same sensitivity and raw arousal that came from a body that could perform as desired, memory and psychology were powerful tools, and the affect of Emet-Selch's body beneath his own, his cock hard between his legs, his arms tight around his slight waist, are potent.]
Appealing... Oh, the glances I stole, of- of you dripping down your thighs, Hades... [He kisses him with teeth.] Of your cock peeking out from your short skirts, just because you couldn't keep your hands from me.
[skirts, yes. and yet he still hasn't admitted that it was a maid outfit... But with imagery like that, it was no wonder Mettaton presses deeply against Emet-Selch, no matter how impotent his body is in the moment. He was still a man who desires his husband, no matter what limitations were posed upon him.]
[This wasn't the first time he'd made do with fur as a place to glide his cock along. And in general, he knew he'd gotten off to meager, or otherwise unforgiving friction (such as all the times he'd come with the head of his cock pushed into the glowing glass of Mettaton's waist, while being fucked). It wasn't the threat of rawness that was the issue... but he'd never considered any of those times before, whether Mettaton could manifest an erection or not, as making do. But he says nothing about it, humming breathlessly instead.]
With you... is anything plain or simple.
[He had no real problem with Mettaton's 'creativity', or lack thereof. A fantasy didn't have to be elaborate or strange to be worthwhile. And given the opportunity, there would be plenty that could be delved into, when it came to what Mettaton had dreamt of. Even if, right now, it was an imagining that only ached more bitterly to him. What was the point of trying anything new?
But he forces a moan instead, as Mettaton squeezes him between thighs. It's not faked, exactly, but it would've been something he would've otherwise held back. But he could hear the sounds the robot himself made, gasps and groans that accompanied this version of 'thrusting', so he had some duty to add to it, for as long as Mettaton sought to ache.
So he lets his breath to shudder, for smaller sounds to escape with it, as Mettaton attended to his neck. Consciously, his fingers dig at Mettaton's body, to hold onto him as he moved. Listens as the other man describes what he'd seen in his dream, an explicit fantasy that causes him to tense in mingled want and frustration.
Skirts? The word registers, but he doesn't have the space to consider it thoroughly, or to ask what exactly Mettaton had imagined him wearing. He'll return to it eventually. More important were the other details, dressed in something that still left him on display, in the aftermath of having been repeatedly fucked and filled. Filled to the point where he couldn't take it all, where rivulets of milky semen made a mess between his thighs- and with his own cock firmed up, peering out from beneath skirts(?), a sure sign of how he was enjoying himself. How he wanted more, no matter how many times he'd already been used.
But he couldn't drip now, not with Mettaton's seed. There was only the mess his come alone could manage, which wasn't the same at all. He could only empty himself; he couldn't be made full.
Emet-Selch chokes back a sharper whine, knowing that it would be too blatantly upset. Mettaton's dream was too potent, and it was impossible, but for once he didn't want to complain, if it would mean drawing his lover out from it. Even if he didn't understand why Mettaton would torture himself like this, unable to find some conclusion at all, even an unsatisfying one, as the Ascian expected for himself, at best.
So he ignores it, as much as he could, instead, holding back any sound beyond some appropriately unsteady breathing. The best he could think to do in the moment, was to not respond to what he said at all, and move past it instead.]
Keep- squeezing me between your thighs, Mettaton. Just like that....
[He wasn't as close as he would've liked, but he tries to force it, to rub himself off between furry legs.]
[It was true. Mettaton's dreams carried him toward impossibilities, but they were impossibilities that he so dearly wanted. Where it frustrates, tortures Emet-Selch in a direction unsatisfying, it tortures Mettaton all the same, but in one he finds wistful and worth fierce arousal. Fantasy, to him, was a powerful drive, and a persuasive force toward something that would totally drown him.
Instead of the pleasure of satisfaction pulling him under, Mettaton opted for torture, for utter lack, as he reminded himself of all he wanted. And he wanted so much. So, so much.
And he writhes, losing himself to thought, to the deep rumble of Emet-Selch's voice. Ears lean enough to make contact with the pillow, and Mettaton shivers with a short cry, pressing his thighs together to squeeze Emet-Selch's cock between them. If he pressed down, arching his back into the rigidity of his husband, Mettaton could feel his shaft riding along his own crotch—and in sympathy he could almost dream of it as his own, a heavy, thick erection nestled between his thighs. He wanted him so badly, and all of that wanting, that ache, is converted into a sharp cry.
Keep squeezing. Mettaton could do that, and he feels his cock, firm and hard, held between the supple silicone of his legs. Lost in the vivid nature of his dream, and so pleasantly close to the man he loves, Mettaton groans against his neck—even as he feels no relief at bay.
He couldn't. He would ache, and ache, and ache, and it would grow and intensify... until he could lay quietly and let it go down. He had no battery, and couldn't sleep. He had only all of the energy in his legs that needed release, tension that provokes him to thrust and to dream of slipping his cock between Emet-Selch's legs...
As he is, he shivers and clings to Emet-Selch, appreciative of the fingers that dig into him, of the arms that hold him close. Perhaps it was only torture, in the end, but Mettaton had so much want that he couldn't find anything to do with it all, save for sympathize with Emet-Selch's release as though it were his own. He was breathless, his voice breaking as he chants Emet-Selch's name quiet against his neck, begging for him to spill without coherent words.]
[That it was as torturous as this, Emet-Selch hadn't expected. But in retrospect, he realizes he shouldn't have been surprised. Neither that they wouldn't have chosen to try anyway (and that Mettaton especially would seek to drown himself in this ache, an ache he presumed to be entirely mental, relying on fantasy rather than what they were actually doing), but that it would have this result. More than unsatisfying, it was unpleasant, but as Mettaton cries out, writhing against his body with his face pressed to his neck, he forces back any sound of his own, not trusting that they wouldn't dip towards distress.
He tries not to think instead, something of a difficult ask. But to not linger on memories they couldn't replicate, as the frustration in them weighed heavier than the arousal they offered. To just rub himself off between the firmness of thighs, a tight space Mettaton offered against his body. His cock was provided friction, attention; that would have to be enough. It wasn't as though this were the first time in his life he'd been called on to perform, though the problem was usually indifference rather than too much investment, too much longing....
It was the work of effort, rather than any natural desperation. Mechanical, almost detached- and if he'd given himself the choice, something he would've preferred to not reach at all. Even if it was a quicker way of getting rid of an erection and the resulting tension in his body, it wasn't an enjoyable method. But with a sharp tightening of muscles and catch of breath, he unceremoniously reaches climax.
And if he was honest to himself, it wasn't wholly terrible, to leave pumps of seed between his husband's thighs. But the relief he felt had more to do with the release of physical tension, rather than anything more. There was no excitement in marking him, in leaving a mess behind, only a distant thought of what they'd have to clean up now, and what more of a hassle that would be. And as that tension drained from him with his come, in the end he felt lonelier than before.
And then it was over, Emet-Selch's experience of it near silent, beyond the quickness of his breath.]
[Somehow, the deepest part of their sex had taken a twist, and Mettaton wasn't immune to that. He could tell it was forced on Emet-Selch's part by the lack of sound, as he tamps himself down. And he couldn't even feel upset at him for it.
If anything, he just felt self-conscious. Upset, but a lot of it pointed toward himself. Emet-Selch is performing for his sake, or just to get through this and be done with it, and Mettaton felt his heart sink as the Ascian spills over in search of relief from his condition.
Even on his end, though, he found the pinpricks of pleasure in feeling Emet-Selch's load left between his thighs. Had he not been mourning the lack of something, aware that it was leaving Emet-Selch stuck between the rift of reality and fantasy. He could just feel the way Emet-Selch distanced himself, and as the mess is left behind, Mettaton closes his eye, burying himself in his lover's scent for a moment longer to pretend anything was the way it should be, him capable of performing as desired.
But with that moment passed, Mettaton felt no more relieved for it. Electricity courses, a livewire in his body that impels him to move and squirm, though he tries to still himself. Biting his lower lip, it was the most akin to arousal this body could manage—but there was no oversensitivity, no relief, and no end to it save for quiet despondency. It was too sorrowful, and a longing without reprieve, this particular session. It frustrated.
So Mettaton puts his energy toward lifting himself from Emet-Selch's body. His vision skirts over his waist, remaining downcast as he lifts himself from the bed. He doesn't regard the come between his own thighs as he wanders toward a neatly folded hand towel, placed here from the days of injury behind them, and then returns to Emet-Selch's side. Tucking his legs neatly underneath himself, he sits at about hip-level to Emet-Selch and moves in to carefully and effectively clean him, wanting to leave him more comfortable than before.]
.....
[But he can't find words. He felt almost near tears with his own longing, but he didn't even have his own magic. He couldn't cry.
It's his cock, first, that Mettaton quickly tidies. A thorough, but gentle wrap of his fist encased in towel, which then moves down to anywhere else that needed cleaning. With Emet-Selch relieved of that, Mettaton lifts his gaze to meet Emet-Selch's with heat, with electricity, with longing still alight in them, legs shifting in place despite his natural poise.
And he shifts himself to be closer to Emet-Selch's upper body. Towel set aside, Mettaton releases his shapeshift, back-folded ears disappearing as he places a hand just below the scar left over Emet-Selch's chest.]
I got ahead of myself. [And Emet-Selch, in the process. He wasn't sure whether to apologize over it. It simply felt unfortunate, but if he'd only the right anatomy... this wouldn't be an issue.]
[The best he could do was stay quiet, for all that he knew it was unnatural between them. To that end, they're both silent, and he regretted bitterly that he'd found climax at all. He couldn't feel how Mettaton felt, but it seemed clear that he wasn't enjoying it, and in his own aftermath there was only grief.
It startled him to feel Mettaton lift so immediately from his body, and he wondered if he'd somehow repulsed him, that he hadn't expected or wanted him to come- and when the other man moves to claim a towel, that doesn't do anything to dispel the impression. Apart from Mettaton not using it to wipe himself clean... so he considered instead whether it was just some means of getting a small bit of energy out. His lover always was the sort to take action.
He keeps his thoughts to himself though, expression stoic as the robot returns to clean him, though he glances aside, not observing the process. Removing himself from it, though the discomfort of the moment remained.
All in silence, beyond the small creak of the bed as Mettaton moved to and from it, along with the rustle of fabric. Even his own breath wasn't that loud, as it was already settling, the mage having not needed to exert himself that far. As 'afterglows' went, this was one of the more disconcerting ones, and he wished again that he'd avoided it entirely.
With his own body cleaner of the mess he'd unfortunately made, and Mettaton shifting closer, he looks back up to him when he finally speaks, when he feels the hand at his chest. His own expression remains neutral, his manner lethargic. But he shakes his head after a moment.]
We would have tried sooner or later.
[With the same result. They were too ardent, each other's company something that so frequently included sex. There had been nothing particularly wrong about this moment, nothing that he saw that they could've done differently. This was their reality now, he supposed. And for all that he knew desire would remain... it was hard to imagine trying again.]
[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.]
[Emet-Selch didn't know what would've been kinder to either of them, if he'd asked Mettaton to stop, rather than trying (and failing) to keep from spoiling the dream for him. As this result, with the both of them upset, wasn't anything that qualified as success. Where Mettaton couldn't cry, and the mage felt close to it himself; a natural response to all that emotional intensity, to something important to them going inevitably awry. It would take time to come down from it all, whether it was electrical impulses that had no outlet, or an organic body that went directly from aroused to miserable.
No longer was Mettaton even pretending to be a puca, and the Ascian watches quietly as his come is cleaned up from the robot's bare thighs as well. (Even though he surely wouldn't be able to feel it dry there, or feel it at all, he thinks pointlessly.) There was nothing sexual about it, not now; maybe he was the one repulsed, in the end.
But he didn't blame Mettaton for what had happened, or for no longer having the body (or rather, the sensations) they both wished of him. Neither for pressing his body against him, or wrapping his thighs around his cock. The Ascian had been aroused by him, of course Mettaton would offer what he could to what was intended to be a pleasurable experience. And yet it hadn't been, despite their efforts.
There was no blame to be designated, as he didn't think he'd done anything wrong either. They'd tried; he still shakes his head to hear Mettaton's thanks, feeling sorry with him at this result. And he's quiet as the robot tries to settle down next to him, in as much as a body that couldn't know rest could. And one that had been encouraged, used towards passion... that much, he remembered from their earliest times in bed together, the difficulty in calming down. But even then, Mettaton had been able to feel so much... all they'd needed was a cock to bridge certain gaps. But now they needed everything.
After a moment, he turns towards him, to curl into Mettaton's body as best he could. The desire for physical closeness was there, even if it couldn't go to the depths they wanted. Making a small sound, he shudders weakly, not as any part of the aftermath of arousal and release, but something more unhappy. Where Mettaton had a hard time holding still, Emet-Selch felt drained out, and not in the pleasant way it should've been.
Mettaton's optimism came as no surprise, and for all that his first reply is a soft exhale, he didn't want to refute it. But any sort of agreement would be a lie, so for a little while he says nothing.]
Could we?
[Is the best he could finally offer, just as quietly.]
[Motions mechanically followed by both robot and ancient, the two of them finally fall into something of an embrace, on two ends of a spectrum of exhaustion. They cling to each other. As Emet-Selch buries himself instead into Mettaton's body, curling into him, the robot facilitates, holding him tight. His ankles continue to flex; his legs are shifted, one lifted and draped over Emet-Selch's hip before sliding down his thigh, then stretched out. Tension was full and alight in his body, and there was no relief from it save ruination. He's taken part in that tango of his demise before, where he worked himself into pieces for the sake of following the allure of a heated body.
He wished he could sleep. Could dream in the privacy of his own little world, as he did when Emet-Selch had done him the mercy of healing him. He'd had a perfect dream, idyllic in all of its aspects, from a husband who still found him attractive and not repulsive (even though he knew it wasn't that simple) to having the body to show his feelings with in full. How he knew he could dance and emote, more than he ever could... But this, this was a special sort of intimacy.
He almost snorts at himself for longing for sleep of all things. He'd never wanted it so much... to dream. But he thought he better understood Emet-Selch, more than ever... if he didn't know better, that Emet-Selch often dreamed of tragedy unending rather than blissful relief.
But they craved intimacy, and that was expressed in the way they came together right now. Even though he felt sad, even though he felt it as yet another heat that burned, heat waves even rising from the seams of his shoulders. (Even though he lacked the ability to channel his warmth into the qualities of a heater, his intense heat had to be expressed in some way. And that way would escape through the edges of his body, one way or another.) He exhales more of that warmth, letting it escape into Emet-Selch's hair as he lets his fingers drift slowly, methodically along the lines of Emet-Selch's back, up the side of his spine then back down.
(He wished he could feel him more sharply. He doesn't realize that his gentle touch is a bit firmer than he knows.)]
I believe. [That's what he offers, squeezing their bodies together.] I don't know how yet... but, I believe.
[And more than that, he hoped. Hard. He didn't want to go so far as to suggest that he couldn't bear living like this... but when he wanted something bad enough, when Emet-Selch wanted something—they were a force to be reckoned with.
He breathes Emet-Selch in. Unable to smell him, he tries not to even imagine it, instead focusing on the qualities of what he could feel of his hair against his lips. And he smiles; sensitivity burns him when he notices the way strands of white brush over his lips, as he kisses him. It dizzied, if in a way that ached.]
[If he knew how much Mettaton still dreamed over the dream he had, of a lover impossibly perfect- he wouldn't quite be self-conscious about it, but insulted. He had no intention of living up to someone who didn't exist.
But he was aware of the robot's inability to sleep now. Inability to turn off, to escape, even for a little while, from everything that was wrong. Even if his husband wasn't the sort to use that escape too plentifully, his fascination with life too powerful to escape from- just having the option be there would have to be a relief. Emet-Selch couldn't imagine it to be otherwise, and while there were things he missed more, among them was the impossibility for Mettaton to fall asleep beside him.
Even if Mettaton remained in bed with him while he slept, he'd be awake the entire time... and a life like that still horrified him. Especially now, when he imagined neither of them wanted to feel this sort of upset. And where Mettaton was right that the mage's dreams were rarely untroubled, that even the kinder ones were a source of melancholy (the best option was not remembering his dreams at all), they were better than being awake.
But they were both awake now, made to dwell on what had just happened. Even the stroke down his back, though he appreciated it, was a reminder that Mettaton's senses were dulled; he didn't think it was a coincidence that the touch was firmer than usual. But this was the 'usual' now, if they were going to touch one another at all.
But he couldn't yet imagine trying to have sex again. Not when this result was so raw, and when he couldn't think of anything they could do to fix what went wrong. So while he settles with him, his own form much stiller while Mettaton agitates in place, while they hold onto one another in this measure of intimacy, he just shakes his head at his husband's belief. As they were, this was it.]
I love you too. [That much was certain, unchanging. Inviolate. It had never been contingent on Mettaton's body in the first place.] But that changes nothing about what we have now.
[Fortunately, the idyllic nature of his dream had nothing to do with skewing Emet-Selch's person. But it was a time where he himself was capable of being pleasured—and that was something presently lost, an immutable fact that Emet-Selch reminds him is true. He squeezes his eye closed.
Of course, it was still idealization. An escape he couldn't reach.
It wasn't him that Emet-Selch couldn't get off to, but the fact that he mourned, the fact that he was raw, the fact that they both missed something that couldn't be so easily attained, haunted them, and dampend their spirits. Sleep would permit him the relief of dreaming of a time where such obstacles weren't a thing... But when he considers it as an escape from life, he faces it with increasing resolution, and hurt to match.
But he feels soft while agitated, and sighs again up close to Emet-Selch. Sleep may have been a quick way out, but time would press onward. If Emet-Selch slept... Mettaton would content himself with remaining by his side. He would think; he would brainstorm. He would take action in the form of dreaming, which he knew he was so good at doing.
He pats Emet-Selch against his upper back, envisioning the way he'd once been capable of feeling the texture of warm skin under equally warm fingertips. He'd once been a human, after all... What was possible here? Mettaton knew he could cheer himself up—and he would, if not so that he could work on cheering Emet-Selch up, too. But he needed time.]
Oh, I'll show you what a little love can change. I... merely need to ponder it some more. [He squeezes Emet-Selch again, as he stretches both of his legs.] This is what we have. For now. But... I won't throw in the towel.
[Soon enough he would try to sleep, or pretend to. Practiced as he was, he could get sleep to give in to him, no matter how unsettled he remained.
It was possible that they could change things. Even Emet-Selch could agree to that hypothetical. Through that intensely dubious wishing method, they might be able to affect some improvement- if at a cost he didn't know how to gauge. How would he know when he'd earned enough to make a difference? And could he actually come up with a single wish that defined everything that was missing? Asking for Mettaton to be healed had been straightforward.
But when it came to precisely what they had now, he would be disinclined to try again. Even if felt called to arousal, it wouldn't be difficult to think back to this moment and remember exactly why to avoid it.]
Unless your pondering is in the form of begging our captor for a cock, nothing will be different at another time.
[Somewhat snidely said, though there's little energy behind it. It was far more than a cock that they needed.]
[It hadn't been a wish Mettaton was entertaining here, though he couldn't help but perk up a bit when he thought about the prospect of... wishing for a cock?? Oh, the trouble that would pose for his synthetic body... How would it be powered? Would vessels and nerves go to it? Where would the fluid come from to encourage an erection? Mettaton had gone through too much anatomy study for these details to escape him, where maybe once upon a time he would've dismissed them. He had to work for his ability to shapeshift.
(Now there was an idea... The ability to fully shapeshift! Nerves and all, and without any effort—wouldn't that mean that the skies were the limit?)
Wishes were an answer. But he knew with all of his heart that he'd started this encounter with true arousal, even if Emet-Selch couldn't feel it, couldn't hold it, couldn't swallow it. He knew he felt pleasure in his ways, and he would have to build up to a point where Emet-Selch could trust that—and find pleasure in the scene himself.
Still, he giggles lightly, heartened by the suggestion. It sounded absurd... if something that could really be wished for. What would be the harm?]
Now you're thinking big. [Offering up another kiss to his hairline, Mettaton rests his cheek atop his head.] We'll see. But don't lose heart in me, darling.
[Emet-Selch may be concretely sure that he would not find himself raring to try again, which meant that Mettaton knew he had his work cut out for him. That, or he'd require a wish that could bring him back to the way he was in Aefenglom... Or something.]
[There were a certain amount of practical absurdities for a wish like that. Would it always be there, on a body that normally went undressed? Would it have the same awful sensitivity as the rest of him? How would it fill or recede, or would it always be rigid? (Not unrealistic.) Would he be able to climax, to fill him with himself?
Emet-Selch doesn't think it through, a crude wish like that not worth it. Nor does he take much humor in Mettaton's show of it, though he mostly sighs again. Ignores it entirely. It would take some convincing to get him to come around to anything, and with little chance of success in his current frame of mind.]
Do you mind if I sleep? You can leave at any time, as you seem to prefer.
[As he continues to nurse a grudge over Mettaton not having been there when he revived.]
[Grudge: noted. But Mettaton only leaves because he knew he wouldn't be able to stand still—and he doesn't at all go far. First, he kisses the side of his head, warmly down his hairline and toward his ear—before parting, pulling himself away from Emet-Selch with a lingering touch.
But he only steps outside of the room to fetch a book. It's...
Flashing the cover as he re-enters after a short walk into the kitchen-ish area, it seems to be a novel version of something Mettaton likes... The very same title as the poster on his wall once upon a time, complete with two lovers grasping at each other longingly on the front cover. Not that Emet-Selch has seen it.]
Look! This was one of my favorite movies!! [Heartened, Mettaton returns to Emet-Selch's side. He does not intend to leave at all, but instead, he cuddles up in bed right next to his husband.] But it's actually a book! I've never read it before... As you might expect, the books in the Garbage Dump weren't very, ah, readable. It was in Waterfall, so...
[But this was a pristine copy, somehow. He flips through its pages, delighted to be holding a copy in his own hands.]
I was astounded to see it here! So... I'd like to read here, next to you.
[Even though he'd offered it as a suggestion, Mettaton leaving, he's startled all the same when the other man takes him up on it. Restless energy or not, it hurt anew to be abandoned- especially after that gentle touch to his hair, a kiss he could feel in all its warmth. But he offers no complaint, no reaction at all as he's left behind.
And once he's alone, he works himself underneath the covers, and rolls onto his stomach. Spreads out. Right in the middle of the modest bed, taking up as much space as he could, as he was presumably having it entirely to himself. Even when Mettaton returns, he does nothing to make it easier as the other man forces his way back into a cuddle.
...There was a small bit of relief that Mettaton wasn't immediately ditching him after all (and he didn't mind that his husband found entertainment for himself, as he wasn't so cruel as to expect him to lay there in silence and inactivity for hours). But it's still grudgingly that he turns his head to see what Mettaton had insisted on showing him: a movie that was also a book....
Where his own excitement was far less palpable (as it didn't exist), he merely frowns at it, before putting his head back face down.]
So long as you're not reading it out loud, do as you like.
[There was no way Mettaton would leave him. But he also respected himself too much to sit in idleness, even though he also knew he would use this space to think, to wonder, to ask himself how he might show Emet-Selch that even this body could be loved, and could bridge their desire for intimacy.
...For all other moments where a distraction was needed, though, he has this.
Emet-Selch flops and grumbles into the pillows. Mettaton didn't expect effusive enthusiasm out of the smaller man, and happily nudges him enough to take up his rightful half of the bed. And even works himself into a cuddle, fluffing the pillow behind himself and slinging an arm around Emet-Selch, inviting him to continue curling into him. (Almost demanding it, but he had the arm flexibility to let Emet-Selch remain posed as he wished.]
So you don't want to be lulled to sleep by my soothing voice... Or maybe, it would only keep you up. [Playfully offered, he still settles back, stretching his legs again in an attempt to quiet his ache.] I'll keep quiet, Hades. But then... you're a skilled sleeper. I trust you'll be every bit as capable of snoozing through anything.
[The bed is where he plans to stay for now. And stay he would, all the way until Emet-Selch next woke.]
[He had no trust that Mettaton wouldn't just leave him there (why wouldn't the other man be as petty as he, and take him up on an insincere offer?). Hence the staking claim on the bed... territory which the smaller man only reluctantly concedes when the robot nudges his way back into place, claiming pillows he couldn't use.
But he does refuse to curl against him again, tensing up at the bodily 'suggestion' of it, and practically digging into the mattress to not be dislodged further. (Once he fell asleep, he'd likely end up rolling over and burrowing into him.)]
A tone that strident would keep anyone awake. [It wasn't strident. And he could sleep through most things.] Just be quiet and I'll do the same.
[This wasn't a state where conversation would convince him of anything.]
[A sigh, hurt, is MTT's response to not curling into him. But the offer remains, if not to be taken advantage of in the deep of sleep. No, he wouldn't force it.
But he would stay. And especially as the Ascian found himself curled into him, the idol would remain, and drift between daydreaming, ruminating, and reading the lines that reminded him of the movie he used to watch. For now, though, he gives Emet-Selch's hair one brief comb-through with his free hand—which was very nice to have obtained once again.]
Sleep tight, Hades. And... thank you.
[For wishing. For trying with him. For anything he has done, and will do, even when it felt like everything hurt.]
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[A heavy sigh, as MTT gathers his bearings with little success. The Ascian pushes into him and Mettaton curls close, settling into his arms comfortably, with a pronounced squirm. Fur. That was about all that could help Emet-Selch slide along his body now, as silicone without wetness wasn't very forgiving. But the softness of fur, at least, was more permitting of some kind of slide.
And the rocking of Emet-Selch's hips is provocative and definitely inspiring, even more than a dream. Maddening, too. It reminds him of those times he'd craved something more all over again, as if he hasn't been craving it all along. But this time, it was in that same desperate sense as ever, when he'd wanted something he couldn't begin to fathom. And here, now, his mind races for something that would suit to express his deepest ache, only for his lips to part, for him to gasp in almost a pitiful way, before he groans again.
And he breaks again for a single laugh.]
You're appealing! [GOTTEMMMMM] If you don't think it creative... it's because I want you, plain and simple. Hades...
[He wanted to fill him, to claim him, to stuff him full of himself, and for that Mettaton groans, Mettaton shifts, burying his face into Emet-Selch's neck. He nuzzles deep before kissing him, nipping him, gasping with hot air and none of the same dampness his body had once produced. He could have a fantasy of any kind, and no matter how vanilla, he'd find it arousing, attractive.
Which is why even if he couldn't take Emet-Selch the way he wanted deepest of all, this still does it for him. Mettaton couldn't come; he couldn't be teased into coming. His would be a maddening spiral into deeper and deeper ache, a craving for sensation he can never quite attain, but he'd try against all sense.
The feeling of Emet-Selch's arms around his waist is a reassurance Mettaton thought might render him into putty. Though one hand still grips onto his ass, Mettaton's other works itself around Emet-Selch's shoulder in a half-embrace, clinging to him.
Emet-Selch rocks into him, and Mettaton squeezes his legs together rhythmically while doing just the same. The movement of thrusting is tied to the memory of satisfaction, and he groans just beneath Emet-Selch's ears. Even if he lacked the same sensitivity and raw arousal that came from a body that could perform as desired, memory and psychology were powerful tools, and the affect of Emet-Selch's body beneath his own, his cock hard between his legs, his arms tight around his slight waist, are potent.]
Appealing... Oh, the glances I stole, of- of you dripping down your thighs, Hades... [He kisses him with teeth.] Of your cock peeking out from your short skirts, just because you couldn't keep your hands from me.
[skirts, yes. and yet he still hasn't admitted that it was a maid outfit... But with imagery like that, it was no wonder Mettaton presses deeply against Emet-Selch, no matter how impotent his body is in the moment. He was still a man who desires his husband, no matter what limitations were posed upon him.]
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With you... is anything plain or simple.
[He had no real problem with Mettaton's 'creativity', or lack thereof. A fantasy didn't have to be elaborate or strange to be worthwhile. And given the opportunity, there would be plenty that could be delved into, when it came to what Mettaton had dreamt of. Even if, right now, it was an imagining that only ached more bitterly to him. What was the point of trying anything new?
But he forces a moan instead, as Mettaton squeezes him between thighs. It's not faked, exactly, but it would've been something he would've otherwise held back. But he could hear the sounds the robot himself made, gasps and groans that accompanied this version of 'thrusting', so he had some duty to add to it, for as long as Mettaton sought to ache.
So he lets his breath to shudder, for smaller sounds to escape with it, as Mettaton attended to his neck. Consciously, his fingers dig at Mettaton's body, to hold onto him as he moved. Listens as the other man describes what he'd seen in his dream, an explicit fantasy that causes him to tense in mingled want and frustration.
Skirts? The word registers, but he doesn't have the space to consider it thoroughly, or to ask what exactly Mettaton had imagined him wearing. He'll return to it eventually. More important were the other details, dressed in something that still left him on display, in the aftermath of having been repeatedly fucked and filled. Filled to the point where he couldn't take it all, where rivulets of milky semen made a mess between his thighs- and with his own cock firmed up, peering out from beneath skirts(?), a sure sign of how he was enjoying himself. How he wanted more, no matter how many times he'd already been used.
But he couldn't drip now, not with Mettaton's seed. There was only the mess his come alone could manage, which wasn't the same at all. He could only empty himself; he couldn't be made full.
Emet-Selch chokes back a sharper whine, knowing that it would be too blatantly upset. Mettaton's dream was too potent, and it was impossible, but for once he didn't want to complain, if it would mean drawing his lover out from it. Even if he didn't understand why Mettaton would torture himself like this, unable to find some conclusion at all, even an unsatisfying one, as the Ascian expected for himself, at best.
So he ignores it, as much as he could, instead, holding back any sound beyond some appropriately unsteady breathing. The best he could think to do in the moment, was to not respond to what he said at all, and move past it instead.]
Keep- squeezing me between your thighs, Mettaton. Just like that....
[He wasn't as close as he would've liked, but he tries to force it, to rub himself off between furry legs.]
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Instead of the pleasure of satisfaction pulling him under, Mettaton opted for torture, for utter lack, as he reminded himself of all he wanted. And he wanted so much. So, so much.
And he writhes, losing himself to thought, to the deep rumble of Emet-Selch's voice. Ears lean enough to make contact with the pillow, and Mettaton shivers with a short cry, pressing his thighs together to squeeze Emet-Selch's cock between them. If he pressed down, arching his back into the rigidity of his husband, Mettaton could feel his shaft riding along his own crotch—and in sympathy he could almost dream of it as his own, a heavy, thick erection nestled between his thighs. He wanted him so badly, and all of that wanting, that ache, is converted into a sharp cry.
Keep squeezing. Mettaton could do that, and he feels his cock, firm and hard, held between the supple silicone of his legs. Lost in the vivid nature of his dream, and so pleasantly close to the man he loves, Mettaton groans against his neck—even as he feels no relief at bay.
He couldn't. He would ache, and ache, and ache, and it would grow and intensify... until he could lay quietly and let it go down. He had no battery, and couldn't sleep. He had only all of the energy in his legs that needed release, tension that provokes him to thrust and to dream of slipping his cock between Emet-Selch's legs...
As he is, he shivers and clings to Emet-Selch, appreciative of the fingers that dig into him, of the arms that hold him close. Perhaps it was only torture, in the end, but Mettaton had so much want that he couldn't find anything to do with it all, save for sympathize with Emet-Selch's release as though it were his own. He was breathless, his voice breaking as he chants Emet-Selch's name quiet against his neck, begging for him to spill without coherent words.]
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He tries not to think instead, something of a difficult ask. But to not linger on memories they couldn't replicate, as the frustration in them weighed heavier than the arousal they offered. To just rub himself off between the firmness of thighs, a tight space Mettaton offered against his body. His cock was provided friction, attention; that would have to be enough. It wasn't as though this were the first time in his life he'd been called on to perform, though the problem was usually indifference rather than too much investment, too much longing....
It was the work of effort, rather than any natural desperation. Mechanical, almost detached- and if he'd given himself the choice, something he would've preferred to not reach at all. Even if it was a quicker way of getting rid of an erection and the resulting tension in his body, it wasn't an enjoyable method. But with a sharp tightening of muscles and catch of breath, he unceremoniously reaches climax.
And if he was honest to himself, it wasn't wholly terrible, to leave pumps of seed between his husband's thighs. But the relief he felt had more to do with the release of physical tension, rather than anything more. There was no excitement in marking him, in leaving a mess behind, only a distant thought of what they'd have to clean up now, and what more of a hassle that would be. And as that tension drained from him with his come, in the end he felt lonelier than before.
And then it was over, Emet-Selch's experience of it near silent, beyond the quickness of his breath.]
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If anything, he just felt self-conscious. Upset, but a lot of it pointed toward himself. Emet-Selch is performing for his sake, or just to get through this and be done with it, and Mettaton felt his heart sink as the Ascian spills over in search of relief from his condition.
Even on his end, though, he found the pinpricks of pleasure in feeling Emet-Selch's load left between his thighs. Had he not been mourning the lack of something, aware that it was leaving Emet-Selch stuck between the rift of reality and fantasy. He could just feel the way Emet-Selch distanced himself, and as the mess is left behind, Mettaton closes his eye, burying himself in his lover's scent for a moment longer to pretend anything was the way it should be, him capable of performing as desired.
But with that moment passed, Mettaton felt no more relieved for it. Electricity courses, a livewire in his body that impels him to move and squirm, though he tries to still himself. Biting his lower lip, it was the most akin to arousal this body could manage—but there was no oversensitivity, no relief, and no end to it save for quiet despondency. It was too sorrowful, and a longing without reprieve, this particular session. It frustrated.
So Mettaton puts his energy toward lifting himself from Emet-Selch's body. His vision skirts over his waist, remaining downcast as he lifts himself from the bed. He doesn't regard the come between his own thighs as he wanders toward a neatly folded hand towel, placed here from the days of injury behind them, and then returns to Emet-Selch's side. Tucking his legs neatly underneath himself, he sits at about hip-level to Emet-Selch and moves in to carefully and effectively clean him, wanting to leave him more comfortable than before.]
.....
[But he can't find words. He felt almost near tears with his own longing, but he didn't even have his own magic. He couldn't cry.
It's his cock, first, that Mettaton quickly tidies. A thorough, but gentle wrap of his fist encased in towel, which then moves down to anywhere else that needed cleaning. With Emet-Selch relieved of that, Mettaton lifts his gaze to meet Emet-Selch's with heat, with electricity, with longing still alight in them, legs shifting in place despite his natural poise.
And he shifts himself to be closer to Emet-Selch's upper body. Towel set aside, Mettaton releases his shapeshift, back-folded ears disappearing as he places a hand just below the scar left over Emet-Selch's chest.]
I got ahead of myself. [And Emet-Selch, in the process. He wasn't sure whether to apologize over it. It simply felt unfortunate, but if he'd only the right anatomy... this wouldn't be an issue.]
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It startled him to feel Mettaton lift so immediately from his body, and he wondered if he'd somehow repulsed him, that he hadn't expected or wanted him to come- and when the other man moves to claim a towel, that doesn't do anything to dispel the impression. Apart from Mettaton not using it to wipe himself clean... so he considered instead whether it was just some means of getting a small bit of energy out. His lover always was the sort to take action.
He keeps his thoughts to himself though, expression stoic as the robot returns to clean him, though he glances aside, not observing the process. Removing himself from it, though the discomfort of the moment remained.
All in silence, beyond the small creak of the bed as Mettaton moved to and from it, along with the rustle of fabric. Even his own breath wasn't that loud, as it was already settling, the mage having not needed to exert himself that far. As 'afterglows' went, this was one of the more disconcerting ones, and he wished again that he'd avoided it entirely.
With his own body cleaner of the mess he'd unfortunately made, and Mettaton shifting closer, he looks back up to him when he finally speaks, when he feels the hand at his chest. His own expression remains neutral, his manner lethargic. But he shakes his head after a moment.]
We would have tried sooner or later.
[With the same result. They were too ardent, each other's company something that so frequently included sex. There had been nothing particularly wrong about this moment, nothing that he saw that they could've done differently. This was their reality now, he supposed. And for all that he knew desire would remain... it was hard to imagine trying again.]
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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.]
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No longer was Mettaton even pretending to be a puca, and the Ascian watches quietly as his come is cleaned up from the robot's bare thighs as well. (Even though he surely wouldn't be able to feel it dry there, or feel it at all, he thinks pointlessly.) There was nothing sexual about it, not now; maybe he was the one repulsed, in the end.
But he didn't blame Mettaton for what had happened, or for no longer having the body (or rather, the sensations) they both wished of him. Neither for pressing his body against him, or wrapping his thighs around his cock. The Ascian had been aroused by him, of course Mettaton would offer what he could to what was intended to be a pleasurable experience. And yet it hadn't been, despite their efforts.
There was no blame to be designated, as he didn't think he'd done anything wrong either. They'd tried; he still shakes his head to hear Mettaton's thanks, feeling sorry with him at this result. And he's quiet as the robot tries to settle down next to him, in as much as a body that couldn't know rest could. And one that had been encouraged, used towards passion... that much, he remembered from their earliest times in bed together, the difficulty in calming down. But even then, Mettaton had been able to feel so much... all they'd needed was a cock to bridge certain gaps. But now they needed everything.
After a moment, he turns towards him, to curl into Mettaton's body as best he could. The desire for physical closeness was there, even if it couldn't go to the depths they wanted. Making a small sound, he shudders weakly, not as any part of the aftermath of arousal and release, but something more unhappy. Where Mettaton had a hard time holding still, Emet-Selch felt drained out, and not in the pleasant way it should've been.
Mettaton's optimism came as no surprise, and for all that his first reply is a soft exhale, he didn't want to refute it. But any sort of agreement would be a lie, so for a little while he says nothing.]
Could we?
[Is the best he could finally offer, just as quietly.]
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He wished he could sleep. Could dream in the privacy of his own little world, as he did when Emet-Selch had done him the mercy of healing him. He'd had a perfect dream, idyllic in all of its aspects, from a husband who still found him attractive and not repulsive (even though he knew it wasn't that simple) to having the body to show his feelings with in full. How he knew he could dance and emote, more than he ever could... But this, this was a special sort of intimacy.
He almost snorts at himself for longing for sleep of all things. He'd never wanted it so much... to dream. But he thought he better understood Emet-Selch, more than ever... if he didn't know better, that Emet-Selch often dreamed of tragedy unending rather than blissful relief.
But they craved intimacy, and that was expressed in the way they came together right now. Even though he felt sad, even though he felt it as yet another heat that burned, heat waves even rising from the seams of his shoulders. (Even though he lacked the ability to channel his warmth into the qualities of a heater, his intense heat had to be expressed in some way. And that way would escape through the edges of his body, one way or another.) He exhales more of that warmth, letting it escape into Emet-Selch's hair as he lets his fingers drift slowly, methodically along the lines of Emet-Selch's back, up the side of his spine then back down.
(He wished he could feel him more sharply. He doesn't realize that his gentle touch is a bit firmer than he knows.)]
I believe. [That's what he offers, squeezing their bodies together.] I don't know how yet... but, I believe.
[And more than that, he hoped. Hard. He didn't want to go so far as to suggest that he couldn't bear living like this... but when he wanted something bad enough, when Emet-Selch wanted something—they were a force to be reckoned with.
He breathes Emet-Selch in. Unable to smell him, he tries not to even imagine it, instead focusing on the qualities of what he could feel of his hair against his lips. And he smiles; sensitivity burns him when he notices the way strands of white brush over his lips, as he kisses him. It dizzied, if in a way that ached.]
I love you, after all.
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But he was aware of the robot's inability to sleep now. Inability to turn off, to escape, even for a little while, from everything that was wrong. Even if his husband wasn't the sort to use that escape too plentifully, his fascination with life too powerful to escape from- just having the option be there would have to be a relief. Emet-Selch couldn't imagine it to be otherwise, and while there were things he missed more, among them was the impossibility for Mettaton to fall asleep beside him.
Even if Mettaton remained in bed with him while he slept, he'd be awake the entire time... and a life like that still horrified him. Especially now, when he imagined neither of them wanted to feel this sort of upset. And where Mettaton was right that the mage's dreams were rarely untroubled, that even the kinder ones were a source of melancholy (the best option was not remembering his dreams at all), they were better than being awake.
But they were both awake now, made to dwell on what had just happened. Even the stroke down his back, though he appreciated it, was a reminder that Mettaton's senses were dulled; he didn't think it was a coincidence that the touch was firmer than usual. But this was the 'usual' now, if they were going to touch one another at all.
But he couldn't yet imagine trying to have sex again. Not when this result was so raw, and when he couldn't think of anything they could do to fix what went wrong. So while he settles with him, his own form much stiller while Mettaton agitates in place, while they hold onto one another in this measure of intimacy, he just shakes his head at his husband's belief. As they were, this was it.]
I love you too. [That much was certain, unchanging. Inviolate. It had never been contingent on Mettaton's body in the first place.] But that changes nothing about what we have now.
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Of course, it was still idealization. An escape he couldn't reach.
It wasn't him that Emet-Selch couldn't get off to, but the fact that he mourned, the fact that he was raw, the fact that they both missed something that couldn't be so easily attained, haunted them, and dampend their spirits. Sleep would permit him the relief of dreaming of a time where such obstacles weren't a thing... But when he considers it as an escape from life, he faces it with increasing resolution, and hurt to match.
But he feels soft while agitated, and sighs again up close to Emet-Selch. Sleep may have been a quick way out, but time would press onward. If Emet-Selch slept... Mettaton would content himself with remaining by his side. He would think; he would brainstorm. He would take action in the form of dreaming, which he knew he was so good at doing.
He pats Emet-Selch against his upper back, envisioning the way he'd once been capable of feeling the texture of warm skin under equally warm fingertips. He'd once been a human, after all... What was possible here? Mettaton knew he could cheer himself up—and he would, if not so that he could work on cheering Emet-Selch up, too. But he needed time.]
Oh, I'll show you what a little love can change. I... merely need to ponder it some more. [He squeezes Emet-Selch again, as he stretches both of his legs.] This is what we have. For now. But... I won't throw in the towel.
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It was possible that they could change things. Even Emet-Selch could agree to that hypothetical. Through that intensely dubious wishing method, they might be able to affect some improvement- if at a cost he didn't know how to gauge. How would he know when he'd earned enough to make a difference? And could he actually come up with a single wish that defined everything that was missing? Asking for Mettaton to be healed had been straightforward.
But when it came to precisely what they had now, he would be disinclined to try again. Even if felt called to arousal, it wouldn't be difficult to think back to this moment and remember exactly why to avoid it.]
Unless your pondering is in the form of begging our captor for a cock, nothing will be different at another time.
[Somewhat snidely said, though there's little energy behind it. It was far more than a cock that they needed.]
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(Now there was an idea... The ability to fully shapeshift! Nerves and all, and without any effort—wouldn't that mean that the skies were the limit?)
Wishes were an answer. But he knew with all of his heart that he'd started this encounter with true arousal, even if Emet-Selch couldn't feel it, couldn't hold it, couldn't swallow it. He knew he felt pleasure in his ways, and he would have to build up to a point where Emet-Selch could trust that—and find pleasure in the scene himself.
Still, he giggles lightly, heartened by the suggestion. It sounded absurd... if something that could really be wished for. What would be the harm?]
Now you're thinking big. [Offering up another kiss to his hairline, Mettaton rests his cheek atop his head.] We'll see. But don't lose heart in me, darling.
[Emet-Selch may be concretely sure that he would not find himself raring to try again, which meant that Mettaton knew he had his work cut out for him. That, or he'd require a wish that could bring him back to the way he was in Aefenglom... Or something.]
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Emet-Selch doesn't think it through, a crude wish like that not worth it. Nor does he take much humor in Mettaton's show of it, though he mostly sighs again. Ignores it entirely. It would take some convincing to get him to come around to anything, and with little chance of success in his current frame of mind.]
Do you mind if I sleep? You can leave at any time, as you seem to prefer.
[As he continues to nurse a grudge over Mettaton not having been there when he revived.]
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[Grudge: noted. But Mettaton only leaves because he knew he wouldn't be able to stand still—and he doesn't at all go far. First, he kisses the side of his head, warmly down his hairline and toward his ear—before parting, pulling himself away from Emet-Selch with a lingering touch.
But he only steps outside of the room to fetch a book. It's...
Flashing the cover as he re-enters after a short walk into the kitchen-ish area, it seems to be a novel version of something Mettaton likes... The very same title as the poster on his wall once upon a time, complete with two lovers grasping at each other longingly on the front cover. Not that Emet-Selch has seen it.]
Look! This was one of my favorite movies!! [Heartened, Mettaton returns to Emet-Selch's side. He does not intend to leave at all, but instead, he cuddles up in bed right next to his husband.] But it's actually a book! I've never read it before... As you might expect, the books in the Garbage Dump weren't very, ah, readable. It was in Waterfall, so...
[But this was a pristine copy, somehow. He flips through its pages, delighted to be holding a copy in his own hands.]
I was astounded to see it here! So... I'd like to read here, next to you.
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And once he's alone, he works himself underneath the covers, and rolls onto his stomach. Spreads out. Right in the middle of the modest bed, taking up as much space as he could, as he was presumably having it entirely to himself. Even when Mettaton returns, he does nothing to make it easier as the other man forces his way back into a cuddle.
...There was a small bit of relief that Mettaton wasn't immediately ditching him after all (and he didn't mind that his husband found entertainment for himself, as he wasn't so cruel as to expect him to lay there in silence and inactivity for hours). But it's still grudgingly that he turns his head to see what Mettaton had insisted on showing him: a movie that was also a book....
Where his own excitement was far less palpable (as it didn't exist), he merely frowns at it, before putting his head back face down.]
So long as you're not reading it out loud, do as you like.
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...For all other moments where a distraction was needed, though, he has this.
Emet-Selch flops and grumbles into the pillows. Mettaton didn't expect effusive enthusiasm out of the smaller man, and happily nudges him enough to take up his rightful half of the bed. And even works himself into a cuddle, fluffing the pillow behind himself and slinging an arm around Emet-Selch, inviting him to continue curling into him. (Almost demanding it, but he had the arm flexibility to let Emet-Selch remain posed as he wished.]
So you don't want to be lulled to sleep by my soothing voice... Or maybe, it would only keep you up. [Playfully offered, he still settles back, stretching his legs again in an attempt to quiet his ache.] I'll keep quiet, Hades. But then... you're a skilled sleeper. I trust you'll be every bit as capable of snoozing through anything.
[The bed is where he plans to stay for now. And stay he would, all the way until Emet-Selch next woke.]
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But he does refuse to curl against him again, tensing up at the bodily 'suggestion' of it, and practically digging into the mattress to not be dislodged further. (Once he fell asleep, he'd likely end up rolling over and burrowing into him.)]
A tone that strident would keep anyone awake. [It wasn't strident. And he could sleep through most things.] Just be quiet and I'll do the same.
[This wasn't a state where conversation would convince him of anything.]
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But he would stay. And especially as the Ascian found himself curled into him, the idol would remain, and drift between daydreaming, ruminating, and reading the lines that reminded him of the movie he used to watch. For now, though, he gives Emet-Selch's hair one brief comb-through with his free hand—which was very nice to have obtained once again.]
Sleep tight, Hades. And... thank you.
[For wishing. For trying with him. For anything he has done, and will do, even when it felt like everything hurt.]