[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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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.]