[Affordable indeed. Even though Mettaton didn't know the exact price tag on his ring, it still struck him as affordable, given how quickly he was able to request the ring. Why didn't these things have price tags that could be easily divined, anyway? It was all a guessing game... But if Mettaton had to guess, the earrings would be pricier than rings- if he wished to obtain them with their enchantment intact. Something about that seemed to cost more, even if MTT would agree that their rings were priceless.
Would the crystal afford him a bulk discount? Another thing to ponder... Mettaton genuinely gives it thought, humming as he glances toward the ceiling in wonder. Maybe he could request all of their jewelry, enchanted and not, all at once.....
Their mutual notice over Mettaton's striking lack of ears has Mettaton thumbing Emet-Selch's affectionately. His is pierced; Emet-Selch's has potential always, even if they never managed to obtain their beloved jewelry again. The choices Mettaton could make, the chances he could take advantage of... Could he find a suitable earring here, and could he find some other enchantment for it? (An enchantment to bond their souls... Oh, if only such magic existed. Somehow, Aefenglom seems that bit more technologically advanced, and Nippon even moreso.) Still, the sight of his ear without jewels imbues MTT with the desire to rectify it by his own power, and he hums at it, as well as the mention that he should figure out a new place to apply his earring.]
I wish I had ears. Just to wear that earring. So classic! [To wear an earring always seemed so nice. Maybe he's biased, because Emet-Selch has worn an earring for as long as he's known him. It looked good.] I may not be the sort to wear a necklace all the time, but for that earring, I'll have to become one.
[It could become a pendant. Mettaton couldn't think of any other place to put a piercing... His silicone features were technically piercable, but with a hoop-with-a-drop like that, there didn't seem to be many choices. Or any choices, really. Converting it into something else was all that could be done, for all that the idol fancies himself with a tall rabbit ear to wear it on, at all times.
Shifting closer, Mettaton keeps his thumb against Emet-Selch's earlobe, fondly stroking up the shell of his ear. He looked forward to seeing it adorned by his own touch... just as much as he longed to see his wedding ring banding the Ascian's finger. To see him absolutely decorated.]
And if we can ask for items... Hades, do you know what horrifying truth I've discovered, while shopping in town? [Grave. Mettaton's face grows serious.] It's not hard to find eccentric fashion. It's no trouble, coming across trinkets. But is it just me... or is this town utterly devoid of people who have sex??
[The floor is open for questions. But the answer is this: there is not a single object intended for sexual use. No toys. No lube. No nothing.]
[How much would it cost? The system really needed some hard numbers, or at least some way to communicate with the damned rock they were praying to. As it did appeal to his sentimental heart, to have all of their treasures back, even if the earring would have to be modified for Mettaton's use.]
It seems the only choice, should you wish to keep it on you. Unless you want ears to be your next wish.
[Even as he nudges into Mettaton's touch of his own ear- indeed pierced, though he wasn't wearing anything at the moment- he wondered if his lover would be granted fleshy ears or silicone ones, if asked. Hopefully the latter... considering the absurdity it would be otherwise (he still wasn't sure how wishing for a functional cock would work either, given that Mettaton was completely unmodified, inorganic).
Settling bit by bit, appreciating Mettaton's increasing nearness once again, the question he poses, for all that Emet-Selch hadn't expected anything actually serious with that intro, still comes as a surprise. Taking a breath, clearly gearing up to refute it- he's silent for a long moment instead, as he realizes he can't think of anything to refute it with. The mage looks aside instead, brow furrowing.
He hadn't hunted very thoroughly, or with that as a specific aim- but he had kept an eye out. And by now, he's sure he's canvassed the entire village, small as it was.]
...Are they prudish, or simply unimaginative...?
[Because it was true, he hadn't seen anything as basic as lubrication.
For all its otherwise antiquated mores, Aefenglom had no shortage of sex shops. If not shameless, there was plenty available, from the straightforward to the custom-made and enchanted. And in Nippon they'd had no trouble either (though he was also free to create anything they needed, with his powers intact). But here, they were in a sex desert.]
Unless someone's running a private business out of their home and fail to advertise, then we might be on our own.
[Aefenglom was perfectly base. It was somehow even kinkier than the more open Nippon, simply because of how they hid behind propriety, thought Mettaton. With an entire district dedicated to the cruder side of the city's interests, catering to kinks of both mages and monsters, it was the worst-kept secret that witches were horny for their monsters, and vice-versa. Nippon, on the other hand, kept things... quite accessible, as though sex were part of the culture. Mettaton still remembers when he first chanced upon a peep show- and with Emet-Selch there to condescend at him for it, an event which he now looks fondly upon for all that he hadn't known that he was his damned husband. Weird times all around.
But here... There wasn't a single sign of any sexual inclinations, aside from townspeople wooed over kisses or enjoying exclusive attentions. That was about as intimate as it got. And Mettaton's brow furrows as the mage begins to see his point, disappointed that he couldn't refute him. Prudish or unimaginative, Mettaton wished it was neither.
Could it be a private business...? Mettaton hums, considering this possibility with a slow, small nod, as he rests his cheek even more firmly against the back of the couch, as he curls even more around the egg. Really, he's deflating.]
On our own... See, this is what I mean, about our shards. [Are they going to have to wish proper lubricant into existence themselves?? Mettaton pouts.] How long do we have to wait to have basic amenities, such as lube? We may as well cash in entirely on your powers... [To make lube, infinitely. And anything else. Closing his eye, Mettaton continues with a sigh.] That, or we get creative with what we have...
[Which was his original idea. Mettaton fixes his attention on Emet-Selch, casual in voicing his solutions to their problem.]
The kitchen is full of slippery things. Such as, butter. Is that the way of these people? [Kinky cooking... It has a nice ring to it, thinks Mettaton, who will never perform some sultry, slutty kitchen smut in a million years. He may be sexy, but these performances are VIP!]
[Aefenglom was surprisingly horny, perhaps even made more so by its pretense of public restraint. By its rigidity in what it expected from its witches and monsters, each to understand and to conform to their place in society. That is, with monsters docile and condescended to, with their witches expected to keep them in line. But in the privacy of the bedroom, how often did those roles reverse...? (Not that they'd kept up any pretense themselves, on either front.)
Here, though. Even though Emet-Selch had arrived in the middle of a celebration of love, it had all been reasonably chaste. He really hadn't been looking, then, but nothing in his memory stood out as being explicitly sexual either....
A return of the Ascian's powers would solve all their problems in that regard. He'd even claim that it would be cheaper in the long term, considering the amount of lube they went through, the number of accessories they used (not that it had been an issue as of yet, considering everything that kept them from indulging as they were accustomed). Which didn't solve their problems in the short term....
A situation that Mettaton proffers a solution to, as reasonable as anything.]
...Butter. [As though he hadn't quite heard him or understood him correctly. His own gaze is fixed right back on him.] You want to use... butter, as a replacement for lube?
['You've thought about putting butter on my cock' is something he thinks but doesn't say, doesn't wish to actually voice and realize the truth of it.]
Butter. Or cooking oil. Or! Oooh, icing. [Mettaton brightens up at the thought of icing, even though it really doesn't make a difference to a robot who cannot taste.] That sounds good...
[Licking his lips as though he could taste the icing, or that he favored it for being icing alone, Mettaton's smile is cheeky and playful, in good humor. His hand drops from his ear and gives the mage's shoulder a rub and a squeeze.
Mettaton does not see anything wrong with this.
In his mind, it doesn't require justification. It's a slippery substance; it wouldn't cause a rash or anything, surely. People ingest it. It's food-safe, and therefore surely skin-safe. Mettaton Knows Product. But instead of justifying this absolute madman idea, Mettaton snuggles into place, curled around the dragon egg and sidling ever closer to his husband, fingers groping their way down his bicep.]
Unless you can come up with a substance preferable, that would offer optimal glide. Butter seems the easiest!
[So, 'yes, I've thought about putting butter on your cock.' Premeditated.]
[As Mettaton imagines the flavor of icing, Emet-Selch imagines being slathered in all sorts of things that didn't belong anywhere near his cock. Experimentation he wasn't excited to be on the receiving end of.
Then again, it wasn't as though Mettaton could fuck him... so the questionable and otherwise insufficient slicking potential would come to less harm for him. If it was just to make a stroke or mouthing along his own cock more smooth, it would work, probably.
It was just somewhat off-putting. Where Mettaton curls closer to both him and the egg, Emet-Selch deflates into the couch, his muttering towards the grumpy.]
I'm not anywhere near aroused enough to resort to your creativity.
[He wasn't aroused at all. Even if in Mettaton's company it was easier to think with his dick than at any other point in his life, right now he was at a starting point of 'no' and 'absolutely no'.]
As the people of time long since past did... using food products is a convenient fix for soothing the libido. [A small smile, playful at its edges.] Is it my creativity, if it's been done before since olive oil was invented?
[Mettaton maybe knows something about the use of olive oil in sex, but he also may not. He doesn't volunteer this information, as he continues to settle into his gradually deflating husband.
And not discouraged, either, as he closes his eye and nods shortly.]
I'll have my chance to work on you yet! When the moment strikes... we'll need to use something. And I believe in my ability to convince you, sweetheart.
[Truth be told, MTT wasn't the most fond of using an inappropriate product for lubricant unless it was part of the foreplay. Whipped cream? Icing? Yes, as part of the show! But when they had so little to work with, and if the moment struck, he was not above doing what was needed—and he knew Emet-Selch could be convinced.
A low curtaining of his lid, he does open his eye, if barely. His fingers smooth their way over Emet-Selch's shoulder, palpating his chest, pressing gently into giving muscle appreciatively. His body continues to attract Mettaton, for all that he lacks the avenues to show it—and the want for him was more than alive.]
Like I said. I'm open to similarly creative alternatives.
[He knew and accepted that sometimes it was entirely the case that one was made to... make do with whatever materials were currently at hand. Especially in all his years of having to maintain a particular facade, where he couldn't create something more useful without inspiring questions. Instead, he'd learned what worked and what wouldn't; he'd endured.
And now he was living that magicless facade for real, with a lover on top of him suggesting olive oil and icing... probably at the same time, knowing Mettaton. His libido was libidone.
If Emet-Selch could deflate any more, he would, but his eyes close again for a moment, not feeling especially inspired or encouraged by Mettaton's enthusiasm, by his willingness to offer one kitchen product after another. Not even at the way he was being touched, handled, groped. Though he tolerates it, it's with something of a flattened look that he eventually regards him again.]
Convincing as you think you are, I wouldn't try your chances now.
[He'd roll over and bury himself into the back cushions if he weren't being topped by: 1. egg, and 2. Mettaton. Even if he knew he wasn't supposed to reject the robot's advances... it was difficult to feel excited due to: 1. egg (again), and 2. existing annoyance (towards Mettaton).]
Neither do I feel particularly creative, nor motivated to find something with better appeal.
[If the reason for rejecting his advances is due to annoyance, rather than resistance thanks to anatomical disconnect, Mettaton would take it. He could see Emet-Selch's annoyance, and even the existing annoyance wasn't something that would so quickly dissipate. As it is, Mettaton wasn't coming around jonesing for a fuck, but it came up in conversation naturally.
Mettaton smiles, continuing to settle against the couch as he feels the mage up despite warnings to not get sexy with him, not on a couch and not with olive oil. But see, he wants to touch him, even if it's not in a directly sexual capacity and with the aid of oil. He doesn't make any moves to slip under fabric, nor provoke him directly, aside from the desire for touch and contact.
He does think he's convincing, though. And he knows he is. Balancing the egg fully in Emet-Selch's lap, Mettaton's other hand moves from the base of the egg and onward to Emet-Selch's hip, swimming in fabric. It's an affectionate grip that he takes, a thumbing that was intended to be familiar rather than provocative.]
Well, we have our options. [Wishing for lube, for powers, or... resorting to makeshift lubricant sourced fresh from the kitchen.] I can't imagine that you'd mind so much, if we were in the moment, darling... But don't misunderstand me. I'd prefer the proper stuff, myself.
[He's just willing to go with alternatives, if that's all they have, and he's making that clear. And he knew he'd be capable of convincing Emet-Selch to agree to slathering some olive oil/butter/icing on his dick, if they were in the right moment. MTT leans, forward and over the bowling-ball-sized egg, to kiss at the Ascian's jaw, before hovering close to his lips—a silent bid for a return kiss.]
[Was Mettaton not encouraging him towards a fuck? Emet-Selch couldn't tell- as both the conversation and the handsiness implied as such to him. He doesn't complain- not yet, at any rate- as he realized he genuinely wasn't sure of his intent. It wasn't as though the other man needed to grab his cock for things to become sexual, but not every bit of closeness was a seduction either.
But he knew their history, when affectionate touches at all... usually were preceding a fuck. Or were during a fuck. And after a fuck. So the grasp to his hip, delivered around the distraction of an egg, is met with a dubious look. No matter his warning, he'd readily believe Mettaton would ignore it in favor of proving how convincing he could be (and how convincing Emet-Selch knew he was).
But the mage doesn't respond anyway, with anything beyond tolerance. Passivity. Apathy. He sighs.]
And our options fail to entice. Given what's awaiting me, a future of inappropriate icings... [A smaller breath, a disgruntled sound.] 'tis hard to imagine ever anticipating that moment.
[The level of arousal or other coercion that would convince him to tolerate particular slatherings felt like a distant memory. It was just one more thing that was off, when there was already plenty to choose from. An infinite amount to be depressed over, and though he'd wanted a kiss earlier, when Mettaton finally moves into range now, he's slow to answer him.
But he does answer it, leaning up for a soft press of lips to his.]
[Nudging him after their kiss, Mettaton can tell Emet-Selch stalled—and he affectionately presses their noses together, before coming in for a follow-up kiss of his own.]
Come on. Is it really so bad, imagining me pleasantly licking up your shaft... chasing dribbles of thick, white icing? [Okay, now he's being forward. Another sigh later, as MTT only barely skirts away from imagining it too vividly, too deeply, as well as evading the need to detail too far.] I would enjoy it, for one. Both cleaning you up...
[Pulling back just far enough to meet his gaze, Mettaton's hand wanders from Emet-Selch's chest and settles, fingers wound against the back of his head. He strokes warmly and slowly over the back of his neck, a comfortable proximity where another kiss felt more than achievable to follow, if he so wanted it—and he finds he does, as he licks his lips idly.
But he has more to say, and he smiles. Not quite flustered, but self-aware of his own impossible wants, he still enjoys the thought of how the two of them could engage in a kitchen setting.]
...And seeing you in a cute apron. Just shy of covering too much of your lap. Oh la la... Talk about a dream come true! [With a smile, Mettaton leans in to nuzzle Emet-Selch again, his lips a breath against Emet-Selch's.] Of course, I'd love the reverse, too... Wouldn't you like me, wearing barely anything for you and suggestively marked up in icing?
[Was it a terrible thing to imagine? He frowns at the question, glancing aside. Of course it wasn't, as he naturally envisions it: Mettaton between his spread legs, tongue firm and warm against his erection, smearing melting sugar along his length. ...Which would be a mess, and with little to gain from the particular topping.]
--Suggestive aspect aside, the icing would only detract. Food and sex is an overrated combination.
[With Mettaton bracing his neck, Emet-Selch meets his eye again, despite the closeness of their faces. A closeness where a kiss would be readily achievable- but he holds off with a briefly caught breath; despite himself, his moods, Mettaton was awfully effective on him. Just the sight of him licking his lips was enticing, given the subject he'd just broached- for all that the mage would still prefer to leave out the icing.
As Mettaton chooses to add to the imagery, though, he lifts a hand to brush against the robot's side.]
An apron though- [He murmurs it, as if taking time to consider the sight it would make, assuming that he wouldn't be wearing much else.] if that's the worst you would ask me to don, I'll consider myself fortunate.
[Which was to say he grudgingly approved- or at least, accepted- the concept. With imagery being especially important now, to make up for what they were missing- not that they couldn't enjoy it at any time. Even so--]
However, in your case... Mettaton, you habitually wear nothing. [Unlike his own fine Amaurotine robes which left everything to the imagination, all of the robot was normally on display. Which he didn't mind gazing on- and didn't care that the world got to gaze on him too- but the idea of obscuring parts that were always there felt a touch absurd. ...Especially given anatomical limitations. But he's not about to say that part.] And if you were to be marked up, I would prefer it to be with something other than icing.
[He CAN NOT restrain his excitement, at Emet-Selch's comment about wearing an apron. It sounded as good as acceptance, if he feels fortunate that an apron is about as bad as it gets in this particular fantasy. His ears would be sprung, and his tail would be up—but all Mettaton can express with his current anatomy is some sort of carry-over, as he lifts slightly, and wriggles his hips side-to-side.]
I hardly find icing a detractor, if it's an inspiration toward imagination! But, Hades... Ah...
[He's way too excited about Emet-Selch In An Apron, grinning madly against his lips. He knows he's not outright accepting... but that he'd consider it was a thrill. That imagery is inspiring, and to be permitted the imagining of it as a potential reality... Mettaton can't help himself as he leans even farther forward, nudging deeper into his husband's spread legs.
Even though he's just now being reminded of how little he wears, as a constant. He hums thoughtfully, equipped with a retort that dies in favor of imagining what else he could be marked up by. His hum deepens in pitch, as he presses a slower kiss, deliberate as he sucks gently at his lower lip, in thought.]
Mark me... See, Hades? The icing. It provokes you into action. [He smirks.] You and I both know it'd do us both, for you to replace it. It's hardly overrated, if it inspires you to act... and to claim what's yours.
[Which is him. Thumbing the back of his skull, tracing his hairline, Mettaton's fingers drift from his hip to his waist, leaning over the dragon's egg with a prominent curve of his metal body, as if it weren't there. Another full, if quicker, kiss later, and Mettaton's still talking on a smile. His argument for food and sex:]
Just like the icing I could scoop up with my tongue... would be better replaced by anything you have to give me, my darling. But I would be thinking of it all the while... And with every lap of icing, you know I'd be asking for more.
[The level of excitement Mettaton showed at his half-acceptance over wearing an apron surprised. But as concessions or indulgences went, it felt a minor thing, something he didn't think he'd have any trouble with. Even if the specific appeal did little for him, if his lover's level of enthusiasm towards the actual show was anything like this, then it would likely be infectious enough to carry him along.
Icing, though. That, Emet-Selch was more dubious about. A mess no matter how they went about it, and a stickiness that was more of a nuisance than something he found sexy. It would be an awful lubrication, besides, which had been the actual point of it being there in the first place; might as well use glue, for all the use it would be.
Mettaton's smugness over it didn't help, and only develops his annoyance further, no matter how far the other man shuffled between his legs, nearly mounting him. He remained conscious still of the egg sequestered between them, something else he'd have to trouble himself with. No amount (or lack) of frosting would change that.]
The icing provokes me into nothing. [He insists against his lips, once Mettaton had released his own. Pleasant as the (notably dry) suck of his lip had been, it's not about to distract him.] It inspires me into imagining you washing it off... or the hassle it will make for me later if you don't.
[The smears and stains it would leave over furniture or bedding, that he might be finding days later, and that he couldn't use magic to clean off. ...Not that he'd cared in the past, when it had been come he'd been tidying off of everything, but that was different.]
And I still don't want it on me. [That was even worse, and getting to feel Mettaton's mouth on him wasn't enough to override that. Exasperation enters his tone, and he does nothing to answer his kisses.] If the prospect of sucking me is so unappealing that you require a treat you can't even taste, then I would prefer you not to even try.
[He knew this was all just fantasy, something that they weren't even currently up to, but he was in no mood to play with it, to pretend. Not when it would leave him with the possible future of icing being used as an actual component of their sex.]
[The hassle, he gathers, is the mess. Mettaton knows Emet-Selch knows better than to believe that he'd ever require the lure of sugar to taste him, and that wasn't only because he couldn't taste it. He doesn't argue about how the goal would be to wash him of it entirely, because that would be the goal. To lick him clean, and to continue demanding more in its wake...
This mess was different from semen, sure. Mettaton would accept that, too. It wasn't a product of their ardor, but a precursor, part of a show that Emet-Selch was repulsed by to start. Thoughtfully, Mettaton taps Emet-Selch's side, tilting his head.
Kitchen sex could still work, he thought. Even without food... But the tease of licking cream of his finger- surely, surely Emet-Selch would see the appeal if it were happening right before his eyes. The thought of it didn't seem to inspire much, even though they both found the notion of him wearing an apron at least acceptable. And that was important. Mettaton nods shortly.]
The same fantasy works, even without the icing. [To that, he concedes with an easy smile.] Licking you up, and making sure you know that I want something from you. Even still... right now, as I am, I still require something slippery to work on you.
[To that, Mettaton makes clear by backing up slightly and pressing a hand to his own chest in emphasis. His gaze is clear and even: this is a vulnerable part of him that is the original source of the conversation, of the idea. And if they were ever going to make good on their desire for intimacy, it would require closing distances between their bodies.]
[Could he be convinced towards kitchen sex in a more general sense? Probably, though he wasn't thinking much in that direction, distracted more by the idea of a frosted cock. Without the use of inappropriate condiments, kitchen sex was just sex in a kitchen. When he knew they were capable of fucking anywhere given the right motivation, he didn't see anything in singling it out.
But he relents a little, when Mettaton seemed willing to drop the insistence on icing. He knew this was a vulnerable point. A sore point, even. If they were to do anything at all, they required something a bit slick, and the robot's lack of saliva production was a hindrance for anything involving his mouth. Even if they might manage without a slick supplementary, they would vastly benefit from its inclusion. And without anyone selling anything appropriate, they would have to find that supplement elsewhere.
Exhaling slowly, he fixes the other man with an even stare.]
Then, Mettaton- icing is a poor choice regardless, if the idea is for anything to feel better.
[And when he found it unappealing in its own right, at best something he could tolerate if not enjoy, when it didn't provide a practical function either- he turned against it entirely.
(Not that slathering anything food-related on him appealed. Nor in cleaning it off of Mettaton.)]
Nor do I need to watch you lick something else off, to know that you want something from me.
[Is it a poor choice? It seems, based on Mettaton's wide-eyed wonder, gazing ceiling-ward in thought. Imagining the texture of icing, slick and sticky, it seemed right to him... But Emet-Selch is convinced otherwise. It sure could get caught up in fur, much like come would, and...
Mettaton considers icing in hair, at least, and decides he understands with a hum. That bit makes sense, and he decides that icing, while some kind of answer, isn't his husband's idea of one. And he drops it, respecting that preference—and perhaps even the wisdom of it.
From there, he draws his attention back down to earth, down to Emet-Selch in acceptance. No food-related sex. It's something Mettaton enjoys the thought of, but not so much that he would subject Emet-Selch to it if he didn't like it.]
I can communicate what I want, even without icing. You're right. [He puffs up, deciding that this is a testament to his ability to work his body and communicate what he wants by way of touch alone. He stoops in, giving Emet-Selch a peck on the cheek.] Though I hope you'll indulge my needs, insofar as my requirement for lubricant.
[Which would have to be sourced elsewhere, since he couldn't provide it on his own. Something worthy of a brief, self-conscious glance askance, as Mettaton shifts even closer between spread legs, like he might be able to hide there for a moment. But he settles comfortably, secure in the knowledge that he and Emet-Selch are on the same page.
Relaxing enough that his chest taps into the shell of the dragon's egg, he fixes Emet-Selch with a smile.]
Whatever works best. What do men use to stroke themselves off, if not proper lube...? [ENGINE GREASE? No. Petroleum jelly?!?!? ...No petroleum, he is made of silicone. Mettaton's expression scrunches in thought.]
[Maybe his dislike and dismissal of it was rooted in the same hesitation that had led him to be less open to the idea of sex at all. Another means of putting off what he didn't want to put off, the intimacy that he missed. But from flower-based illness as an excuse, there was now the lack of ready lubrication to further serve as a delay. And possibly a dragon egg as well, to be in the way, to get between them. And as Mettaton moves tighter between his legs, in a gesture that felt less seductive and more a seeking of security, he felt guilty all over again.
Guilt and frustration were an uncomfortable mix, but his ambivalence remained, even as he wrapped an arm around Mettaton with a sigh as the other man kisses his cheek.]
Well, even were you exactly as you were before, this is something we would have to find a solution to.
[For full penetrative purposes rather than fellatio-related, but still. They would've had to work out an answer for themselves at some point, and it was still one that he hoped wouldn't include ingredients. That would never appeal to him. But as for what other options there were outside lube/icing:]
What do- [He snorts at the question, glancing aside.] Most men are less particular than I.
[Which was to say that he'd never felt so pressed as to grab for something, anything, to rub on his erection. Before Mettaton, he hadn't given much thought to his libido, but he would have assumed it to be low, or understandably dampened by the end of the world.]
Choice varies based on technological era, and degree of desperation. [His tone is as dry as his cock, and as disinterested in the idea. But in the end he concedes:] Your instinct towards oils isn't wrong.
[Without the power of his body and its prominent arousal, Mettaton could tell every chance where Emet-Selch shirked him. Where he dodged any of Mettaton's advances... But even in this moment, as they held each other's eyes, as Mettaton missed his touch and his body, he knew that even he was still dodging the inevitability. Wanting, but still disappointed in himself and his lack of bodily expression.
He could make all the moves, and he could say anything he wished. But he couldn't show Emet-Selch the need in him the way he used to. It was a sore spot even still.
It's only after he asks the question that Mettaton realizes the absurdity of it. The not-so-innocent innocence of it, the naïveté of it as well, and he snorts alongside the mage at himself for it. What do men use. As if he isn't one, and as if he hasn't desperately sourced lubricant out of things before... But he can see Emet-Selch's particularity if he just thinks back, at how the Ascian had only ever been driven enough to demand he go in dry in their house of mirrors. Not that there was anything else for them to use, much less anything in a dream-house for them to seek out...
Oil is a good lead, and Mettaton feels it's intuitively appropriate. Like massage oil. He nods. But it was true enough that some people would use things out of desperation.]
Desperation... and kink, darling. [He corrects, lifting a finger.] But it's clear to me you're a choosy man. As choosy as you are handsome.
[Another kiss, closer to his lips this time. He appreciated the remark that it would've still been a hurdle regardless of his anatomy, though even Mettaton knew that at least he would've had saliva to rely on. The ability to suck Emet-Selch off... and be sucked off, would have remained. A past, and future, worthy of a sigh, as Mettaton settles in his place of safety, the egg safest of all between them. He snuggles into that half-embrace, letting his fingers drift deeper into light strands of hair, his hand dropping not back to his waist but to the arm of the couch behind Emet-Selch instead, bracing himself there so he doesn't lose balance in his lean.
With a bit of a light chuckle, Mettaton leans sideways, so that he's slightly crashing into the side of the couch and looking at Emet-Selch from the side.]
I still think that I could convince you to be just as desperate. Maybe, [He similarly concedes, a hesitation in his voice.] Maybe not as I am, right now. But in the future.
[See: they used 1. nothing, 2. Mettaton's spit, which wasn't much better. A lot of it had to do with Mettaton's need combined with Emet-Selch's. And right now... Mettaton's needs were never so pressing. He could feel arousal of a different kind, but it wasn't quite what they were accustomed to, and didn't require the same sort of relief that could be obtained.
...Perhaps he needed to acknowledge it, without feeling lesser because of it. His smile is small, if open, if a touch rueful, while his hand wanders from bracing the back of the couch, to extending so he could squeeze Emet-Selch's shoulder.]
[More than ever, he knew it was a mutual hesitation. Where there wouldn't have been any delay, any pause in the past to reach for each other, to be drawn in by looks, kisses, nearness itself, to indulge in wanting and need that felt endless... and with no regard for their surroundings. Not in terms of the mess they made, or the stains they might leave behind, not when they had so much to express.
And far less now, he supposed. It was a strange thing, to feel both pent up and completely ambivalent, wondering if he should get it over with and ask Mettaton to get him off somehow, but also not really wanting to. It wasn't as though he were without his own desires, and while he knew he'd drawn heavily on Mettaton's own needs- he hadn't thought it to be so absolute as this.]
A poor choice of kink.
[He responds absently, accepting the kiss without thinking to match it. And he remains still in the end, apathetic. A lack of certainty leading to a drain of energy- and he never had much of that to start with. Mettaton snuggles close, on a couch that really didn't fit the both of them, and he shifts in place, before settling back in the same position that he'd been to start with.
Exhales. Listens to the idea of being convinced into recklessness, without feeling much either way about it. Just loosely holds onto him.]
Maybe. [And where Mettaton's voice is hesitant, his own is distant, less a concession and more just not wanting to argue over it, not wanting to seek convincing. Not wanting to actively deny it. But with Mettaton's needs less pressing, his own dwindled. Were it not for their history, he wouldn't have thought anything of it, but as it was he was conscious of the difference. His eyes are closed.] Some other time.
[The paradoxical dance they stepped in tandem to involved the disconnect they felt from their bodies, right alongside the overwhelming awareness of it. And the fact that they were on the same page entirely was similarly paradoxical, given how apart it all felt. Mettaton feels his kiss lacking reciprocation. He feels his stillness, his drain... and it's contagious.
The robot slumps. Some other time. Emet-Selch shuts it down for now, but even Mettaton believed it would have to be some other time to start.
(That it might even have to wait until he could satisfy his husband with something he doesn't natively have. Like he couldn't satisfy an audience without a body he didn't natively have. Mettaton trips himself up about anatomy; he trips himself into wanting more.)
He closes his eye too. He's not politely drawn back, still bent over slightly, but he practically curls around the egg and slightly to the side. He relaxes, but it's a bit of a pitiful sort of relaxing that comes from drain.]
Maybe so.
[A resignation. Mettaton's hope didn't exist. It required kindling; it wasn't a spark self-sustained, not as he is. Similarly pent up, Mettaton keeps the egg between them, and the two of them inadvertently nurse that growing dragon with their feelings of unease.
He wanted to kiss him deeper. He closes his eyes and thinks about the ways he wants him, and the ways he wanted to show him he wanted him... The ways he wanted to arouse Emet-Selch, and satisfy him. And he feels helpless to show it, or to perform. (Ridiculousness. He would've never been so self-conscious before...)]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Would the crystal afford him a bulk discount? Another thing to ponder... Mettaton genuinely gives it thought, humming as he glances toward the ceiling in wonder. Maybe he could request all of their jewelry, enchanted and not, all at once.....
Their mutual notice over Mettaton's striking lack of ears has Mettaton thumbing Emet-Selch's affectionately. His is pierced; Emet-Selch's has potential always, even if they never managed to obtain their beloved jewelry again. The choices Mettaton could make, the chances he could take advantage of... Could he find a suitable earring here, and could he find some other enchantment for it? (An enchantment to bond their souls... Oh, if only such magic existed. Somehow, Aefenglom seems that bit more technologically advanced, and Nippon even moreso.) Still, the sight of his ear without jewels imbues MTT with the desire to rectify it by his own power, and he hums at it, as well as the mention that he should figure out a new place to apply his earring.]
I wish I had ears. Just to wear that earring. So classic! [To wear an earring always seemed so nice. Maybe he's biased, because Emet-Selch has worn an earring for as long as he's known him. It looked good.] I may not be the sort to wear a necklace all the time, but for that earring, I'll have to become one.
[It could become a pendant. Mettaton couldn't think of any other place to put a piercing... His silicone features were technically piercable, but with a hoop-with-a-drop like that, there didn't seem to be many choices. Or any choices, really. Converting it into something else was all that could be done, for all that the idol fancies himself with a tall rabbit ear to wear it on, at all times.
Shifting closer, Mettaton keeps his thumb against Emet-Selch's earlobe, fondly stroking up the shell of his ear. He looked forward to seeing it adorned by his own touch... just as much as he longed to see his wedding ring banding the Ascian's finger. To see him absolutely decorated.]
And if we can ask for items... Hades, do you know what horrifying truth I've discovered, while shopping in town? [Grave. Mettaton's face grows serious.] It's not hard to find eccentric fashion. It's no trouble, coming across trinkets. But is it just me... or is this town utterly devoid of people who have sex??
[The floor is open for questions. But the answer is this: there is not a single object intended for sexual use. No toys. No lube. No nothing.]
no subject
It seems the only choice, should you wish to keep it on you. Unless you want ears to be your next wish.
[Even as he nudges into Mettaton's touch of his own ear- indeed pierced, though he wasn't wearing anything at the moment- he wondered if his lover would be granted fleshy ears or silicone ones, if asked. Hopefully the latter... considering the absurdity it would be otherwise (he still wasn't sure how wishing for a functional cock would work either, given that Mettaton was completely unmodified, inorganic).
Settling bit by bit, appreciating Mettaton's increasing nearness once again, the question he poses, for all that Emet-Selch hadn't expected anything actually serious with that intro, still comes as a surprise. Taking a breath, clearly gearing up to refute it- he's silent for a long moment instead, as he realizes he can't think of anything to refute it with. The mage looks aside instead, brow furrowing.
He hadn't hunted very thoroughly, or with that as a specific aim- but he had kept an eye out. And by now, he's sure he's canvassed the entire village, small as it was.]
...Are they prudish, or simply unimaginative...?
[Because it was true, he hadn't seen anything as basic as lubrication.
For all its otherwise antiquated mores, Aefenglom had no shortage of sex shops. If not shameless, there was plenty available, from the straightforward to the custom-made and enchanted. And in Nippon they'd had no trouble either (though he was also free to create anything they needed, with his powers intact). But here, they were in a sex desert.]
Unless someone's running a private business out of their home and fail to advertise, then we might be on our own.
no subject
But here... There wasn't a single sign of any sexual inclinations, aside from townspeople wooed over kisses or enjoying exclusive attentions. That was about as intimate as it got. And Mettaton's brow furrows as the mage begins to see his point, disappointed that he couldn't refute him. Prudish or unimaginative, Mettaton wished it was neither.
Could it be a private business...? Mettaton hums, considering this possibility with a slow, small nod, as he rests his cheek even more firmly against the back of the couch, as he curls even more around the egg. Really, he's deflating.]
On our own... See, this is what I mean, about our shards. [Are they going to have to wish proper lubricant into existence themselves?? Mettaton pouts.] How long do we have to wait to have basic amenities, such as lube? We may as well cash in entirely on your powers... [To make lube, infinitely. And anything else. Closing his eye, Mettaton continues with a sigh.] That, or we get creative with what we have...
[Which was his original idea. Mettaton fixes his attention on Emet-Selch, casual in voicing his solutions to their problem.]
The kitchen is full of slippery things. Such as, butter. Is that the way of these people? [Kinky cooking... It has a nice ring to it, thinks Mettaton, who will never perform some sultry, slutty kitchen smut in a million years. He may be sexy, but these performances are VIP!]
no subject
Here, though. Even though Emet-Selch had arrived in the middle of a celebration of love, it had all been reasonably chaste. He really hadn't been looking, then, but nothing in his memory stood out as being explicitly sexual either....
A return of the Ascian's powers would solve all their problems in that regard. He'd even claim that it would be cheaper in the long term, considering the amount of lube they went through, the number of accessories they used (not that it had been an issue as of yet, considering everything that kept them from indulging as they were accustomed). Which didn't solve their problems in the short term....
A situation that Mettaton proffers a solution to, as reasonable as anything.]
...Butter. [As though he hadn't quite heard him or understood him correctly. His own gaze is fixed right back on him.] You want to use... butter, as a replacement for lube?
['You've thought about putting butter on my cock' is something he thinks but doesn't say, doesn't wish to actually voice and realize the truth of it.]
no subject
[Licking his lips as though he could taste the icing, or that he favored it for being icing alone, Mettaton's smile is cheeky and playful, in good humor. His hand drops from his ear and gives the mage's shoulder a rub and a squeeze.
Mettaton does not see anything wrong with this.
In his mind, it doesn't require justification. It's a slippery substance; it wouldn't cause a rash or anything, surely. People ingest it. It's food-safe, and therefore surely skin-safe. Mettaton Knows Product. But instead of justifying this absolute madman idea, Mettaton snuggles into place, curled around the dragon egg and sidling ever closer to his husband, fingers groping their way down his bicep.]
Unless you can come up with a substance preferable, that would offer optimal glide. Butter seems the easiest!
[So, 'yes, I've thought about putting butter on your cock.' Premeditated.]
no subject
[As Mettaton imagines the flavor of icing, Emet-Selch imagines being slathered in all sorts of things that didn't belong anywhere near his cock. Experimentation he wasn't excited to be on the receiving end of.
Then again, it wasn't as though Mettaton could fuck him... so the questionable and otherwise insufficient slicking potential would come to less harm for him. If it was just to make a stroke or mouthing along his own cock more smooth, it would work, probably.
It was just somewhat off-putting. Where Mettaton curls closer to both him and the egg, Emet-Selch deflates into the couch, his muttering towards the grumpy.]
I'm not anywhere near aroused enough to resort to your creativity.
[He wasn't aroused at all. Even if in Mettaton's company it was easier to think with his dick than at any other point in his life, right now he was at a starting point of 'no' and 'absolutely no'.]
no subject
[Mettaton maybe knows something about the use of olive oil in sex, but he also may not. He doesn't volunteer this information, as he continues to settle into his gradually deflating husband.
And not discouraged, either, as he closes his eye and nods shortly.]
I'll have my chance to work on you yet! When the moment strikes... we'll need to use something. And I believe in my ability to convince you, sweetheart.
[Truth be told, MTT wasn't the most fond of using an inappropriate product for lubricant unless it was part of the foreplay. Whipped cream? Icing? Yes, as part of the show! But when they had so little to work with, and if the moment struck, he was not above doing what was needed—and he knew Emet-Selch could be convinced.
A low curtaining of his lid, he does open his eye, if barely. His fingers smooth their way over Emet-Selch's shoulder, palpating his chest, pressing gently into giving muscle appreciatively. His body continues to attract Mettaton, for all that he lacks the avenues to show it—and the want for him was more than alive.]
Like I said. I'm open to similarly creative alternatives.
no subject
And now he was living that magicless facade for real, with a lover on top of him suggesting olive oil and icing... probably at the same time, knowing Mettaton. His libido was libidone.
If Emet-Selch could deflate any more, he would, but his eyes close again for a moment, not feeling especially inspired or encouraged by Mettaton's enthusiasm, by his willingness to offer one kitchen product after another. Not even at the way he was being touched, handled, groped. Though he tolerates it, it's with something of a flattened look that he eventually regards him again.]
Convincing as you think you are, I wouldn't try your chances now.
[He'd roll over and bury himself into the back cushions if he weren't being topped by: 1. egg, and 2. Mettaton. Even if he knew he wasn't supposed to reject the robot's advances... it was difficult to feel excited due to: 1. egg (again), and 2. existing annoyance (towards Mettaton).]
Neither do I feel particularly creative, nor motivated to find something with better appeal.
no subject
Mettaton smiles, continuing to settle against the couch as he feels the mage up despite warnings to not get sexy with him, not on a couch and not with olive oil. But see, he wants to touch him, even if it's not in a directly sexual capacity and with the aid of oil. He doesn't make any moves to slip under fabric, nor provoke him directly, aside from the desire for touch and contact.
He does think he's convincing, though. And he knows he is. Balancing the egg fully in Emet-Selch's lap, Mettaton's other hand moves from the base of the egg and onward to Emet-Selch's hip, swimming in fabric. It's an affectionate grip that he takes, a thumbing that was intended to be familiar rather than provocative.]
Well, we have our options. [Wishing for lube, for powers, or... resorting to makeshift lubricant sourced fresh from the kitchen.] I can't imagine that you'd mind so much, if we were in the moment, darling... But don't misunderstand me. I'd prefer the proper stuff, myself.
[He's just willing to go with alternatives, if that's all they have, and he's making that clear. And he knew he'd be capable of convincing Emet-Selch to agree to slathering some olive oil/butter/icing on his dick, if they were in the right moment. MTT leans, forward and over the bowling-ball-sized egg, to kiss at the Ascian's jaw, before hovering close to his lips—a silent bid for a return kiss.]
no subject
But he knew their history, when affectionate touches at all... usually were preceding a fuck. Or were during a fuck. And after a fuck. So the grasp to his hip, delivered around the distraction of an egg, is met with a dubious look. No matter his warning, he'd readily believe Mettaton would ignore it in favor of proving how convincing he could be (and how convincing Emet-Selch knew he was).
But the mage doesn't respond anyway, with anything beyond tolerance. Passivity. Apathy. He sighs.]
And our options fail to entice. Given what's awaiting me, a future of inappropriate icings... [A smaller breath, a disgruntled sound.] 'tis hard to imagine ever anticipating that moment.
[The level of arousal or other coercion that would convince him to tolerate particular slatherings felt like a distant memory. It was just one more thing that was off, when there was already plenty to choose from. An infinite amount to be depressed over, and though he'd wanted a kiss earlier, when Mettaton finally moves into range now, he's slow to answer him.
But he does answer it, leaning up for a soft press of lips to his.]
no subject
Come on. Is it really so bad, imagining me pleasantly licking up your shaft... chasing dribbles of thick, white icing? [Okay, now he's being forward. Another sigh later, as MTT only barely skirts away from imagining it too vividly, too deeply, as well as evading the need to detail too far.] I would enjoy it, for one. Both cleaning you up...
[Pulling back just far enough to meet his gaze, Mettaton's hand wanders from Emet-Selch's chest and settles, fingers wound against the back of his head. He strokes warmly and slowly over the back of his neck, a comfortable proximity where another kiss felt more than achievable to follow, if he so wanted it—and he finds he does, as he licks his lips idly.
But he has more to say, and he smiles. Not quite flustered, but self-aware of his own impossible wants, he still enjoys the thought of how the two of them could engage in a kitchen setting.]
...And seeing you in a cute apron. Just shy of covering too much of your lap. Oh la la... Talk about a dream come true! [With a smile, Mettaton leans in to nuzzle Emet-Selch again, his lips a breath against Emet-Selch's.] Of course, I'd love the reverse, too... Wouldn't you like me, wearing barely anything for you and suggestively marked up in icing?
no subject
--Suggestive aspect aside, the icing would only detract. Food and sex is an overrated combination.
[With Mettaton bracing his neck, Emet-Selch meets his eye again, despite the closeness of their faces. A closeness where a kiss would be readily achievable- but he holds off with a briefly caught breath; despite himself, his moods, Mettaton was awfully effective on him. Just the sight of him licking his lips was enticing, given the subject he'd just broached- for all that the mage would still prefer to leave out the icing.
As Mettaton chooses to add to the imagery, though, he lifts a hand to brush against the robot's side.]
An apron though- [He murmurs it, as if taking time to consider the sight it would make, assuming that he wouldn't be wearing much else.] if that's the worst you would ask me to don, I'll consider myself fortunate.
[Which was to say he grudgingly approved- or at least, accepted- the concept. With imagery being especially important now, to make up for what they were missing- not that they couldn't enjoy it at any time. Even so--]
However, in your case... Mettaton, you habitually wear nothing. [Unlike his own fine Amaurotine robes which left everything to the imagination, all of the robot was normally on display. Which he didn't mind gazing on- and didn't care that the world got to gaze on him too- but the idea of obscuring parts that were always there felt a touch absurd. ...Especially given anatomical limitations. But he's not about to say that part.] And if you were to be marked up, I would prefer it to be with something other than icing.
no subject
I hardly find icing a detractor, if it's an inspiration toward imagination! But, Hades... Ah...
[He's way too excited about Emet-Selch In An Apron, grinning madly against his lips. He knows he's not outright accepting... but that he'd consider it was a thrill. That imagery is inspiring, and to be permitted the imagining of it as a potential reality... Mettaton can't help himself as he leans even farther forward, nudging deeper into his husband's spread legs.
Even though he's just now being reminded of how little he wears, as a constant. He hums thoughtfully, equipped with a retort that dies in favor of imagining what else he could be marked up by. His hum deepens in pitch, as he presses a slower kiss, deliberate as he sucks gently at his lower lip, in thought.]
Mark me... See, Hades? The icing. It provokes you into action. [He smirks.] You and I both know it'd do us both, for you to replace it. It's hardly overrated, if it inspires you to act... and to claim what's yours.
[Which is him. Thumbing the back of his skull, tracing his hairline, Mettaton's fingers drift from his hip to his waist, leaning over the dragon's egg with a prominent curve of his metal body, as if it weren't there. Another full, if quicker, kiss later, and Mettaton's still talking on a smile. His argument for food and sex:]
Just like the icing I could scoop up with my tongue... would be better replaced by anything you have to give me, my darling. But I would be thinking of it all the while... And with every lap of icing, you know I'd be asking for more.
no subject
Icing, though. That, Emet-Selch was more dubious about. A mess no matter how they went about it, and a stickiness that was more of a nuisance than something he found sexy. It would be an awful lubrication, besides, which had been the actual point of it being there in the first place; might as well use glue, for all the use it would be.
Mettaton's smugness over it didn't help, and only develops his annoyance further, no matter how far the other man shuffled between his legs, nearly mounting him. He remained conscious still of the egg sequestered between them, something else he'd have to trouble himself with. No amount (or lack) of frosting would change that.]
The icing provokes me into nothing. [He insists against his lips, once Mettaton had released his own. Pleasant as the (notably dry) suck of his lip had been, it's not about to distract him.] It inspires me into imagining you washing it off... or the hassle it will make for me later if you don't.
[The smears and stains it would leave over furniture or bedding, that he might be finding days later, and that he couldn't use magic to clean off. ...Not that he'd cared in the past, when it had been come he'd been tidying off of everything, but that was different.]
And I still don't want it on me. [That was even worse, and getting to feel Mettaton's mouth on him wasn't enough to override that. Exasperation enters his tone, and he does nothing to answer his kisses.] If the prospect of sucking me is so unappealing that you require a treat you can't even taste, then I would prefer you not to even try.
[He knew this was all just fantasy, something that they weren't even currently up to, but he was in no mood to play with it, to pretend. Not when it would leave him with the possible future of icing being used as an actual component of their sex.]
no subject
[The hassle, he gathers, is the mess. Mettaton knows Emet-Selch knows better than to believe that he'd ever require the lure of sugar to taste him, and that wasn't only because he couldn't taste it. He doesn't argue about how the goal would be to wash him of it entirely, because that would be the goal. To lick him clean, and to continue demanding more in its wake...
This mess was different from semen, sure. Mettaton would accept that, too. It wasn't a product of their ardor, but a precursor, part of a show that Emet-Selch was repulsed by to start. Thoughtfully, Mettaton taps Emet-Selch's side, tilting his head.
Kitchen sex could still work, he thought. Even without food... But the tease of licking cream of his finger- surely, surely Emet-Selch would see the appeal if it were happening right before his eyes. The thought of it didn't seem to inspire much, even though they both found the notion of him wearing an apron at least acceptable. And that was important. Mettaton nods shortly.]
The same fantasy works, even without the icing. [To that, he concedes with an easy smile.] Licking you up, and making sure you know that I want something from you. Even still... right now, as I am, I still require something slippery to work on you.
[To that, Mettaton makes clear by backing up slightly and pressing a hand to his own chest in emphasis. His gaze is clear and even: this is a vulnerable part of him that is the original source of the conversation, of the idea. And if they were ever going to make good on their desire for intimacy, it would require closing distances between their bodies.]
no subject
But he relents a little, when Mettaton seemed willing to drop the insistence on icing. He knew this was a vulnerable point. A sore point, even. If they were to do anything at all, they required something a bit slick, and the robot's lack of saliva production was a hindrance for anything involving his mouth. Even if they might manage without a slick supplementary, they would vastly benefit from its inclusion. And without anyone selling anything appropriate, they would have to find that supplement elsewhere.
Exhaling slowly, he fixes the other man with an even stare.]
Then, Mettaton- icing is a poor choice regardless, if the idea is for anything to feel better.
[And when he found it unappealing in its own right, at best something he could tolerate if not enjoy, when it didn't provide a practical function either- he turned against it entirely.
(Not that slathering anything food-related on him appealed. Nor in cleaning it off of Mettaton.)]
Nor do I need to watch you lick something else off, to know that you want something from me.
no subject
[Is it a poor choice? It seems, based on Mettaton's wide-eyed wonder, gazing ceiling-ward in thought. Imagining the texture of icing, slick and sticky, it seemed right to him... But Emet-Selch is convinced otherwise. It sure could get caught up in fur, much like come would, and...
Mettaton considers icing in hair, at least, and decides he understands with a hum. That bit makes sense, and he decides that icing, while some kind of answer, isn't his husband's idea of one. And he drops it, respecting that preference—and perhaps even the wisdom of it.
From there, he draws his attention back down to earth, down to Emet-Selch in acceptance. No food-related sex. It's something Mettaton enjoys the thought of, but not so much that he would subject Emet-Selch to it if he didn't like it.]
I can communicate what I want, even without icing. You're right. [He puffs up, deciding that this is a testament to his ability to work his body and communicate what he wants by way of touch alone. He stoops in, giving Emet-Selch a peck on the cheek.] Though I hope you'll indulge my needs, insofar as my requirement for lubricant.
[Which would have to be sourced elsewhere, since he couldn't provide it on his own. Something worthy of a brief, self-conscious glance askance, as Mettaton shifts even closer between spread legs, like he might be able to hide there for a moment. But he settles comfortably, secure in the knowledge that he and Emet-Selch are on the same page.
Relaxing enough that his chest taps into the shell of the dragon's egg, he fixes Emet-Selch with a smile.]
Whatever works best. What do men use to stroke themselves off, if not proper lube...? [ENGINE GREASE? No. Petroleum jelly?!?!? ...No petroleum, he is made of silicone. Mettaton's expression scrunches in thought.]
no subject
Guilt and frustration were an uncomfortable mix, but his ambivalence remained, even as he wrapped an arm around Mettaton with a sigh as the other man kisses his cheek.]
Well, even were you exactly as you were before, this is something we would have to find a solution to.
[For full penetrative purposes rather than fellatio-related, but still. They would've had to work out an answer for themselves at some point, and it was still one that he hoped wouldn't include ingredients. That would never appeal to him. But as for what other options there were outside lube/icing:]
What do- [He snorts at the question, glancing aside.] Most men are less particular than I.
[Which was to say that he'd never felt so pressed as to grab for something, anything, to rub on his erection. Before Mettaton, he hadn't given much thought to his libido, but he would have assumed it to be low, or understandably dampened by the end of the world.]
Choice varies based on technological era, and degree of desperation. [His tone is as dry as his cock, and as disinterested in the idea. But in the end he concedes:] Your instinct towards oils isn't wrong.
no subject
He could make all the moves, and he could say anything he wished. But he couldn't show Emet-Selch the need in him the way he used to. It was a sore spot even still.
It's only after he asks the question that Mettaton realizes the absurdity of it. The not-so-innocent innocence of it, the naïveté of it as well, and he snorts alongside the mage at himself for it. What do men use. As if he isn't one, and as if he hasn't desperately sourced lubricant out of things before... But he can see Emet-Selch's particularity if he just thinks back, at how the Ascian had only ever been driven enough to demand he go in dry in their house of mirrors. Not that there was anything else for them to use, much less anything in a dream-house for them to seek out...
Oil is a good lead, and Mettaton feels it's intuitively appropriate. Like massage oil. He nods. But it was true enough that some people would use things out of desperation.]
Desperation... and kink, darling. [He corrects, lifting a finger.] But it's clear to me you're a choosy man. As choosy as you are handsome.
[Another kiss, closer to his lips this time. He appreciated the remark that it would've still been a hurdle regardless of his anatomy, though even Mettaton knew that at least he would've had saliva to rely on. The ability to suck Emet-Selch off... and be sucked off, would have remained. A past, and future, worthy of a sigh, as Mettaton settles in his place of safety, the egg safest of all between them. He snuggles into that half-embrace, letting his fingers drift deeper into light strands of hair, his hand dropping not back to his waist but to the arm of the couch behind Emet-Selch instead, bracing himself there so he doesn't lose balance in his lean.
With a bit of a light chuckle, Mettaton leans sideways, so that he's slightly crashing into the side of the couch and looking at Emet-Selch from the side.]
I still think that I could convince you to be just as desperate. Maybe, [He similarly concedes, a hesitation in his voice.] Maybe not as I am, right now. But in the future.
[See: they used 1. nothing, 2. Mettaton's spit, which wasn't much better. A lot of it had to do with Mettaton's need combined with Emet-Selch's. And right now... Mettaton's needs were never so pressing. He could feel arousal of a different kind, but it wasn't quite what they were accustomed to, and didn't require the same sort of relief that could be obtained.
...Perhaps he needed to acknowledge it, without feeling lesser because of it. His smile is small, if open, if a touch rueful, while his hand wanders from bracing the back of the couch, to extending so he could squeeze Emet-Selch's shoulder.]
no subject
And far less now, he supposed. It was a strange thing, to feel both pent up and completely ambivalent, wondering if he should get it over with and ask Mettaton to get him off somehow, but also not really wanting to. It wasn't as though he were without his own desires, and while he knew he'd drawn heavily on Mettaton's own needs- he hadn't thought it to be so absolute as this.]
A poor choice of kink.
[He responds absently, accepting the kiss without thinking to match it. And he remains still in the end, apathetic. A lack of certainty leading to a drain of energy- and he never had much of that to start with. Mettaton snuggles close, on a couch that really didn't fit the both of them, and he shifts in place, before settling back in the same position that he'd been to start with.
Exhales. Listens to the idea of being convinced into recklessness, without feeling much either way about it. Just loosely holds onto him.]
Maybe. [And where Mettaton's voice is hesitant, his own is distant, less a concession and more just not wanting to argue over it, not wanting to seek convincing. Not wanting to actively deny it. But with Mettaton's needs less pressing, his own dwindled. Were it not for their history, he wouldn't have thought anything of it, but as it was he was conscious of the difference. His eyes are closed.] Some other time.
no subject
The robot slumps. Some other time. Emet-Selch shuts it down for now, but even Mettaton believed it would have to be some other time to start.
(That it might even have to wait until he could satisfy his husband with something he doesn't natively have. Like he couldn't satisfy an audience without a body he didn't natively have. Mettaton trips himself up about anatomy; he trips himself into wanting more.)
He closes his eye too. He's not politely drawn back, still bent over slightly, but he practically curls around the egg and slightly to the side. He relaxes, but it's a bit of a pitiful sort of relaxing that comes from drain.]
Maybe so.
[A resignation. Mettaton's hope didn't exist. It required kindling; it wasn't a spark self-sustained, not as he is. Similarly pent up, Mettaton keeps the egg between them, and the two of them inadvertently nurse that growing dragon with their feelings of unease.
He wanted to kiss him deeper. He closes his eyes and thinks about the ways he wants him, and the ways he wanted to show him he wanted him... The ways he wanted to arouse Emet-Selch, and satisfy him. And he feels helpless to show it, or to perform. (Ridiculousness. He would've never been so self-conscious before...)]