[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...)]
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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.]
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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.
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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...)]