[The power of their collective appetite washes over Mettaton so strongly that he can only sigh into their kiss in return, not with any air but with sound, smooth and light on his velvety, unregulated tone. He feels like he's melting, his limbs slackening, and one of his hands moves to rest upon Emet-Selch's shoulder instead of his neck to bear some of his weight, as if he feared he'd fall into the other man with how overcome he is. No longer is this a new experience, but it remains fascinating and desirable all the same, and more enticing than the first if not to discover how far he could go... And that delights, more than he could express.
Mettaton pulls from the kiss just enough to examine the Ascian's face, a momentary break to take in the features he wants to be kissing, a chance to see how he looks as a point of reference for later. It's a sudden whim, but Mettaton's expression grows severe, sharp and evaluating in its attention to detail. To remember him now means comparing him to later, when he's flushed and lovebitten. The hue of his cheeks, the look in his eyes, the flush of his lips, the keep of his hair... None of it goes unchecked, and it's one of the more robotic things this non-robot would do.
How would Emet-Selch look minutes from now? How about after he's through with him? He's immediately hooked on the thought, desperate to see him exposed in this new light. Though Mettaton's expression is intense in the passion of his assessment, his legs tremble slightly against the mattress against his will, a fault of having muscle instead of pure metal.
And he says nothing about it, but he finally smirks.]
...Your eyes never fail to make me weak, beautiful.
[And though he's thinking of other things, it's the truth. He fancies the Ascian's gaze, found it to be one of the most defining traits he left the cell with of his soon-to-be Bonded. For being a ghost in the machine, Mettaton is awfully attracted to the physical form of things, even when he's so capable of separating their concepts.
With some of his composure regained, the hand he kept on his shoulder slides to the other man's shirt. If there are layers he'll have to use both hands, but no matter how it goes, he doesn't want anything keeping him from his chest. With unusually practiced dexterity for a robot who doesn't need to wear clothes, he unfastens closure after closure with one hand, humming with his work as he goes back to take Emet-Selch into a deep kiss, tasting him and leaning into him with the threat of pushing him over. He takes easy control, clearly driven toward something, a deep passion building within him.]
no subject
Mettaton pulls from the kiss just enough to examine the Ascian's face, a momentary break to take in the features he wants to be kissing, a chance to see how he looks as a point of reference for later. It's a sudden whim, but Mettaton's expression grows severe, sharp and evaluating in its attention to detail. To remember him now means comparing him to later, when he's flushed and lovebitten. The hue of his cheeks, the look in his eyes, the flush of his lips, the keep of his hair... None of it goes unchecked, and it's one of the more robotic things this non-robot would do.
How would Emet-Selch look minutes from now? How about after he's through with him? He's immediately hooked on the thought, desperate to see him exposed in this new light. Though Mettaton's expression is intense in the passion of his assessment, his legs tremble slightly against the mattress against his will, a fault of having muscle instead of pure metal.
And he says nothing about it, but he finally smirks.]
...Your eyes never fail to make me weak, beautiful.
[And though he's thinking of other things, it's the truth. He fancies the Ascian's gaze, found it to be one of the most defining traits he left the cell with of his soon-to-be Bonded. For being a ghost in the machine, Mettaton is awfully attracted to the physical form of things, even when he's so capable of separating their concepts.
With some of his composure regained, the hand he kept on his shoulder slides to the other man's shirt. If there are layers he'll have to use both hands, but no matter how it goes, he doesn't want anything keeping him from his chest. With unusually practiced dexterity for a robot who doesn't need to wear clothes, he unfastens closure after closure with one hand, humming with his work as he goes back to take Emet-Selch into a deep kiss, tasting him and leaning into him with the threat of pushing him over. He takes easy control, clearly driven toward something, a deep passion building within him.]