[The strength of Emet-Selch's response has Mettaton shivering with pleasure, almost envious in his wish to know what it felt like to be so overcome with sheer sensation so profound that it would make his Bonded cling to him so. He hums, charmed by all he hears and feels and sees, though it's perhaps in part thanks to their Bond that Mettaton can sense that Emet-Selch felt truly raw — something he could take advantage of, or allow to recover.
But Mettaton has needs, and he wants Emet-Selch to deliver. He'll give him his momentary peace away from further touching, though not by any choice of Mettaton's, who would much rather wish to overtake him until he screamed. He kisses along his jaw, remaining in place, squeezing his chest under his fingers and pressing his body into him possessively, before suddenly springing off of his lover and further onto his bed. (The temptation to overwhelm him and press into his painful arousal was so great that he feels regret even now as he beholds him still on his back.)
To encourage him to follow his orders, Mettaton leans over and gives him a gentle tug. From Emet-Selch's perspective, the Puca's upside-down, and he exacts another kiss from his odd angle.]
Come on. Follow me... lie back, up here. [That is to say, all the way on the bed with his head against the pillows — Mettaton wants to treat him to his entire body, something he can't do quite as well with Emet-Selch having been in a sitting position originally. Mettaton stoops in to increase his closeness with his ear, his voice adjusting to become a sultry invitation to coax him along.] I'll have more of you yet... And you, me.
[More reassurance: he kisses his neck while he plants his hands against his shoulders, indicating his willingness to do whatever it took to strong-arm him into place if he had to. And he remembers quite well the Ascian's chill from earlier: no doubt Mettaton's proven to be a warm presence the longer he presses against the other man, and he's just lost that. This promises warmth; Mettaton even prepares for that, sliding a foot artfully under unmade blankets in preparation to envelop him.
Of course, even while he's like this (or especially while he's like this), Mettaton steals a long, hard look at Emet-Selch's cock; he feels a chill course over his body at its rigidity, its shape with the understanding of how he feels against his body. He tries to ascribe the look of him to memory, just as he did with his countenance.]
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But Mettaton has needs, and he wants Emet-Selch to deliver. He'll give him his momentary peace away from further touching, though not by any choice of Mettaton's, who would much rather wish to overtake him until he screamed. He kisses along his jaw, remaining in place, squeezing his chest under his fingers and pressing his body into him possessively, before suddenly springing off of his lover and further onto his bed. (The temptation to overwhelm him and press into his painful arousal was so great that he feels regret even now as he beholds him still on his back.)
To encourage him to follow his orders, Mettaton leans over and gives him a gentle tug. From Emet-Selch's perspective, the Puca's upside-down, and he exacts another kiss from his odd angle.]
Come on. Follow me... lie back, up here. [That is to say, all the way on the bed with his head against the pillows — Mettaton wants to treat him to his entire body, something he can't do quite as well with Emet-Selch having been in a sitting position originally. Mettaton stoops in to increase his closeness with his ear, his voice adjusting to become a sultry invitation to coax him along.] I'll have more of you yet... And you, me.
[More reassurance: he kisses his neck while he plants his hands against his shoulders, indicating his willingness to do whatever it took to strong-arm him into place if he had to. And he remembers quite well the Ascian's chill from earlier: no doubt Mettaton's proven to be a warm presence the longer he presses against the other man, and he's just lost that. This promises warmth; Mettaton even prepares for that, sliding a foot artfully under unmade blankets in preparation to envelop him.
Of course, even while he's like this (or especially while he's like this), Mettaton steals a long, hard look at Emet-Selch's cock; he feels a chill course over his body at its rigidity, its shape with the understanding of how he feels against his body. He tries to ascribe the look of him to memory, just as he did with his countenance.]