[At first, Mettaton only laughs again, forcing his length to push against Emet-Selch some more in a show of want, and knowing he'd get what he wants soon enough. Legs spread for him, it would be easy if only he weren't currently tight around his finger, if only he were unoccupied and relaxed enough for him. But that's what the purpose of this is, and the robot's on standby, waiting for that moment where his lover is relaxed and slick enough for his own intrusion to take place of fingers.
Logically, this is the plan. He can't prepare Emet-Selch himself, so he'll make his lover show him his thirst for him. And at first, he bends down to kiss Emet-Selch at the back of his neck.]
I can hardly hold back... My excitement for you grows by the second. You're right.
[And he expects some overt demonstration of desire on Emet-Selch's part. He demands it, in some part of his mind: he ought to be slipping his fingers out recklessly to make way for his cock. He ought to be moaning outright at the presence of him, he should be speaking his desire for his length in place of the insufficiency of his fingers. Emet-Selch should be rocking back not into his hand, but into his cock; should be making a demonstration of wishing to be filled by Mettaton.
And though Emet-Selch can't really ignore him and uses him to his imagination, he makes the choice to draw things out. He rocks his hips back into his fingers (even though that's where Mettaton is), teasing him, showing him the pleasure he derives from the addition of this second finger to stretch him. His noises are soft, slight things, but not at all restrained.
He sounds lovely. They're noises that have Mettaton aching, pressure building in his lower body, his cock thoroughly engorged at the mere sound of him — and the fact that these sounds are being made separate from a usually accompanying stimuli is... intolerable. He normally hears the Ascian making such noises while stuffed full of cock, while being penetrated and thrust into, and obviously while Mettaton could feel him squeezing around his length. That feeling is absent, and it's more noticeable than ever. He longs for him even more. He wants his fingers gone so much and so suddenly that he can barely stand it, the motion of crowding Emet-Selch's hand out that much more agitated and aggressive. He presses the head of himself with more firmness against the other man, more deliberation against his entrance, as though if he couldn't rid him of fingers, he could shove himself inside and push deeper.
...To no avail. Mettaton finds his temper flaring.
Emet-Selch is pleasing himself on his fingers and making it so obvious in sound that he's somehow okay with this arrangement, and Mettaton knows he'd prefer him. But he demands to know. He wants to hear Emet-Selch give him all of the words and sounds especially for him, the praise toward his length and toward his pleasure, the blatant desire for more of him rather than making all of these noises through a throat made hoarse... for his own fingers. He feels jilted, irrationally, and it compounds upon such an irrational, feral nature. He growls close to his partner's neck, suddenly impatient, even when he's trying to give off the air of control and possession.]
Surely, you're thinking about having more of me...
[It's said in a low voice, coupled with an insistent push of his cock — a reminder not to stop thinking about him at all. Speaking against his skin has Mettaton parting his lips and mouthing his lover's neck, dragging teeth along his flesh. He wants terribly to pound into him and to hear him cry out as he did earlier, sharp and sudden, when he bit his shoulder... Mettaton salivates over his neck, impossibly wanting and with a temper that grows ever hotter, a body that follows suit, a need to move his hips winding tight in him. He feels an ever increasing need to mount his Bonded and displace those fingers, to give him something thicker than them, and to hear him making those noises especially for the sensation of his arousal made Emet-Selch's focal point.
None of it's rational. Mettaton could have easily found himself amused at Emet-Selch's noises, enticed into further frustrated want, enjoying the way he was made to abstain. But right now, it's not enough attention on him.]
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Logically, this is the plan. He can't prepare Emet-Selch himself, so he'll make his lover show him his thirst for him. And at first, he bends down to kiss Emet-Selch at the back of his neck.]
I can hardly hold back... My excitement for you grows by the second. You're right.
[And he expects some overt demonstration of desire on Emet-Selch's part. He demands it, in some part of his mind: he ought to be slipping his fingers out recklessly to make way for his cock. He ought to be moaning outright at the presence of him, he should be speaking his desire for his length in place of the insufficiency of his fingers. Emet-Selch should be rocking back not into his hand, but into his cock; should be making a demonstration of wishing to be filled by Mettaton.
And though Emet-Selch can't really ignore him and uses him to his imagination, he makes the choice to draw things out. He rocks his hips back into his fingers (even though that's where Mettaton is), teasing him, showing him the pleasure he derives from the addition of this second finger to stretch him. His noises are soft, slight things, but not at all restrained.
He sounds lovely. They're noises that have Mettaton aching, pressure building in his lower body, his cock thoroughly engorged at the mere sound of him — and the fact that these sounds are being made separate from a usually accompanying stimuli is... intolerable. He normally hears the Ascian making such noises while stuffed full of cock, while being penetrated and thrust into, and obviously while Mettaton could feel him squeezing around his length. That feeling is absent, and it's more noticeable than ever. He longs for him even more. He wants his fingers gone so much and so suddenly that he can barely stand it, the motion of crowding Emet-Selch's hand out that much more agitated and aggressive. He presses the head of himself with more firmness against the other man, more deliberation against his entrance, as though if he couldn't rid him of fingers, he could shove himself inside and push deeper.
...To no avail. Mettaton finds his temper flaring.
Emet-Selch is pleasing himself on his fingers and making it so obvious in sound that he's somehow okay with this arrangement, and Mettaton knows he'd prefer him. But he demands to know. He wants to hear Emet-Selch give him all of the words and sounds especially for him, the praise toward his length and toward his pleasure, the blatant desire for more of him rather than making all of these noises through a throat made hoarse... for his own fingers. He feels jilted, irrationally, and it compounds upon such an irrational, feral nature. He growls close to his partner's neck, suddenly impatient, even when he's trying to give off the air of control and possession.]
Surely, you're thinking about having more of me...
[It's said in a low voice, coupled with an insistent push of his cock — a reminder not to stop thinking about him at all. Speaking against his skin has Mettaton parting his lips and mouthing his lover's neck, dragging teeth along his flesh. He wants terribly to pound into him and to hear him cry out as he did earlier, sharp and sudden, when he bit his shoulder... Mettaton salivates over his neck, impossibly wanting and with a temper that grows ever hotter, a body that follows suit, a need to move his hips winding tight in him. He feels an ever increasing need to mount his Bonded and displace those fingers, to give him something thicker than them, and to hear him making those noises especially for the sensation of his arousal made Emet-Selch's focal point.
None of it's rational. Mettaton could have easily found himself amused at Emet-Selch's noises, enticed into further frustrated want, enjoying the way he was made to abstain. But right now, it's not enough attention on him.]