[It's a kiss that has his petting slow, kneading gently at fur instead as he tries to lean into the press of lips. Soft and... rather sweet, really, a bit of something akin to gentleness between firmer, hotter passions. Only the vibration of a pleased sound remains in his throat, letting the kiss end with a brief nuzzle of lips as Mettaton pulls back to comment again on his jewelry.
The Ascian's gaze alights again on the glittering of the necklace (even if its ability to sparkle was hindered by the blood that stained parts of it). And his poor lover, not getting the compliments he deserved.... Emet-Selch may have been bloodied and mute, but Mettaton knew real suffering, real frustration: not having the masses dish out appropriate praise even when so kindly reminded to.
And now it was up to Emet-Selch to fulfill that requirement again; Mettaton was not being subtle about his expectations. And even if it were partially curse-driven, he could appreciate that; he liked his lover's directness in general. And it wasn't as though he weren't radiant, or that he didn't find him absurdly attractive... even bloodstained and about as mussed as a robot could be, it only added a different primal beauty to him. Emet-Selch saw nothing wrong with his confidence in his appearance (he is also biased and loves him).
The question then became what to say, what to force through his wounded throat, knowing that he wouldn't have that many chances if Mettaton wanted actual voice behind it, and not just lip-reading. Or possibly... whether to answer at all, to tempt both fate and Mettaton by delaying because he could.
Emet-Selch still takes a moment to admire him regardless, as though needing to consider both him and his words. The blood that stuck to those diamonds matched him just as well as the clean(ish) ones. And Mettaton liked red anyway, and liked his blood... it was a combination that was meant to be. It would almost be a pity to clean it.
Mettaton shifting his hips though... it was a distraction from speech and something that causes the muscles in his legs to twitch, and his breath to pause, and then slowly exhale. It was a very distinct sensation, his lover's hardening. Even if he were still being penetrated in either case, a relaxed cock gave a different impression from a full one. A stronger sense of being taken, rather than only allowed to hold his length inside his body. The way he was made to stretch again to accommodate, bit by bit- and in a different way than from the insertion itself. A sensation worth tightening deliberately around, as though to stroke Mettaton even fuller to attention. A sensation to quicken his pulse and his blood, even if he doubts his own capacity for arousal at this point.
But it's still with expectation that he regards him, an anticipation for being fucked, for being given load after load of his come, and the Ascian feels warmer just thinking about it. And with it, the desire to please him... which meant giving him the answers he wanted.
A soft voice, quiet in its sincerity, along with the restriction of his throat. And his eyes are on Mettaton's, the puca's lustrous in a face illustrated by blood, the monster waiting for his deference. The verbal reverence he deserved.]
...It's natural, that it would be drawn to you. No one else would bring out its potential. And yet....
[He swallows, wincing; tries to clear his throat, which just makes it worse. Taking a careful breath afterward, he soldiers on, a rasping whisper.]
--You would be no less without it. It's- nothing, without you to carry it.
no subject
The Ascian's gaze alights again on the glittering of the necklace (even if its ability to sparkle was hindered by the blood that stained parts of it). And his poor lover, not getting the compliments he deserved.... Emet-Selch may have been bloodied and mute, but Mettaton knew real suffering, real frustration: not having the masses dish out appropriate praise even when so kindly reminded to.
And now it was up to Emet-Selch to fulfill that requirement again; Mettaton was not being subtle about his expectations. And even if it were partially curse-driven, he could appreciate that; he liked his lover's directness in general. And it wasn't as though he weren't radiant, or that he didn't find him absurdly attractive... even bloodstained and about as mussed as a robot could be, it only added a different primal beauty to him. Emet-Selch saw nothing wrong with his confidence in his appearance (he is also biased and loves him).
The question then became what to say, what to force through his wounded throat, knowing that he wouldn't have that many chances if Mettaton wanted actual voice behind it, and not just lip-reading. Or possibly... whether to answer at all, to tempt both fate and Mettaton by delaying because he could.
Emet-Selch still takes a moment to admire him regardless, as though needing to consider both him and his words. The blood that stuck to those diamonds matched him just as well as the clean(ish) ones. And Mettaton liked red anyway, and liked his blood... it was a combination that was meant to be. It would almost be a pity to clean it.
Mettaton shifting his hips though... it was a distraction from speech and something that causes the muscles in his legs to twitch, and his breath to pause, and then slowly exhale. It was a very distinct sensation, his lover's hardening. Even if he were still being penetrated in either case, a relaxed cock gave a different impression from a full one. A stronger sense of being taken, rather than only allowed to hold his length inside his body. The way he was made to stretch again to accommodate, bit by bit- and in a different way than from the insertion itself. A sensation worth tightening deliberately around, as though to stroke Mettaton even fuller to attention. A sensation to quicken his pulse and his blood, even if he doubts his own capacity for arousal at this point.
But it's still with expectation that he regards him, an anticipation for being fucked, for being given load after load of his come, and the Ascian feels warmer just thinking about it. And with it, the desire to please him... which meant giving him the answers he wanted.
A soft voice, quiet in its sincerity, along with the restriction of his throat. And his eyes are on Mettaton's, the puca's lustrous in a face illustrated by blood, the monster waiting for his deference. The verbal reverence he deserved.]
...It's natural, that it would be drawn to you. No one else would bring out its potential. And yet....
[He swallows, wincing; tries to clear his throat, which just makes it worse. Taking a careful breath afterward, he soldiers on, a rasping whisper.]
--You would be no less without it. It's- nothing, without you to carry it.