[If the reason for rejecting his advances is due to annoyance, rather than resistance thanks to anatomical disconnect, Mettaton would take it. He could see Emet-Selch's annoyance, and even the existing annoyance wasn't something that would so quickly dissipate. As it is, Mettaton wasn't coming around jonesing for a fuck, but it came up in conversation naturally.
Mettaton smiles, continuing to settle against the couch as he feels the mage up despite warnings to not get sexy with him, not on a couch and not with olive oil. But see, he wants to touch him, even if it's not in a directly sexual capacity and with the aid of oil. He doesn't make any moves to slip under fabric, nor provoke him directly, aside from the desire for touch and contact.
He does think he's convincing, though. And he knows he is. Balancing the egg fully in Emet-Selch's lap, Mettaton's other hand moves from the base of the egg and onward to Emet-Selch's hip, swimming in fabric. It's an affectionate grip that he takes, a thumbing that was intended to be familiar rather than provocative.]
Well, we have our options. [Wishing for lube, for powers, or... resorting to makeshift lubricant sourced fresh from the kitchen.] I can't imagine that you'd mind so much, if we were in the moment, darling... But don't misunderstand me. I'd prefer the proper stuff, myself.
[He's just willing to go with alternatives, if that's all they have, and he's making that clear. And he knew he'd be capable of convincing Emet-Selch to agree to slathering some olive oil/butter/icing on his dick, if they were in the right moment. MTT leans, forward and over the bowling-ball-sized egg, to kiss at the Ascian's jaw, before hovering close to his lips—a silent bid for a return kiss.]
no subject
Mettaton smiles, continuing to settle against the couch as he feels the mage up despite warnings to not get sexy with him, not on a couch and not with olive oil. But see, he wants to touch him, even if it's not in a directly sexual capacity and with the aid of oil. He doesn't make any moves to slip under fabric, nor provoke him directly, aside from the desire for touch and contact.
He does think he's convincing, though. And he knows he is. Balancing the egg fully in Emet-Selch's lap, Mettaton's other hand moves from the base of the egg and onward to Emet-Selch's hip, swimming in fabric. It's an affectionate grip that he takes, a thumbing that was intended to be familiar rather than provocative.]
Well, we have our options. [Wishing for lube, for powers, or... resorting to makeshift lubricant sourced fresh from the kitchen.] I can't imagine that you'd mind so much, if we were in the moment, darling... But don't misunderstand me. I'd prefer the proper stuff, myself.
[He's just willing to go with alternatives, if that's all they have, and he's making that clear. And he knew he'd be capable of convincing Emet-Selch to agree to slathering some olive oil/butter/icing on his dick, if they were in the right moment. MTT leans, forward and over the bowling-ball-sized egg, to kiss at the Ascian's jaw, before hovering close to his lips—a silent bid for a return kiss.]