[Was Mettaton not encouraging him towards a fuck? Emet-Selch couldn't tell- as both the conversation and the handsiness implied as such to him. He doesn't complain- not yet, at any rate- as he realized he genuinely wasn't sure of his intent. It wasn't as though the other man needed to grab his cock for things to become sexual, but not every bit of closeness was a seduction either.

But he knew their history, when affectionate touches at all... usually were preceding a fuck. Or were during a fuck. And after a fuck. So the grasp to his hip, delivered around the distraction of an egg, is met with a dubious look. No matter his warning, he'd readily believe Mettaton would ignore it in favor of proving how convincing he could be (and how convincing Emet-Selch knew he was).

But the mage doesn't respond anyway, with anything beyond tolerance. Passivity. Apathy. He sighs.]

And our options fail to entice. Given what's awaiting me, a future of inappropriate icings... [A smaller breath, a disgruntled sound.] 'tis hard to imagine ever anticipating that moment.

[The level of arousal or other coercion that would convince him to tolerate particular slatherings felt like a distant memory. It was just one more thing that was off, when there was already plenty to choose from. An infinite amount to be depressed over, and though he'd wanted a kiss earlier, when Mettaton finally moves into range now, he's slow to answer him.

But he does answer it, leaning up for a soft press of lips to his.]