[(Need for control might well be the best summary for it all. From his lack of consultation, to the desire to prevent Emet-Selch from hurting himself, when he had done so liberally in the past. There were other memories, traumas, justifications riddled between... but when scrutinized, a need to control was a common denominator, a core trait of the robot's that he thought he had a good handle on. The man who'd killed Emet-Selch lacked control over his mental faculties; and when he'd bled him to unconsciousness, it had also been a slip, and lack, of control. If he had the choice, the good sense, and the requisite understanding of what could hurt Emet-Selch, it seemed right to keep from hurting him- it was in the fabric of his heart.
Intent isn't magic, though, and Mettaton has a long way to go.)
The damage had already been done. Emet-Selch tells him to pull out, or go- and it shakes the idol, who may well be the one who is stumbling behind without realizing it, thinking of Emet-Selch as the one who needs it. Patronizing him. But the authority with which the Ascian commands his action, the sureness with which he still wanted his depth. Of course he would've ultimately preferred having been asked before Mettaton changed their position entirely, but that too was water under the bridge- and something for MTT to consider, to reflect on. A hand is draped over him, but it's not with any warmth.
Mettaton closes his eye. Emet-Selch had said he was leaving it up to Mettaton, since the robot was taking charge... It felt hypocritical to really fill him out with wild abandon, and the physical sensation wasn't great, either, even if he hadn't yet enjoyed the nuance of heat slipped over his body.
And yet, despite the hurt on his features, Mettaton stolidly remains. And even pushes. There's no physical hurt on his features, no wincing or grimacing, but the knit of his brow at the frustration and misunderstanding, of the sudden veer of emotions—of realizing his mistake, and wanting to do better. Intent isn't magic even still, no matter what. But he sighs, steeling himself, meeting Emet-Selch's eyes.]
... I promised you my length. I said that. [In some manner of words, he'd offered his length in trade for Emet-Selch's heat. He pushes, his hips nudging forward.] If you say you still prefer it, then I'll commit. Even if it's uncomfortable.
[It's not easy for Mettaton to make that choice, preferring the bliss of their most ardent combinings. Preferring the situations where he could have it perfectly—and if not perfect, he could make it that way, or pretend it was. He's the same sort of person who would pick off people who disagreed with him—and though nowhere as severe as that as he currently is, the trait remains. He wanted control.
He doesn't want this, though. It was uncomfortable to him in his heart to push forward, to continue filling Emet-Selch out. To sit with Emet-Selch's upset, and let him be without trying to smother it. But he moves nonetheless, tensing his hips, pushing forward into Emet-Selch after once denying him of this manually. But Emet-Selch had said that this wasn't of concern. And at that, he would press onward and give him his physicality. Meeting his eyes, he presses forward, but non-verbally seeks out his consent—or rather, his dissent, if he had objections.]
no subject
Intent isn't magic, though, and Mettaton has a long way to go.)
The damage had already been done. Emet-Selch tells him to pull out, or go- and it shakes the idol, who may well be the one who is stumbling behind without realizing it, thinking of Emet-Selch as the one who needs it. Patronizing him. But the authority with which the Ascian commands his action, the sureness with which he still wanted his depth. Of course he would've ultimately preferred having been asked before Mettaton changed their position entirely, but that too was water under the bridge- and something for MTT to consider, to reflect on. A hand is draped over him, but it's not with any warmth.
Mettaton closes his eye. Emet-Selch had said he was leaving it up to Mettaton, since the robot was taking charge... It felt hypocritical to really fill him out with wild abandon, and the physical sensation wasn't great, either, even if he hadn't yet enjoyed the nuance of heat slipped over his body.
And yet, despite the hurt on his features, Mettaton stolidly remains. And even pushes. There's no physical hurt on his features, no wincing or grimacing, but the knit of his brow at the frustration and misunderstanding, of the sudden veer of emotions—of realizing his mistake, and wanting to do better. Intent isn't magic even still, no matter what. But he sighs, steeling himself, meeting Emet-Selch's eyes.]
... I promised you my length. I said that. [In some manner of words, he'd offered his length in trade for Emet-Selch's heat. He pushes, his hips nudging forward.] If you say you still prefer it, then I'll commit. Even if it's uncomfortable.
[It's not easy for Mettaton to make that choice, preferring the bliss of their most ardent combinings. Preferring the situations where he could have it perfectly—and if not perfect, he could make it that way, or pretend it was. He's the same sort of person who would pick off people who disagreed with him—and though nowhere as severe as that as he currently is, the trait remains. He wanted control.
He doesn't want this, though. It was uncomfortable to him in his heart to push forward, to continue filling Emet-Selch out. To sit with Emet-Selch's upset, and let him be without trying to smother it. But he moves nonetheless, tensing his hips, pushing forward into Emet-Selch after once denying him of this manually. But Emet-Selch had said that this wasn't of concern. And at that, he would press onward and give him his physicality. Meeting his eyes, he presses forward, but non-verbally seeks out his consent—or rather, his dissent, if he had objections.]