[Mettaton follows, eagerly. His body moves on automatic, finding this additional physical invitation to join his Bondmate too enticing to sit around for. Hand-in-hand, fingers locked around fingers, Mettaton regards even their digits as the suggestion of how they're bound to end up: laced with each other, as familiar as can be.
For a moment, the beautiful strangeness of it all catches up with the robot. The sight of his lover before him, completely exposed (as he would have him), crawling onto his own bed and reaching a hand out to beckon for him to join him. And in his vision comes his own hand, forearm, the bones and muscles and skin of it... He stares, spellbound, at their hands joined, finding this part to be worth disbelief. Perhaps even the part where he's found such a beloved man in the Ascian, when he'd otherwise found his values to be worth skepticism. (Even still, they disagree. He'd still like to talk about it some more, for all that he knows that Emet-Selch has a hard time of it. For all they disagree. For all that there are human lives lost already, for all that it's in the name of another beloved population, for all that Emet-Selch couldn't stop even if he felt differently, in the name of his people and Zodiark both. He understands this. He wants to better understand his own love in the wake of it all, beyond an adoration for frivolity and opulence and expressions of passion.)
His eyes skirt up to meet his face as he sidles up beside him, taking the initiative to actually pull back the covers for them both. For the first time in many nights, he doesn't fear sleep, not with Emet-Selch by his side and tiredness an inevitability. Above all, Mettaton's transfixed by the glimpse of that half-smile, an expression so loved by him when he otherwise rarely sees it on his features.
As soon as they both find themselves properly in bed, legs entangled and bodies flush, Mettaton takes his face in his hands and draws him into a kiss seeping with love for the sight of him.]
You're lovely, you know.
[That smile, the way he is when he's rendered so reduced, relaxed, unwound. And even when he's not, when he's testy and cynical and dour, his usual self... Mettaton finds that endearing, too. But they're different kinds of attractiveness.]
Since you offer to do so much for me... Tell me if there's ever any desire I could make true for you.
[Coming from someone without the same capabilities that Emet-Selch ever possessed, sure, but Mettaton would try. Anything in his power and even beyond it, he would attempt it for Emet-Selch. His will comes from the desire to shock and surprise, and that's a force to fuel him considerably.]
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For a moment, the beautiful strangeness of it all catches up with the robot. The sight of his lover before him, completely exposed (as he would have him), crawling onto his own bed and reaching a hand out to beckon for him to join him. And in his vision comes his own hand, forearm, the bones and muscles and skin of it... He stares, spellbound, at their hands joined, finding this part to be worth disbelief. Perhaps even the part where he's found such a beloved man in the Ascian, when he'd otherwise found his values to be worth skepticism. (Even still, they disagree. He'd still like to talk about it some more, for all that he knows that Emet-Selch has a hard time of it. For all they disagree. For all that there are human lives lost already, for all that it's in the name of another beloved population, for all that Emet-Selch couldn't stop even if he felt differently, in the name of his people and Zodiark both. He understands this. He wants to better understand his own love in the wake of it all, beyond an adoration for frivolity and opulence and expressions of passion.)
His eyes skirt up to meet his face as he sidles up beside him, taking the initiative to actually pull back the covers for them both. For the first time in many nights, he doesn't fear sleep, not with Emet-Selch by his side and tiredness an inevitability. Above all, Mettaton's transfixed by the glimpse of that half-smile, an expression so loved by him when he otherwise rarely sees it on his features.
As soon as they both find themselves properly in bed, legs entangled and bodies flush, Mettaton takes his face in his hands and draws him into a kiss seeping with love for the sight of him.]
You're lovely, you know.
[That smile, the way he is when he's rendered so reduced, relaxed, unwound. And even when he's not, when he's testy and cynical and dour, his usual self... Mettaton finds that endearing, too. But they're different kinds of attractiveness.]
Since you offer to do so much for me... Tell me if there's ever any desire I could make true for you.
[Coming from someone without the same capabilities that Emet-Selch ever possessed, sure, but Mettaton would try. Anything in his power and even beyond it, he would attempt it for Emet-Selch. His will comes from the desire to shock and surprise, and that's a force to fuel him considerably.]