[With an ever souring expression that deepens into a frown, Mettaton listens, though on multiple occasions he almost appears as though he wants to interrupt... But he doesn't. His frown shifts from angry to disappointed, his listening habits poor and pseudo-listening at best: the star prepares a defensive retort instead of listening, at first. It's a miracle that he doesn't pull away in his impatience, but for some reason, the sensation of Emet-Selch's grip keeps him. However, Mettaton reciprocates in no fashion.
But it's around the point where Emet-Selch mentions their like core, their expressions of cruelty, their distrust of the unfamiliar where he reminds himself to try actually listening, even if he disagreed.
And watch that frown shift from anger to disappointment, then evolve into worry when Emet-Selch stops being somebody who is attacking his ideals, and instead somebody jaded who has lived among people long enough to have developed such a view. And, why? So he worries. Their experiences with the same people must be so different if he ever thought that the actions of their fellow Mirrorbound were predictable or unkind. Even if a good portion of even his fellow Mirrorbound treated him to denial of personhood and fear, that didn't make them bad people. That made them someone to appeal to and reach out for.
Mettaton glances away, thinking about the humans who indulged in senseless cruelty. He hadn't ruminated on it much, because it hurt him to think about... The experience with the Rathmores hits him full force, perhaps with even more rawness than being there ever did, more than even when he reflected upon it with Alphys. She didn't experience being taken apart and commented upon like meat or, more accurately in his case, like an example to be made of. Emet-Selch did, and this must be the kind of thing he means when he talks about their capacity for cruelty, a cruelty Mettaton had never considered. And of all stupid, stupid things he thinks about that coward of a man who pretzelled himself frustratingly under a sink to avoid having to interact with Mettaton, accusing him of being a senseless killing machine without basis. Interacting with people has been delightful, but the frustrations sobering, at times.
Mettaton begrudgingly rests his forehead against Emet-Selch's shoulder, finding the added relief of support to be welcome. He doesn't sound like he's mocking him.]
...Humans are scared of monsters. They're scared of ghosts. And... did you know they're also terribly scared of robots? I can't blame them, even still...
[Mettaton is naive and ignorant, optimistic and hopeful, placing humanity on a pedestal like one might do to an idol. Humanity's fear is the root of these poor reactions, and he thought he could bypass it by having the figure of one. The idol would never allow for their fear to color his view: it makes perfect sense.
And even thinking about them in such a light — fleeting, senselessly cruel, distrusting, fearful, their capacity to hurt — he doesn't doubt his love for humanity.]
Anyway. I don't see how you're so different from them. What do you think sets you apart from them...? Really. I don't see what I'm supposed to be disappointed in. Because you feared me and distrusted me just like they do. Your kindness is selective, but you are so much that, and never cruel. Most of humanity isn't either, and their potential is remarkable. And I... found that I could love you just like I love them.
...Did you ever love humanity, Hades? Or have you always disliked them, or waited for them to prove themselves worth loving? What would earn your approval...?
[As he noted that deepening frown, that clear disapproval- Emet-Selch had felt a cold sort of justification. He'd had this sort of conversation before with the Exarch, an attack and defense on the virtues of humanity, pretenses of politeness fading into ever more personally aimed barbs. That was how this manner of discussion always went, regardless of any initial attempt towards civility.
So when that expression, that reaction changes, Emet-Selch is a bit at a loss, feeling a mix of surprise and confusion at hearing any sort of concession towards humanity's fearful condition. It makes it easier for him to listen in turn, rather than seek out something to be insulted by and lash out at it.]
If you understand what they'll do in their fear, why--
[He cuts himself off with a sigh, a vaguely frustrated sound.]
Of course I have all the same emotions that they do. [And he frowns, glancing aside towards the blank walls of his room, trying to not find offense at being compared to mortals. Trying to decide how to explain the difference.] In the true world, there was no need for fear or mistrust. Were you to appear in Amaurot as you are, you would be welcomed without reservation. Anything I display now, I've learned.
[He's... not at all sure how to react at being told of being loved, alongside humanity. It- hurt, a little. And with Mettaton's head on his shoulder, Emet-Selch reaches up to slowly stroke at his hair. That unabashed (and undeserved) love for humanity was something he could almost respect, if it weren't for its target. It reminded him the smallest bit of his own people, who'd never had to learn distrust.]
How could I ever love them, considering what they're capable of? Yet- that first generation, immediately after the sundering... you could see it in their eyes, sometimes. Moments of recognition, recollection- fading dreams of a world that they would never behold again. No- perhaps I loved them still. I despaired for what they had been rendered into, but I knew not what all that entailed. What all they had become.
If I were to ever accept them, humanity would have to move beyond what they currently are. Even then- I don't know. It would be difficult.
[The qualifier was among humanity's many chaotic traits. Their transience, their forgetfulness, their capacity to hurt, their fearfulness. But in listening to Emet-Selch just now, he paid special focus to their loss of remembrance. How isolated he must have felt. They were all a product of his original people, against all odds. That they could no longer recall what he could.
Truth be told, Mettaton's adoration for humanity is also rooted in a very selfish want: an audience greater than he'd ever had. Monsterkind was cramped up in a small space, limiting how they could flourish as a population, and humanity promised to be vast: millions, billions. There's no way Emet-Selch could change his view on a population so pivotal to his development, but perhaps the same could be said for him. His Bonded holds views that run deep and personal.
Mettaton is comforted by the Ascian's hand against his hair, and he shifts his head closer to his neck. Disagreeing about humanity's worth while remaining close to the person with a view his polar opposite... He wasn't directly threatening them, not now. He even admitted himself that he'd have no reason to,here. Perhaps they could both afford to see the other's perspective.]
It seems I'm your opposite again, gorgeous. What a surprise. I hope for them, not despair for them. But... I don't hold any expectations for them, as you do. I don't think it's a trait exclusive to humanity, to be distrustful or quick to judge. They're not perfect, and I love them for it. But just as you learned from humanity some of these traits, they're capable of learning, too.
[And apparently they hadn't done enough of it in the many thousands of years Emet-Selch has been around. He's aware of what he's saying, but Mettaton lacks anything else. Humanity is fine as it is, even in its flaws. That's why he knows how they could respond to their fear, but chooses to make peace with it. Mettaton finally squeezes him back with his hands after having gone cold on him before.]
...When I first learned of your history, I thought to myself that I would do whatever it took to stop you. But the more I understand, the more I don't want to do that. I want you to fulfill your ambitions. What a conflict... I know I'm the picture of perfection, but, well. I have my whims. ...You must have been very lonely.
[Feeling his face near his neck, Emet-Selch tilts his head slightly, permitting the robot more access, fingers still slowly threading through Mettaton's hair. It remained strange, still, for it to be at all comfortable, much less comforting; the Ascian knew they would never convince one another of their ideals. In most things, they seemed to be absolutely diametrically opposed.
An opposition that held no consequence here, beyond the emotions involved in the debating of ethics. Perhaps such lack of result could incur tolerance, he supposed, but this was more than that. An effect of the Bond? Or some acceptance that genuinely held convictions- and that they were convictions, not casually held thoughts or preferences- were something that could be understood, if not agreed with?
Not that the Ascian hadn't scorned honest conviction before, but circumstances here were quite unusual. With no one to save, no gods to revive- no powers, only stories of a doomed future awaiting him, the situation had never been more unstable. He couldn't change his perspective, his experience, but hearing another's was less of an existential threat.
Emet-Selch wondered distantly if this was another weakness of his own; he didn't think any other Ascian would've allowed even this much.]
If one can manage it, not having expectations is only for the best. Fewer disappointments that way. Believing in mortals is the path to ruin, or at the very least, endless frustration. ...Or perhaps you would continue to enjoy their transience, regardless. Ever a new audience, I suppose- so long as you don't tire of performance, you'll never run out of those seeking diversion.
[This is probably the closest Emet-Selch has ever come to accepting or understanding a possible reason for preferring humanity as it is. Even if it was something he inherently disagreed with, the Ascian could see why someone with a personality type like Mettaton's might enjoy those aspects, while being less troubled by the negatives. If the meaning he found in life was to be an idol- an endlessly respawning sea of admirers could only appeal.
Even though it wasn't the sort of thing Emet-Selch would ever be able to believe in himself (and certainly wasn't a good enough reason to spare any lives), it was a better argument than the usual 'they just have meaning, somehow.']
Well... 'tis safe to support my ambitions here. There's naught I can do for them now, and with death awaiting my return, you may offer whatever sympathies you like, to no mortal consequence. --Still, it's heartening to know at least one person isn't wholly devoted to my demise.
[He's not sure what to say about being lonely. It was absolutely true, a core feature of his underlying motivation. His fingers in Mettaton's hair hesitate at the statement; his other arm tightens around him. Instead, he asks:]
--Being immortal, do you think you'll ever become lonely, surrounded by humanity? Or is evanescent adoration enough...?
[Describing his feelings on their transience as "enjoyment" doesn't sit right with Mettaton, but it's not as though he resents them for it. He finds death and all of its monstrous approximations to be sad, a regrettable part of life for most people. Thankfully for him, he's never had a close contact who passed on, but it's bound to happen. He hardly thought of people as individual things with beginning and end, though it's not like he never considered their individual plights, either; but when you're someone who takes a position high up, everybody below has a sense of insignificance, intentional or not.
Being permitted the "safety" of sympathizing with Emet-Selch, Mettaton smirks and deliberately brings his body closer. He hums a laugh.]
Come on. I doubt many are devoted to your demise, darling... For what good that does. Which isn't much. But it's the sentiment that counts... Or, lack thereof.
[He's thinking about Mira. There's no way she wanted him dead, Emet-Selch, the man himself. She's too fond of him, and with all of Emet-Selch's Bonds to these Warriors, he doubts they feel so strongly about killing him.
He feels the pause, but more than that, he notes the tightening of his arm. It feels nice, and he returns the gesture. That's the feeling he gets from him, he realizes. It's unfathomable loneliness wherever there's want and need. One of his hands moves from his shoulder to trace a slow line across the Ascian's back, one that will follow his shoulder blade before uniting with his spine and tracing further south.
Emet-Selch's bouncing Mettaton's observation back at him in the form of a question doesn't cause the robot to freeze, but it does cause him to slow. Yes, the love of his fans has been plenty. But he's realized that it caused him to place even greater distance between himself and all others, and... The Puca has some thoughts. He places a soft kiss against Emet-Selch's clavicle.]
My fans will always remain my fans, and I... to them, just with in reach. It's as the saying goes. It's lonely, being at the top!! I can't accept every proposal for my hand I receive! Even if my goal is always to please my fans, however possible. ... I hadn't thought about it. Becoming lonely. I'm always surrounded by adorers... And I could see myself being content that way.
[But here he stands in the company of someone he's found comfort with, and just before arriving here, he found himself breaking his routine for companionship. He remains pressed to his skin.]
But I realized something. I've been missing... companionship. I forwent it for long enough that I'd forgotten what it's like. To share myself with someone else, without restraint. ...If my only option was humanity, it's not impossible to find somebody I could keep close. I should think that I would cherish them in their life, and remember them fondly thereafter. It's a bit... It's bittersweet. But it would beat being idolized, having so many to cherish in return, yet lacking someone of significance to adore...
[This sentiment pricks him a lot more than it ever has, and maybe becoming the company-favoring Puca is slightly responsible for it. But the heartache he feels is also in part due to his penchant for ignoring the troublesome aspects of existence: how could he ever fear loneliness if he never acknowledged it? Emet-Selch, with his incredibly different perspective on things, forces Mettaton to consider that which he doesn't allow himself.
From his collar bone, Mettaton places another kiss further up his throat — just barely, the first hint that he'll kiss all the way up. Before he can advance, he remains against Emet-Selch's neck for a moment more.]
Haha. Listen to me. Of course my fans are enough. But... I like this. A lot.
[Emet-Selch both viewed death very casually, and very seriously; in either case, it was ever-present in his life. It always had been. With a stronger-than-normal connection to the underworld, the constant witnessing of souls drifting between one state to another, he couldn't have escaped thinking about it even if he wanted to.
And he only shakes his head a little- barely perceptible at all, not wanting to disturb Mettaton's presence at his neck- at the idea that few were devoted to his death. He could agree that- those Warriors at least- would not want to kill him. Nor did Emet-Selch want to kill them. But they still would, and he still would, and it all amounted to much the same result, in the end.
He focuses instead on the trailing of Mettaton's hands, the beginning of their slow path down his back, the degree more of pressure of his form against his. It still wasn't the warmth or softness of a normal body, but that mattered no more to him now than it had before. At the small kiss, he stills, finding his eyes closing, to better focus on the sensation, and the sound of Mettaton's voice.
A voice which brings an edge of irritation at the start of his reply, finding it unerringly... Mettaton-esque. The idol was quite good at that, unsurprisingly.
But when he goes into the rest of his answer, the annoyance fades back into a deeper melancholy. Shifting his arms, Emet-Selch wraps both of them around Mettaton again, not tightly, but firmly. His fingers dig in with more pressure, as though limiting his emotional intensity to one thing, as though he could control it that way.]
--that is the greatest flaw to humanity, their inherent fragility. Even when you've found one worth knowing, worth attachment, they'll leave you behind through no intention of their own. How often can you bear to repeat that? Until you can no longer stomach the idea of losing yet another piece of yourself in return for a few moments of company? And yet...
[How could there be a yet? There wasn't, he knew this, but--]
Solitude... well, let's say it doesn't come recommended.
[And so he was here, still; his fingers dig in yet harder. His voice remains even.]
[His hands stall mid-back. Ever the bearer of bad news, Emet-Selch is.
It isn't as though Mettaton hadn't already known. He's had his fair share of conversations with Mirrorbound who refuse outright to foster meaningful connections, so on their guard that they can't stomach the pain of loss in exchange for the formation of memory. And Mettaton didn't have any reason to anticipate pain, not really.
This thought makes him feel that, somewhat. It's a rush, heavy and light both at once. The heaviness is beyond him, something that permeates his mood; light, because of the thought that something could make him feel such potency that it dizzies him. He can feel Emet-Selch's fingertips gripping into him, and it only serves to intensify the feeling.
The intensity must be contagious, if he weren't feeling it for himself to begin with. Being in Emet-Selch's presence does that to him.]
Yes... It is. ...Good thing we're living it, at present. I want to relish it.
[He moves up and places another kiss to his neck, both firm yet gentle.]
... And I'm willing to give a piece of myself to this. ...You'll let me take from you in turn, I hope. I want to have you.
[One of his hands remains against Emet-Selch's spine, pressing with more urgency there, while the other moves forward to grace against his chest. Mettaton pulls from his neck, body still otherwise flush to his Bonded's as he stares down upon him with an easygoing smile.]
[Negative thoughts are the one thing Emet-Selch will never run out of.]
The present....
[Had he ever lived in it? Not since that time before the disaster, when every day had been much the same, the sort of thing that had felt as though it could stretch on forever. Not that he'd felt contentment, much less happiness even then, and he only appreciated what he'd had once it had been lost. But that was the way of things, wasn't it?
Unease, wariness, perpetual longing. The kiss to his neck both soothed and increased those feelings. Forcing his hands to relax, the Ascian smooths them over Mettaton's back, as though trying to reassure himself further.]
You're asking a lot. It's quite presumptuous, honestly....
[But what did he have in this world? Nothing would ever supplant his people, even if they weren't present in any form. Though his eyes flicker open again, the Ascian's gaze drifts to the side, unseeing. What was the point in trusting someone to that degree, knowing there was no permanence in it? On the other hand- if memory and experience were cursed to remain here, what did he have to lose? It wasn't as though he could bring any more loss back with him.
It wasn't as though he hadn't already been quite vulnerable with Mettaton, but it was one thing to do so on instinct or impulse, and another to be made conscious of it.
...Why did he feel more hopeless at the thought of succeeding? As though resigning himself to a worse fate. What a terrible thing, emotions were...]
I doubt I have anything left to take. [Emet-Selch admits, words slow, as though each one took effort, drained him that little bit more. Looking back up to Mettaton finally, he appears cautious, trying to ignore the lure of his presence, the hand to his chest, the way his back tensed underneath the fingers digging into his spine. The way he wanted to press closer still. It felt like being coaxed off a cliff, being convinced that it was better to break himself again on the rocks below.] Perhaps- over time... if I can dredge something up--
[He makes a small, breathless noise, half-pained, half-amused.]
That's not much of a promise, is it? Or reward. Whatever you scrape off of me, it's not going to be pleasant.
[He smirks, knowing that he's asking a lot. Presumptuous, even, which is confirmed by the Ascian. But he likes that. Why wouldn't a star think he could simply take a piece of somebody else for himself?
It almost surprises him to hear that Emet-Selch didn't figure himself as one with anything to take, when he sees so much he'd be delighted to have: the look of tenderness that goes guarded behind sharp eyes, the sounds he makes when kisses him beyond sense, and the way he looks when Mettaton can tell that he's found something of interest to occupy his attentions.
The hand over Emet-Selch's heart moves up to admire his features, fingers stroking the angle of his jaw, the softness of his cheek, and... his thumb freezes at the outer corner of Emet-Selch's eye, recalling that the yellow is truly his.]
To you. But I can't think of a thing less pleasant than something I want, Hades, darling. And if that something is you...
[Crystal, diamond, gold, all things he's found himself arrested by even more than usual since transforming, and this feels more enticing, like having a piece of his very soul. The robot leans on to press a kiss to Emet-Selch's lips, deliberate and covetous in how he captures the other man's lower lip between his, willing to take as much as Emet-Selch has available.
In speaking again, he does it against his Bonded's lips]
And... I think I've already taken from you, besides. But I'll never turn down the offer for more... As much as you have available to me. Ephemeral as our arrangement's made to be... I couldn't possibly forget it.
[A thought occurs to him. He didn't come here anticipating that he'd bed Emet-Selch, no, but he also doesn't know if he should be standing on that leg of his. How slow to people heal, anyway? How quickly? The hand against Emet-Selch's spine moves further south, suddenly, veering off to the side so as to rest firmly against the hip of his right leg.
He gives him a gentle squeeze, appreciating the give of tissue around the back of Emet-Selch's hip. There's even a little push in the direction of his bed, at least so that he can seat him there.]
[That confidence was appealing, even when it annoyed. And that specific sort of emotional forthrightness- he could respect that and respond to it, even when it overwhelmed. That openness about what he desired was something Emet-Selch almost envied. The ability to live in the present, as though that were something worth doing....
As a single scratch could invite infection, so too did affection fester. Why should a simple touch to his face, feeling the path Mettaton's fingers walked with unnatural clarity, mean anything at all? Once the shell of indifference and apathy was gone, he had a weakness to attention like that. The Ascian was a sentimental sort.
The curse of the Bond was knowing it was genuine; this wasn't some trick or ploy; even if it were meaningless, everything Mettaton was offering was real. And Emet-Selch is unnerved anew at how much he did want that, to claim those feelings as though he had any right to them.
The kiss comes as something of an inevitability, but no worse for being anticipated. As he leans into it with the smallest of sighs, he feels his lip caught, the sense of deliberation and care in the other man's gestures. And that it took no effort at all for Emet-Selch to affix his attention on him, to respond in kind. To trail his tongue along Mettaton's lower lip before he replies.]
...I suppose you have, at that.
[He couldn't have been so open with him, before or now, without losing something in the process. Without being taken from. Because that's what it was, wasn't it- inviting loss, and hurt, to be carved up that little bit more for the sake of some temporary solace. Even the idea of being remembered sends a pang through him, a whisper of unhappy tension. How cruel, to offer something so impossible, yet so wanted....
His leg was improving by degrees, but even had it been completely well, Emet-Selch wouldn't have reacted otherwise to that squeeze to his hip, its suggested direction. Without letting himself be pulled from Mettaton's lips, he edges backward until he feels the back of his legs hit the side of his bed. Even then he hesitates to move from him, sitting down and half-trying to pull him with, somehow. Hands skimming along Mettaton's arms, his murmur has a harsher note to it.]
If so, you had better take everything, then. I despise half-measures.
[Being practically dragged down with him is wholly expected and entirely not, and Mettaton's brow quirks in time with the corner of his smile. ...And he's going to make it work, too.
Instead of sitting by his side, the Puca slides a knee at either side of Emet-Selch's hips, at first resulting in Emet-Selch being even with his torso. But he bends at the waist and curves his back, stroking his hands down Emet-Selch's hair and settling them on either side of his neck with a gentle grip. He brings their faces close, his long ears leaning forward in interest for his Bondmate, who he feels so taken by, so much more than he ever thought possible. It's inspiring: it enhances his every sense, the sheer feeling alone, as if developing them for real wasn't enough. He can feel clearer than ever the depth of Emet-Selch's feelings as though he's above their surface, all too aware of how his Bonded's conflicted emotions ran heavy.
For now, at least, he can tell where he ends and Emet-Selch begins. Mettaton himself feels alive, electric, a sort of restless energy akin to butterflies, and... acknowledged. Recognized, beyond just his desires. But on that note, to take everything from his Bonded... What would that leave behind? He wants to find out, but more than that, he wants, pure and simple.
When might they start feeling each other? That's been a trend, hasn't it? It turns out that Bonds either develop faster than Mettaton anticipated, or theirs was a peculiar connection. And how severe would it develop? It's exciting enough to make him shiver, while being equally dreadful.
The edge of Emet-Selch's voice causes him to lose his words, and he closes his eye in a breathless sigh.]
Demanding, are we...? You'll be pleased to know. I don't settle for second best... and I don't leave things half-finished.
[His hands on either side of his neck, Mettaton eagerly steals him up in a kiss, never anything but the full extent of his desire. His fingers press into the back of Emet-Selch's neck, his libidinous nature stoked so quickly that it's enough to make him feel like the past minutes were spent in aching tension, as though he's wanted him all along. His mind starts conjuring up the ways he wants Emet-Selch, both possible and impossible — impossible always being the ways he can't take him for himself.
Deeply frustrating, but he'll put it all aside to focus on this. Right now, as he pushes his tongue between lips, appreciating their softness and his Bonded's warmth, though he's perhaps warmer yet. It's hard to beat out a machine with temperatures that beat out feverish.]
[There's a low, pleased-sounding hum from the Ascian at the choice of Mettaton's position, the touch of his hands, the nearness of his face- taking in everything that he could of him. And Emet-Selch sank down willingly into that feeling, as though he could bury himself under the weight of it, and use it to retreat from the rest of the world.
Mettaton's words, his voice, send a rush of heat running through him, a sense of satisfaction with it. Even though Emet-Selch expected nothing else by this point, it seemed that neither of them were the sort to do anything by halves. Even in gentleness there was intensity, and he had a similar thought as to their Bond; there was still much further it could go, and what would that feel like, considering the strength of everything already?
Would it even be possible to hold back, if he tried? He was either giving himself to this, to him, or he was not; there was no partial answer.
And he remained surprised at how quickly, how easily his body responded to Mettaton's advances- at his nearness alone, even. Emet-Selch's interest had ever been limited, further dampened by depression and smothered by lethargy. Perhaps it was the directness, or openness of this connection- that yearning for emotional closeness finding some physical avenue for expression. Whatever the cause, Mettaton provoked it so thoroughly that the sudden intensity of that want has him lightheaded and completely hard.
It wasn't a normal warmth, but he'd take it, lips parting to take the other's tongue, sliding his own back against Mettaton's with a stifled noise, a quick breath. Even if it reached a point of burning, Emet-Selch doubted that he'd have an easy time pulling away. His hand moves up to Mettaton's face, his thumb grazing the corner of the other's lips where their mouths met, the tips of his fingers trailing over the idol's cheek.
Though it's gently that his other hand rubs along Mettaton's hip, gently that he cups his face and moans softly into their kiss, it all belied his own frustrated want. Though the Ascian had begun his studies for transfiguration, he was still a beginner; there was nothing he could do for them yet. It was hard not to give voice to that desire, to swallow back all the ways he wanted to claim him. What he could offer in turn, if Mettaton could only take it.
But there was still the taste of his mouth, the eagerness that he could feel and respond to, the fingers at his neck encouraging him to remain where he was (as though he had any desire to pull back, even for air). Though Emet-Selch hadn't expected Mettaton's visit to go this way- not with a discussion that began with the end times and potentials for godhood, and included a disagreement on the wonders of humanity- he wasn't entirely surprised either.]
[The power of their collective appetite washes over Mettaton so strongly that he can only sigh into their kiss in return, not with any air but with sound, smooth and light on his velvety, unregulated tone. He feels like he's melting, his limbs slackening, and one of his hands moves to rest upon Emet-Selch's shoulder instead of his neck to bear some of his weight, as if he feared he'd fall into the other man with how overcome he is. No longer is this a new experience, but it remains fascinating and desirable all the same, and more enticing than the first if not to discover how far he could go... And that delights, more than he could express.
Mettaton pulls from the kiss just enough to examine the Ascian's face, a momentary break to take in the features he wants to be kissing, a chance to see how he looks as a point of reference for later. It's a sudden whim, but Mettaton's expression grows severe, sharp and evaluating in its attention to detail. To remember him now means comparing him to later, when he's flushed and lovebitten. The hue of his cheeks, the look in his eyes, the flush of his lips, the keep of his hair... None of it goes unchecked, and it's one of the more robotic things this non-robot would do.
How would Emet-Selch look minutes from now? How about after he's through with him? He's immediately hooked on the thought, desperate to see him exposed in this new light. Though Mettaton's expression is intense in the passion of his assessment, his legs tremble slightly against the mattress against his will, a fault of having muscle instead of pure metal.
And he says nothing about it, but he finally smirks.]
...Your eyes never fail to make me weak, beautiful.
[And though he's thinking of other things, it's the truth. He fancies the Ascian's gaze, found it to be one of the most defining traits he left the cell with of his soon-to-be Bonded. For being a ghost in the machine, Mettaton is awfully attracted to the physical form of things, even when he's so capable of separating their concepts.
With some of his composure regained, the hand he kept on his shoulder slides to the other man's shirt. If there are layers he'll have to use both hands, but no matter how it goes, he doesn't want anything keeping him from his chest. With unusually practiced dexterity for a robot who doesn't need to wear clothes, he unfastens closure after closure with one hand, humming with his work as he goes back to take Emet-Selch into a deep kiss, tasting him and leaning into him with the threat of pushing him over. He takes easy control, clearly driven toward something, a deep passion building within him.]
[Any added pressure from Mettaton is only a good thing as far as Emet-Selch is concerned, appreciating the sensation of being borne down on slightly, the clear effect they were having on one another. So when the kiss ends and the Ascian finds himself only stared at, his first response is to simply blink at him.
A note of skepticism enters his expression at being so closely observed, a look of habit, rather than actual feeling; he didn't know what Mettaton was searching for, but he didn't mind being considered, if for unknown reason. And it was interesting in itself to see the idol with that particular focus; it wasn't an expression he thought he'd seen before, and he watches him back just as shamelessly, waiting. Apart from his breathing being a touch elevated, his manner carrying an edge of anticipated desire, a sharper attentiveness amid permanent exhaustion, Emet-Selch looks relatively normal, thus far.
And he frowns back at that smirk, that line; though he refrains from asking, he still comments.]
So glad you found something to approve of.
[He sighs with no real exasperation into that kiss, even as he finds himself distracted by it, falling into it. His teeth graze across Mettaton's tongue, his lips, a drag of pressure rather than any bite. He could feel that hint of a quiver to the other man's legs, as more of a small vibration against the mattress, and he's drawn to drag a hand across his thigh at the sensation.
And with his shirts being opened, Emet-Selch doesn't try to help quite as much as the first time, letting Mettaton handle the fastenings on his own. He still uses the opportunity to stroke over his hands and arms, small touches to anything he could reach, ending the kiss with a shakier breath, only to press his lips along Mettaton's jaw, trailing to the top of his throat. As he feels skin hit air, he can't help but shiver, just from the change in temperature; his room tended towards the cold.
The reflex from being leaned into was to try and brace himself against the mattress with an arm, to hold himself up amid mounting pressure. But after a moment's deliberation, the Ascian relents, latching back onto Mettaton instead, allowing himself to be pushed back if he chose to.]
[It's a perfect observation, then. A flawless point of reference, a very normal Emet-Selch complete with his control and a frown to boot, but still paying Mettaton the amount of attention he approves of. He's eager to put this to use.
It's hard not to get distracted by what Emet-Selch treats him to, both within their kiss and beyond it. As feedback, feeling his hands wander his body forces him into deepening his kiss for longer with a short noise of pleasure from his throat, pressing harder, not allowing him to break it until he can have his fill. It surprises him how a mere stroke of his hips and his thighs can make him shudder, forcing him to squirm and readjust his body to handle the sensation. The feeling of teeth in his kiss makes him more amorous and intense, and before he could possibly permit his Bonded from changing focus and treating his jaw, he catches him in one last kiss, biting and sucking at his lower lip before releasing him.
MTT still smirks yet. But through their ever intensifying connection of a Bond, it's easy to tell that sensation of this quality remains new and alluring, if not overwhelming... But it's easy to tell that the idol thrives in being overwhelmed. Even the softest of touches sends sparks through his system and makes him want more, something just as sweet or something harder or more intense, he can never decide which. Would he ever get over this, when he's only craved it for so long?
His eyelid's heavy, and he bears his neck to Emet-Selch as he finishes undoing his shirts (of which there are multiple, requiring both hands). He hums, pleased by the initiative.
Emet-Selch shivers. MTT pushes, and he holds onto him in turn, ultimately allowing Mettaton to call the shots. Mettaton doesn't quite push him all the way back yet, but he smiles softly at him as he looms above him.]
You shiver... Is it cold in here?
[He can't tell. He imagines he'd be able to if Emet-Selch's skin were to accustom to the air about them and if he were to use his mouth, but he's otherwise clueless.
In the meantime, Mettaton takes the opportunity to press him into the bed, though he keeps close to allow Emet-Selch the ability to continue working on his neck. Almost as though he likes it, which he does. One of his hands greedily pushes his clothes open, dragging his hand up his abdomen and across his chest with varying pressure, all deliberate and curious. His hand lingers over his heart, his thumb stroking at his skin as Mettaton sighs again, smitten.]
[Even as he licks over his neck, Emet-Selch can feel the memory of Mettaton's lips closing over his own, the firmness of teeth. Something that has his exhalation against the idol's throat shaking, despite it being such a relatively small note, not unfamiliar. Even more alluring was the way he could feel Mettaton shudder and shift over him, encouraging his hands to return to the man's thighs. Palms running firmly along their length, his fingers turn to kneading, feeling for that suggestion of muscle that he remembered from before.
Why was the threat (or promise) of being pressed down nearly as enticing as the action itself? Each moment carried its own anticipatory edge to it, a blend of expectation and desire, and he felt a little off-balance in more than just position. At the question, Emet-Selch tilts his head back just enough to allow his gaze to flicker back up to Mettaton's face, still oddly caught between moments. As though trapped in mid-air, waiting for gravity (or more accurately, Mettaton), to finish crushing him.]
Somewhat. 'Tis good you can't feel it.
[Because then he'd have to consider keeping his room at a more appropriate temperature. But if Mettaton didn't notice, and the Ascian didn't care, then there was no point in bothering.
Finally, time resumes as Emet-Selch feels his back hit the covers, Mettaton's body remaining satisfyingly close, appreciating that he doesn't have to stretch too far to bury his face against the idol's neck again. Closing his lips around the semi-skin of his throat, he sucks a slow line along it, finding it a pity he couldn't really mark him in the same way. But the contact, even the texture remained good.
And hands on skin were much preferable to hands on clothes, setting the Ascian shivering anew, but at touch this time. His muscles contract wherever fingers press, wondering distantly if he were actually more sensitive, or just more attuned to anything Mettaton chose to focus on.]
[As though the result of being wired to respond specifically to Emet-Selch's method of teasing, Mettaton's trembling intensifies until he buckles under the pressure of it with a sharp exhale and a whine, newly breathless. In response to what? Yes. It's his sucking against his neck, the feeling of Emet-Selch beneath him, the firm handling of his thighs, the pleasure of handling his chest, and the similar anticipation for something to push him over the edge. Kneading into his thighs only enhances the unpredictability of how the robot should handle this situation.
When his legs lose the will to support the way he hovers over the other man's body, he collapses atop his Bondmate. As part of an unrelenting series of circumstances that unfairly target his weakening sensibility, Mettaton finds that he drops, legs spread, against the surprising hardness of Emet-Selch's cock, still trapped in his trousers. Mettaton's fingers grip desperately into the give of Emet-Selch's pecs, reflexively bearing more of his neck as he throws his head back and gives a hard moan still trapped in his throat, biting his lip. Of course he's hard... Even though he has nowhere he can go but remain with that arousal, Mettaton reflexively shifts his hips and holds tighter to this body, his attention unfocused and blissful.]
D... Hades... I—
[But what a rush it is to feel his partner's hardened arousal between his forcibly spread legs. Even as he shifts, he can hardly keep himself from rocking into him, causing him to make more noise yet — a whine, more bearing of his throat, consumed by lust enough to idly run his thumbs over Emet-Selch's nipples without realizing it.]
I...
[He can't keep track of whatever he was doing before, but his thumbs trace fond circles in anticipation against the Ascian's skin while he shudders some more, his body unresponsive when it comes to pulling away or doing much of anything save for appreciating the man beneath him. He shudders, affected by everything the Ascian does.
Such a strong reaction already... Even Mettaton notices that: it's the product of craving Emet-Selch and how such intimacy with him has his will in shambles. Though he shudders, he rubs against his body with very little disguise against his arousal, aching for more.]
[When Mettaton suddenly collapses atop his body, Emet-Selch has to release his neck with a short, choked sound, feeling the air from his lungs forcibly removed. But it's the sudden pressure against his cock that keeps him from immediately drawing breath again, gasping without sound at the pulse of more demanding need that washes through him.
Though he knew heady anticipation would eventually give way to just wanting him, Emet-Selch didn't expect it to happen so quickly. Though it wasn't just the muffled pressure on his erection that did it (though it was a significant contributing factor), but the way Mettaton had seemed so overcome, the basic awareness of the idol's position over him, legs spread and moaning. It has the Ascian arching under him on reflex, hips jerking up between his thighs as his breathing turns shallow and quick. His hands slide to Mettaton's hips to clutch at them, even if dragging them down would make it that much harder for his own to press upward.
The hands drawing patterns at his chest, the contact with his nipples, were all just more points of pleasure, sharper, smaller notes that further heightened the rest. His eyes are tightly shut.]
Gods, how....
[A small voice, breathless and almost hurt, intoned against the side of Mettaton's neck, made damp from his breath and attentions there. It's more clumsily that he nuzzles at it, punctuated with the haphazard press of teeth or interrupted with a shallow moan, seeking the contact above all else.
Was it Mettaton's response bleeding into his own? Or was it simply the observation of it that has the Ascian shuddering with him, pulse leaping at the sound of his voice, the desperate way he rubbed against his cock?
It ached to feel so constrained, a hiss of frustrated want entering the raggedness of his breaths, though he wasn't about to risk a hand to try and unfasten anything.
How could he yearn for him so strongly? Emet-Selch didn't know, but he moves a hand to the back of Mettaton's head, nudging him to where he can reach his lips again, covering them with his own with no small expression of that longing.]
[With Emet-Selch's own loss of composure comes Mettaton's further collapse, the feeling of being shoved down against his erection enough to bring him to new heights of disorienting lust. Without a Bond he can tell that this expression would have certainly affected him. But the Bond's kryptonite, and its effect is triple fold. He cries out against the gesture in surprise, but he leans into him all the same, letting his head hang toward his Bonded's shoulder when the pleasure overwhelms him even as he nips at and presses into his neck.
He'd almost mistaken himself as having short-circuited, how little he's able to move his body by his own will.
So Emet-Selch's hand guiding him by the back of his neck is a helpful gesture when he can barely take stock of his own body, and he hums into the kiss, fingers curling against the Ascian's skin. It's a good moment to pull himself together after falling so hard, so quickly. He gives Emet-Selch the control over this kiss, feeling prominently his longing and wanting to feel it for himself in action, his own manifesting as a deep heat in his body. Sometimes it's difficult to tell who's feeling what, but he can tell this much, much to his pleasure.
With the chance to recover granted, Mettaton pushes into his the Ascian's lips with his own mix of love and fever, affected but still needing to make his desire known. Emet-Selch can't hold his lips captive forever, and the very moment he breaks away, Mettaton catches him back up in another ardent kiss, a gentle nip at his lower lip before pressing his tongue against it, sliding with a firm pressure before breaking away. Since he likely needs to breathe, sometimes, a little.
He opens his eye and shifts enough to match his gaze with Emet-Selch's, since both of them only have their left eye functional. He smiles, veering heavily infatuated in his sincerity, appreciating the feeling of his chest beneath his fingertips with strokes and prods. The undercurrent, of course, is the sheer want he harbors for the other man, and it's not a moment longer before he's ducking down to press his face into his neck — first, to make sure all knew, with certainty, that this was his Bonded, and second, to kiss and bite at the soft tissue of his neck.
...But even a shift of his hips against Emet-Selch's arousal has him stuttering all over again, and the Puca squirms, helpless against his own cravings but recoiling like he's touched a hot burner. But he settles back down with more conviction this time, the muscle of his legs wound tense.]
[The kiss had been the right choice, he thought, holding it as a kind of lifeline, when the rest of his body wanted to be pulled under by mounting want. Not that Emet-Selch didn't want to drown, in the end. To suffocate entirely and never find his way back to the surface--
It only followed to forget how to breathe sometimes. Tongue slipping into Mettaton's mouth, trailing along his lips, making a low noise whenever he brushed into the puca's own tongue. Dwelling on not only the tastes, the sensations, but the emotion evident behind it all. Emet-Selch thought he'd have noticed it even without the Bond, but alongside that connection, it dug much deeper, hit places that hurt to reach. The sort of feeling he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to claw free of or forget, even if he tried.
His chest still heaving with his elevated breathing, some portion of that hurt is evident in his broken gaze as the Ascian focuses back up on Mettaton's own eye, on what he could make out of his countenance. To try and fix his attention solely on the man over him, and their shared reactions to one another. To think only of the way Mettaton had collapsed over him, the sounds he had made, those moments of weakness. To let his own pulse drown out unwanted thought, memorizing the drifting exploration of his chest as though he could find some meaning there if he could only interpret the patterns correctly--
With openness came unhappiness, always; there was nothing else to open onto.
His neck arches without the necessity of thought as Mettaton's lips come to claim it, and Emet-Selch can't help but moan in anticipation, the hand at the puca's head smoothing over his hair, to rub at the base of an ear. The result of Mettaton's affections from before had been a pleasing sight, once he'd had the chance to observe them (and he'd been right in thinking that seeing them alone would stir some manner of arousal in him). To be marked at all again was a welcome thing.
But his attempts at breathing are disrupted again at each drag over his cock, setting off a sense of need that had never quite settled from the last time he felt Mettaton press against him. His moan is all breathless shudder as he feels the other's deliberation, the weight of him on his arousal causing the Ascian's hips to writhe up against Mettaton with little sense of control. His hand at the puca's hip still clutches at it, before stroking tensely over whatever he could reach of his thigh.]
[Dedicated as he is to marking him up again, Mettaton's ministrations are interrupted by a short stroke applied to the back of his thigh. Already wound tense, he shifts hard and sudden, forcing his body to press into the front of Emet-Selch's pants and his back to arch into him further. His fingers press desperately into the skin of his torso as his latest kiss is interrupted by a broken moan, and the robot finds himself right back to being just as strung out as he was before that long and amorous kiss that served to ground him, dazed and frantic.
He whines. It's too much, and his craving for Emet-Selch's goes beyond his physical capabilities, made evident by the way he boldly rubs against him this time, doubling down.]
Haaades, darling, haa, I— You— c-can't get enough...
[Is that a statement about himself, or a question for the Ascian? Both, really. And as if the terribly distracting sensation of his hard arousal wasn't enough, there's too much else to focus on that Mettaton could die for.
There's the matter of his hand against his ear, which feels too good, better than ever, and he finds himself burying his face into the space between his shoulder and his neck while the one ear Emet-Selch focuses on bends into his touch. To this, he treats the Ascian with a contented, shaky sigh, kissing and kissing him where he can.
And one of the greatest culprits is this Bond of theirs, a heavy, heartfelt thing that aches in pain, in longing, in lust, and in love, all depending on the recipient. And perhaps all at once, the gravity of it eclipsing all else for Mettaton and trapping him here flush against Emet-Selch's body. Their collective feelings are enough to drown the both of them, and neither of them are upset with it: they really do go all or nothing, and when they go for completion, it's as far as they can push their bodies.
Where his fingers press and prod, they also wander, and his hands linger curiously against his chest, where he continues to finger and squeeze at his nipples while he sucks another kiss into his neck, humming into him and pressing into his groin with urgency.
All of it causes his sense for pleasure to crest, stupefying him, and between his needy kisses and bites he can't help but emit a sigh of his pleasure, overcome by sensation as he is. It registers to his body as the same feeling of craving or hunger, and it encourages in him a drooling reflex, of all things. Developing organic responses in a synthetic body is a strange game.
It's a balancing act of delectable sensation that he can't handle, in truth, so he gives way to showing far too much appreciation for all of it at once. He's overwhelmed with delight. It's only minutes in and, as it would turn out, Mettaton's the one coming absolutely undone. ...Yet for as drugged on pleasure as the Puca finds himself, he has enough capacity to reach beneath his body to unfasten Emet-Selch's trousers, pushing them open with one hand but too reluctant to lift from his body to free his cock, despite the shudder of pleasure the very thought of doing so does for him.]
[Being arched into has him cry out, short and brief, feeling the sound echoed by Mettaton's moan. Emet-Selch can't even complain about not being completely marked up immediately, not with responses like that, the continued toying with his chest, the kisses that landed wherever Mettaton's face rested. His fingers skimmed over the back of the other man's thigh, caught up in his voice, and eventually the stronger beat of something, that he didn't think was his own.
Was that- some sort of heightening of experience on the puca's part?- and the Ascian tilts his head, nuzzling at whatever he could reach of Mettaton's- his hair, his ears, shivering, even as his own need continued to ache, his breathing not remotely settled. It was hard to swallow back a whine of resulting desperation, even as he knew he wasn't quite at that point himself, no matter how much his body cried out for it, for him.
Perhaps it was that all-or-nothingness that made it work, in the end, that sense of acceptance, amid it all, despite everything--
The sort of thing that could crush someone, were it not able to be matched. The sort of thing that could only exist in the first place, if it were already being answered, somehow.
But even feeling the echo of it through their Bond sets him trembling, his touch on Mettaton gentling but firm, despite the way he panted. It felt like being surrounded on all sides by the sensation, the physical pressure of Mettaton's body on his, the greater, shared emotional weight, the brokenness of his voice, his sighs. The smaller, tactile details like Mettaton drooling on him (which both concerned him slightly as a reaction, as well provided a kind of satisfaction at somehow being able to provoke such a response).
It was a lot to take in. And piercing it was the more direct presence of Mettaton's hand near his cock, feeling the slight give in his trousers as they were undone, pushed partially apart. It was relief by degrees, a momentary sense of not being completely stifled, followed by further frustration at the remaining constriction, at not having his erection pressed directly to Mettaton's body. There's a definite whine in his throat as he swallows heavily, presses up to him, even though that doesn't exactly make what he wants any easier to achieve.]
[Though Mettaton's reached this point of incomprehension, his is a sustained ordeal that colors his experiences rather than signals his end, and he's all the more starstruck for it. With his lips against Emet-Selch's throat he can feel each noise he makes and the swallow of anticipation at the possibility of his cock's release, which causes Mettaton to smile despite himself. If that's not begging for him to kiss him up and down his throat, pepper him with bites and marks, he doesn't know what is.
With each sound Emet-Selch mirrors, Mettaton's longing manifests as deep, hard kisses against his neck, fulfilling that desire to mark him and take him, sucking in some places until he's sure the mark will last, biting at others, dark and purple to his liking. Between each, it's all he can do to take stock of himself before he finds himself slipping again, feverish and wanting, so he uses Emet-Selch's neck as something of a means to pleasure himself in a way he can control. He sighs with satisfaction as he sinks into his Bonded; his fingers continue tracing his torso where there's defined muscle, occasionally returning to press firm against his chest. He could be as open as he pleased and it would only be for the better, he thinks, and he slips hard into the comfort of being Emet-Selch's in this moment. It's a surrender, but also a claim of his own, something communicated by Bond. With a low hum, he nestles against his neck some more to reaffirm his claim, all the while unable to keep from shifting his hips with his exuberant desire.
The robot's feelings of losing himself intensify with the continued stroking of his thigh, the firmness, and he decides he wants desperately to lean his full weight against the Ascian again. And he will, shortly, but he's still in a position where he took him down from the edge of the bed.
And if he wants to feel his cock as badly as he does, between his thighs and as close as he can get him, he'll have to end up moving, anyway.
He doesn't want to move his hands to wipe at the corner of his mouth once the awareness strikes him that he was drooling gracelessly, but, whatever. He licks his lips, dedicating that hand to something more important as he reluctantly shifts his weight off for the sake of freeing Emet-Selch's arousal: with a deftness, he finishes the job, sliding his fingers against his clothes just where he needs in order to pull out his cock. He applies a single flick of his finger against its head, licking his lips some more.
And he considers for a moment touching him by hand, first. Testing the waters, even as the craving to take him into his mouth strikes him. All of this want feels like one big need, and Mettaton gives up on trying to reason it out as he slides his body back down to settle against the curve of his erection. And his legs, still straddling his hips more than anything, tense significantly at what he feels of his erection, enough for him to gasp and freeze up.]
[The low, barely-audible moans carried on his breath aren't something that Emet-Selch is even entirely aware of, attention caught up in having his skin marred up once more. Of all the things to look forward to, this one perhaps puzzled him the most. It wasn't something he ever would've expected to accept, much less revel in.
Perhaps it was due to all the scarring. It wasn't a matter of permanence, but one of choice, taking a measure of control back by deliberately giving it to someone else. Or perhaps the lingering sign of connection was comforting.
A bit of everything, he suspected, not least of all the sensation itself. The points of pressure where mouth and teeth traveled were moments of slight pain that registered more as intensity, followed by warmth. Emet-Selch shudders. It was stranger still to feel so possessive about it, but he couldn't deny the emotion, feeling as though they were being tied together by virtue of being marked by him. And that when he touched Mettaton in reply, it was something of the same, for all that he left no obvious trace of his presence.
A mutual claim, and a mutual allowance for being claimed. Nothing else would've been fair, or even possible, he thought; anything less would've implied a reservation somewhere, which wouldn't have worked at all.
Was that why he felt so secure, while simultaneously off-balance, constantly on the verge of losing himself entirely, teased with the reprieve it would bring? That he could display his desires so openly, that he contained this many to start. Everywhere Mettaton pressed felt like another affirmation, another reassurance that in this, at least, he wasn't entirely alone.
It takes effort to hold back a noise of protest when Mettaton moves off of him, even for a moment, knowing full well that this small display of patience would be worth it. And that feeling is borne out when his cock is finally left exposed, his breath hitching at the slight relief it brought, and again at the brush of Mettaton's finger. Even that single touch has the Ascian cry out again, the noise faltering back into a moan, body tensing to a degree of pain, nearly oversensitive.
To go from muffled, insufficient friction to direct contact was a lot, and it's all Emet-Selch can do but cling hard to him as he feels Mettaton's body press to his cock once more, breathing sharp. For once, he doesn't try to shift his hips up or rub against him; the awareness and sensation of his erection pressing to Mettaton at all was overwhelming in itself. Not that he didn't still want more of it, even if it hurt- hurt in several ways, even, considering that abject longing- but even that slight friction from his own trembling is enough to lock him in place.]
[The strength of Emet-Selch's response has Mettaton shivering with pleasure, almost envious in his wish to know what it felt like to be so overcome with sheer sensation so profound that it would make his Bonded cling to him so. He hums, charmed by all he hears and feels and sees, though it's perhaps in part thanks to their Bond that Mettaton can sense that Emet-Selch felt truly raw — something he could take advantage of, or allow to recover.
But Mettaton has needs, and he wants Emet-Selch to deliver. He'll give him his momentary peace away from further touching, though not by any choice of Mettaton's, who would much rather wish to overtake him until he screamed. He kisses along his jaw, remaining in place, squeezing his chest under his fingers and pressing his body into him possessively, before suddenly springing off of his lover and further onto his bed. (The temptation to overwhelm him and press into his painful arousal was so great that he feels regret even now as he beholds him still on his back.)
To encourage him to follow his orders, Mettaton leans over and gives him a gentle tug. From Emet-Selch's perspective, the Puca's upside-down, and he exacts another kiss from his odd angle.]
Come on. Follow me... lie back, up here. [That is to say, all the way on the bed with his head against the pillows — Mettaton wants to treat him to his entire body, something he can't do quite as well with Emet-Selch having been in a sitting position originally. Mettaton stoops in to increase his closeness with his ear, his voice adjusting to become a sultry invitation to coax him along.] I'll have more of you yet... And you, me.
[More reassurance: he kisses his neck while he plants his hands against his shoulders, indicating his willingness to do whatever it took to strong-arm him into place if he had to. And he remembers quite well the Ascian's chill from earlier: no doubt Mettaton's proven to be a warm presence the longer he presses against the other man, and he's just lost that. This promises warmth; Mettaton even prepares for that, sliding a foot artfully under unmade blankets in preparation to envelop him.
Of course, even while he's like this (or especially while he's like this), Mettaton steals a long, hard look at Emet-Selch's cock; he feels a chill course over his body at its rigidity, its shape with the understanding of how he feels against his body. He tries to ascribe the look of him to memory, just as he did with his countenance.]
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no subject
But it's around the point where Emet-Selch mentions their like core, their expressions of cruelty, their distrust of the unfamiliar where he reminds himself to try actually listening, even if he disagreed.
And watch that frown shift from anger to disappointment, then evolve into worry when Emet-Selch stops being somebody who is attacking his ideals, and instead somebody jaded who has lived among people long enough to have developed such a view. And, why? So he worries. Their experiences with the same people must be so different if he ever thought that the actions of their fellow Mirrorbound were predictable or unkind. Even if a good portion of even his fellow Mirrorbound treated him to denial of personhood and fear, that didn't make them bad people. That made them someone to appeal to and reach out for.
Mettaton glances away, thinking about the humans who indulged in senseless cruelty. He hadn't ruminated on it much, because it hurt him to think about... The experience with the Rathmores hits him full force, perhaps with even more rawness than being there ever did, more than even when he reflected upon it with Alphys. She didn't experience being taken apart and commented upon like meat or, more accurately in his case, like an example to be made of. Emet-Selch did, and this must be the kind of thing he means when he talks about their capacity for cruelty, a cruelty Mettaton had never considered. And of all stupid, stupid things he thinks about that coward of a man who pretzelled himself frustratingly under a sink to avoid having to interact with Mettaton, accusing him of being a senseless killing machine without basis. Interacting with people has been delightful, but the frustrations sobering, at times.
Mettaton begrudgingly rests his forehead against Emet-Selch's shoulder, finding the added relief of support to be welcome. He doesn't sound like he's mocking him.]
...Humans are scared of monsters. They're scared of ghosts. And... did you know they're also terribly scared of robots? I can't blame them, even still...
[Mettaton is naive and ignorant, optimistic and hopeful, placing humanity on a pedestal like one might do to an idol. Humanity's fear is the root of these poor reactions, and he thought he could bypass it by having the figure of one. The idol would never allow for their fear to color his view: it makes perfect sense.
And even thinking about them in such a light — fleeting, senselessly cruel, distrusting, fearful, their capacity to hurt — he doesn't doubt his love for humanity.]
Anyway. I don't see how you're so different from them. What do you think sets you apart from them...? Really. I don't see what I'm supposed to be disappointed in. Because you feared me and distrusted me just like they do. Your kindness is selective, but you are so much that, and never cruel. Most of humanity isn't either, and their potential is remarkable. And I... found that I could love you just like I love them.
...Did you ever love humanity, Hades? Or have you always disliked them, or waited for them to prove themselves worth loving? What would earn your approval...?
no subject
So when that expression, that reaction changes, Emet-Selch is a bit at a loss, feeling a mix of surprise and confusion at hearing any sort of concession towards humanity's fearful condition. It makes it easier for him to listen in turn, rather than seek out something to be insulted by and lash out at it.]
If you understand what they'll do in their fear, why--
[He cuts himself off with a sigh, a vaguely frustrated sound.]
Of course I have all the same emotions that they do. [And he frowns, glancing aside towards the blank walls of his room, trying to not find offense at being compared to mortals. Trying to decide how to explain the difference.] In the true world, there was no need for fear or mistrust. Were you to appear in Amaurot as you are, you would be welcomed without reservation. Anything I display now, I've learned.
[He's... not at all sure how to react at being told of being loved, alongside humanity. It- hurt, a little. And with Mettaton's head on his shoulder, Emet-Selch reaches up to slowly stroke at his hair. That unabashed (and undeserved) love for humanity was something he could almost respect, if it weren't for its target. It reminded him the smallest bit of his own people, who'd never had to learn distrust.]
How could I ever love them, considering what they're capable of? Yet- that first generation, immediately after the sundering... you could see it in their eyes, sometimes. Moments of recognition, recollection- fading dreams of a world that they would never behold again. No- perhaps I loved them still. I despaired for what they had been rendered into, but I knew not what all that entailed. What all they had become.
If I were to ever accept them, humanity would have to move beyond what they currently are. Even then- I don't know. It would be difficult.
[Perfection was a hard thing to be compared to.]
no subject
[The qualifier was among humanity's many chaotic traits. Their transience, their forgetfulness, their capacity to hurt, their fearfulness. But in listening to Emet-Selch just now, he paid special focus to their loss of remembrance. How isolated he must have felt. They were all a product of his original people, against all odds. That they could no longer recall what he could.
Truth be told, Mettaton's adoration for humanity is also rooted in a very selfish want: an audience greater than he'd ever had. Monsterkind was cramped up in a small space, limiting how they could flourish as a population, and humanity promised to be vast: millions, billions. There's no way Emet-Selch could change his view on a population so pivotal to his development, but perhaps the same could be said for him. His Bonded holds views that run deep and personal.
Mettaton is comforted by the Ascian's hand against his hair, and he shifts his head closer to his neck. Disagreeing about humanity's worth while remaining close to the person with a view his polar opposite... He wasn't directly threatening them, not now. He even admitted himself that he'd have no reason to,here. Perhaps they could both afford to see the other's perspective.]
It seems I'm your opposite again, gorgeous. What a surprise. I hope for them, not despair for them. But... I don't hold any expectations for them, as you do. I don't think it's a trait exclusive to humanity, to be distrustful or quick to judge. They're not perfect, and I love them for it. But just as you learned from humanity some of these traits, they're capable of learning, too.
[And apparently they hadn't done enough of it in the many thousands of years Emet-Selch has been around. He's aware of what he's saying, but Mettaton lacks anything else. Humanity is fine as it is, even in its flaws. That's why he knows how they could respond to their fear, but chooses to make peace with it. Mettaton finally squeezes him back with his hands after having gone cold on him before.]
...When I first learned of your history, I thought to myself that I would do whatever it took to stop you. But the more I understand, the more I don't want to do that. I want you to fulfill your ambitions. What a conflict... I know I'm the picture of perfection, but, well. I have my whims. ...You must have been very lonely.
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An opposition that held no consequence here, beyond the emotions involved in the debating of ethics. Perhaps such lack of result could incur tolerance, he supposed, but this was more than that. An effect of the Bond? Or some acceptance that genuinely held convictions- and that they were convictions, not casually held thoughts or preferences- were something that could be understood, if not agreed with?
Not that the Ascian hadn't scorned honest conviction before, but circumstances here were quite unusual. With no one to save, no gods to revive- no powers, only stories of a doomed future awaiting him, the situation had never been more unstable. He couldn't change his perspective, his experience, but hearing another's was less of an existential threat.
Emet-Selch wondered distantly if this was another weakness of his own; he didn't think any other Ascian would've allowed even this much.]
If one can manage it, not having expectations is only for the best. Fewer disappointments that way. Believing in mortals is the path to ruin, or at the very least, endless frustration. ...Or perhaps you would continue to enjoy their transience, regardless. Ever a new audience, I suppose- so long as you don't tire of performance, you'll never run out of those seeking diversion.
[This is probably the closest Emet-Selch has ever come to accepting or understanding a possible reason for preferring humanity as it is. Even if it was something he inherently disagreed with, the Ascian could see why someone with a personality type like Mettaton's might enjoy those aspects, while being less troubled by the negatives. If the meaning he found in life was to be an idol- an endlessly respawning sea of admirers could only appeal.
Even though it wasn't the sort of thing Emet-Selch would ever be able to believe in himself (and certainly wasn't a good enough reason to spare any lives), it was a better argument than the usual 'they just have meaning, somehow.']
Well... 'tis safe to support my ambitions here. There's naught I can do for them now, and with death awaiting my return, you may offer whatever sympathies you like, to no mortal consequence. --Still, it's heartening to know at least one person isn't wholly devoted to my demise.
[He's not sure what to say about being lonely. It was absolutely true, a core feature of his underlying motivation. His fingers in Mettaton's hair hesitate at the statement; his other arm tightens around him. Instead, he asks:]
--Being immortal, do you think you'll ever become lonely, surrounded by humanity? Or is evanescent adoration enough...?
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Being permitted the "safety" of sympathizing with Emet-Selch, Mettaton smirks and deliberately brings his body closer. He hums a laugh.]
Come on. I doubt many are devoted to your demise, darling... For what good that does. Which isn't much. But it's the sentiment that counts... Or, lack thereof.
[He's thinking about Mira. There's no way she wanted him dead, Emet-Selch, the man himself. She's too fond of him, and with all of Emet-Selch's Bonds to these Warriors, he doubts they feel so strongly about killing him.
He feels the pause, but more than that, he notes the tightening of his arm. It feels nice, and he returns the gesture. That's the feeling he gets from him, he realizes. It's unfathomable loneliness wherever there's want and need. One of his hands moves from his shoulder to trace a slow line across the Ascian's back, one that will follow his shoulder blade before uniting with his spine and tracing further south.
Emet-Selch's bouncing Mettaton's observation back at him in the form of a question doesn't cause the robot to freeze, but it does cause him to slow. Yes, the love of his fans has been plenty. But he's realized that it caused him to place even greater distance between himself and all others, and... The Puca has some thoughts. He places a soft kiss against Emet-Selch's clavicle.]
My fans will always remain my fans, and I... to them, just with in reach. It's as the saying goes. It's lonely, being at the top!! I can't accept every proposal for my hand I receive! Even if my goal is always to please my fans, however possible. ... I hadn't thought about it. Becoming lonely. I'm always surrounded by adorers... And I could see myself being content that way.
[But here he stands in the company of someone he's found comfort with, and just before arriving here, he found himself breaking his routine for companionship. He remains pressed to his skin.]
But I realized something. I've been missing... companionship. I forwent it for long enough that I'd forgotten what it's like. To share myself with someone else, without restraint. ...If my only option was humanity, it's not impossible to find somebody I could keep close. I should think that I would cherish them in their life, and remember them fondly thereafter. It's a bit... It's bittersweet. But it would beat being idolized, having so many to cherish in return, yet lacking someone of significance to adore...
[This sentiment pricks him a lot more than it ever has, and maybe becoming the company-favoring Puca is slightly responsible for it. But the heartache he feels is also in part due to his penchant for ignoring the troublesome aspects of existence: how could he ever fear loneliness if he never acknowledged it? Emet-Selch, with his incredibly different perspective on things, forces Mettaton to consider that which he doesn't allow himself.
From his collar bone, Mettaton places another kiss further up his throat — just barely, the first hint that he'll kiss all the way up. Before he can advance, he remains against Emet-Selch's neck for a moment more.]
Haha. Listen to me. Of course my fans are enough. But... I like this. A lot.
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And he only shakes his head a little- barely perceptible at all, not wanting to disturb Mettaton's presence at his neck- at the idea that few were devoted to his death. He could agree that- those Warriors at least- would not want to kill him. Nor did Emet-Selch want to kill them. But they still would, and he still would, and it all amounted to much the same result, in the end.
He focuses instead on the trailing of Mettaton's hands, the beginning of their slow path down his back, the degree more of pressure of his form against his. It still wasn't the warmth or softness of a normal body, but that mattered no more to him now than it had before. At the small kiss, he stills, finding his eyes closing, to better focus on the sensation, and the sound of Mettaton's voice.
A voice which brings an edge of irritation at the start of his reply, finding it unerringly... Mettaton-esque. The idol was quite good at that, unsurprisingly.
But when he goes into the rest of his answer, the annoyance fades back into a deeper melancholy. Shifting his arms, Emet-Selch wraps both of them around Mettaton again, not tightly, but firmly. His fingers dig in with more pressure, as though limiting his emotional intensity to one thing, as though he could control it that way.]
--that is the greatest flaw to humanity, their inherent fragility. Even when you've found one worth knowing, worth attachment, they'll leave you behind through no intention of their own. How often can you bear to repeat that? Until you can no longer stomach the idea of losing yet another piece of yourself in return for a few moments of company? And yet...
[How could there be a yet? There wasn't, he knew this, but--]
Solitude... well, let's say it doesn't come recommended.
[And so he was here, still; his fingers dig in yet harder. His voice remains even.]
But this is just as ephemeral, you know.
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It isn't as though Mettaton hadn't already known. He's had his fair share of conversations with Mirrorbound who refuse outright to foster meaningful connections, so on their guard that they can't stomach the pain of loss in exchange for the formation of memory. And Mettaton didn't have any reason to anticipate pain, not really.
This thought makes him feel that, somewhat. It's a rush, heavy and light both at once. The heaviness is beyond him, something that permeates his mood; light, because of the thought that something could make him feel such potency that it dizzies him. He can feel Emet-Selch's fingertips gripping into him, and it only serves to intensify the feeling.
The intensity must be contagious, if he weren't feeling it for himself to begin with. Being in Emet-Selch's presence does that to him.]
Yes... It is. ...Good thing we're living it, at present. I want to relish it.
[He moves up and places another kiss to his neck, both firm yet gentle.]
... And I'm willing to give a piece of myself to this. ...You'll let me take from you in turn, I hope. I want to have you.
[One of his hands remains against Emet-Selch's spine, pressing with more urgency there, while the other moves forward to grace against his chest. Mettaton pulls from his neck, body still otherwise flush to his Bonded's as he stares down upon him with an easygoing smile.]
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The present....
[Had he ever lived in it? Not since that time before the disaster, when every day had been much the same, the sort of thing that had felt as though it could stretch on forever. Not that he'd felt contentment, much less happiness even then, and he only appreciated what he'd had once it had been lost. But that was the way of things, wasn't it?
Unease, wariness, perpetual longing. The kiss to his neck both soothed and increased those feelings. Forcing his hands to relax, the Ascian smooths them over Mettaton's back, as though trying to reassure himself further.]
You're asking a lot. It's quite presumptuous, honestly....
[But what did he have in this world? Nothing would ever supplant his people, even if they weren't present in any form. Though his eyes flicker open again, the Ascian's gaze drifts to the side, unseeing. What was the point in trusting someone to that degree, knowing there was no permanence in it? On the other hand- if memory and experience were cursed to remain here, what did he have to lose? It wasn't as though he could bring any more loss back with him.
It wasn't as though he hadn't already been quite vulnerable with Mettaton, but it was one thing to do so on instinct or impulse, and another to be made conscious of it.
...Why did he feel more hopeless at the thought of succeeding? As though resigning himself to a worse fate. What a terrible thing, emotions were...]
I doubt I have anything left to take. [Emet-Selch admits, words slow, as though each one took effort, drained him that little bit more. Looking back up to Mettaton finally, he appears cautious, trying to ignore the lure of his presence, the hand to his chest, the way his back tensed underneath the fingers digging into his spine. The way he wanted to press closer still. It felt like being coaxed off a cliff, being convinced that it was better to break himself again on the rocks below.] Perhaps- over time... if I can dredge something up--
[He makes a small, breathless noise, half-pained, half-amused.]
That's not much of a promise, is it? Or reward. Whatever you scrape off of me, it's not going to be pleasant.
[Could he attach to anything in a healthy way?]
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It almost surprises him to hear that Emet-Selch didn't figure himself as one with anything to take, when he sees so much he'd be delighted to have: the look of tenderness that goes guarded behind sharp eyes, the sounds he makes when kisses him beyond sense, and the way he looks when Mettaton can tell that he's found something of interest to occupy his attentions.
The hand over Emet-Selch's heart moves up to admire his features, fingers stroking the angle of his jaw, the softness of his cheek, and... his thumb freezes at the outer corner of Emet-Selch's eye, recalling that the yellow is truly his.]
To you. But I can't think of a thing less pleasant than something I want, Hades, darling. And if that something is you...
[Crystal, diamond, gold, all things he's found himself arrested by even more than usual since transforming, and this feels more enticing, like having a piece of his very soul. The robot leans on to press a kiss to Emet-Selch's lips, deliberate and covetous in how he captures the other man's lower lip between his, willing to take as much as Emet-Selch has available.
In speaking again, he does it against his Bonded's lips]
And... I think I've already taken from you, besides. But I'll never turn down the offer for more... As much as you have available to me. Ephemeral as our arrangement's made to be... I couldn't possibly forget it.
[A thought occurs to him. He didn't come here anticipating that he'd bed Emet-Selch, no, but he also doesn't know if he should be standing on that leg of his. How slow to people heal, anyway? How quickly? The hand against Emet-Selch's spine moves further south, suddenly, veering off to the side so as to rest firmly against the hip of his right leg.
He gives him a gentle squeeze, appreciating the give of tissue around the back of Emet-Selch's hip. There's even a little push in the direction of his bed, at least so that he can seat him there.]
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As a single scratch could invite infection, so too did affection fester. Why should a simple touch to his face, feeling the path Mettaton's fingers walked with unnatural clarity, mean anything at all? Once the shell of indifference and apathy was gone, he had a weakness to attention like that. The Ascian was a sentimental sort.
The curse of the Bond was knowing it was genuine; this wasn't some trick or ploy; even if it were meaningless, everything Mettaton was offering was real. And Emet-Selch is unnerved anew at how much he did want that, to claim those feelings as though he had any right to them.
The kiss comes as something of an inevitability, but no worse for being anticipated. As he leans into it with the smallest of sighs, he feels his lip caught, the sense of deliberation and care in the other man's gestures. And that it took no effort at all for Emet-Selch to affix his attention on him, to respond in kind. To trail his tongue along Mettaton's lower lip before he replies.]
...I suppose you have, at that.
[He couldn't have been so open with him, before or now, without losing something in the process. Without being taken from. Because that's what it was, wasn't it- inviting loss, and hurt, to be carved up that little bit more for the sake of some temporary solace. Even the idea of being remembered sends a pang through him, a whisper of unhappy tension. How cruel, to offer something so impossible, yet so wanted....
His leg was improving by degrees, but even had it been completely well, Emet-Selch wouldn't have reacted otherwise to that squeeze to his hip, its suggested direction. Without letting himself be pulled from Mettaton's lips, he edges backward until he feels the back of his legs hit the side of his bed. Even then he hesitates to move from him, sitting down and half-trying to pull him with, somehow. Hands skimming along Mettaton's arms, his murmur has a harsher note to it.]
If so, you had better take everything, then. I despise half-measures.
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Instead of sitting by his side, the Puca slides a knee at either side of Emet-Selch's hips, at first resulting in Emet-Selch being even with his torso. But he bends at the waist and curves his back, stroking his hands down Emet-Selch's hair and settling them on either side of his neck with a gentle grip. He brings their faces close, his long ears leaning forward in interest for his Bondmate, who he feels so taken by, so much more than he ever thought possible. It's inspiring: it enhances his every sense, the sheer feeling alone, as if developing them for real wasn't enough. He can feel clearer than ever the depth of Emet-Selch's feelings as though he's above their surface, all too aware of how his Bonded's conflicted emotions ran heavy.
For now, at least, he can tell where he ends and Emet-Selch begins. Mettaton himself feels alive, electric, a sort of restless energy akin to butterflies, and... acknowledged. Recognized, beyond just his desires. But on that note, to take everything from his Bonded... What would that leave behind? He wants to find out, but more than that, he wants, pure and simple.
When might they start feeling each other? That's been a trend, hasn't it? It turns out that Bonds either develop faster than Mettaton anticipated, or theirs was a peculiar connection. And how severe would it develop? It's exciting enough to make him shiver, while being equally dreadful.
The edge of Emet-Selch's voice causes him to lose his words, and he closes his eye in a breathless sigh.]
Demanding, are we...? You'll be pleased to know. I don't settle for second best... and I don't leave things half-finished.
[His hands on either side of his neck, Mettaton eagerly steals him up in a kiss, never anything but the full extent of his desire. His fingers press into the back of Emet-Selch's neck, his libidinous nature stoked so quickly that it's enough to make him feel like the past minutes were spent in aching tension, as though he's wanted him all along. His mind starts conjuring up the ways he wants Emet-Selch, both possible and impossible — impossible always being the ways he can't take him for himself.
Deeply frustrating, but he'll put it all aside to focus on this. Right now, as he pushes his tongue between lips, appreciating their softness and his Bonded's warmth, though he's perhaps warmer yet. It's hard to beat out a machine with temperatures that beat out feverish.]
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Mettaton's words, his voice, send a rush of heat running through him, a sense of satisfaction with it. Even though Emet-Selch expected nothing else by this point, it seemed that neither of them were the sort to do anything by halves. Even in gentleness there was intensity, and he had a similar thought as to their Bond; there was still much further it could go, and what would that feel like, considering the strength of everything already?
Would it even be possible to hold back, if he tried? He was either giving himself to this, to him, or he was not; there was no partial answer.
And he remained surprised at how quickly, how easily his body responded to Mettaton's advances- at his nearness alone, even. Emet-Selch's interest had ever been limited, further dampened by depression and smothered by lethargy. Perhaps it was the directness, or openness of this connection- that yearning for emotional closeness finding some physical avenue for expression. Whatever the cause, Mettaton provoked it so thoroughly that the sudden intensity of that want has him lightheaded and completely hard.
It wasn't a normal warmth, but he'd take it, lips parting to take the other's tongue, sliding his own back against Mettaton's with a stifled noise, a quick breath. Even if it reached a point of burning, Emet-Selch doubted that he'd have an easy time pulling away. His hand moves up to Mettaton's face, his thumb grazing the corner of the other's lips where their mouths met, the tips of his fingers trailing over the idol's cheek.
Though it's gently that his other hand rubs along Mettaton's hip, gently that he cups his face and moans softly into their kiss, it all belied his own frustrated want. Though the Ascian had begun his studies for transfiguration, he was still a beginner; there was nothing he could do for them yet. It was hard not to give voice to that desire, to swallow back all the ways he wanted to claim him. What he could offer in turn, if Mettaton could only take it.
But there was still the taste of his mouth, the eagerness that he could feel and respond to, the fingers at his neck encouraging him to remain where he was (as though he had any desire to pull back, even for air). Though Emet-Selch hadn't expected Mettaton's visit to go this way- not with a discussion that began with the end times and potentials for godhood, and included a disagreement on the wonders of humanity- he wasn't entirely surprised either.]
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Mettaton pulls from the kiss just enough to examine the Ascian's face, a momentary break to take in the features he wants to be kissing, a chance to see how he looks as a point of reference for later. It's a sudden whim, but Mettaton's expression grows severe, sharp and evaluating in its attention to detail. To remember him now means comparing him to later, when he's flushed and lovebitten. The hue of his cheeks, the look in his eyes, the flush of his lips, the keep of his hair... None of it goes unchecked, and it's one of the more robotic things this non-robot would do.
How would Emet-Selch look minutes from now? How about after he's through with him? He's immediately hooked on the thought, desperate to see him exposed in this new light. Though Mettaton's expression is intense in the passion of his assessment, his legs tremble slightly against the mattress against his will, a fault of having muscle instead of pure metal.
And he says nothing about it, but he finally smirks.]
...Your eyes never fail to make me weak, beautiful.
[And though he's thinking of other things, it's the truth. He fancies the Ascian's gaze, found it to be one of the most defining traits he left the cell with of his soon-to-be Bonded. For being a ghost in the machine, Mettaton is awfully attracted to the physical form of things, even when he's so capable of separating their concepts.
With some of his composure regained, the hand he kept on his shoulder slides to the other man's shirt. If there are layers he'll have to use both hands, but no matter how it goes, he doesn't want anything keeping him from his chest. With unusually practiced dexterity for a robot who doesn't need to wear clothes, he unfastens closure after closure with one hand, humming with his work as he goes back to take Emet-Selch into a deep kiss, tasting him and leaning into him with the threat of pushing him over. He takes easy control, clearly driven toward something, a deep passion building within him.]
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A note of skepticism enters his expression at being so closely observed, a look of habit, rather than actual feeling; he didn't know what Mettaton was searching for, but he didn't mind being considered, if for unknown reason. And it was interesting in itself to see the idol with that particular focus; it wasn't an expression he thought he'd seen before, and he watches him back just as shamelessly, waiting. Apart from his breathing being a touch elevated, his manner carrying an edge of anticipated desire, a sharper attentiveness amid permanent exhaustion, Emet-Selch looks relatively normal, thus far.
And he frowns back at that smirk, that line; though he refrains from asking, he still comments.]
So glad you found something to approve of.
[He sighs with no real exasperation into that kiss, even as he finds himself distracted by it, falling into it. His teeth graze across Mettaton's tongue, his lips, a drag of pressure rather than any bite. He could feel that hint of a quiver to the other man's legs, as more of a small vibration against the mattress, and he's drawn to drag a hand across his thigh at the sensation.
And with his shirts being opened, Emet-Selch doesn't try to help quite as much as the first time, letting Mettaton handle the fastenings on his own. He still uses the opportunity to stroke over his hands and arms, small touches to anything he could reach, ending the kiss with a shakier breath, only to press his lips along Mettaton's jaw, trailing to the top of his throat. As he feels skin hit air, he can't help but shiver, just from the change in temperature; his room tended towards the cold.
The reflex from being leaned into was to try and brace himself against the mattress with an arm, to hold himself up amid mounting pressure. But after a moment's deliberation, the Ascian relents, latching back onto Mettaton instead, allowing himself to be pushed back if he chose to.]
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It's hard not to get distracted by what Emet-Selch treats him to, both within their kiss and beyond it. As feedback, feeling his hands wander his body forces him into deepening his kiss for longer with a short noise of pleasure from his throat, pressing harder, not allowing him to break it until he can have his fill. It surprises him how a mere stroke of his hips and his thighs can make him shudder, forcing him to squirm and readjust his body to handle the sensation. The feeling of teeth in his kiss makes him more amorous and intense, and before he could possibly permit his Bonded from changing focus and treating his jaw, he catches him in one last kiss, biting and sucking at his lower lip before releasing him.
MTT still smirks yet. But through their ever intensifying connection of a Bond, it's easy to tell that sensation of this quality remains new and alluring, if not overwhelming... But it's easy to tell that the idol thrives in being overwhelmed. Even the softest of touches sends sparks through his system and makes him want more, something just as sweet or something harder or more intense, he can never decide which. Would he ever get over this, when he's only craved it for so long?
His eyelid's heavy, and he bears his neck to Emet-Selch as he finishes undoing his shirts (of which there are multiple, requiring both hands). He hums, pleased by the initiative.
Emet-Selch shivers. MTT pushes, and he holds onto him in turn, ultimately allowing Mettaton to call the shots. Mettaton doesn't quite push him all the way back yet, but he smiles softly at him as he looms above him.]
You shiver... Is it cold in here?
[He can't tell. He imagines he'd be able to if Emet-Selch's skin were to accustom to the air about them and if he were to use his mouth, but he's otherwise clueless.
In the meantime, Mettaton takes the opportunity to press him into the bed, though he keeps close to allow Emet-Selch the ability to continue working on his neck. Almost as though he likes it, which he does. One of his hands greedily pushes his clothes open, dragging his hand up his abdomen and across his chest with varying pressure, all deliberate and curious. His hand lingers over his heart, his thumb stroking at his skin as Mettaton sighs again, smitten.]
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Why was the threat (or promise) of being pressed down nearly as enticing as the action itself? Each moment carried its own anticipatory edge to it, a blend of expectation and desire, and he felt a little off-balance in more than just position. At the question, Emet-Selch tilts his head back just enough to allow his gaze to flicker back up to Mettaton's face, still oddly caught between moments. As though trapped in mid-air, waiting for gravity (or more accurately, Mettaton), to finish crushing him.]
Somewhat. 'Tis good you can't feel it.
[Because then he'd have to consider keeping his room at a more appropriate temperature. But if Mettaton didn't notice, and the Ascian didn't care, then there was no point in bothering.
Finally, time resumes as Emet-Selch feels his back hit the covers, Mettaton's body remaining satisfyingly close, appreciating that he doesn't have to stretch too far to bury his face against the idol's neck again. Closing his lips around the semi-skin of his throat, he sucks a slow line along it, finding it a pity he couldn't really mark him in the same way. But the contact, even the texture remained good.
And hands on skin were much preferable to hands on clothes, setting the Ascian shivering anew, but at touch this time. His muscles contract wherever fingers press, wondering distantly if he were actually more sensitive, or just more attuned to anything Mettaton chose to focus on.]
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When his legs lose the will to support the way he hovers over the other man's body, he collapses atop his Bondmate. As part of an unrelenting series of circumstances that unfairly target his weakening sensibility, Mettaton finds that he drops, legs spread, against the surprising hardness of Emet-Selch's cock, still trapped in his trousers. Mettaton's fingers grip desperately into the give of Emet-Selch's pecs, reflexively bearing more of his neck as he throws his head back and gives a hard moan still trapped in his throat, biting his lip. Of course he's hard... Even though he has nowhere he can go but remain with that arousal, Mettaton reflexively shifts his hips and holds tighter to this body, his attention unfocused and blissful.]
D... Hades... I—
[But what a rush it is to feel his partner's hardened arousal between his forcibly spread legs. Even as he shifts, he can hardly keep himself from rocking into him, causing him to make more noise yet — a whine, more bearing of his throat, consumed by lust enough to idly run his thumbs over Emet-Selch's nipples without realizing it.]
I...
[He can't keep track of whatever he was doing before, but his thumbs trace fond circles in anticipation against the Ascian's skin while he shudders some more, his body unresponsive when it comes to pulling away or doing much of anything save for appreciating the man beneath him. He shudders, affected by everything the Ascian does.
Such a strong reaction already... Even Mettaton notices that: it's the product of craving Emet-Selch and how such intimacy with him has his will in shambles. Though he shudders, he rubs against his body with very little disguise against his arousal, aching for more.]
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Though he knew heady anticipation would eventually give way to just wanting him, Emet-Selch didn't expect it to happen so quickly. Though it wasn't just the muffled pressure on his erection that did it (though it was a significant contributing factor), but the way Mettaton had seemed so overcome, the basic awareness of the idol's position over him, legs spread and moaning. It has the Ascian arching under him on reflex, hips jerking up between his thighs as his breathing turns shallow and quick. His hands slide to Mettaton's hips to clutch at them, even if dragging them down would make it that much harder for his own to press upward.
The hands drawing patterns at his chest, the contact with his nipples, were all just more points of pleasure, sharper, smaller notes that further heightened the rest. His eyes are tightly shut.]
Gods, how....
[A small voice, breathless and almost hurt, intoned against the side of Mettaton's neck, made damp from his breath and attentions there. It's more clumsily that he nuzzles at it, punctuated with the haphazard press of teeth or interrupted with a shallow moan, seeking the contact above all else.
Was it Mettaton's response bleeding into his own? Or was it simply the observation of it that has the Ascian shuddering with him, pulse leaping at the sound of his voice, the desperate way he rubbed against his cock?
It ached to feel so constrained, a hiss of frustrated want entering the raggedness of his breaths, though he wasn't about to risk a hand to try and unfasten anything.
How could he yearn for him so strongly? Emet-Selch didn't know, but he moves a hand to the back of Mettaton's head, nudging him to where he can reach his lips again, covering them with his own with no small expression of that longing.]
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He'd almost mistaken himself as having short-circuited, how little he's able to move his body by his own will.
So Emet-Selch's hand guiding him by the back of his neck is a helpful gesture when he can barely take stock of his own body, and he hums into the kiss, fingers curling against the Ascian's skin. It's a good moment to pull himself together after falling so hard, so quickly. He gives Emet-Selch the control over this kiss, feeling prominently his longing and wanting to feel it for himself in action, his own manifesting as a deep heat in his body. Sometimes it's difficult to tell who's feeling what, but he can tell this much, much to his pleasure.
With the chance to recover granted, Mettaton pushes into his the Ascian's lips with his own mix of love and fever, affected but still needing to make his desire known. Emet-Selch can't hold his lips captive forever, and the very moment he breaks away, Mettaton catches him back up in another ardent kiss, a gentle nip at his lower lip before pressing his tongue against it, sliding with a firm pressure before breaking away. Since he likely needs to breathe, sometimes, a little.
He opens his eye and shifts enough to match his gaze with Emet-Selch's, since both of them only have their left eye functional. He smiles, veering heavily infatuated in his sincerity, appreciating the feeling of his chest beneath his fingertips with strokes and prods. The undercurrent, of course, is the sheer want he harbors for the other man, and it's not a moment longer before he's ducking down to press his face into his neck — first, to make sure all knew, with certainty, that this was his Bonded, and second, to kiss and bite at the soft tissue of his neck.
...But even a shift of his hips against Emet-Selch's arousal has him stuttering all over again, and the Puca squirms, helpless against his own cravings but recoiling like he's touched a hot burner. But he settles back down with more conviction this time, the muscle of his legs wound tense.]
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It only followed to forget how to breathe sometimes. Tongue slipping into Mettaton's mouth, trailing along his lips, making a low noise whenever he brushed into the puca's own tongue. Dwelling on not only the tastes, the sensations, but the emotion evident behind it all. Emet-Selch thought he'd have noticed it even without the Bond, but alongside that connection, it dug much deeper, hit places that hurt to reach. The sort of feeling he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to claw free of or forget, even if he tried.
His chest still heaving with his elevated breathing, some portion of that hurt is evident in his broken gaze as the Ascian focuses back up on Mettaton's own eye, on what he could make out of his countenance. To try and fix his attention solely on the man over him, and their shared reactions to one another. To think only of the way Mettaton had collapsed over him, the sounds he had made, those moments of weakness. To let his own pulse drown out unwanted thought, memorizing the drifting exploration of his chest as though he could find some meaning there if he could only interpret the patterns correctly--
With openness came unhappiness, always; there was nothing else to open onto.
His neck arches without the necessity of thought as Mettaton's lips come to claim it, and Emet-Selch can't help but moan in anticipation, the hand at the puca's head smoothing over his hair, to rub at the base of an ear. The result of Mettaton's affections from before had been a pleasing sight, once he'd had the chance to observe them (and he'd been right in thinking that seeing them alone would stir some manner of arousal in him). To be marked at all again was a welcome thing.
But his attempts at breathing are disrupted again at each drag over his cock, setting off a sense of need that had never quite settled from the last time he felt Mettaton press against him. His moan is all breathless shudder as he feels the other's deliberation, the weight of him on his arousal causing the Ascian's hips to writhe up against Mettaton with little sense of control. His hand at the puca's hip still clutches at it, before stroking tensely over whatever he could reach of his thigh.]
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He whines. It's too much, and his craving for Emet-Selch's goes beyond his physical capabilities, made evident by the way he boldly rubs against him this time, doubling down.]
Haaades, darling, haa, I— You— c-can't get enough...
[Is that a statement about himself, or a question for the Ascian? Both, really. And as if the terribly distracting sensation of his hard arousal wasn't enough, there's too much else to focus on that Mettaton could die for.
There's the matter of his hand against his ear, which feels too good, better than ever, and he finds himself burying his face into the space between his shoulder and his neck while the one ear Emet-Selch focuses on bends into his touch. To this, he treats the Ascian with a contented, shaky sigh, kissing and kissing him where he can.
And one of the greatest culprits is this Bond of theirs, a heavy, heartfelt thing that aches in pain, in longing, in lust, and in love, all depending on the recipient. And perhaps all at once, the gravity of it eclipsing all else for Mettaton and trapping him here flush against Emet-Selch's body. Their collective feelings are enough to drown the both of them, and neither of them are upset with it: they really do go all or nothing, and when they go for completion, it's as far as they can push their bodies.
Where his fingers press and prod, they also wander, and his hands linger curiously against his chest, where he continues to finger and squeeze at his nipples while he sucks another kiss into his neck, humming into him and pressing into his groin with urgency.
All of it causes his sense for pleasure to crest, stupefying him, and between his needy kisses and bites he can't help but emit a sigh of his pleasure, overcome by sensation as he is. It registers to his body as the same feeling of craving or hunger, and it encourages in him a drooling reflex, of all things. Developing organic responses in a synthetic body is a strange game.
It's a balancing act of delectable sensation that he can't handle, in truth, so he gives way to showing far too much appreciation for all of it at once. He's overwhelmed with delight. It's only minutes in and, as it would turn out, Mettaton's the one coming absolutely undone. ...Yet for as drugged on pleasure as the Puca finds himself, he has enough capacity to reach beneath his body to unfasten Emet-Selch's trousers, pushing them open with one hand but too reluctant to lift from his body to free his cock, despite the shudder of pleasure the very thought of doing so does for him.]
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Was that- some sort of heightening of experience on the puca's part?- and the Ascian tilts his head, nuzzling at whatever he could reach of Mettaton's- his hair, his ears, shivering, even as his own need continued to ache, his breathing not remotely settled. It was hard to swallow back a whine of resulting desperation, even as he knew he wasn't quite at that point himself, no matter how much his body cried out for it, for him.
Perhaps it was that all-or-nothingness that made it work, in the end, that sense of acceptance, amid it all, despite everything--
The sort of thing that could crush someone, were it not able to be matched. The sort of thing that could only exist in the first place, if it were already being answered, somehow.
But even feeling the echo of it through their Bond sets him trembling, his touch on Mettaton gentling but firm, despite the way he panted. It felt like being surrounded on all sides by the sensation, the physical pressure of Mettaton's body on his, the greater, shared emotional weight, the brokenness of his voice, his sighs. The smaller, tactile details like Mettaton drooling on him (which both concerned him slightly as a reaction, as well provided a kind of satisfaction at somehow being able to provoke such a response).
It was a lot to take in. And piercing it was the more direct presence of Mettaton's hand near his cock, feeling the slight give in his trousers as they were undone, pushed partially apart. It was relief by degrees, a momentary sense of not being completely stifled, followed by further frustration at the remaining constriction, at not having his erection pressed directly to Mettaton's body. There's a definite whine in his throat as he swallows heavily, presses up to him, even though that doesn't exactly make what he wants any easier to achieve.]
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With each sound Emet-Selch mirrors, Mettaton's longing manifests as deep, hard kisses against his neck, fulfilling that desire to mark him and take him, sucking in some places until he's sure the mark will last, biting at others, dark and purple to his liking. Between each, it's all he can do to take stock of himself before he finds himself slipping again, feverish and wanting, so he uses Emet-Selch's neck as something of a means to pleasure himself in a way he can control. He sighs with satisfaction as he sinks into his Bonded; his fingers continue tracing his torso where there's defined muscle, occasionally returning to press firm against his chest. He could be as open as he pleased and it would only be for the better, he thinks, and he slips hard into the comfort of being Emet-Selch's in this moment. It's a surrender, but also a claim of his own, something communicated by Bond. With a low hum, he nestles against his neck some more to reaffirm his claim, all the while unable to keep from shifting his hips with his exuberant desire.
The robot's feelings of losing himself intensify with the continued stroking of his thigh, the firmness, and he decides he wants desperately to lean his full weight against the Ascian again. And he will, shortly, but he's still in a position where he took him down from the edge of the bed.
And if he wants to feel his cock as badly as he does, between his thighs and as close as he can get him, he'll have to end up moving, anyway.
He doesn't want to move his hands to wipe at the corner of his mouth once the awareness strikes him that he was drooling gracelessly, but, whatever. He licks his lips, dedicating that hand to something more important as he reluctantly shifts his weight off for the sake of freeing Emet-Selch's arousal: with a deftness, he finishes the job, sliding his fingers against his clothes just where he needs in order to pull out his cock. He applies a single flick of his finger against its head, licking his lips some more.
And he considers for a moment touching him by hand, first. Testing the waters, even as the craving to take him into his mouth strikes him. All of this want feels like one big need, and Mettaton gives up on trying to reason it out as he slides his body back down to settle against the curve of his erection. And his legs, still straddling his hips more than anything, tense significantly at what he feels of his erection, enough for him to gasp and freeze up.]
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Perhaps it was due to all the scarring. It wasn't a matter of permanence, but one of choice, taking a measure of control back by deliberately giving it to someone else. Or perhaps the lingering sign of connection was comforting.
A bit of everything, he suspected, not least of all the sensation itself. The points of pressure where mouth and teeth traveled were moments of slight pain that registered more as intensity, followed by warmth. Emet-Selch shudders. It was stranger still to feel so possessive about it, but he couldn't deny the emotion, feeling as though they were being tied together by virtue of being marked by him. And that when he touched Mettaton in reply, it was something of the same, for all that he left no obvious trace of his presence.
A mutual claim, and a mutual allowance for being claimed. Nothing else would've been fair, or even possible, he thought; anything less would've implied a reservation somewhere, which wouldn't have worked at all.
Was that why he felt so secure, while simultaneously off-balance, constantly on the verge of losing himself entirely, teased with the reprieve it would bring? That he could display his desires so openly, that he contained this many to start. Everywhere Mettaton pressed felt like another affirmation, another reassurance that in this, at least, he wasn't entirely alone.
It takes effort to hold back a noise of protest when Mettaton moves off of him, even for a moment, knowing full well that this small display of patience would be worth it. And that feeling is borne out when his cock is finally left exposed, his breath hitching at the slight relief it brought, and again at the brush of Mettaton's finger. Even that single touch has the Ascian cry out again, the noise faltering back into a moan, body tensing to a degree of pain, nearly oversensitive.
To go from muffled, insufficient friction to direct contact was a lot, and it's all Emet-Selch can do but cling hard to him as he feels Mettaton's body press to his cock once more, breathing sharp. For once, he doesn't try to shift his hips up or rub against him; the awareness and sensation of his erection pressing to Mettaton at all was overwhelming in itself. Not that he didn't still want more of it, even if it hurt- hurt in several ways, even, considering that abject longing- but even that slight friction from his own trembling is enough to lock him in place.]
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But Mettaton has needs, and he wants Emet-Selch to deliver. He'll give him his momentary peace away from further touching, though not by any choice of Mettaton's, who would much rather wish to overtake him until he screamed. He kisses along his jaw, remaining in place, squeezing his chest under his fingers and pressing his body into him possessively, before suddenly springing off of his lover and further onto his bed. (The temptation to overwhelm him and press into his painful arousal was so great that he feels regret even now as he beholds him still on his back.)
To encourage him to follow his orders, Mettaton leans over and gives him a gentle tug. From Emet-Selch's perspective, the Puca's upside-down, and he exacts another kiss from his odd angle.]
Come on. Follow me... lie back, up here. [That is to say, all the way on the bed with his head against the pillows — Mettaton wants to treat him to his entire body, something he can't do quite as well with Emet-Selch having been in a sitting position originally. Mettaton stoops in to increase his closeness with his ear, his voice adjusting to become a sultry invitation to coax him along.] I'll have more of you yet... And you, me.
[More reassurance: he kisses his neck while he plants his hands against his shoulders, indicating his willingness to do whatever it took to strong-arm him into place if he had to. And he remembers quite well the Ascian's chill from earlier: no doubt Mettaton's proven to be a warm presence the longer he presses against the other man, and he's just lost that. This promises warmth; Mettaton even prepares for that, sliding a foot artfully under unmade blankets in preparation to envelop him.
Of course, even while he's like this (or especially while he's like this), Mettaton steals a long, hard look at Emet-Selch's cock; he feels a chill course over his body at its rigidity, its shape with the understanding of how he feels against his body. He tries to ascribe the look of him to memory, just as he did with his countenance.]
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