[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.]
[Though he doesn't quite have the breath to yelp as Mettaton bounds aside and off of him, Emet-Selch does make a choked, startled noise, as all of that pressure and contact was suddenly gone, leaving him momentarily bereft. Though it's too brief for alarm to set in, there's relief nonetheless at being touched, even partially, when Mettaton's kiss, and his words, register properly.
Emet-Selch has a sense of regret himself for this brief delay, even if it was probably good for him, though he suspects he won't be allowed much in the way of chances to recover. Which was thoroughly fine with him; even if it hurt, especially if it hurt, that was the smallest of prices to pay for all of this. Drowning was never a comfortable thing, was it?
When he tilts his head back this time it's to look at him, upside-down and luring him elsewhere. Not a very far elsewhere, fortunately. And the Ascian had to admit that Mettaton had a point with the positioning. Only half against the flat of the bed, they couldn't press fully together, for one thing. Distantly, Emet-Selch was aware that it was a somewhat undignified position as it was- half-dressed, with his trousers open but not off, his aroused cock fully exposed, his neck bruised and a bit drooled over, out of breath, unfocused, and a bit mussed. Not that the Ascian cared at all; if anything, he was a little amused at the absurdity of being left like this.
But it doesn't exactly take much convincing for him push himself up, even with the distraction of Mettaton's voice against his ear, the lips against his neck (all of it coming from a disorienting angle). Though he takes a moment to slide his pants off the rest of the way, Emet-Selch allows himself no further delay in shifting himself onto the bed properly, helped somewhat into position through the encouragement of Mettaton's hands. Not that he needed encouraged, but he'd welcome whatever touch he could get. Though his body had warmed considerably though arousal, not having Mettaton over him was a considerable loss on all levels, including simple heating.]
Is that a promise...?
[His murmur is heavier than he intended, breathlessness and wanting coloring the edges of it. Before lying down properly, he can't help but sit up properly first, leaning over to instead press his lips to Mettaton's. There's more force, more visible need in it than he intended, a small noise smothered by the tongue he's slipping past his lips. His hand warmly cups the side of Mettaton's face, thumb stroking his cheek.
...he had other words, he thought, but Emet-Selch could no longer recall them. And it's with reluctance that he pulls back to stretch out upon the bed.]
[All while Emet-Selch's made to move into place, Mettaton feels as if he's lost the breath he doesn't have, and he sighs, ridiculous. He remembers what he thought of him on Valentine's, wondering just how he got around to thinking he was any bit worth his attraction, but right now he finds him terribly so. (Not as hot as Mettaton, but could anything rival him??) Everything he'd done to him so far only enhances the look, and Emet-Selch will find him watching him fondly with his own hand pressed to his cheek and a smile, eyes half-lidded in his wooziness. There's no way to doubt how he feels: it's conveyed loud and clear by way of Bond, his unchecked attraction for his form and his pride in what he's done to him, from his neck to his cock.
As he advances, Mettaton allows for Emet-Selch's hand to take the place of his own once he takes him into a kiss, and Mettaton hums into it with his eye closing. He leans in, appreciates his need and his intensity, placing hands upon the back of the Ascian's neck, if just for the duration of this short kiss made unintentionally passionate. Upon pulling away, Mettaton wobbles in place just a bit with a smile, smitten.
But then he has Emet-Selch prostrate before him, yet another delightful view, and it's at least an opportunity to run the back of his hand against the corner of his lip to recover from any time he ended up drooling because he fancied something too hard. He'll want to see him again, to compare that mental image he has of Hades collected compared to when Hades loses himself to pleasure, but this is an undeniable teaser. Mettaton's quick to leverage his body above Emet-Selch's, hungry for more.]
Yes, Hades-darling. How could it be anything else—
[... Even over something like this, why did he have to say that? Mettaton visibly grows both more alert and more dazed, his ears standing to full attention as he realizes what sort of mistake he's made. A Puca... cannot defy a promise. Even a sexy promise with vague terms. He'll have more of him, and Emet-Selch should get more of him in turn? Whatever that means, he'll have to see it to its satisfactory conclusion at any cost. If it's not good enough, he'll have to do him again, until it is.
He wonders if Emet-Selch knows this about him, and he narrows his eye suspiciously, one ear in a usual state of neutral pleasantness as the other one folds back in irritation. His voice is a playful warning.]
Are you toying with me, gorgeous? Bringing promises into the bedroom... I have to admit. It's awfully clever, if you want to secure a state of being absolutely ravished by me...
[And, reciprocated. Being so easily spoken once again is bound to be lost to him from the very moment he presses his body into his Bonded's. He needs to be making contact with him now, desperately.
The Puca first leans down to kiss his neck before pressing his chest to the Ascian's. Their hips follow suit, and he makes a show of attention as he adjusts the positioning his body relative to Emet-Selch's arousal while he shifts around on top of him. He settles once he can barely feel him curved against his body, which he notes with a sigh, and he closes his thighs just enough to hardly touch him. Mettaton shivers with delight before taking stock of how Emet-Selch's doing, with his weight to his anticipation.]
[It remained a strange thing to be observed so obviously, and with something he assumed was appreciation. And while he hardly minded the attention, he also didn't understand it; this body was just a shell, like all of them. Satisfaction for the effect he had on him was one thing, but any attraction to his (now somewhat damaged) host still struck him as unnecessary.
(And he thought it a pity again that he couldn't see Mettaton's soul, had only gotten an impression of it during their Bonding. He'd never seen a soul from someone not of his star before. He'd always found them to have the potential for more beauty than anything else.)
But worse than that was any look of fondness, or affection. An absurd thing to unsettle him now, after everything, as though it hadn't already been repeatedly demonstrated. Perhaps it was just beginning to sink in, that it wasn't going away, that it was probably going to get worse. But you could care about someone without being fond of them, after all. The latter was far more...
Difficult. And the sort of thing he still emotionally recoiled from, yet longed for. A conflict that's likely to ripple through their Bond, even as Emet-Selch is distracted slightly from (those specific) unpleasant ruminations as he watches Mettaton move, hears his reply--
And blinks at the unexpected reaction, regarding him with curiosity, a different sort of interest. In truth, he was unaware of the rules binding pucas to their promises, so this- rather irritable response to what he took to be a rather straightforward exchange has him uncertain. He knew of danger sensing, and an appreciation for betting (which didn't necessarily imply a requirement for followthrough), but....
It might be something he can work out himself later, but for now the Ascian's priorities remained on what was in front of him. And soon to be on top of him. Whatever the reason for Mettaton's particular determination, he was more than willing to accept it. Really- promises or otherwise, what else would have been sufficient?
Emet-Selch finds his words lost once more when Mettaton takes his place over him, the deliberation in the way he settles. A small, full-bodied shudder passes through him at the combination of sensations, from the weight of Mettaton's body alone holding him in place, the way his skin felt pressed to metal, the hint of contact around his cock. He hisses softly, swallowing back a groan, finding it that bit harder to breathe- which was starting to become a familiar thing. His arms wrap warmly, if loosely around the puca, rubbing them slowly across his back, appreciating how much he could feel of him at once, though it was hard to imagine how it could ever be enough.]
Is that... so terrible a wish?
[Oh look, he found some words after all. But only a few.]
[Conflicted, over his show of affection? That's all he could make out of this disagreement he feels. Mettaton meets his gaze sharply, fleetingly, and there's a sudden spike in the way he feels about the other man that can't go unknown. Meeting his gaze then ignites in him all of the fondness, adoration, and care he harbors for Emet-Selch, deeply, disturbingly. He's not confused about his own feelings in the slightest, and couldn't be made to doubt his own heart.
Uncomfortable as it might make the Ascian, he couldn't stop him, nor control him. He feels not burdened by this, but light, a pleasant and electrifying energy.
But there are other matters he cares to tend to than his heart, and just as quickly, the robot changes gears and averts his hard stare for long enough to blink. Pressed under him and hardly able to conjure the words, Mettaton hums, elated to have Emet-Selch right where he wants him. The look in his eye is satisfied and deeply wanting, his hands squeezing the other man's shoulders once as he runs them down his biceps then slides them against his sides. There's a spike in pleasure at the mere sight and sensation of it, the beginnings of an automatic reflex. He can feel him shudder beneath him, and he wishes he could have had his throat close to his lips when he made that noise.
The Puca leans down to press a short kiss against his lips, and replies against him in kind.]
No. But... you'll certainly. [Words. He can force his tone to be even, but when his mind blanks out, it's troublesome. Another quick kiss before he continues.] Certainly get what I... promise. And so will I. Don't doubt, darling.
[Once more, he can feel how tense his lower body is at the notion of Emet-Selch's erection so close. He recalls the odd sensation he had before of feeling like he'd be missing something upon being separated from him the last time they got so intimate, and that much feels true all over again. Experimentally, Mettaton wraps his thighs loosely about his erection, just enough so Emet-Selch's made to feel him but with no exact pressure.
It's a good thing Mettaton's finished talking already, because it's all he can do to swallow down a noise as he lets his head hang toward the Ascian's shoulder at the impact the sensation has on him. Naturally, for such a feeling to rattle him on a mindful level, his body responds in kind: he can't help it when his thighs tense, enclose him with more pressure despite his wishes, and he presses his face into his neck to stifle a moan again. Biting into his neck helps somewhat, and Mettaton hisses.]
[If he hadn't been having trouble breathing before, meeting Mettaton's eye like that, feeling those emotions wash over him would've been more than enough to suffocate him, regardless of circumstance. As unguarded as he was, it hit very hard, and if it hadn't been for the security of being pressed down, oddly enough, he might even have panicked from it. The Ascian was still rendered dizzy, pulse thready.
He didn't want to think about it. Couldn't; even those small kisses help to snap his focus back onto something else, and he leans into them with all the concentration he can muster. Mettaton's voice registers more than his words, which take Emet-Selch a few extra moments to go back and decipher, still caught between sound and the taste of his lips. The way Mettaton's hands moved over him, his own body attempting to twitch or lean into any and all points of contact.
Underlying it all is the pulsing ache from his erection, so stiff that he finds himself gasping anew at only having his cock so gently held between Mettaton's thighs, unable to prevent his hips from shuddering upwards. But there's little he could achieve of his own accord, other than spark a more insistent want in him. The sort of thing he could bury himself in, and he moans more loudly, remembering the way the idol's strangely muscular legs had squeezed around his cock the last time.
As though spurred on by that memory, he feels the tensing of Mettaton's thighs around his length once more, and his breathing quickly sharpens. His hips still struggle to rub further against the twitches of the other man's thighs, as his body as a whole presses up, desperate for ever more of him.
Emet-Selch's hands dig in to Mettaton's back when he feels that bite sink into his neck, shivering hard. Pressing his head against Mettaton's, his eyes are tightly shut, lips slightly parted as he begins to pant. Another mark for the collection, he suspected, each one as valuable as the last.]
[As if he thought he'd crested that feeling of satisfaction before, Emet-Selch's full-bodied response is entirely too erotic. He squirms, forcing his thighs together around Emet-Selch's length, which only startles him into stuttering against the other man's throat. His figure writhing beneath his weight is intoxicating, and Mettaton's hands drift down to anchor his thumbs against Emet-Selch's hips, fingers digging into the soft tissue as far behind as he can manage with his back pressed against the bed.
To take more of his Bonded, and to give as much in return... Mettaton takes greater control of Emet-Selch's pleasure, curving his back just enough to give Emet-Selch some freedom to thrust against the twitching of his thighs. He deiberately loosens and exerts pressure between his legs in unpredictable rhythm. This is his chance to move, though it's short-lived. It's not long before the robot comes back down upon him to take away that freedom, pinning him into place with more intent than ever, pressing his trembling thighs together with a hiss. It's only natural that by this point, his body, wanting as he is, is wracked with unintentional response: for each twitch and each sound given by Emet-Selch, his body responds with immediacy, systematic in his feedback.
Mettaton moves from sucking and biting at his neck to kissing him deeply, flicking his tongue out to signal his desires before sliding between his lips. He controls him utterly from above him. If he could render him truly breathless all over again, he feels certain that he'd lose his mind to oblivion. Already, with the Ascian panting, he's off to a good start. One of his hands drift from his hips to thread into this hair, starting from that shock of white and pushing back, mussing it up worse than before.
Time for dreadful feelings, which Mettaton views as anything but. His adoration for the Ascian is immense, his desire to see his mind blown immeasurable. His behavior is flippant, usually, but when the Puca pulls him in, closer and closer, the depths of Emet-Selch's sentiment never fail to surprise Mettaton. He's terribly vulnerable like this, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He sighs by noise into their kiss, overwhelmed and content. Mettaton could drown in the satisfaction his Bonded brings him, or he could see himself drowning in his sentiment, and he'd be content either way. Neither daunt him. As always, he can be vulnerable to his heart's content beneath Mettaton's weight. He welcomes it.
When he pulls back to give Emet-Selch a moment for air, he gives him only enough before coming back down upon him with a moan in his throat, nipping at his lower lip and lifting again, then treating him to yet another kiss, three of varying intensity in a row.]
[The sudden ability to move has him feeling weightless, thrusting almost helplessly against Mettaton's thighs, unable to find any sort of rhythm himself, aching terribly from each drag of friction. And when he's rendered helpless to move, Mettaton bearing down on him again, his hips continuing to twitch, the Ascian's body shuddering into the mattress. His moaning was sharp but ever quieter as he loses ever more desire, much less opportunity, to draw a proper breath.
The kissing certainly did not help in that regard, his small noises further stifled by Mettaton's tongue, swallowed up by their mouths, and Emet-Selch makes no attempt to counter this. Even the smaller moments, the brush to his hair, the sound of a sigh, it all added up, it would all bury him.
Drowing, suffocation, the sense of being crushed; he had no word to describe the feelings that wasn't a negative one, that wasn't ultimately fatal. And yet to stop was impossible, to want to, unthinkable.
...It reminded him a little of being tempered.
And how welcome this futility was. How miserable he was, with ever more of it dragged to the surface with such openness. There was thousands of years worth to deal with, compressed and compacted, and Emet-Selch wasn't sure if he was trying to bury Mettaton in there with him, or cling to the puca's own feelings instead, to drown in a different sort of sentiment. He was lost either way, the Ascian knew that much.
Each kiss breaks him a little further, the different intensities giving him no chance of adjusting, nothing to anchor to, leaving him capable of only responding, almost harsh in his urgency. He was certainly overstimulated now, in every sense of the word, biting at Mettaton's lips when he could claim them, before losing his grip on them with ever hoarser cries. His cock hurt to be touched, much less gripped by trembling thighs, but he wouldn't have pulled back from it, even if he physically could.
Emet-Selch didn't have the coherence nor the breath to plead with him, for everything that he didn't have words for. But it was there in his feelings, in the way he struggled. He couldn't be saved, but did he have to be alone?]
[Mettaton cries out. It's broken off by the end in initiating yet another kiss, wanting nothing more than to take more of him yet. With both of them so open to each other, however, it comes as little surprise that the sheer force of Emet-Selch's feelings, pure in form and weight and misery, would yank Mettaton in another direction entirely, as if gripped by the throat. It isn't fear, but he feels unprepared, like he's found an anaconda deep in a burrow when he'd already seen its tracks. His hand fists in his hair and the one against his hip grips tighter on reflex. How could he bring them closer? He feels desperate for that, and he's not sure if it's his feeling or his Bonded's. It doesn't matter anymore. Even he felt as though he'd be crushed, but he knew he wouldn't be. He couldn't be. Despair isn't his, though it rubs raw against him.
He continues to take more and more kisses from him, frantic, and continues to rub against his cock with a feverish desire for more. The sheer amount of heat he feels in his core is surely reflected in the taste of his mouth, heat in place of air. Mettaton feels all but addicted to what he can get out of his Bonded in this moment, scarcely able to stop just to soothe the ache he feels. His ears fold back, flush against his head in his backwards submission to it all, his acceptance of him. In truth, he loves his openness in this moment, the insight into his desire, as terrifying as it is in his misery.
This intimacy appeals too much, and he can't think straight inundated by such sensation, fondness, and affect. The hand against his hip traces gently up to his shoulder, where he grips the Ascian with a shaky moan at the feeling of his trembling figure beneath him, the sound of his faint cries enough to make him go weak. The sheer weight of his feelings become pleasant, a backdrop for his bliss and his love despite it all, complex and thrilling.
Both of them felt so much, in such opposite directions. Emet-Selch's disorientation, suffocation, and abject loneliness permeated all else, but it didn't overwhelm the idol to the point of drowning. He grows more tender, continues to deliberately steal his chance for breath for as long as his urgency isn't for needing to breathe... Because the robot feels like his urgency needs to be met with him instead. He feels nothing but compassion and love and familiarity, for someone he's known for only a month's time.
Still, in his unguarded state, Mettaton ends up granting Emet-Selch room to breathe unintentionally when he ducks toward his ear and kisses him against his neck, the place he seems to gravitate to, and he sighs. Presses into him; nuzzles him; squeezes him closer with the winding sort of strength unique to an arm like his. His voice is smooth as ever, low, coaxing, heady, and close, with an edge of his need.]
Hades...
[He wants terribly to fill Emet-Selch with him as a form of claim, primal and intuitive. If he can't do it physically, how better to do that than to occupy his senses?]
[Each response, each sign of Mettaton's own frantic desperation leaves him shuddering, reeling from the sense of it seeping into his own. He didn't think that he would be burned by Mettaton's lips and tongue, but he wanted to be, wanted to take every bit of his warmth, if he couldn't have his breath. And with no breath to steal, Emet-Selch is left with only his own poor attempts at it, with every squeeze of his cock leaving him panting ever more harshly.
There was a comfort in being held to, enveloped, wrapped up in his arm, feeling Mettaton's face against his throat, the texture of his voice. And there was more comfort in that sense of familiarity he felt as well, something he didn't want to examine too closely at all. But comfort wasn't enough, no matter how hard he attached to it, and to him, no matter how much he tried.
When he finally reaches some sort of peak, the Ascian almost doesn't realize it. There was ever sharper pain, desperation and necessity, and finally a point that hurt worst of all, as though climax was something to be torn from him. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't terrible either; most of all it was intense, blinded him the rest of the way, erased the concept of thought itself- but that was what he wanted, wasn't it?
Apart from the continued small, soft pleads, it's completely soundless.
As he latches onto Mettaton physically, Emet-Selch clings to him mentally as well; he was still inundated, permeated by the sense of his own despair, but it wasn't the only thing there, the only thing left. It was so foreign, so different that he didn't know what to make of it, neither to reject it nor defend from it. It didn't hurt him any less (or at least, he couldn't disconnect it from the pain that was already there), but it hurt differently, pressing to the rawest parts of him that had long gone untreated, unreached.
His breath is shaky, not only from the desperate need for air, but from the force of collected emotion. He presses the side of his head hard against Mettaton's, as though he could burrow against him further, somehow, disturbed feelings barely even beginning to settle. His hand buries itself in Mettaton's hair, feeling the brush of those pressed-back ears, but his grip is weak, as trembling as the rest of him. There were no thoughts remaining.]
[Mettaton closes his eye upon the feeling of Emet-Selch's release, still not used to the feeling of an orgasm, both physically and mentally by Bond. (And it wouldn't surprise him to know that Emet-Selch is his own experience, in this regard...) But he sighs at the feeling of it, his come thick against his inner thighs, taking in the sensations of everything in this moment. First, physical: Emet-Selch's body beneath his own, the erratic rise and fall of his chest, his hair under his fingertips, the warmth of his neck against his lips.
Emotionally was much more yet. It was draining, but he'd do it over again and again. Now's where it gets harder to discern where Mettaton ends and Emet-Selch begins, though it feels like an obvious rule that the despair and all of its derivatives should belong to the Ascian... But somehow, even that he doubts. It's hard to tell them apart, but he feels strongly his compassion for the other man even through his melancholy. He squeezes him again, noticing the way he leans against his head hard, gasping still.
Mettaton gives his head a reassuring stroke, and he smiles against his skin after a kiss.]
I'm not leaving you, but...
[The robot lifts, barely, shifting some of his weight off of Emet-Selch, for his own good. He gets the feeling that he won't like the loss, feeling that he has a preference for his weight atop him — a pleasing thought to the idol. He takes the opportunity to tuck Emet-Selch under his chin, against his neck to pull him into intimate space, still covering him and wishing to continue holding him close. He can feel the sheer level of his Bondmate's disorientation, and he wants to keep him near as he unwinds.
His leg is once again very helpful in drawing up the covers, and he pulls them around the two of them securely. After doing so, he winds his arms tight around his shoulders and his back, drawing him closer.
He sighs. It's content, and he squeezes Emet-Selch with his arms, possessive and affectionate. He nuzzles into the top of his head with his cheek, reflecting over those last moments where Emet-Selch got so scandalized over the fact that Mettaton harbored such deep affection for him. He smiles, presses into the Ascian with more of his weight again, and nuzzles the top of his head.]
[It was true Emet-Selch had a sense of vague disapproval when he feels Mettaton's weight shift, to have less of him bearing down on him. But it was also true that there wasn't much he could do about it other than wait, both physically and in terms of general coherence.
But the reward of blankets around them was a good one; even better was the feeling of arms around him, and his face pressed to Mettaton's throat. Though his eyes had briefly opened to watch him as he moved, still feeling so overwhelmed as to be blank, they close again as he burrows against his Bonded's neck, as though hiding himself there. As though he could retreat from the rest of the world, shut himself away from it entirely.
And he remains attached to Mettaton in turn, with less desperation, but with no less insistence, as though he could hold him to his statement of not leaving. The Ascian's arm is heavy but loose around him, with irregular twitches of firmness, as though needing to occasionally reassess or reassure that Mettaton was still there, that he hadn't moved from him.
It was harder to detangle emotionally. Everything physical was still more than he could handle, from the comforting weight of Mettaton's presence, the nuzzling of his hair, the mess he'd left against the other man's thighs. His breathing, still elevated, still shaky, repeated exhalations against Mettaton's throat. All of that was more than enough to occupy him, when thought- ever unwanted- began creeping back.
Anything positive, any sort of tenderness or compassion he assumed was from Mettaton. But it wasn't as though he didn't harbor his own affections for him, didn't care for him in turn; how could he not, in the wake of shared experiences like these? And that complicated things. It was difficult enough to sort through all that he felt through the other man- painful in its unfamiliarity and warmth- too drained to do much other than let it settle, uncomfortably on him.
It was a feeling not forgotten- Emet-Selch rarely forgot things, to his continual misfortune- but so buried and neglected, that it was barely recognizable.
There was a lot, and so quickly. Was that why it hit so hard, that it gave him no opportunity for defense? With conscious deliberation, he presses his lips to Mettaton's neck, strangely tentative. Unable to speak, all he had left was some small gesture of affection, appreciation.]
[Mettaton gives him silence not for his sake, but to run over things on his own. Still in a space of being keyed up, not having had the chance to come all the way down from his pleasure, it strikes the Puca that he hadn't gotten the chance to look upon Emet-Selch's expression while he was at his peak. It had occurred to him, but he'd prioritized holding onto him so strongly that it wasn't as important to look at his features and memorize them. Disappointing... but a future opportunity.
The robot pays attention to Emet-Selch and what little he can manage, feeling a bit... proud, to feel him unable to cling onto him tight enough besides an occasional twitch. He certainly had his fill. He runs his hands up and down in slow, meandering lines, a gentle but consistent reminder for the Ascian that he's holding him — something in addition to his twitching to affirm things.
The landscape of Emet-Slech's emotional state is far more dismal than his own, and it remains easy to liken it to the depths of an ocean beneath the surface. He kisses the top of his head this time; takes note of all of that uncertainty in his heart, wondering just how it feels to be alive for thousands and thousands of years to the point that emotions such as his own could register so strangely, and he feels pity. He squeezes him, a more maintained gesture rather than a quick one of reassurance.
Emet-Selch moves against his neck, and it's with curiosity that Mettaton waits to see what he'll do. The hesitance that precedes such a soft kiss spoke volumes, and the gesture of intentional affection warms him over in waves, and he can't help from smiling at his Bondmate with an additional lightness in his chest, humming a note of fulfilled satisfaction. His fingers press into him, and he buries his nose into his hair, finding absolutely no inclination to move from this spot.
...He doesn't feel it should be necessary to revisit a promise so amorphous, but, well. He feels like he had more of Emet-Selch than ever, but how did he feel? He needs to confirm. His voice is soft and thick with affection, and breaks only to catch up with his slower-than-normal thoughts, knowing he's well against his neck.]
Did you have... your fill of me, Hades, darling...?
[It took time to settle. And some things, once disturbed, were unlikely to fall back into place. At least, not taking the same shape.
But the stroking helped. A simple gesture to focus on, and be reassured by, and Emet-Selch even manages a soft sort of humming noise in response, in clear, if quiet approval.
Was it possible to feel both unnerved and content? Because the Ascian was making a concerted effort to experience both at the same time. Because it was comfortable to be held and kissed and even drained, at least in this particular way. And even emotionally, there was something of the same, even amid the sadness. Something that he wanted to possess, even if he was unsettled by it. As it still felt eerie, unusual, dangerous; nothing that could be relied on or trusted to remain. How could he just accept something so impossible as mutual caring and acceptance?
He kisses Mettaton's neck again, as though to assure himself of- something, he's not entirely sure what. But he allows his lips to linger there, brushing over a small patch of his throat with near-absurd gentleness, just breathing in his presence, taking in the sound of his voice.
...oh, that was a question for him, wasn't it.]
--ah. Yes... I suppose. You've taken quite a lot, and given just as much.
[Another kiss, barely distinguishable from the faintness of lips.]
Though- is it even possible to be filled completely...?
[He couldn't imagine ever getting tired of this, ever willingly giving it up, rather than losing it to inevitability. Even the thought has his grip tighten, with a bit more sustained success.]
[Satisfied, not just for the sake of fulfilling a promise, his ears press back down, and one his his hands drifts up to run through his hair — a natural place for it to land, given how he holds him. He smiles into his hair.]
As always. I live to please.
[A moment. Such light kisses coming from Emet-Selch feel unusually pleasant, enough to make him shiver, gestures he could see himself getting lost in. It's only fitting that he'd make a remark like that.]
And, given that... I could always try, in vain. However. If it were possible, you might be satisfied enough to stop. I wouldn't like that.
[An insatiable, bottomless desire is nothing short of what he likes to hear. He feels that all good things run on this: in performance, the demand exists because there's not enough of him, and in intimacy, demand exists for the same reason. Mettaton finds the thrill of being in Emet-Selch's intimate company to satisfy him similarly, but in such different a way where he can have a demand in return. He doesn't have much of that with people, elsewhere. It only goes to show him what he'd spent his years without, in neglecting most all close contact.
So he hums, relaxing, though not to loosen his grip too significantly. It doesn't surprise him too much that he'd come to love somebody so different from himself, given the chemistry he feels from each encounter with the Ascian. Complicated enough are his views that... unfortunately, he saw reason in it, and that's a more dreadful aspect.
Something he could deal with later; he's optimistic. The idol doesn't want to think about that less-than-pleasant concept right now, preferring to think upon the present moment. The closer they grow, the more he gets something of a hint into Emet-Selch's mood, and it feels like something easy enough to break with a gentle touch. Something bred out of affection, likely, and Mettaton's all the more willing to dole out more of it for that, feeling as amorous as he does. Mettaton kisses him atop his head, his fingers rubbing through locks of hair in slow passes. Feeling things is good, especially when it's something unusual and jarring, he thinks.
...Emet-Selch's earlier request to temper him in Zodiark's place, should things work out in that way, takes on a new shade of delight for the Puca, who would relish taking him for himself. It would be blind and unbending, sure... But he can fantasize. That relaxed grip turns more intense, and he holds him closer to his body.]
[It was as unfamiliar to give affection as it was to receive it, though at this point Emet-Selch has no choice but to accept that this was exactly what he was doing. Both in action and in motivating sentiment behind it. And though he pauses, breath hesitating at this realization, forced to acknowledge it- he continues momentarily. And remaining very soft in gesture; even if he couldn't mark him visibly, that didn't mean he couldn't give attention to the whole of his neck regardless, in small, slow brushings of his lips.
Though he hears Mettaton's reply, he doesn't answer immediately, still working on his neck, thinking on his words.]
Hm... an unusual thing, for immortals. To find something as equally as unending....
[Or that at least gave the impression of such. And considering their circumstances were not eternal- well, it wasn't as though they'd ever be able to learn differently.
Which was an unfortunate thought in itself, and he hesitates, then nestles himself closer, tangling a leg with Mettaton for extra contact. He should know better by now, to even consider giving into a delusion like this. But with Mettaton holding him closer in turn, the intimacy of the puca's hand running through his hair- it seemed a bit of a moot point. It was already too late.]
How unexpected. To find a preference for going unfulfilled.
[It did surprise the Ascian to be at all fond of someone not from his home. And while the revival of Amaurot would always come first in all things, he supposed it didn't exclude the possibility for caring for someone outside of it. It was only unexpected. Would he still sacrifice Mettaton for the sake of his people (if for some reason it were necessary)? Of course- without hesitation. But then Emet-Selch wouldn't be at all surprised to find he mourned for him in turn. A constant cycle of people to sacrifice and revive.
But it wasn't as though he'd never gotten attached to individual mortals in the past- and had it all end the same way: with their death, and himself alone. But Mettaton already had the benefit of not being mortal (for all that it mattered here), while providing that strange mix of familiarity and the unknown. His complete opposite in so many ways, but he was drawn to him because of it, rather than despite it. Someone he could be unguarded with, who could withstand him... while providing Emet-Selch with something he'd have to withstand in turn. Things like affection and strange perspectives. A mutual possessiveness.
And on the impossible chance that godhood could be achieved, that it worked as Mettaton claimed, and its influence could reach even Amaurot... Emet-Selch couldn't even finish the thought, it was too much of a dream to consider too closely. Though the stray idea of being tempered by Mettaton instead was... more congenial than it possibly should've been. The Ascian had been under Zodiark's influence for longer than he'd had a motivation that was completely his own; having completely free will sounded alarming. And while his adoration for Zodiark remained immovable, the idea of a similar tether binding him to Mettaton, ensuring that he couldn't be abandoned- it wasn't an unpleasant thought.]
[With the way he keeps kissing him, and Mettaton's body is made to shudder in reply, will he ever let him come down from this maintained state of pleasant stimulation? It keeps him keyed up, just enough to teeter on full relaxation and reawakened longing, so it has to be a sensual blend of the two. It's both gratifying and lulling, that's for sure, feeling his Bonded behave with such deliberate closeness. He offers more of his neck to Emet-Selch with a soft hum, impossible to hear for anybody who isn't already by his throat.
His kisses don't mark him, because they couldn't. But he has the sneaking feeling that he'll be imagining this feeling later on, by way of desire and sentimentality. To think of himself as so vulnerable to affection of this breed, it's almost enough to make him laugh. So he smiles to himself instead.]
Well. Being perfectly fulfilled... means the show's over. So, then... I must be...
[Terribly predictable, all things considered and unconsidered. To think that many of his motivations relate to finding a constant audience, one that withstands the obvious test of the ages and captivated him over the years... Humanity, fleeting yet charming as it is, is the perfect one for him. Why is Emet-Selch right? He'd never spared a thought toward eternity prior to meeting Emet-Selch, and so having his inclination for an unending, thrilling experience be recognized as something someone like them would favor is slightly unnerving.
Or maybe, validating. He isn't sure. He simply hasn't had enough experience viewing himself in any frame other than the sensational present and the dreams unrealized for the future. And that future proves to be vast: exciting, though he can see how it might be crushing to some. There's an entire dimension to be considered about lasting and continuing to be, isn't there? It daunts, but it entices.
He does feel satisfied being unfulfilled and always wanting more. That's the nature of eternal want. Mettaton would always want people to never have enough while simultaneously drowning in it. A person like Emet-Selch who could handle his intensity... It suddenly clicks into place, a realization about himself and their dynamic. Why he delights in it, holds a more continuous flame for it. Being with him gives him an entirely unexplored dimension to living as he is, something otherwise totally different from everyone. This isn't something he could find anywhere else, this person. It's nice.
Mettaton grips onto him. He reciprocates the tuck of his leg by pulling him closer with his own. His legs aren't quite what they used to be, but he finds it nice that he feels so much more with them now, even if they've warped compared to what they used to be. At first, he hated this, but he has no choice but to embrace what he's becoming. He took to it easily, considering he's had to learn how to... move... twice, already.
...Something else to focus on, before this overwhelms him in time. He doesn't dare pull away from his kisses, but his ears spring up with the interest.]
H... Hades, by the way. Before I became so distracted by... you, from you. [A breathy laugh. Their mutual desire is very distracting.] I was also meaning to check in on you. About your Bonds. Since I'm quite dedicated to seeing how this unfolds... How are you doing, in that regard? Any reason to regret your decision, yet?
Edited (when will i finish my sentences) 2020-03-12 02:13 (UTC)
[Genuine and soft, and genuine and frantic: both varieties had their appeal. Both expressed the same thing in different ways, and Emet-Selch was a little surprised at how easy it was to slip between them.
Though he still felt as though he were settling back down from his release, their continued closeness, the way Mettaton shuddered and held onto him- it kept him from settling down entirely. Languid, yet interested, and unsettlingly affectionate (that was the only part he had trouble with). But he enjoys that quiet hum he can only just make out from Mettaton, more pleased by it than he thinks he probably should be, and his hand strokes slowly at the idol's upper back. Attention drifting towards the top of his throat, he focuses underneath his chin, even giving it a small lick, before trailing along the underside of his jaw, softly humming in reply. His leg tightens for a few moments, appreciating how much of Mettaton's body he could feel stretched out and pressed against his own.
It was possible there really was some kind of balance in operation here. As by contrast, Mettaton's ability to remain in the present was- if not something Emet-Selch envied, it was something he wanted to understand. Or at least witness. Even if the idol wasn't as ancient as himself, he wasn't mortal, and Emet-Selch assumed Mettaton's perspective to be entirely different from those of transient humanity. And yet he seemed to revel in the opportunities of his existence, could live in a changing world as though its unreliable nature held value. That the present was worth staying in.
It wasn't as though the idea was wholly foreign to the Ascian. Amaurot had been a very peaceful, steady present. He hadn't been happy, but he hadn't been bored either, even if one day had been much like the next, a stretch of time that had felt like forever. Any problems he'd had had come from himself, not through any fault of the world. But after the sundering, once everything and everyone had changed, Emet-Selch hadn't been able to change with it. Not in any positive way, at least; his past was now his ever-present, a weight to crush him underneath.
Even if he'd never understand it... being in the presence of someone with similar-yet-dissimilar aspects was... comfortable. It echoed the past without being the same as it; this wasn't something he could find with anyone else.
At the mention of his Bonds, Emet-Selch pauses mid-kiss, mid-thought, his hand on him stilling. Though there was the impulse to say that everything was fine- after all, he had no proof that anything was wrong, only suspicions- he had agreed to keep Mettaton informed. And while he wasn't bound to it in the same way as a puca was to their promises, Emet-Selch did always speak the truth (as he saw it; and not necessarily the entirety of it).]
No regrets. [That was the most important part, so he says it first.] However... I have noticed a certain increased fatigue. I don't believe it to be illness, and I'm too far recovered from my injuries for it to be the result of that.
[Though he falls silent for a few moments more, it's clear that he's not entirely finished, and the Ascian ends up interrupting his ministrations further by pressing the side of his face against Mettaton's neck and keeping it there.] I've started falling unconscious outside of my control.
[They are their counters. Mettaton marvels at how hard the Ascian clings to his past while he takes care to remove trace of his where possible. Even the assuming of a new form was his assumption of a new life, by choice. For Emet-Selch, it was a major tragedy that changed things. It doesn't surprise him that they see their own existences so differently, that he himself would fixate on the present and the future while Emet-Selch would live in the past, unable to do much living now.
If the Ascian could learn how to simply be without having the past haunt him, he thinks he could only benefit. He catches him hurting so often. Emet-Selch's beyond being relieved of his past without losing his memory of it, but the inability to move on is impressive, if not despairing. There's no coming back from such trauma, an incident of terror Mettaton can only imagine. But if he could help him let go of it for a time here or there, he likes the thought of it.
The attention paid to his neck causes the robot to sigh and shift his other leg in a weak squirm, pressing closer to him as a gesture of appreciation for his contact. His shiver's enough to get him to close his eye and bite his lip to steel himself from... losing himself to continued want so readily, he supposes. He knows he could go on. Have some composure; he's trying to have a conversation!
For the sake of his focus, Emet-Selch's pause is helpful. Mettaton focuses on his hair, able to just barely catch the darker color of it from the corner of his eye where the Ascian has his face close to his neck. Feeling him press into him more firmly with such an alarming symptom...
The robot keeps stroking his hair without pause. For somebody who likes sleep, surely this is remarkable if Emet-Selch finds it noteworthy.]
Unconscious. [He's repeating it, like it could give him new understanding that way. He assumes easily that this is not due to a lack of rest.] That is concerning. I've never heard of it happening before... in the context of a Bond.
[Nor does he know enough about the science of Bonds to say why this might be happening, aside from having too many of them. He's a Monster, so is Irhya, and Mira's a Witch... the last of his Bonds is unknown to him, but no matter what sort of arrangement it is, that could still be three Monsters at most. Three, which is the recommended maximum for any kind, and having his opposite? Why wouldn't having three Monsters plus a Witch not work out? ...He can't delude himself very far, of course. Having three Monsters to service, plus a Witch, likely doesn't change the fact that there are four ways his magic's being forced. Mettaton's predisposed to thinking of magic as a life force, since that's precisely what it is for him. It would make sense that it would rob him of his consciousness.
He feels a spike of concern. It's a bit more worrying than he'd like it to be.]
... I never did tell you. When we first Bonded, I didn't care to... Though now, you might have noticed already. That someone with a soul like mine might have different, steeper demands. I'm supposed to be made of magic, and upon losing it...
[Someone might feel they could handle four, but what of four when one of them is like himself? He absolutely doesn't want to give this Bond up: about that, a streak of stubbornness runs strong. The thought now is unbearable, and he doesn't even consider it, even if he were the problem. His hand rests against the back of Emet-Selch's head, his fingers twisted in his tousled locks.]
Is there something you've found that relieves these fainting spells?
[Even if he could never move on, his sense of loss a permanent fixture in his life, moments like this- surrounded by warmth and company- could potentially coexist with it. Even if it couldn't change, it could ease, if only briefly.
And the continued hair-stroking was soothing, restful, while the squirm of Mettaton's body was not, Emet-Selch feeling it quite clearly considering how closely they remained pressed. Contrary impulses, but all of them pleasant, and he makes a small noise of approval, encouragement despite the current topic.
Emet-Selch also thought that his current balance of Bonds should make the most sense. If a witch was able to handle three monsters without concern, why wouldn't three monsters and a witch for a bit of extra magic be entirely sufficient? Unless the existence of four ties in itself was enough to disrupt things, that his soul really couldn't handle the transfer of energies?
Or Mettaton's theory was true, that he was a more draining monster than most of them. And for that matter... if he was the puca's only Bond, then the Ascian was supporting him by himself. All of his others had at least one other person involved. He decides not to mention this.]
Mm... I suppose it's possible. Aside from you, I have two other monsters, and a witch. I would assume that to be a thoroughly sufficient balance, but if you count as perhaps an additional monster--
[Emet-Selch sighs. It was something of a concern, but not one that worried him as much as it probably should. Breaking one of his Bonds doesn't even occur to him as an option. Of course he wasn't going to do that. So the only real option was living with it and finding a way to manage it.]
I may just require more rest than I anticipated. I don't appear to have any issues immediately after I awaken, whenever that misfortune occurs. 'Tis only after I've been conscious for some time that problems arise. And even then, it's not... consistent.
[So it may be a mistake to be looking for patterns in it, but a solution of 'more sleep' wasn't exactly an unappealing one. He nudges the side of his face against Mettaton's neck again, hold on him tightening, something that sends an incidental shiver through him. His leg rubs a little against Mettaton's as he speaks.]
...Well, who knows? Perhaps I'll finally take that year's long nap after all.
[Mettaton, too, focuses only on a workaround. He seems to agree without thinking about it that annulling a Bond isn't an option. Even if he somehow counted as an additional Monster, having Mira there should charge him with yet more magic, so maybe... he needs another Witch? Somehow, that doesn't seem to add up.
It's more than likely that the warnings are as they are because any more than three ties would be exerting to anybody in this place. He prefers to think that there must be another answer.
He allows Emet-Selch to finish, feels him press closer yet and shudder against his body; on reflex, he grips onto him more tightly. He makes a hum of amusement mixed with irritation at the notion of him deciding to just. Give up and sleep.]
Tsk. You will not find that year's long rest easy, sweetheart! Not if I have anything to say about it. I will tend to you, personally.
[He pulls him back with his leg "menacingly" before considering his other idea, which is yet more sleep. But in small doses, something he already feels inclined toward doing isn't so bad.]
With a bit more rest, then. As much as like you very much awake... If it helps, can we really deny it? I'll have to see it that you're getting plenty of opportunities for sleep...
[Good thing that when Mira asked for dating advice, Mettaton told her to stay close to home, despite the plethora of more extravagant options. He had a bad feeling about anything else, and this is probably why.
His body clings onto the echo of that full-bodied shiver, and he continues sticking close to the Ascian as the hand not in his hair roams the expanse of his back. Mettaton had never fully removed his clothes, but with how they remain open in the front, he's able to slip his hands beneath them with ease; his hand, having been pressed to Emet-Selch, is already flush against skin and surprisingly warm to the touch. He presses his cheek to the top of the Emet-Selch's head and presses in deeply to keep him as his.]
We'll all have to support your endeavors for more sleep.
[Emet-Selch had also considered that perhaps his problem was not enough witches, and if things continued to worsen, he'd consider it more closely. Because adding more Bonds was surely the direction to go in. It still felt more feasible than the idea of removing any. That option wasn't so much off the table as having never been brought to the table to begin with.
And he's not at all surprised to hear Mettaton's apparent disapproval for the option of 'actually, just sleep forever.' There was an odd sort of- assurance in that, no doubt aided by the way the idol kept the Ascian's head tucked firmly against his neck. While staying securely nestled there, Emet-Selch still tilts his head slightly, to kiss his throat again, voice muffled against it.]
I'll have to wish you luck in that... as I'm apparently quite hard to wake up, these days.
[Just another point of mild concern to drop in there: not only did he fall asleep unintentionally, it was more difficult to rouse him at all.
And while he wasn't not worried, Emet-Selch couldn't let himself dwell on it too closely either. Because if there was nothing he could do, that it continued to deteriorate instead of remaining at the level of 'hassle'- what option did he have? Nothing. Either he'd manage it with a bit more rest, or he'd fall asleep and not bother waking up: those were the choices. Either was acceptable, really....
Mostly. While the lure of unconsciousness was undeniable, neither did Emet-Selch want to lose out on times like this. And if he was so desperate to not be left alone, it felt hypocritical to abandon Mettaton by voluntarily slipping into a coma at first opportunity. It was all more of a conundrum than it should've been.]
Though if you're trying to encourage me to sleep... I have to say you're not doing a very good job of it.
[What with the hand creeping about his back, the shifting of his leg, the press of his body that he was growing ever more aware of. It didn't surprise him at all to find himself beginning to stiffen again, something that he presses with deliberation to Mettaton's body with a softer sigh. Eyes closed, he licks slowly at his throat.]
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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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Emet-Selch has a sense of regret himself for this brief delay, even if it was probably good for him, though he suspects he won't be allowed much in the way of chances to recover. Which was thoroughly fine with him; even if it hurt, especially if it hurt, that was the smallest of prices to pay for all of this. Drowning was never a comfortable thing, was it?
When he tilts his head back this time it's to look at him, upside-down and luring him elsewhere. Not a very far elsewhere, fortunately. And the Ascian had to admit that Mettaton had a point with the positioning. Only half against the flat of the bed, they couldn't press fully together, for one thing. Distantly, Emet-Selch was aware that it was a somewhat undignified position as it was- half-dressed, with his trousers open but not off, his aroused cock fully exposed, his neck bruised and a bit drooled over, out of breath, unfocused, and a bit mussed. Not that the Ascian cared at all; if anything, he was a little amused at the absurdity of being left like this.
But it doesn't exactly take much convincing for him push himself up, even with the distraction of Mettaton's voice against his ear, the lips against his neck (all of it coming from a disorienting angle). Though he takes a moment to slide his pants off the rest of the way, Emet-Selch allows himself no further delay in shifting himself onto the bed properly, helped somewhat into position through the encouragement of Mettaton's hands. Not that he needed encouraged, but he'd welcome whatever touch he could get. Though his body had warmed considerably though arousal, not having Mettaton over him was a considerable loss on all levels, including simple heating.]
Is that a promise...?
[His murmur is heavier than he intended, breathlessness and wanting coloring the edges of it. Before lying down properly, he can't help but sit up properly first, leaning over to instead press his lips to Mettaton's. There's more force, more visible need in it than he intended, a small noise smothered by the tongue he's slipping past his lips. His hand warmly cups the side of Mettaton's face, thumb stroking his cheek.
...he had other words, he thought, but Emet-Selch could no longer recall them. And it's with reluctance that he pulls back to stretch out upon the bed.]
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As he advances, Mettaton allows for Emet-Selch's hand to take the place of his own once he takes him into a kiss, and Mettaton hums into it with his eye closing. He leans in, appreciates his need and his intensity, placing hands upon the back of the Ascian's neck, if just for the duration of this short kiss made unintentionally passionate. Upon pulling away, Mettaton wobbles in place just a bit with a smile, smitten.
But then he has Emet-Selch prostrate before him, yet another delightful view, and it's at least an opportunity to run the back of his hand against the corner of his lip to recover from any time he ended up drooling because he fancied something too hard. He'll want to see him again, to compare that mental image he has of Hades collected compared to when Hades loses himself to pleasure, but this is an undeniable teaser. Mettaton's quick to leverage his body above Emet-Selch's, hungry for more.]
Yes, Hades-darling. How could it be anything else—
[... Even over something like this, why did he have to say that? Mettaton visibly grows both more alert and more dazed, his ears standing to full attention as he realizes what sort of mistake he's made. A Puca... cannot defy a promise. Even a sexy promise with vague terms. He'll have more of him, and Emet-Selch should get more of him in turn? Whatever that means, he'll have to see it to its satisfactory conclusion at any cost. If it's not good enough, he'll have to do him again, until it is.
He wonders if Emet-Selch knows this about him, and he narrows his eye suspiciously, one ear in a usual state of neutral pleasantness as the other one folds back in irritation. His voice is a playful warning.]
Are you toying with me, gorgeous? Bringing promises into the bedroom... I have to admit. It's awfully clever, if you want to secure a state of being absolutely ravished by me...
[And, reciprocated. Being so easily spoken once again is bound to be lost to him from the very moment he presses his body into his Bonded's. He needs to be making contact with him now, desperately.
The Puca first leans down to kiss his neck before pressing his chest to the Ascian's. Their hips follow suit, and he makes a show of attention as he adjusts the positioning his body relative to Emet-Selch's arousal while he shifts around on top of him. He settles once he can barely feel him curved against his body, which he notes with a sigh, and he closes his thighs just enough to hardly touch him. Mettaton shivers with delight before taking stock of how Emet-Selch's doing, with his weight to his anticipation.]
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(And he thought it a pity again that he couldn't see Mettaton's soul, had only gotten an impression of it during their Bonding. He'd never seen a soul from someone not of his star before. He'd always found them to have the potential for more beauty than anything else.)
But worse than that was any look of fondness, or affection. An absurd thing to unsettle him now, after everything, as though it hadn't already been repeatedly demonstrated. Perhaps it was just beginning to sink in, that it wasn't going away, that it was probably going to get worse. But you could care about someone without being fond of them, after all. The latter was far more...
Difficult. And the sort of thing he still emotionally recoiled from, yet longed for. A conflict that's likely to ripple through their Bond, even as Emet-Selch is distracted slightly from (those specific) unpleasant ruminations as he watches Mettaton move, hears his reply--
And blinks at the unexpected reaction, regarding him with curiosity, a different sort of interest. In truth, he was unaware of the rules binding pucas to their promises, so this- rather irritable response to what he took to be a rather straightforward exchange has him uncertain. He knew of danger sensing, and an appreciation for betting (which didn't necessarily imply a requirement for followthrough), but....
It might be something he can work out himself later, but for now the Ascian's priorities remained on what was in front of him. And soon to be on top of him. Whatever the reason for Mettaton's particular determination, he was more than willing to accept it. Really- promises or otherwise, what else would have been sufficient?
Emet-Selch finds his words lost once more when Mettaton takes his place over him, the deliberation in the way he settles. A small, full-bodied shudder passes through him at the combination of sensations, from the weight of Mettaton's body alone holding him in place, the way his skin felt pressed to metal, the hint of contact around his cock. He hisses softly, swallowing back a groan, finding it that bit harder to breathe- which was starting to become a familiar thing. His arms wrap warmly, if loosely around the puca, rubbing them slowly across his back, appreciating how much he could feel of him at once, though it was hard to imagine how it could ever be enough.]
Is that... so terrible a wish?
[Oh look, he found some words after all. But only a few.]
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Uncomfortable as it might make the Ascian, he couldn't stop him, nor control him. He feels not burdened by this, but light, a pleasant and electrifying energy.
But there are other matters he cares to tend to than his heart, and just as quickly, the robot changes gears and averts his hard stare for long enough to blink. Pressed under him and hardly able to conjure the words, Mettaton hums, elated to have Emet-Selch right where he wants him. The look in his eye is satisfied and deeply wanting, his hands squeezing the other man's shoulders once as he runs them down his biceps then slides them against his sides. There's a spike in pleasure at the mere sight and sensation of it, the beginnings of an automatic reflex. He can feel him shudder beneath him, and he wishes he could have had his throat close to his lips when he made that noise.
The Puca leans down to press a short kiss against his lips, and replies against him in kind.]
No. But... you'll certainly. [Words. He can force his tone to be even, but when his mind blanks out, it's troublesome. Another quick kiss before he continues.] Certainly get what I... promise. And so will I. Don't doubt, darling.
[Once more, he can feel how tense his lower body is at the notion of Emet-Selch's erection so close. He recalls the odd sensation he had before of feeling like he'd be missing something upon being separated from him the last time they got so intimate, and that much feels true all over again. Experimentally, Mettaton wraps his thighs loosely about his erection, just enough so Emet-Selch's made to feel him but with no exact pressure.
It's a good thing Mettaton's finished talking already, because it's all he can do to swallow down a noise as he lets his head hang toward the Ascian's shoulder at the impact the sensation has on him. Naturally, for such a feeling to rattle him on a mindful level, his body responds in kind: he can't help it when his thighs tense, enclose him with more pressure despite his wishes, and he presses his face into his neck to stifle a moan again. Biting into his neck helps somewhat, and Mettaton hisses.]
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He didn't want to think about it. Couldn't; even those small kisses help to snap his focus back onto something else, and he leans into them with all the concentration he can muster. Mettaton's voice registers more than his words, which take Emet-Selch a few extra moments to go back and decipher, still caught between sound and the taste of his lips. The way Mettaton's hands moved over him, his own body attempting to twitch or lean into any and all points of contact.
Underlying it all is the pulsing ache from his erection, so stiff that he finds himself gasping anew at only having his cock so gently held between Mettaton's thighs, unable to prevent his hips from shuddering upwards. But there's little he could achieve of his own accord, other than spark a more insistent want in him. The sort of thing he could bury himself in, and he moans more loudly, remembering the way the idol's strangely muscular legs had squeezed around his cock the last time.
As though spurred on by that memory, he feels the tensing of Mettaton's thighs around his length once more, and his breathing quickly sharpens. His hips still struggle to rub further against the twitches of the other man's thighs, as his body as a whole presses up, desperate for ever more of him.
Emet-Selch's hands dig in to Mettaton's back when he feels that bite sink into his neck, shivering hard. Pressing his head against Mettaton's, his eyes are tightly shut, lips slightly parted as he begins to pant. Another mark for the collection, he suspected, each one as valuable as the last.]
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To take more of his Bonded, and to give as much in return... Mettaton takes greater control of Emet-Selch's pleasure, curving his back just enough to give Emet-Selch some freedom to thrust against the twitching of his thighs. He deiberately loosens and exerts pressure between his legs in unpredictable rhythm. This is his chance to move, though it's short-lived. It's not long before the robot comes back down upon him to take away that freedom, pinning him into place with more intent than ever, pressing his trembling thighs together with a hiss. It's only natural that by this point, his body, wanting as he is, is wracked with unintentional response: for each twitch and each sound given by Emet-Selch, his body responds with immediacy, systematic in his feedback.
Mettaton moves from sucking and biting at his neck to kissing him deeply, flicking his tongue out to signal his desires before sliding between his lips. He controls him utterly from above him. If he could render him truly breathless all over again, he feels certain that he'd lose his mind to oblivion. Already, with the Ascian panting, he's off to a good start. One of his hands drift from his hips to thread into this hair, starting from that shock of white and pushing back, mussing it up worse than before.
Time for dreadful feelings, which Mettaton views as anything but. His adoration for the Ascian is immense, his desire to see his mind blown immeasurable. His behavior is flippant, usually, but when the Puca pulls him in, closer and closer, the depths of Emet-Selch's sentiment never fail to surprise Mettaton. He's terribly vulnerable like this, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He sighs by noise into their kiss, overwhelmed and content. Mettaton could drown in the satisfaction his Bonded brings him, or he could see himself drowning in his sentiment, and he'd be content either way. Neither daunt him. As always, he can be vulnerable to his heart's content beneath Mettaton's weight. He welcomes it.
When he pulls back to give Emet-Selch a moment for air, he gives him only enough before coming back down upon him with a moan in his throat, nipping at his lower lip and lifting again, then treating him to yet another kiss, three of varying intensity in a row.]
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The kissing certainly did not help in that regard, his small noises further stifled by Mettaton's tongue, swallowed up by their mouths, and Emet-Selch makes no attempt to counter this. Even the smaller moments, the brush to his hair, the sound of a sigh, it all added up, it would all bury him.
Drowing, suffocation, the sense of being crushed; he had no word to describe the feelings that wasn't a negative one, that wasn't ultimately fatal. And yet to stop was impossible, to want to, unthinkable.
...It reminded him a little of being tempered.
And how welcome this futility was. How miserable he was, with ever more of it dragged to the surface with such openness. There was thousands of years worth to deal with, compressed and compacted, and Emet-Selch wasn't sure if he was trying to bury Mettaton in there with him, or cling to the puca's own feelings instead, to drown in a different sort of sentiment. He was lost either way, the Ascian knew that much.
Each kiss breaks him a little further, the different intensities giving him no chance of adjusting, nothing to anchor to, leaving him capable of only responding, almost harsh in his urgency. He was certainly overstimulated now, in every sense of the word, biting at Mettaton's lips when he could claim them, before losing his grip on them with ever hoarser cries. His cock hurt to be touched, much less gripped by trembling thighs, but he wouldn't have pulled back from it, even if he physically could.
Emet-Selch didn't have the coherence nor the breath to plead with him, for everything that he didn't have words for. But it was there in his feelings, in the way he struggled. He couldn't be saved, but did he have to be alone?]
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He continues to take more and more kisses from him, frantic, and continues to rub against his cock with a feverish desire for more. The sheer amount of heat he feels in his core is surely reflected in the taste of his mouth, heat in place of air. Mettaton feels all but addicted to what he can get out of his Bonded in this moment, scarcely able to stop just to soothe the ache he feels. His ears fold back, flush against his head in his backwards submission to it all, his acceptance of him. In truth, he loves his openness in this moment, the insight into his desire, as terrifying as it is in his misery.
This intimacy appeals too much, and he can't think straight inundated by such sensation, fondness, and affect. The hand against his hip traces gently up to his shoulder, where he grips the Ascian with a shaky moan at the feeling of his trembling figure beneath him, the sound of his faint cries enough to make him go weak. The sheer weight of his feelings become pleasant, a backdrop for his bliss and his love despite it all, complex and thrilling.
Both of them felt so much, in such opposite directions. Emet-Selch's disorientation, suffocation, and abject loneliness permeated all else, but it didn't overwhelm the idol to the point of drowning. He grows more tender, continues to deliberately steal his chance for breath for as long as his urgency isn't for needing to breathe... Because the robot feels like his urgency needs to be met with him instead. He feels nothing but compassion and love and familiarity, for someone he's known for only a month's time.
Still, in his unguarded state, Mettaton ends up granting Emet-Selch room to breathe unintentionally when he ducks toward his ear and kisses him against his neck, the place he seems to gravitate to, and he sighs. Presses into him; nuzzles him; squeezes him closer with the winding sort of strength unique to an arm like his. His voice is smooth as ever, low, coaxing, heady, and close, with an edge of his need.]
Hades...
[He wants terribly to fill Emet-Selch with him as a form of claim, primal and intuitive. If he can't do it physically, how better to do that than to occupy his senses?]
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There was a comfort in being held to, enveloped, wrapped up in his arm, feeling Mettaton's face against his throat, the texture of his voice. And there was more comfort in that sense of familiarity he felt as well, something he didn't want to examine too closely at all. But comfort wasn't enough, no matter how hard he attached to it, and to him, no matter how much he tried.
When he finally reaches some sort of peak, the Ascian almost doesn't realize it. There was ever sharper pain, desperation and necessity, and finally a point that hurt worst of all, as though climax was something to be torn from him. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't terrible either; most of all it was intense, blinded him the rest of the way, erased the concept of thought itself- but that was what he wanted, wasn't it?
Apart from the continued small, soft pleads, it's completely soundless.
As he latches onto Mettaton physically, Emet-Selch clings to him mentally as well; he was still inundated, permeated by the sense of his own despair, but it wasn't the only thing there, the only thing left. It was so foreign, so different that he didn't know what to make of it, neither to reject it nor defend from it. It didn't hurt him any less (or at least, he couldn't disconnect it from the pain that was already there), but it hurt differently, pressing to the rawest parts of him that had long gone untreated, unreached.
His breath is shaky, not only from the desperate need for air, but from the force of collected emotion. He presses the side of his head hard against Mettaton's, as though he could burrow against him further, somehow, disturbed feelings barely even beginning to settle. His hand buries itself in Mettaton's hair, feeling the brush of those pressed-back ears, but his grip is weak, as trembling as the rest of him. There were no thoughts remaining.]
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Emotionally was much more yet. It was draining, but he'd do it over again and again. Now's where it gets harder to discern where Mettaton ends and Emet-Selch begins, though it feels like an obvious rule that the despair and all of its derivatives should belong to the Ascian... But somehow, even that he doubts. It's hard to tell them apart, but he feels strongly his compassion for the other man even through his melancholy. He squeezes him again, noticing the way he leans against his head hard, gasping still.
Mettaton gives his head a reassuring stroke, and he smiles against his skin after a kiss.]
I'm not leaving you, but...
[The robot lifts, barely, shifting some of his weight off of Emet-Selch, for his own good. He gets the feeling that he won't like the loss, feeling that he has a preference for his weight atop him — a pleasing thought to the idol. He takes the opportunity to tuck Emet-Selch under his chin, against his neck to pull him into intimate space, still covering him and wishing to continue holding him close. He can feel the sheer level of his Bondmate's disorientation, and he wants to keep him near as he unwinds.
His leg is once again very helpful in drawing up the covers, and he pulls them around the two of them securely. After doing so, he winds his arms tight around his shoulders and his back, drawing him closer.
He sighs. It's content, and he squeezes Emet-Selch with his arms, possessive and affectionate. He nuzzles into the top of his head with his cheek, reflecting over those last moments where Emet-Selch got so scandalized over the fact that Mettaton harbored such deep affection for him. He smiles, presses into the Ascian with more of his weight again, and nuzzles the top of his head.]
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But the reward of blankets around them was a good one; even better was the feeling of arms around him, and his face pressed to Mettaton's throat. Though his eyes had briefly opened to watch him as he moved, still feeling so overwhelmed as to be blank, they close again as he burrows against his Bonded's neck, as though hiding himself there. As though he could retreat from the rest of the world, shut himself away from it entirely.
And he remains attached to Mettaton in turn, with less desperation, but with no less insistence, as though he could hold him to his statement of not leaving. The Ascian's arm is heavy but loose around him, with irregular twitches of firmness, as though needing to occasionally reassess or reassure that Mettaton was still there, that he hadn't moved from him.
It was harder to detangle emotionally. Everything physical was still more than he could handle, from the comforting weight of Mettaton's presence, the nuzzling of his hair, the mess he'd left against the other man's thighs. His breathing, still elevated, still shaky, repeated exhalations against Mettaton's throat. All of that was more than enough to occupy him, when thought- ever unwanted- began creeping back.
Anything positive, any sort of tenderness or compassion he assumed was from Mettaton. But it wasn't as though he didn't harbor his own affections for him, didn't care for him in turn; how could he not, in the wake of shared experiences like these? And that complicated things. It was difficult enough to sort through all that he felt through the other man- painful in its unfamiliarity and warmth- too drained to do much other than let it settle, uncomfortably on him.
It was a feeling not forgotten- Emet-Selch rarely forgot things, to his continual misfortune- but so buried and neglected, that it was barely recognizable.
There was a lot, and so quickly. Was that why it hit so hard, that it gave him no opportunity for defense? With conscious deliberation, he presses his lips to Mettaton's neck, strangely tentative. Unable to speak, all he had left was some small gesture of affection, appreciation.]
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The robot pays attention to Emet-Selch and what little he can manage, feeling a bit... proud, to feel him unable to cling onto him tight enough besides an occasional twitch. He certainly had his fill. He runs his hands up and down in slow, meandering lines, a gentle but consistent reminder for the Ascian that he's holding him — something in addition to his twitching to affirm things.
The landscape of Emet-Slech's emotional state is far more dismal than his own, and it remains easy to liken it to the depths of an ocean beneath the surface. He kisses the top of his head this time; takes note of all of that uncertainty in his heart, wondering just how it feels to be alive for thousands and thousands of years to the point that emotions such as his own could register so strangely, and he feels pity. He squeezes him, a more maintained gesture rather than a quick one of reassurance.
Emet-Selch moves against his neck, and it's with curiosity that Mettaton waits to see what he'll do. The hesitance that precedes such a soft kiss spoke volumes, and the gesture of intentional affection warms him over in waves, and he can't help from smiling at his Bondmate with an additional lightness in his chest, humming a note of fulfilled satisfaction. His fingers press into him, and he buries his nose into his hair, finding absolutely no inclination to move from this spot.
...He doesn't feel it should be necessary to revisit a promise so amorphous, but, well. He feels like he had more of Emet-Selch than ever, but how did he feel? He needs to confirm. His voice is soft and thick with affection, and breaks only to catch up with his slower-than-normal thoughts, knowing he's well against his neck.]
Did you have... your fill of me, Hades, darling...?
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But the stroking helped. A simple gesture to focus on, and be reassured by, and Emet-Selch even manages a soft sort of humming noise in response, in clear, if quiet approval.
Was it possible to feel both unnerved and content? Because the Ascian was making a concerted effort to experience both at the same time. Because it was comfortable to be held and kissed and even drained, at least in this particular way. And even emotionally, there was something of the same, even amid the sadness. Something that he wanted to possess, even if he was unsettled by it. As it still felt eerie, unusual, dangerous; nothing that could be relied on or trusted to remain. How could he just accept something so impossible as mutual caring and acceptance?
He kisses Mettaton's neck again, as though to assure himself of- something, he's not entirely sure what. But he allows his lips to linger there, brushing over a small patch of his throat with near-absurd gentleness, just breathing in his presence, taking in the sound of his voice.
...oh, that was a question for him, wasn't it.]
--ah. Yes... I suppose. You've taken quite a lot, and given just as much.
[Another kiss, barely distinguishable from the faintness of lips.]
Though- is it even possible to be filled completely...?
[He couldn't imagine ever getting tired of this, ever willingly giving it up, rather than losing it to inevitability. Even the thought has his grip tighten, with a bit more sustained success.]
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As always. I live to please.
[A moment. Such light kisses coming from Emet-Selch feel unusually pleasant, enough to make him shiver, gestures he could see himself getting lost in. It's only fitting that he'd make a remark like that.]
And, given that... I could always try, in vain. However. If it were possible, you might be satisfied enough to stop. I wouldn't like that.
[An insatiable, bottomless desire is nothing short of what he likes to hear. He feels that all good things run on this: in performance, the demand exists because there's not enough of him, and in intimacy, demand exists for the same reason. Mettaton finds the thrill of being in Emet-Selch's intimate company to satisfy him similarly, but in such different a way where he can have a demand in return. He doesn't have much of that with people, elsewhere. It only goes to show him what he'd spent his years without, in neglecting most all close contact.
So he hums, relaxing, though not to loosen his grip too significantly. It doesn't surprise him too much that he'd come to love somebody so different from himself, given the chemistry he feels from each encounter with the Ascian. Complicated enough are his views that... unfortunately, he saw reason in it, and that's a more dreadful aspect.
Something he could deal with later; he's optimistic. The idol doesn't want to think about that less-than-pleasant concept right now, preferring to think upon the present moment. The closer they grow, the more he gets something of a hint into Emet-Selch's mood, and it feels like something easy enough to break with a gentle touch. Something bred out of affection, likely, and Mettaton's all the more willing to dole out more of it for that, feeling as amorous as he does. Mettaton kisses him atop his head, his fingers rubbing through locks of hair in slow passes. Feeling things is good, especially when it's something unusual and jarring, he thinks.
...Emet-Selch's earlier request to temper him in Zodiark's place, should things work out in that way, takes on a new shade of delight for the Puca, who would relish taking him for himself. It would be blind and unbending, sure... But he can fantasize. That relaxed grip turns more intense, and he holds him closer to his body.]
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Though he hears Mettaton's reply, he doesn't answer immediately, still working on his neck, thinking on his words.]
Hm... an unusual thing, for immortals. To find something as equally as unending....
[Or that at least gave the impression of such. And considering their circumstances were not eternal- well, it wasn't as though they'd ever be able to learn differently.
Which was an unfortunate thought in itself, and he hesitates, then nestles himself closer, tangling a leg with Mettaton for extra contact. He should know better by now, to even consider giving into a delusion like this. But with Mettaton holding him closer in turn, the intimacy of the puca's hand running through his hair- it seemed a bit of a moot point. It was already too late.]
How unexpected. To find a preference for going unfulfilled.
[It did surprise the Ascian to be at all fond of someone not from his home. And while the revival of Amaurot would always come first in all things, he supposed it didn't exclude the possibility for caring for someone outside of it. It was only unexpected. Would he still sacrifice Mettaton for the sake of his people (if for some reason it were necessary)? Of course- without hesitation. But then Emet-Selch wouldn't be at all surprised to find he mourned for him in turn. A constant cycle of people to sacrifice and revive.
But it wasn't as though he'd never gotten attached to individual mortals in the past- and had it all end the same way: with their death, and himself alone. But Mettaton already had the benefit of not being mortal (for all that it mattered here), while providing that strange mix of familiarity and the unknown. His complete opposite in so many ways, but he was drawn to him because of it, rather than despite it. Someone he could be unguarded with, who could withstand him... while providing Emet-Selch with something he'd have to withstand in turn. Things like affection and strange perspectives. A mutual possessiveness.
And on the impossible chance that godhood could be achieved, that it worked as Mettaton claimed, and its influence could reach even Amaurot... Emet-Selch couldn't even finish the thought, it was too much of a dream to consider too closely. Though the stray idea of being tempered by Mettaton instead was... more congenial than it possibly should've been. The Ascian had been under Zodiark's influence for longer than he'd had a motivation that was completely his own; having completely free will sounded alarming. And while his adoration for Zodiark remained immovable, the idea of a similar tether binding him to Mettaton, ensuring that he couldn't be abandoned- it wasn't an unpleasant thought.]
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His kisses don't mark him, because they couldn't. But he has the sneaking feeling that he'll be imagining this feeling later on, by way of desire and sentimentality. To think of himself as so vulnerable to affection of this breed, it's almost enough to make him laugh. So he smiles to himself instead.]
Well. Being perfectly fulfilled... means the show's over. So, then... I must be...
[Terribly predictable, all things considered and unconsidered. To think that many of his motivations relate to finding a constant audience, one that withstands the obvious test of the ages and captivated him over the years... Humanity, fleeting yet charming as it is, is the perfect one for him. Why is Emet-Selch right? He'd never spared a thought toward eternity prior to meeting Emet-Selch, and so having his inclination for an unending, thrilling experience be recognized as something someone like them would favor is slightly unnerving.
Or maybe, validating. He isn't sure. He simply hasn't had enough experience viewing himself in any frame other than the sensational present and the dreams unrealized for the future. And that future proves to be vast: exciting, though he can see how it might be crushing to some. There's an entire dimension to be considered about lasting and continuing to be, isn't there? It daunts, but it entices.
He does feel satisfied being unfulfilled and always wanting more. That's the nature of eternal want. Mettaton would always want people to never have enough while simultaneously drowning in it. A person like Emet-Selch who could handle his intensity... It suddenly clicks into place, a realization about himself and their dynamic. Why he delights in it, holds a more continuous flame for it. Being with him gives him an entirely unexplored dimension to living as he is, something otherwise totally different from everyone. This isn't something he could find anywhere else, this person. It's nice.
Mettaton grips onto him. He reciprocates the tuck of his leg by pulling him closer with his own. His legs aren't quite what they used to be, but he finds it nice that he feels so much more with them now, even if they've warped compared to what they used to be. At first, he hated this, but he has no choice but to embrace what he's becoming. He took to it easily, considering he's had to learn how to... move... twice, already.
...Something else to focus on, before this overwhelms him in time. He doesn't dare pull away from his kisses, but his ears spring up with the interest.]
H... Hades, by the way. Before I became so distracted by... you, from you. [A breathy laugh. Their mutual desire is very distracting.] I was also meaning to check in on you. About your Bonds. Since I'm quite dedicated to seeing how this unfolds... How are you doing, in that regard? Any reason to regret your decision, yet?
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Though he still felt as though he were settling back down from his release, their continued closeness, the way Mettaton shuddered and held onto him- it kept him from settling down entirely. Languid, yet interested, and unsettlingly affectionate (that was the only part he had trouble with). But he enjoys that quiet hum he can only just make out from Mettaton, more pleased by it than he thinks he probably should be, and his hand strokes slowly at the idol's upper back. Attention drifting towards the top of his throat, he focuses underneath his chin, even giving it a small lick, before trailing along the underside of his jaw, softly humming in reply. His leg tightens for a few moments, appreciating how much of Mettaton's body he could feel stretched out and pressed against his own.
It was possible there really was some kind of balance in operation here. As by contrast, Mettaton's ability to remain in the present was- if not something Emet-Selch envied, it was something he wanted to understand. Or at least witness. Even if the idol wasn't as ancient as himself, he wasn't mortal, and Emet-Selch assumed Mettaton's perspective to be entirely different from those of transient humanity. And yet he seemed to revel in the opportunities of his existence, could live in a changing world as though its unreliable nature held value. That the present was worth staying in.
It wasn't as though the idea was wholly foreign to the Ascian. Amaurot had been a very peaceful, steady present. He hadn't been happy, but he hadn't been bored either, even if one day had been much like the next, a stretch of time that had felt like forever. Any problems he'd had had come from himself, not through any fault of the world. But after the sundering, once everything and everyone had changed, Emet-Selch hadn't been able to change with it. Not in any positive way, at least; his past was now his ever-present, a weight to crush him underneath.
Even if he'd never understand it... being in the presence of someone with similar-yet-dissimilar aspects was... comfortable. It echoed the past without being the same as it; this wasn't something he could find with anyone else.
At the mention of his Bonds, Emet-Selch pauses mid-kiss, mid-thought, his hand on him stilling. Though there was the impulse to say that everything was fine- after all, he had no proof that anything was wrong, only suspicions- he had agreed to keep Mettaton informed. And while he wasn't bound to it in the same way as a puca was to their promises, Emet-Selch did always speak the truth (as he saw it; and not necessarily the entirety of it).]
No regrets. [That was the most important part, so he says it first.] However... I have noticed a certain increased fatigue. I don't believe it to be illness, and I'm too far recovered from my injuries for it to be the result of that.
[Though he falls silent for a few moments more, it's clear that he's not entirely finished, and the Ascian ends up interrupting his ministrations further by pressing the side of his face against Mettaton's neck and keeping it there.] I've started falling unconscious outside of my control.
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If the Ascian could learn how to simply be without having the past haunt him, he thinks he could only benefit. He catches him hurting so often. Emet-Selch's beyond being relieved of his past without losing his memory of it, but the inability to move on is impressive, if not despairing. There's no coming back from such trauma, an incident of terror Mettaton can only imagine. But if he could help him let go of it for a time here or there, he likes the thought of it.
The attention paid to his neck causes the robot to sigh and shift his other leg in a weak squirm, pressing closer to him as a gesture of appreciation for his contact. His shiver's enough to get him to close his eye and bite his lip to steel himself from... losing himself to continued want so readily, he supposes. He knows he could go on. Have some composure; he's trying to have a conversation!
For the sake of his focus, Emet-Selch's pause is helpful. Mettaton focuses on his hair, able to just barely catch the darker color of it from the corner of his eye where the Ascian has his face close to his neck. Feeling him press into him more firmly with such an alarming symptom...
The robot keeps stroking his hair without pause. For somebody who likes sleep, surely this is remarkable if Emet-Selch finds it noteworthy.]
Unconscious. [He's repeating it, like it could give him new understanding that way. He assumes easily that this is not due to a lack of rest.] That is concerning. I've never heard of it happening before... in the context of a Bond.
[Nor does he know enough about the science of Bonds to say why this might be happening, aside from having too many of them. He's a Monster, so is Irhya, and Mira's a Witch... the last of his Bonds is unknown to him, but no matter what sort of arrangement it is, that could still be three Monsters at most. Three, which is the recommended maximum for any kind, and having his opposite? Why wouldn't having three Monsters plus a Witch not work out? ...He can't delude himself very far, of course. Having three Monsters to service, plus a Witch, likely doesn't change the fact that there are four ways his magic's being forced. Mettaton's predisposed to thinking of magic as a life force, since that's precisely what it is for him. It would make sense that it would rob him of his consciousness.
He feels a spike of concern. It's a bit more worrying than he'd like it to be.]
... I never did tell you. When we first Bonded, I didn't care to... Though now, you might have noticed already. That someone with a soul like mine might have different, steeper demands. I'm supposed to be made of magic, and upon losing it...
[Someone might feel they could handle four, but what of four when one of them is like himself? He absolutely doesn't want to give this Bond up: about that, a streak of stubbornness runs strong. The thought now is unbearable, and he doesn't even consider it, even if he were the problem. His hand rests against the back of Emet-Selch's head, his fingers twisted in his tousled locks.]
Is there something you've found that relieves these fainting spells?
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And the continued hair-stroking was soothing, restful, while the squirm of Mettaton's body was not, Emet-Selch feeling it quite clearly considering how closely they remained pressed. Contrary impulses, but all of them pleasant, and he makes a small noise of approval, encouragement despite the current topic.
Emet-Selch also thought that his current balance of Bonds should make the most sense. If a witch was able to handle three monsters without concern, why wouldn't three monsters and a witch for a bit of extra magic be entirely sufficient? Unless the existence of four ties in itself was enough to disrupt things, that his soul really couldn't handle the transfer of energies?
Or Mettaton's theory was true, that he was a more draining monster than most of them. And for that matter... if he was the puca's only Bond, then the Ascian was supporting him by himself. All of his others had at least one other person involved. He decides not to mention this.]
Mm... I suppose it's possible. Aside from you, I have two other monsters, and a witch. I would assume that to be a thoroughly sufficient balance, but if you count as perhaps an additional monster--
[Emet-Selch sighs. It was something of a concern, but not one that worried him as much as it probably should. Breaking one of his Bonds doesn't even occur to him as an option. Of course he wasn't going to do that. So the only real option was living with it and finding a way to manage it.]
I may just require more rest than I anticipated. I don't appear to have any issues immediately after I awaken, whenever that misfortune occurs. 'Tis only after I've been conscious for some time that problems arise. And even then, it's not... consistent.
[So it may be a mistake to be looking for patterns in it, but a solution of 'more sleep' wasn't exactly an unappealing one. He nudges the side of his face against Mettaton's neck again, hold on him tightening, something that sends an incidental shiver through him. His leg rubs a little against Mettaton's as he speaks.]
...Well, who knows? Perhaps I'll finally take that year's long nap after all.
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It's more than likely that the warnings are as they are because any more than three ties would be exerting to anybody in this place. He prefers to think that there must be another answer.
He allows Emet-Selch to finish, feels him press closer yet and shudder against his body; on reflex, he grips onto him more tightly. He makes a hum of amusement mixed with irritation at the notion of him deciding to just. Give up and sleep.]
Tsk. You will not find that year's long rest easy, sweetheart! Not if I have anything to say about it. I will tend to you, personally.
[He pulls him back with his leg "menacingly" before considering his other idea, which is yet more sleep. But in small doses, something he already feels inclined toward doing isn't so bad.]
With a bit more rest, then. As much as like you very much awake... If it helps, can we really deny it? I'll have to see it that you're getting plenty of opportunities for sleep...
[Good thing that when Mira asked for dating advice, Mettaton told her to stay close to home, despite the plethora of more extravagant options. He had a bad feeling about anything else, and this is probably why.
His body clings onto the echo of that full-bodied shiver, and he continues sticking close to the Ascian as the hand not in his hair roams the expanse of his back. Mettaton had never fully removed his clothes, but with how they remain open in the front, he's able to slip his hands beneath them with ease; his hand, having been pressed to Emet-Selch, is already flush against skin and surprisingly warm to the touch. He presses his cheek to the top of the Emet-Selch's head and presses in deeply to keep him as his.]
We'll all have to support your endeavors for more sleep.
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And he's not at all surprised to hear Mettaton's apparent disapproval for the option of 'actually, just sleep forever.' There was an odd sort of- assurance in that, no doubt aided by the way the idol kept the Ascian's head tucked firmly against his neck. While staying securely nestled there, Emet-Selch still tilts his head slightly, to kiss his throat again, voice muffled against it.]
I'll have to wish you luck in that... as I'm apparently quite hard to wake up, these days.
[Just another point of mild concern to drop in there: not only did he fall asleep unintentionally, it was more difficult to rouse him at all.
And while he wasn't not worried, Emet-Selch couldn't let himself dwell on it too closely either. Because if there was nothing he could do, that it continued to deteriorate instead of remaining at the level of 'hassle'- what option did he have? Nothing. Either he'd manage it with a bit more rest, or he'd fall asleep and not bother waking up: those were the choices. Either was acceptable, really....
Mostly. While the lure of unconsciousness was undeniable, neither did Emet-Selch want to lose out on times like this. And if he was so desperate to not be left alone, it felt hypocritical to abandon Mettaton by voluntarily slipping into a coma at first opportunity. It was all more of a conundrum than it should've been.]
Though if you're trying to encourage me to sleep... I have to say you're not doing a very good job of it.
[What with the hand creeping about his back, the shifting of his leg, the press of his body that he was growing ever more aware of. It didn't surprise him at all to find himself beginning to stiffen again, something that he presses with deliberation to Mettaton's body with a softer sigh. Eyes closed, he licks slowly at his throat.]
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