[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.]
[He has to admit that listening to Emet-Selch's quality of voice is terribly attractive, and he can close his eye to that as he speaks against his throat. He processes it well enough, the thought that he's not only slipping into unconsciousness with more unpredictable frequency, but that he's also growing difficult to rouse... And it's not good news. Previously bent forward with interest in the tone of his voice, his broad ears flatten with his disturbance.
The kiss against his throat and the way he speaks against him is another texture for him to enjoy, which he does thoroughly, a soft, pleasured hum sounding at the contact of his kiss and continuing on as he speaks. He could be both concerned and enticed, which he is satisfied in——
Before he presses his growing arousal anew into Mettaton's body. He jolts at the contact, recoiling for scarcely a second before he finds himself pressing into him with desperation, choking on an unexpected moan. That easily, a switch has been flipped within him, his craving dialed up, his expression wide-eyed and eager.]
Hades—!
[His lips are parted and he trembles into the feeling of Emet-Selch's continued attention paid to his throat, quivering. He thrills in being shocked; he breathes out a softer, breathier sigh of his desire through a smile.
It wasn't his intention to help him sleep right now, but... Emet-Selch has a point about him.]
Wh... What can I say? Putting people to sleep... Isn't my strong suit. Quite... Quite the opposite, actually.
[He shifts his body against Emet-Selch's erection, unable to stay still.]
[The startle has Emet-Selch startle in turn, his hold on Mettaton reflexively tightening, pulse jumping at the unexpected response. A pulse that is then content to stay elevated at the sound of his moan, at the way Mettaton pressed back into him, each tremble, the tone to his voice. Warmed skin seemed inclined to stay that way as well, and the sudden tension in his limbs has them tremble slightly from that rush of piercing desire.]
Ah....
[It was certainly a feeling to go from lazily aroused to completely hard, just from a bit of shifting on Mettaton's part, from the immediacy of his reaction to him. The sensation of blood rushing lower in his body leaves the Ascian dizzy and momentarily breathless, and he takes a moment to simply revel in that feeling. That he could be so quickly spurred into wanting Mettaton so strongly again (as if the feeling had ever completely faded), the warmth and responsiveness of even a robotic form shifting against his own. To be wanted so blatantly in return; he swallows back a moan of his own by sucking hard at the center of Mettaton's throat. With less success does he hold back a shudder, finally letting go of his neck in order to speak.]
If- you truly prefer me awake. 'Tis. One way of achieving that.
[Though it was starting to feel as though just being in Mettaton's presence would be a temptation on its own. And that the closer they were, the more of a test it would become- though it wasn't as though the penalty for failing to resist was a very terrible one.
With effort as well as some regret, Emet-Selch nudges back from his place at Mettaton's neck, lifting his head in order to seek out his gaze. Something made slightly more difficult by his inability to keep their faces apart much at all. But in addition to the rise in need, there was an accompanying longing present in his expression. A sentiment expressed again in the hesitant gentleness in the way his lips move over his Bonded's face. More brushings than kisses over his jaw and cheek, the Ascian's breathing is shaky.
It felt... fragile, somehow, in a way he couldn't express. As though he were skirting around the edge of something delicate. Something that would disappear if he observed it too closely.]
[[two tags ago: "As much as like you very much awake" was supposed to be not that hot mess. "As much as it takes for you to feel very awake." no clue what happened, wild]
He relies on biting his lip to hold back from making too much noise at once at the way Emet-Selch fixates on his neck, kissing him deeply and sucking at the skin over his throat, riding still on the surprise making each sensation feel like sparks. He can't hold it all back, and it comes out in the form of a voiced breath, a smooth, held note that trails off. It's in part responsive to the kiss, but also the sensation of Emet-Selch's cock going from attentive to hard, fully aroused and pushed against his thigh. He feels him so distinctly, dizzying, with the way his body's placed great focus on developing his legs, all but temperature detectable. He can hardly resist reaching down to touch him already, fantasizing about all of the ways he'd have the Ascian next. Once more, some are possible; he swallows at the prospects. Some aren't, as he is.
He pulls his fracturing composure together, but not with any care to seem as though he's unaffected. His smile's a genuine part of it.]
Ah... I. I'll keep that in mind... For the future.
[He shifts again, his body hot internally. It's nothing uncomfortable, barely detectable in actual temperature, but he usually has a sense for it based on how he wants to move. It surprises him to feel his Bonded break away from his neck, almost leaving him disappointed... But not for long enough for it to be anything but a passing look of confusion, ears bouncing up to alert. He studies the Ascian carefully, noting such raw emotion that looks like much of what he's felt from him before in gesture. He's soft, but intent all the same.
It tracks. The gentle expression and hitched breath, the touch of his lips against his face... Mettaton feels his heart swell in his fondness for the other man, and he swallows around it. Such direct attention all for him wins him over, but the way he treats him makes his heart melt. His hand moves down being entangled in his hair to resting against the nape of his neck, the other still rubbing slowly along his upper back. He cherishes it, closes his eye and traces his fingers over his back.
When Emet-Selch drifts close enough, Mettaton interrupts him with a surprise kiss to his lips, firm yet sweet, affected by Emet-Selch's mood as he is. He feels... loved. Loved in a way that isn't simply fancying, but something heavier than that. He slackens at Emet-Selch's side, resting his arm against his neck as he tries to kiss him once more, anywhere he can take him: his cheek, his jaw, his lips.]
[To have his gestures accepted and returned didn't come at all as a surprise, but he felt reassured by it nonetheless. Such displays didn't come easily to the Ascian, and he's conscious of the vulnerability involved. Not that he'd ever been good at it in the past, but it felt like an eternity since he'd even had the opportunity to try.
It... hurt. That wasn't unfamiliar. That wasn't even unusual. But it hurt in a way he cared not to examine, as he lets the emotion sink into him with a hitch of breath, a small pained-yet-pleased sound.
It was the mix of needs, ever intense, yet ever gentle and deliberate as well. With every heartbeat his cock ached to be touched, for more direct stimulation, having no particular care for what form it took. Emet-Selch felt similarly, though he couldn't help but rub his erection slowly against the other man's thigh, just for a bit of relief. He tries not to think about the ways he wanted Mettaton but couldn't have him, not yet. That way only lay frustration, and there was too much else to appreciate in the meantime.
Like when their lips finally meet, stealing his breath again despite nothing about the gesture actually preventing him from taking air. But he leans into it with a small, low noise, and even when Mettaton moves on to kissing other parts of his face, his breathing is irregular, unsteady. From the hands on his neck and back, the lips decorating his face with their attentions, he felt- cared for. Cared for and about, which just sets him hurting in that strange way again. His own hand finds its way to the back of Mettaton's neck, fingers stroking slowly from his hairline down to the top of his back, and then upwards again, the touch firm but not hard.
And he continues to provide Mettaton's own face with his deliberation, careful to not interrupt the idol's own actions, though as ever he finds himself lingering whenever their lips happened to meet. On one such occasion, he takes his lower lip between his teeth in a slow drag over it, before flicking his tongue against it in a brief, damp lick.]
[The fact that Mettaton doesn't have lungs makes it easier for him to kiss him over and over, slow and wanting, though the rub against his thigh causes him to falter in his affections with a stuttering gasp when it hits him with enough potency. He resumes all the same, though with intensity that begins to imitate Emet-Selch's breathing, erratic but still as amorous. Each time he meets his lips, it's for longer, and by the time the Ascian steals his lip up in his teeth, he gasps openly, using the hand against his back to press his chest closer yet to Emet-Selch's.
Without thinking, his hand slides from Emet-Selch's neck and down Mettaton's own body, following his own figure until he reaches his thigh. From there, he strokes a finger along the length of his cock and rubs a thumb firmly against the head, two gestures in tandem: both delicate, but thorough. The feeling of him has Mettaton leaning into another kiss with a dreamy, gratified sigh.]
Hades, I...
[There are a lot of ways to finish that sentence, but perhaps he needs to say none of them: the sentiment is strong enough to be felt through their Bond. The one that clouds his mind most is how much he wants him, pure and simple. Among it are sentiments about how much he surprises him, how comfortable he is, and this amorphous one he couldn't put into words in this particular moment. It's feeling cared for, caring for him, wanting the best for him, and wanting to share himself at his best. Love, really. Maybe he could put it into words after all, but he's so focused on being kissed silly and the opportunity for closer proximity.
The robot shifts his thigh against Emet-Selch, desirous. He gives Emet-Selch a flash of gold, passionate and candid in his craving for him.]
[The sound of instability from an entity who didn't need to breathe was deeply satisfying to the Ascian. Not that every sound Mettaton made wasn't nearly as enticing, didn't keep his pulse racing, didn't send faint shivers through him with every gasp and sigh. And a different, even deeper feeling whenever Mettaton used his name; though he'd immediately accepted that it had been the right choice in telling him, that decision felt reaffirmed each time he heard it pass his lips.
But that measure of feeling over the Bond remains alarming, remains concerning, remains unsettling. Not only in the feel of it in itself, but in the degree to which Emet-Selch wanted it. And while it remained overwhelming, it wasn't as quite as panic-inducing as before, for all that his heart still lurches painfully, that his breathing is shallow and with poor effect.
He has to rest his forehead against Mettaton's for a moment, more than a bit overcome. The wealth of physical sensations melding with the emotional certainly don't help when it comes to grounding him. The teasing stroke of a finger along his cock has him cry out, then suck in a sharper breath as he's unable to keep his hips from pressing himself into the robot's touch. Moaning softly, he clings harder to him for a few trembling seconds before managing to relax just a bit, though ripples of tension continue to run through him.
The look to Mettaton's eye certainly made it no easier to collect himself- and did Emet-Selch really care to? He felt no inclination to hide the entirety of his response from him, catching the idol's gaze with an unfocused, but no less intent wanting. It's blatant and honest, and forever a bit sad, despite the obvious attachment. Or because of it.
Catching his lips again for another kiss, he deepens it immediately, despite his own unfortunate need for air, taking a claim of Mettaton's mouth with a nearly inaudible moan.]
[Mettaton hums into the kiss, sliding his tongue against Emet-Selch's lip before pressing in, even leaning his body forward as though that would allow him closer yet. Closer, and deeper. This is where heat starts to dizzy him, this point where he's sure to slide into that state more frantic than his usual composure, and he finds himself excited for this, always. His manner, so direct and true, is enticing, delightful, like nothing he'd ever known he wanted. Yet it satisfies him so deeply on a level that he's desperately wanted it.
His fingers press against his erection gently, taking the moment to appreciate the way it feels against his body; he shudders through their kiss, and the sighing noise he makes is impacted by it. He keeps his thumb against the tip, rubbing circles into it while his fingers rhythmically drag up and down his shaft. Mettaton hums into his mouth, losing himself slowly but surely to this moment, caring about nothing but this. The sensation, their pleasure, Emet-Selch's ever reaction and sound. He's grounded in this moment, nothing else mattering but their dynamic and their attraction, built on such unusual vulnerability and trust in one another.
When pulls from this kiss, he immediately comes in for another, his appetite for seeing Emet-Selch flushed and wanting and his igniting all over again. If he wants Emet-Selch in all ways, his complete vulnerability is one of them. There's a smile tugging at his lips as he bites at his lower lip, pulls him in, hums with utter fondness when he notes that he and Emet-Selch are starting to taste the same as he slides his tongue between his lips. It gives him chills, having him so thoroughly.
The Puca's hand against his back traces down his spine, veering off course as soon as he reaches his lower back. He presses into of his skin, soft and pleasant, moves further south and grabs at his hip again, squeezing lower and lower until he's veered closer to his inner thigh than not. He's relentless, however, and continues to kiss him deeply, losing himself to Emet-Selch as he pleases.]
[From wanting to press into Mettaton's hand, the Ascian instead holds carefully, deliberately still. Insomuch as he could, at least, the faint tremble occasionally seizing him was beyond his control. It wasn't out of any desire to hold back, or restrain himself, but to better focus on each stroke of Mettaton's hand along his cock, the way individual fingers felt as they slid over his length. In particular the puca's thumb, of course, with each pass of it around the head of his cock feeling as though it punctuated the sharpness of his breath. He groans softly from the combination of it all, his body wanting to curl around him, to erase all distances between them.
Of course, his chest still heaved with his struggled breaths, gasps for air between ever-deeper kisses. The feeling of Mettaton's teeth in his lip remained even when he leaves it, the taste of him lingering to the point where he couldn't distinguish it from his own either. To blur themselves, blend the experience as far as possible; Emet-Selch shuddered at the thought, even as his tongue slid back against Mettaton's. His hand buries itself in the puca's hair, helping to keep him close. That was one way to not feel alone, wasn't it?
The path Mettaton's hand takes has his muscles beneath it tensing, tightening ever more the closer it moves towards the inside of his thigh. Each touch felt like it claimed that bit more of him, taking possession of his body inch by inch, until there was naught left of it. But what was physical form to an Ascian? Emet-Selch knew the other's touch ran far deeper than that, dug into more insubstantial concepts.
And if Mettaton had accepted him to such a degree, how could the Ascian desire anything but the same? To possess every part of him, from metal and fur, to frustratingly invisible soul, to memory and self.
To know the whole of someone was an impossible dream, perhaps- just as absurd as a complete blending of bodies. But hadn't they already confirmed, that for entities such as themselves, to go ever wanting was only a blessing?]
[For a moment, Mettaton's fingers leave Emet-Selch's arousal and he halts their kissing, the air between them heavy as he anticipates resuming. He lets his fingertips trace from the base of his cock up his abdomen, his midriff, brushing over his chest before lifting his hand off of his neck, bringing his thumb to rest against his own lips. He meets Emet-Selch eye-to-eye, the demand for him to watch ever present in his piercing gaze beneath thick lashes.
With his thumb against his lips, he finally parts them, treating his digit to the same eagerness as though it's the suggestion of suckling on his cock. He glances upon it, dazed the way he'd look if it were Emet-Selch pushing past his lips, letting his tongue lap sensually across its tip, his lips dragging across as he takes his own thumb into his mouth. It's not all for show, truth be told, though he makes one out of it: it's short-lived, a demonstration of what the Ascian could have if he craved it of the star. But when Mettaton pulls his thumb out from between his lips with a soft smack, his thumb is glistening slick with his thick saliva. He smirks; his hand moves south as his other gives Emet-Selch a possessive squeeze, remaining precisely where it was before.
If Emet-Selch had any questions about Mettaton's motives, they should be lost by now: the Puca's fingers wrap about his shaft, but his thumb, slick and sticky, glides more readily over the head of his cock. His smile drips with his confidence and adoration, fawning with his eyes over Emet-Selch's neck, his lips, the quality of his stare like it's all a mile marker signaling his eventual undoing for his consumption. His thumb presses with more firmness than before, a hard line from the top, cresting over the tip, and down toward the bottom of his erection, then circling over it as before. His thumb glides along him easily now and where he's warm in touch, if he were to cease, he'd be left cold and wet in his wake.
With his other hand, Mettaton reaches further down, brushing those fingertips against his inner thigh as a teasing suggestion. He gives him another firm squeeze and this time doesn't let go of his ass, shifting his thigh against Emet-Selch's cock just so that he's forced to spread his legs around him. He draws close to his lips again, brushing against the Ascian's with a pleasurable hum, wanting him so much but having a million ways he could take him. His need is as heavy between them as his expectation is, and he seems moments away from capturing him in a deep, unending kiss.]
[Emet-Selch can't help the small noise of disapproval when Mettaton breaks off from their kiss, when he feels his hand leaving his erection, and the trace of a frown even crosses the Ascian's expression. It's not at all deeply felt, assuming that Mettaton had good reason for the break, and it does serve as some opportunity to catch his breath.
Not much of one, as he watches the idol take his thumb into his mouth. It wasn't at all difficult to recall the way his cock had looked and felt, when Mettaton had treated it in the same fashion. And though he doesn't break their shared gaze, Emet-Selch can't help the shudder of memory that passes through him, the answering pang of need in his cock, the way his own lips are parted in sympathy as well as for breath. Even without being touched, it was though he could feel it, the same warmth and slick treatment. Even the brief sight of Mettaton's thumb leaving his mouth was reminiscent of the way his cock had been left, wet and glistening.
It's with rapt attention that he watches Mettaton finally (even though it hadn't been that long, those few moments made quite a lot of themselves in his mind) lower his hand to wrap around his cock once more. Though at the first brush of resumed contact, the Ascian's eyes close for several seconds, and he swallows heavily at the sensation. The firmer pressure of Mettaton's thumb leaving a wet trail along the full length of his erection, the smoother way he continued to rub over the tip of him. Softer noises are carried on his breath, too indistinct to be proper moans, but frequent, needy.
It takes effort for him to open his eyes again, but he wanted to watch Mettaton's own expression, to memorize it just as clearly as every sensation, fully conscious of just how much he wanted him in that moment. So focused on that thought, that he's slightly startled when he feels his legs parted, sucking in a quick, sharp breath at feeling Mettaton's thigh between them. A feeling that was more than welcome, though he can't help but squeeze a little at it between his legs.
Nor can he help resuming that kiss either, especially not with Mettaton luring him in with that brush to his lips, the sound of his hum. Lips that felt slightly tender from all of this attention, but that was hardly about to dissuade the Ascian from anything, least of all from deepening the kiss with a smothered sound, his desperation for it evident in every line of him.]
[It's not as though Mettaton's putting forward a controlled visage prior to their kiss, not at all. But his natural charisma dictates some shade of control, intense and wanting and passionate betrayed by the way he looks back at Emet-Selch: the occasional lick of his lips, predatory with an underlying note of desperation, like anything could cause him to lose himself. He seems to enjoy being examined, and when he does finally close that distance between himself and Emet-Selch, it increases his obvious hunger for him.
So when Emet-Selch comes in to kiss him, it's met with incredible intensity, equally desperate — enough to pull from him that broken, undignified moan as he tries to take Emet-Selch like he's the air he's never had. He cannot think; it's blissful, how enraptured and mindless he feels, his Bonded all that exists in the world to him in this moment. This sheer intensity only serves to bring forth such affection for the other man, unfocused want and love causing Mettaton to catch his lip, to suck and bite here and there among the breathy whimpers he doesn't realize he's making. Whimpers with Hades's name uttered between, still largely beyond his awareness.
His grip around his cock firms, though the introduction of something slick makes it far easier for him to pull at his arousal with one firm stroke then another, releasing him from his fist then switching back to isolated strokes of his fingers. He presses his length against his thigh hungrily, selfishly, wanting to feel him against his body. The idol shudders and gasps, losing himself more and more but unable to keep from kissing, even to Emet-Selch's detriment.
Beyond kissing him, beyond squirming against his body, stroking his cock, pressing into his flesh, marking him up, taking him for what he can... Mettaton's want for more spikes. It's futile. He whimpers some more, kisses him more fiercely, thumbs the head of his cock covetously but is overall unable to scratch the itch he has. Nothing's enough, but he'll take everything he can get.]
H... Hades... Hades... Hades... [His voice is rendered soft like he's panting, repeating his name between kisses.]
[Though he can't help but cry out into the kiss at the stronger, slicker stroking of his cock, it's not enough to have him try to break it. Even when his breath turns panting, it can't keep Emet-Selch from his lips, not sure whether he was trying to devour him or be devoured. Perhaps both.
The sound of his name echoes in his ears the same way that Mettaton's moaning and gasps do, and he feels as though he could lose himself to the sounds alone. He felt dizzy from it. Or was it the lack of air? Another case of 'probably both'. It still hurt, in the same way all strong feelings did, but there was a measure of comfort applied at the same time, faint and fragile, but there. Though it did nothing to ease the sense of desperation, it didn't need to, only served to enhance that absurd, impossible warmth that he felt for the other man.]
Mettaton....
[It's all he can manage between pants, between kisses, tone low and deep and breaking at the end into a sharper whine. It wasn't enough, it would never be enough, he couldn't feel Mettaton in the way he wanted him. But for now there was this- his voice, the gliding of his hand as he stroked and pulled at his cock, the way he looked at him, everything that was passing between the Bond--
It's enough for his breathing to take on a more feverish pitch, twitching as he tries to press his cock up into Mettaton's hand, from the way his thighs tightened around his. He wanted to say how much he needed this, needed him, but there weren't words, nor breath to spare on it. There was only the sharper nips of his lips and tongue, drags of teeth and swallowed moans, desperate for some measure of relief. From isolation, from need; it was much the same, in the end.]
[At the sound of his name, he hums in reply, warm and pleasant while his kissing is feverish and responsive. For the feelings he has that are all for this and for his Bonded, he harbors his own airy thrill at them, the pleasure it brings him to feel dizzy when he so much as hears Emet-Selch's voice and feels his familiar form before him. But the Ascian's ache permeates. Not only does it permeate, but it elicits awareness of the pang of hurt that accompanies such delight in himself: a strong emotion only deserves both, and though he's predisposed to focusing on the half most commonly associated with positivity, the other's always been there. Feeling love is both light and heavy, and his ability to feel it in balance is stronger than ever.
As soon as Emet-Selch tightens like a vice about his leg, Mettaton's gaze becomes hazy, his ears springing upright. The suddenness of the gesture washes over him hot, a heat wave both lulling and striking both in tandem. His neck slackens in response while the hand he has wrapped around Emet-Selch's backside moves to wrap frantically around his lower back for some further closeness, support. His other hand returns to wrap around his erection, and he finds himself sliding his thumb in slow circles around the tip as he stutters into their kiss, no longer able to even say Emet-Selch's name.
His sheer willingness to give into him is interrupted for another erupting desire, purely psychological, as most things are for the robot. Everything's a slow build for him and though he's solidly in the most climactic territory he can be in, he thinks he can push himself further. Mettaton's weakness dissolves and he returns their latest kiss hard and heavy, sliding his tongue against the Ascian's lower lip before pulling away. There's a renewed glint in his heavy-lidded eye, his lips parted and wet with the product of their kissing, though he smiles.
All he wants is to appreciate his work. To see what the product of their adoration for each other has done to Emet-Selch, to his chest, his neck, his gaze and his lips, his entire disposition. They mean more than impact upon his body. He knows he himself must be a sight in his own right, as little as his composition can be affected. The Puca can tell his hair's been mussed, his body language frenetic, his expressions a betrayal of a want turned into a need. But what of Emet-Selch? He keeps working his hand over his cock in long, slow strokes, most of the focus applied to the head, where his thumb presses and slides, skirting over the very tip here and there.]
[It was the sort of kiss that he could vanish into, that he could feel long after the puca pulled away from it, as though it had left a deeper imprint than the brush of tongue or lips would imply.
And though he whines a little at the kiss being broken and Mettaton pulling away from it, Emet-Selch was too caught up in it all to chase after him, eyes unfocused and half-open, what attention he can gather fixed solely upon his Bonded.
The Ascian doesn't think about what he must look like, not having the capacity remaining to even consider it. Nor would he have cared to be so obviously a mess- at least physically. What shame was there to be so marked over, claimed, or possessed? The vulnerability of effect was another thing altogether, but with Mettaton there was no hesitation. And no guard in Emet-Selch's expression, panting and almost stricken, lips damp from deep kisses and his own heavy exhalations. Flushed and too-warm, sweat sticks the strands of his bangs to his forehead, and the rest of his hair is in little better condition.
Nor can he keep his eyes open as he grows closer, his panting containing cries that continue to sharpen, as though shaving away the last remnants of his control. His world was reduced to the hand manipulating his cock, and the body holding him in place, keeping him secure. A sense of helplessness joined it that wasn't at all terrible or frightening, that Emet-Selch wanted to give himself over to entirely.
His legs tremble, hand clutching and kneading at him, pleading moans and cries growing louder as his breath is converted into sound, rather than taken by kisses. His head half-presses into the mattress, as though desperate for any sort of anchor, but in the end all he could do was let go of himself completely, climaxing into Mettaton's hand with a protracted shudder.
Even then, his sounds don't immediately stop, only weaken, soften. The same as his grip, his entire body curling against Mettaton, just as desperate as before, but in a different sort of way. Emet-Selch's breathing is unsteady, overwhelmed entirely- mostly emotional, but physicality was there too, underlying and intensifying the rest. It went beyond affection and longing, but it hurt, and left him on the verge of tears from the weight of it.]
[It's said with overwhelming fondness on a collapsing sigh, a deep surprise, smitten by what he sees, hears, and feels all at once. He's arrested by the sight of him in his climax, everything about him something that, contrarily, stokes greater need in the Puca. It's Emet-Selch's end, and he intended for this to be his method of achieving ultimate pleasure, after all... No, it's not. Because he can't be satisfied with this alone, he could never be satisfied: they'd already established that. There would always be something else, a new position, a different mood, an itch he needs scratched on a whim. He takes it all in, doesn't dare close his eye when he wants to witness it all. Because this is still exactly what he wanted to see, and while it turns him on in one way, it completely sates his appetite in another.
If he thought he could rile himself up later with the thought of him working on his neck, he knows for sure this look of Emet-Selch's will be an accompanying craving of his, a source of deep-seated want that he could never shake. It's odd, how he feels sympathy for his release, vision hazy and struck dumb by the sounds and sensations of Emet-Selch. He ends up ejaculating on his hand, but mostly his thigh. What's new there? His legs seem to receive the most of it, and he'd satisfy himself on that note, too.
Just as he predicted, his satisfaction's elevated to greater levels yet, and he shudders in time with Emet-Selch's release from deep within. He buckles under the weight of his own pleasure with a whimper and finds that the Ascian's already curling into him, which is just as well: all he could do with pleasure like this is seek contact, that which he can feel and, more importantly, appreciate.
...Mettaton is a cleanly sort, all things considered, but he sure does have come still between his thighs and against the front of one of them. He's hardly thinking about it right now, as he wraps his arms about Emet-Selch's body and pulls him in. He has a sense for some crushing weight upon the Ascian's shoulders, and is too drunk on their experience to focus on anything but that, his climax, and their intimacy.
Close as they are, Mettaton leans toward his face. He kisses his forehead, moves to kiss the corner of his lips, then his jaw, over and over, until he reaches his ear. There, he moves down to his neck and settles there, with another kiss. It's a gesture of affection again, but with the intent to reassure. He hums against his neck: though he can feel how Emet-Selch's fairing, Mettaton is rather blissful, himself. Light and stricken, satisfied and loving. He holds tight,]
[Half-conscious, chest heaving, breathing still a rasp, his eyes manage to open again when he feels lips upon his face. The sort of little nudges of affection that keep him trembling, prolonging that sense of deep, if complicated hurting. But also soothing at the same time, a reminder that Mettaton was there, and was going to keep being there. A feeling of being taken care of, in some way.
The depth to these reactions was something Emet-Selch was still reluctant to examine. But there was a face to his neck, and a body against his own, and that was all that really mattered.
And it was definitely a bit of a mess between them, if mostly on Mettaton. Though with the way the Ascian seemed intent on keeping as much of their bodies pressed as close as possible, it wasn't as if he seemed to care if he got a smear of anything on himself either. In a distant way he was aware it was probably something he should offer to help clean up, considering it was his fault to begin with, but that would require both moving from Mettaton and coordination that Emet-Selch didn't currently possess. Clinging to his Bondmate instead was not so much a compromise as it was completely ignoring the issue, but that sure was the only solution he could think of.
...He was so scattered, again. That kept happening. And he suspected it would keep happening, in one way or another, to one degree or another. He rests a hand in Mettaton's hair, stroking slowly at it. His body felt heavy and too warm, yet still occasionally shivered. He didn't really understand how he'd ended up like this, no part of it was expected. And yet so quickly he was loathe to ever give up on this part of his life, now that he'd found it. Whatever it was.
Was he so desperate for company? Alright, he was, but not in the sense that he'd accept it from just anyone. Much to the contrary. He was particular.
He didn't know how to express any of this. He never had known; even in Amaurot he'd only had two close friends, and that was when his issues were far less extreme. As his breathing gradually evens, Emet-Selch presses Mettaton's head that bit more against his neck, shifts ever closer against his form. As the usual unhappiness settles that more on him, he didn't know what else to do.]
[His ears are poised in a mix between alert and relaxed, nearly pulled at a 45-degree angle but with one of them disagreeing with his own mood, leaning forward attentively as if still trying to get a read on his Bonded. The more they do this, the less alarmed Mettaton is at Emet-Selch's post-coital distress, taking it to be him coming down from the intensity, but it doesn't make him want to reassure him any less. It disagrees with an idealistic, preconceived notion Mettaton has of sex, but he takes to it readily, oddly enough. Emet-Selch is exceptionally predisposed to processing emotion of any significance in this despairing lens, nothing like a picturesque bliss he might fantasize out of himself. He imagines it comes from distancing himself from it all. Though emotions are a deeply thrilling thing for Mettaton, he know that for others they're easier to deal with when they're not so strongly felt.
He'd remarked earlier that Emet-Selch must have been lonely. He doesn't remember if he said it in past tense or not, but he'd make it present tense. He is lonely, and Mettaton...
He considers the way he thinks of himself as something available to anyone. Someone who kept people distracted from hopelessness and dreariness. A star with his particular experience objectifies himself for the people gladly, by virtue distancing himself as untouchable, but he'd be the first to protest the notion that he does it to any damaging extent. He doesn't: he has his own wants and desires, his own methods. He's taken Emet-Selch's company back-stage much earlier, so to speak, and here, Mettaton will gladly have him for the unique companionship he provides. Not simply to soothe Emet-Selch's despair, but to discover more about himself and the Ascian, too. To be his friend. He holds him tightly in realization.]
My apologies... Hades-darling. I said something erroneous... earlier today. [He's still sluggish in speech, and Emet-Selch's hand in his hair only serves to lull him more. His ears both relax.] I don't love you the way I love humanity... No. I love you quite differently from that.
[He loves him the way he loves somebody he'd think of before them, somebody important to him, a name and a face. Nothing unconditional, nothing blind, but something hard to break, even at a distance. Somebody who knows the nuance of his existence, and somebody whose importance Mettaton wants to keep close. Somebody he'd protect, senselessly. At his own peril, but he decides that would be crueler exacted upon the Ascian than it would be for most.
...He smiles against his throat. As two beings who could withstand time, they sure didn't let the development of their relationship stall with it. But he's not one for inaction, and Emet-Selch doesn't seem to be either, when it matters. He moves an arm enough to place a hand against Emet-Selch's waist, which he strokes.]
[Gradually, Emet-Selch begins to relax. In his sort of drained, hollowed-out way, but it wasn't unpleasant. A mood that contained both melancholy and comfort was about the best he could hope for, and he nuzzles at the top of Mettaton's head in something akin to gratitude. For the experience, for his presence, for... just being.
And while the sound of his voice (which he'd come to appreciate in itself), doesn't disrupt the Ascian's mixed reverie, Mettaton's words do. And not in a positive direction.]
You can't--
[He cuts himself off with a choked noise, half-irritated, half-pained. His hackles instinctively rise. While not being lumped in with humanity was good, as Emet-Selch never appreciated being compared to them whatsoever in all their flaws (his flaws were different, and superior), the implication in Mettaton's words were... worrying. Complicated.]
And what mistaken form do you think yours takes?
[It's sharper, more testily spoken, even as his hand rubs at the base of one of Mettaton's ears. Even as he remains close, leaning still closer. But he tenses as well, in a more defensive way.
Emet-Selch didn't know what to think, as his mind refused to do more than glide around the topic. Fondness was bad enough, genuine affection remained difficult to receive or demonstrate, as soon as he became aware of what it was. As soon as thought or word was applied. This was even worse than that, and of course Mettaton would bring it up. And while he was coming to appreciate the puca's lack of constraints, this was one area that unnerved the Ascian badly.
...He'd never considered himself one to move quickly. And yet- his interests were few, but intense- and Emet-Selch knew that applied to people as well as topics. Either something or someone was worthwhile or they weren't, and no amount of waiting around would change things. It was perhaps more that his investments were progressively fewer, unwilling to risk himself on even the attempt. But once begun--
Even so. Even so, as soon as something touched him on a more personal level, and moreover that he was made aware of it, was forced to be conscious of it- then he recoiled. Anticipating pain even before it had been applied, because what else could he expect? Never mind that most of his suffering was self-inflicted. He'd never learned to cope.]
[His smile grows at Emet-Selch's surprise, not having expected it, precisely, but finding it to be such an interesting assortment of response to such an innocent statement. The sharpness of his tone, his choice in words, but the contrast of it against such pleasant ministrations to his ear (which Mettaton leans into without meaning to with a slight hum, finding that he's very prone to the sensation) and the way he leans in closer. He can only imagine the conflict now. Such loneliness requires desperate measures to compensate, and having anybody come close... How does that make the Ascian feel? Does he fear the loss associated with closeness?
Who doesn't? But for somebody like himself, loss after loss after loss... He wonders if all he sees in a relationship is the accompanying loss. It's terribly sad to think about.
Even thinking as much gives Mettaton a pang of guilt, imagining having to make somebody else go through the heartache of loss. That Emet-Selch would already be feeling as much, it... makes sense. Closeness is cruel, when that bond is yanked from one's clutches. That's his greatest regret, after all. Two deeply bonded individuals could be close enough to see each other at any time of day for years and years, sharing in all things and being perfectly at ease that neither of them would leave, exchange their fears of disappearing, only to find that one day, the other half to their whole has... gone missing. (Hidden in plain sight.)
Mettaton hesitates. Feels pain that isn't his, from two sources. And then, feels pain that is his. He's susceptible to emotion, deeply so. But those aren't how he feels right now, and it's easy for him to shed it in favor of this moment: he couldn't imagine suffering for something that isn't even happening, all the time. It's back to affection, the light dizziness of expressing himself, and the accompanying feelings for Emet-Selch that color his mood.
There's that word again, "mistaken." He's thrilled to be considered "mistaken" now, regardless. It hurts when he thinks about loss, but when he thinks about now, it drowns such heartache out with a buzz of warmth. Even Emet-Selch's evident distress won't stop him from speaking his heart, which he will do readily, always. Love has a way of being both delightful and hurtful, after all, but so delightful while it's there.]
You're important to me, gorgeous. You are. Hades. You're my friend, and...
[Oh, but he wouldn't treat his friends to all of this. He doesn't treat anybody else to this, actually. Mettaton breathes Emet-Selch in, as if he could smell him, but he can't. He holds him closer.]
Well. You've made yourself quite at home... in some exclusive part of my heart. You're special to me. ...Very.
[Special enough that it would hurt to lose him. It will, so much that he can't think about it yet. How could he, when he has him in his arms right now? Breathing him in like this, Mettaton finds that he can still get a strange feeling of his warmth by air detectable by his tongue. He grips onto his waist, and kisses his skin.]
Oh. I'm afraid I'm mistaken about nothing, by the way. It should be obvious to you... that I know how I feel. Don't doubt, darling.
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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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The kiss against his throat and the way he speaks against him is another texture for him to enjoy, which he does thoroughly, a soft, pleasured hum sounding at the contact of his kiss and continuing on as he speaks. He could be both concerned and enticed, which he is satisfied in——
Before he presses his growing arousal anew into Mettaton's body. He jolts at the contact, recoiling for scarcely a second before he finds himself pressing into him with desperation, choking on an unexpected moan. That easily, a switch has been flipped within him, his craving dialed up, his expression wide-eyed and eager.]
Hades—!
[His lips are parted and he trembles into the feeling of Emet-Selch's continued attention paid to his throat, quivering. He thrills in being shocked; he breathes out a softer, breathier sigh of his desire through a smile.
It wasn't his intention to help him sleep right now, but... Emet-Selch has a point about him.]
Wh... What can I say? Putting people to sleep... Isn't my strong suit. Quite... Quite the opposite, actually.
[He shifts his body against Emet-Selch's erection, unable to stay still.]
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Ah....
[It was certainly a feeling to go from lazily aroused to completely hard, just from a bit of shifting on Mettaton's part, from the immediacy of his reaction to him. The sensation of blood rushing lower in his body leaves the Ascian dizzy and momentarily breathless, and he takes a moment to simply revel in that feeling. That he could be so quickly spurred into wanting Mettaton so strongly again (as if the feeling had ever completely faded), the warmth and responsiveness of even a robotic form shifting against his own. To be wanted so blatantly in return; he swallows back a moan of his own by sucking hard at the center of Mettaton's throat. With less success does he hold back a shudder, finally letting go of his neck in order to speak.]
If- you truly prefer me awake. 'Tis. One way of achieving that.
[Though it was starting to feel as though just being in Mettaton's presence would be a temptation on its own. And that the closer they were, the more of a test it would become- though it wasn't as though the penalty for failing to resist was a very terrible one.
With effort as well as some regret, Emet-Selch nudges back from his place at Mettaton's neck, lifting his head in order to seek out his gaze. Something made slightly more difficult by his inability to keep their faces apart much at all. But in addition to the rise in need, there was an accompanying longing present in his expression. A sentiment expressed again in the hesitant gentleness in the way his lips move over his Bonded's face. More brushings than kisses over his jaw and cheek, the Ascian's breathing is shaky.
It felt... fragile, somehow, in a way he couldn't express. As though he were skirting around the edge of something delicate. Something that would disappear if he observed it too closely.]
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He relies on biting his lip to hold back from making too much noise at once at the way Emet-Selch fixates on his neck, kissing him deeply and sucking at the skin over his throat, riding still on the surprise making each sensation feel like sparks. He can't hold it all back, and it comes out in the form of a voiced breath, a smooth, held note that trails off. It's in part responsive to the kiss, but also the sensation of Emet-Selch's cock going from attentive to hard, fully aroused and pushed against his thigh. He feels him so distinctly, dizzying, with the way his body's placed great focus on developing his legs, all but temperature detectable. He can hardly resist reaching down to touch him already, fantasizing about all of the ways he'd have the Ascian next. Once more, some are possible; he swallows at the prospects. Some aren't, as he is.
He pulls his fracturing composure together, but not with any care to seem as though he's unaffected. His smile's a genuine part of it.]
Ah... I. I'll keep that in mind... For the future.
[He shifts again, his body hot internally. It's nothing uncomfortable, barely detectable in actual temperature, but he usually has a sense for it based on how he wants to move. It surprises him to feel his Bonded break away from his neck, almost leaving him disappointed... But not for long enough for it to be anything but a passing look of confusion, ears bouncing up to alert. He studies the Ascian carefully, noting such raw emotion that looks like much of what he's felt from him before in gesture. He's soft, but intent all the same.
It tracks. The gentle expression and hitched breath, the touch of his lips against his face... Mettaton feels his heart swell in his fondness for the other man, and he swallows around it. Such direct attention all for him wins him over, but the way he treats him makes his heart melt. His hand moves down being entangled in his hair to resting against the nape of his neck, the other still rubbing slowly along his upper back. He cherishes it, closes his eye and traces his fingers over his back.
When Emet-Selch drifts close enough, Mettaton interrupts him with a surprise kiss to his lips, firm yet sweet, affected by Emet-Selch's mood as he is. He feels... loved. Loved in a way that isn't simply fancying, but something heavier than that. He slackens at Emet-Selch's side, resting his arm against his neck as he tries to kiss him once more, anywhere he can take him: his cheek, his jaw, his lips.]
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It... hurt. That wasn't unfamiliar. That wasn't even unusual. But it hurt in a way he cared not to examine, as he lets the emotion sink into him with a hitch of breath, a small pained-yet-pleased sound.
It was the mix of needs, ever intense, yet ever gentle and deliberate as well. With every heartbeat his cock ached to be touched, for more direct stimulation, having no particular care for what form it took. Emet-Selch felt similarly, though he couldn't help but rub his erection slowly against the other man's thigh, just for a bit of relief. He tries not to think about the ways he wanted Mettaton but couldn't have him, not yet. That way only lay frustration, and there was too much else to appreciate in the meantime.
Like when their lips finally meet, stealing his breath again despite nothing about the gesture actually preventing him from taking air. But he leans into it with a small, low noise, and even when Mettaton moves on to kissing other parts of his face, his breathing is irregular, unsteady. From the hands on his neck and back, the lips decorating his face with their attentions, he felt- cared for. Cared for and about, which just sets him hurting in that strange way again. His own hand finds its way to the back of Mettaton's neck, fingers stroking slowly from his hairline down to the top of his back, and then upwards again, the touch firm but not hard.
And he continues to provide Mettaton's own face with his deliberation, careful to not interrupt the idol's own actions, though as ever he finds himself lingering whenever their lips happened to meet. On one such occasion, he takes his lower lip between his teeth in a slow drag over it, before flicking his tongue against it in a brief, damp lick.]
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Without thinking, his hand slides from Emet-Selch's neck and down Mettaton's own body, following his own figure until he reaches his thigh. From there, he strokes a finger along the length of his cock and rubs a thumb firmly against the head, two gestures in tandem: both delicate, but thorough. The feeling of him has Mettaton leaning into another kiss with a dreamy, gratified sigh.]
Hades, I...
[There are a lot of ways to finish that sentence, but perhaps he needs to say none of them: the sentiment is strong enough to be felt through their Bond. The one that clouds his mind most is how much he wants him, pure and simple. Among it are sentiments about how much he surprises him, how comfortable he is, and this amorphous one he couldn't put into words in this particular moment. It's feeling cared for, caring for him, wanting the best for him, and wanting to share himself at his best. Love, really. Maybe he could put it into words after all, but he's so focused on being kissed silly and the opportunity for closer proximity.
The robot shifts his thigh against Emet-Selch, desirous. He gives Emet-Selch a flash of gold, passionate and candid in his craving for him.]
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But that measure of feeling over the Bond remains alarming, remains concerning, remains unsettling. Not only in the feel of it in itself, but in the degree to which Emet-Selch wanted it. And while it remained overwhelming, it wasn't as quite as panic-inducing as before, for all that his heart still lurches painfully, that his breathing is shallow and with poor effect.
He has to rest his forehead against Mettaton's for a moment, more than a bit overcome. The wealth of physical sensations melding with the emotional certainly don't help when it comes to grounding him. The teasing stroke of a finger along his cock has him cry out, then suck in a sharper breath as he's unable to keep his hips from pressing himself into the robot's touch. Moaning softly, he clings harder to him for a few trembling seconds before managing to relax just a bit, though ripples of tension continue to run through him.
The look to Mettaton's eye certainly made it no easier to collect himself- and did Emet-Selch really care to? He felt no inclination to hide the entirety of his response from him, catching the idol's gaze with an unfocused, but no less intent wanting. It's blatant and honest, and forever a bit sad, despite the obvious attachment. Or because of it.
Catching his lips again for another kiss, he deepens it immediately, despite his own unfortunate need for air, taking a claim of Mettaton's mouth with a nearly inaudible moan.]
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His fingers press against his erection gently, taking the moment to appreciate the way it feels against his body; he shudders through their kiss, and the sighing noise he makes is impacted by it. He keeps his thumb against the tip, rubbing circles into it while his fingers rhythmically drag up and down his shaft. Mettaton hums into his mouth, losing himself slowly but surely to this moment, caring about nothing but this. The sensation, their pleasure, Emet-Selch's ever reaction and sound. He's grounded in this moment, nothing else mattering but their dynamic and their attraction, built on such unusual vulnerability and trust in one another.
When pulls from this kiss, he immediately comes in for another, his appetite for seeing Emet-Selch flushed and wanting and his igniting all over again. If he wants Emet-Selch in all ways, his complete vulnerability is one of them. There's a smile tugging at his lips as he bites at his lower lip, pulls him in, hums with utter fondness when he notes that he and Emet-Selch are starting to taste the same as he slides his tongue between his lips. It gives him chills, having him so thoroughly.
The Puca's hand against his back traces down his spine, veering off course as soon as he reaches his lower back. He presses into of his skin, soft and pleasant, moves further south and grabs at his hip again, squeezing lower and lower until he's veered closer to his inner thigh than not. He's relentless, however, and continues to kiss him deeply, losing himself to Emet-Selch as he pleases.]
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Of course, his chest still heaved with his struggled breaths, gasps for air between ever-deeper kisses. The feeling of Mettaton's teeth in his lip remained even when he leaves it, the taste of him lingering to the point where he couldn't distinguish it from his own either. To blur themselves, blend the experience as far as possible; Emet-Selch shuddered at the thought, even as his tongue slid back against Mettaton's. His hand buries itself in the puca's hair, helping to keep him close. That was one way to not feel alone, wasn't it?
The path Mettaton's hand takes has his muscles beneath it tensing, tightening ever more the closer it moves towards the inside of his thigh. Each touch felt like it claimed that bit more of him, taking possession of his body inch by inch, until there was naught left of it. But what was physical form to an Ascian? Emet-Selch knew the other's touch ran far deeper than that, dug into more insubstantial concepts.
And if Mettaton had accepted him to such a degree, how could the Ascian desire anything but the same? To possess every part of him, from metal and fur, to frustratingly invisible soul, to memory and self.
To know the whole of someone was an impossible dream, perhaps- just as absurd as a complete blending of bodies. But hadn't they already confirmed, that for entities such as themselves, to go ever wanting was only a blessing?]
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With his thumb against his lips, he finally parts them, treating his digit to the same eagerness as though it's the suggestion of suckling on his cock. He glances upon it, dazed the way he'd look if it were Emet-Selch pushing past his lips, letting his tongue lap sensually across its tip, his lips dragging across as he takes his own thumb into his mouth. It's not all for show, truth be told, though he makes one out of it: it's short-lived, a demonstration of what the Ascian could have if he craved it of the star. But when Mettaton pulls his thumb out from between his lips with a soft smack, his thumb is glistening slick with his thick saliva. He smirks; his hand moves south as his other gives Emet-Selch a possessive squeeze, remaining precisely where it was before.
If Emet-Selch had any questions about Mettaton's motives, they should be lost by now: the Puca's fingers wrap about his shaft, but his thumb, slick and sticky, glides more readily over the head of his cock. His smile drips with his confidence and adoration, fawning with his eyes over Emet-Selch's neck, his lips, the quality of his stare like it's all a mile marker signaling his eventual undoing for his consumption. His thumb presses with more firmness than before, a hard line from the top, cresting over the tip, and down toward the bottom of his erection, then circling over it as before. His thumb glides along him easily now and where he's warm in touch, if he were to cease, he'd be left cold and wet in his wake.
With his other hand, Mettaton reaches further down, brushing those fingertips against his inner thigh as a teasing suggestion. He gives him another firm squeeze and this time doesn't let go of his ass, shifting his thigh against Emet-Selch's cock just so that he's forced to spread his legs around him. He draws close to his lips again, brushing against the Ascian's with a pleasurable hum, wanting him so much but having a million ways he could take him. His need is as heavy between them as his expectation is, and he seems moments away from capturing him in a deep, unending kiss.]
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Not much of one, as he watches the idol take his thumb into his mouth. It wasn't at all difficult to recall the way his cock had looked and felt, when Mettaton had treated it in the same fashion. And though he doesn't break their shared gaze, Emet-Selch can't help the shudder of memory that passes through him, the answering pang of need in his cock, the way his own lips are parted in sympathy as well as for breath. Even without being touched, it was though he could feel it, the same warmth and slick treatment. Even the brief sight of Mettaton's thumb leaving his mouth was reminiscent of the way his cock had been left, wet and glistening.
It's with rapt attention that he watches Mettaton finally (even though it hadn't been that long, those few moments made quite a lot of themselves in his mind) lower his hand to wrap around his cock once more. Though at the first brush of resumed contact, the Ascian's eyes close for several seconds, and he swallows heavily at the sensation. The firmer pressure of Mettaton's thumb leaving a wet trail along the full length of his erection, the smoother way he continued to rub over the tip of him. Softer noises are carried on his breath, too indistinct to be proper moans, but frequent, needy.
It takes effort for him to open his eyes again, but he wanted to watch Mettaton's own expression, to memorize it just as clearly as every sensation, fully conscious of just how much he wanted him in that moment. So focused on that thought, that he's slightly startled when he feels his legs parted, sucking in a quick, sharp breath at feeling Mettaton's thigh between them. A feeling that was more than welcome, though he can't help but squeeze a little at it between his legs.
Nor can he help resuming that kiss either, especially not with Mettaton luring him in with that brush to his lips, the sound of his hum. Lips that felt slightly tender from all of this attention, but that was hardly about to dissuade the Ascian from anything, least of all from deepening the kiss with a smothered sound, his desperation for it evident in every line of him.]
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So when Emet-Selch comes in to kiss him, it's met with incredible intensity, equally desperate — enough to pull from him that broken, undignified moan as he tries to take Emet-Selch like he's the air he's never had. He cannot think; it's blissful, how enraptured and mindless he feels, his Bonded all that exists in the world to him in this moment. This sheer intensity only serves to bring forth such affection for the other man, unfocused want and love causing Mettaton to catch his lip, to suck and bite here and there among the breathy whimpers he doesn't realize he's making. Whimpers with Hades's name uttered between, still largely beyond his awareness.
His grip around his cock firms, though the introduction of something slick makes it far easier for him to pull at his arousal with one firm stroke then another, releasing him from his fist then switching back to isolated strokes of his fingers. He presses his length against his thigh hungrily, selfishly, wanting to feel him against his body. The idol shudders and gasps, losing himself more and more but unable to keep from kissing, even to Emet-Selch's detriment.
Beyond kissing him, beyond squirming against his body, stroking his cock, pressing into his flesh, marking him up, taking him for what he can... Mettaton's want for more spikes. It's futile. He whimpers some more, kisses him more fiercely, thumbs the head of his cock covetously but is overall unable to scratch the itch he has. Nothing's enough, but he'll take everything he can get.]
H... Hades... Hades... Hades... [His voice is rendered soft like he's panting, repeating his name between kisses.]
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The sound of his name echoes in his ears the same way that Mettaton's moaning and gasps do, and he feels as though he could lose himself to the sounds alone. He felt dizzy from it. Or was it the lack of air? Another case of 'probably both'. It still hurt, in the same way all strong feelings did, but there was a measure of comfort applied at the same time, faint and fragile, but there. Though it did nothing to ease the sense of desperation, it didn't need to, only served to enhance that absurd, impossible warmth that he felt for the other man.]
Mettaton....
[It's all he can manage between pants, between kisses, tone low and deep and breaking at the end into a sharper whine. It wasn't enough, it would never be enough, he couldn't feel Mettaton in the way he wanted him. But for now there was this- his voice, the gliding of his hand as he stroked and pulled at his cock, the way he looked at him, everything that was passing between the Bond--
It's enough for his breathing to take on a more feverish pitch, twitching as he tries to press his cock up into Mettaton's hand, from the way his thighs tightened around his. He wanted to say how much he needed this, needed him, but there weren't words, nor breath to spare on it. There was only the sharper nips of his lips and tongue, drags of teeth and swallowed moans, desperate for some measure of relief. From isolation, from need; it was much the same, in the end.]
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As soon as Emet-Selch tightens like a vice about his leg, Mettaton's gaze becomes hazy, his ears springing upright. The suddenness of the gesture washes over him hot, a heat wave both lulling and striking both in tandem. His neck slackens in response while the hand he has wrapped around Emet-Selch's backside moves to wrap frantically around his lower back for some further closeness, support. His other hand returns to wrap around his erection, and he finds himself sliding his thumb in slow circles around the tip as he stutters into their kiss, no longer able to even say Emet-Selch's name.
His sheer willingness to give into him is interrupted for another erupting desire, purely psychological, as most things are for the robot. Everything's a slow build for him and though he's solidly in the most climactic territory he can be in, he thinks he can push himself further. Mettaton's weakness dissolves and he returns their latest kiss hard and heavy, sliding his tongue against the Ascian's lower lip before pulling away. There's a renewed glint in his heavy-lidded eye, his lips parted and wet with the product of their kissing, though he smiles.
All he wants is to appreciate his work. To see what the product of their adoration for each other has done to Emet-Selch, to his chest, his neck, his gaze and his lips, his entire disposition. They mean more than impact upon his body. He knows he himself must be a sight in his own right, as little as his composition can be affected. The Puca can tell his hair's been mussed, his body language frenetic, his expressions a betrayal of a want turned into a need. But what of Emet-Selch? He keeps working his hand over his cock in long, slow strokes, most of the focus applied to the head, where his thumb presses and slides, skirting over the very tip here and there.]
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And though he whines a little at the kiss being broken and Mettaton pulling away from it, Emet-Selch was too caught up in it all to chase after him, eyes unfocused and half-open, what attention he can gather fixed solely upon his Bonded.
The Ascian doesn't think about what he must look like, not having the capacity remaining to even consider it. Nor would he have cared to be so obviously a mess- at least physically. What shame was there to be so marked over, claimed, or possessed? The vulnerability of effect was another thing altogether, but with Mettaton there was no hesitation. And no guard in Emet-Selch's expression, panting and almost stricken, lips damp from deep kisses and his own heavy exhalations. Flushed and too-warm, sweat sticks the strands of his bangs to his forehead, and the rest of his hair is in little better condition.
Nor can he keep his eyes open as he grows closer, his panting containing cries that continue to sharpen, as though shaving away the last remnants of his control. His world was reduced to the hand manipulating his cock, and the body holding him in place, keeping him secure. A sense of helplessness joined it that wasn't at all terrible or frightening, that Emet-Selch wanted to give himself over to entirely.
His legs tremble, hand clutching and kneading at him, pleading moans and cries growing louder as his breath is converted into sound, rather than taken by kisses. His head half-presses into the mattress, as though desperate for any sort of anchor, but in the end all he could do was let go of himself completely, climaxing into Mettaton's hand with a protracted shudder.
Even then, his sounds don't immediately stop, only weaken, soften. The same as his grip, his entire body curling against Mettaton, just as desperate as before, but in a different sort of way. Emet-Selch's breathing is unsteady, overwhelmed entirely- mostly emotional, but physicality was there too, underlying and intensifying the rest. It went beyond affection and longing, but it hurt, and left him on the verge of tears from the weight of it.]
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[It's said with overwhelming fondness on a collapsing sigh, a deep surprise, smitten by what he sees, hears, and feels all at once. He's arrested by the sight of him in his climax, everything about him something that, contrarily, stokes greater need in the Puca. It's Emet-Selch's end, and he intended for this to be his method of achieving ultimate pleasure, after all... No, it's not. Because he can't be satisfied with this alone, he could never be satisfied: they'd already established that. There would always be something else, a new position, a different mood, an itch he needs scratched on a whim. He takes it all in, doesn't dare close his eye when he wants to witness it all. Because this is still exactly what he wanted to see, and while it turns him on in one way, it completely sates his appetite in another.
If he thought he could rile himself up later with the thought of him working on his neck, he knows for sure this look of Emet-Selch's will be an accompanying craving of his, a source of deep-seated want that he could never shake. It's odd, how he feels sympathy for his release, vision hazy and struck dumb by the sounds and sensations of Emet-Selch. He ends up ejaculating on his hand, but mostly his thigh. What's new there? His legs seem to receive the most of it, and he'd satisfy himself on that note, too.
Just as he predicted, his satisfaction's elevated to greater levels yet, and he shudders in time with Emet-Selch's release from deep within. He buckles under the weight of his own pleasure with a whimper and finds that the Ascian's already curling into him, which is just as well: all he could do with pleasure like this is seek contact, that which he can feel and, more importantly, appreciate.
...Mettaton is a cleanly sort, all things considered, but he sure does have come still between his thighs and against the front of one of them. He's hardly thinking about it right now, as he wraps his arms about Emet-Selch's body and pulls him in. He has a sense for some crushing weight upon the Ascian's shoulders, and is too drunk on their experience to focus on anything but that, his climax, and their intimacy.
Close as they are, Mettaton leans toward his face. He kisses his forehead, moves to kiss the corner of his lips, then his jaw, over and over, until he reaches his ear. There, he moves down to his neck and settles there, with another kiss. It's a gesture of affection again, but with the intent to reassure. He hums against his neck: though he can feel how Emet-Selch's fairing, Mettaton is rather blissful, himself. Light and stricken, satisfied and loving. He holds tight,]
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The depth to these reactions was something Emet-Selch was still reluctant to examine. But there was a face to his neck, and a body against his own, and that was all that really mattered.
And it was definitely a bit of a mess between them, if mostly on Mettaton. Though with the way the Ascian seemed intent on keeping as much of their bodies pressed as close as possible, it wasn't as if he seemed to care if he got a smear of anything on himself either. In a distant way he was aware it was probably something he should offer to help clean up, considering it was his fault to begin with, but that would require both moving from Mettaton and coordination that Emet-Selch didn't currently possess. Clinging to his Bondmate instead was not so much a compromise as it was completely ignoring the issue, but that sure was the only solution he could think of.
...He was so scattered, again. That kept happening. And he suspected it would keep happening, in one way or another, to one degree or another. He rests a hand in Mettaton's hair, stroking slowly at it. His body felt heavy and too warm, yet still occasionally shivered. He didn't really understand how he'd ended up like this, no part of it was expected. And yet so quickly he was loathe to ever give up on this part of his life, now that he'd found it. Whatever it was.
Was he so desperate for company? Alright, he was, but not in the sense that he'd accept it from just anyone. Much to the contrary. He was particular.
He didn't know how to express any of this. He never had known; even in Amaurot he'd only had two close friends, and that was when his issues were far less extreme. As his breathing gradually evens, Emet-Selch presses Mettaton's head that bit more against his neck, shifts ever closer against his form. As the usual unhappiness settles that more on him, he didn't know what else to do.]
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He'd remarked earlier that Emet-Selch must have been lonely. He doesn't remember if he said it in past tense or not, but he'd make it present tense. He is lonely, and Mettaton...
He considers the way he thinks of himself as something available to anyone. Someone who kept people distracted from hopelessness and dreariness. A star with his particular experience objectifies himself for the people gladly, by virtue distancing himself as untouchable, but he'd be the first to protest the notion that he does it to any damaging extent. He doesn't: he has his own wants and desires, his own methods. He's taken Emet-Selch's company back-stage much earlier, so to speak, and here, Mettaton will gladly have him for the unique companionship he provides. Not simply to soothe Emet-Selch's despair, but to discover more about himself and the Ascian, too. To be his friend. He holds him tightly in realization.]
My apologies... Hades-darling. I said something erroneous... earlier today. [He's still sluggish in speech, and Emet-Selch's hand in his hair only serves to lull him more. His ears both relax.] I don't love you the way I love humanity... No. I love you quite differently from that.
[He loves him the way he loves somebody he'd think of before them, somebody important to him, a name and a face. Nothing unconditional, nothing blind, but something hard to break, even at a distance. Somebody who knows the nuance of his existence, and somebody whose importance Mettaton wants to keep close. Somebody he'd protect, senselessly. At his own peril, but he decides that would be crueler exacted upon the Ascian than it would be for most.
...He smiles against his throat. As two beings who could withstand time, they sure didn't let the development of their relationship stall with it. But he's not one for inaction, and Emet-Selch doesn't seem to be either, when it matters. He moves an arm enough to place a hand against Emet-Selch's waist, which he strokes.]
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And while the sound of his voice (which he'd come to appreciate in itself), doesn't disrupt the Ascian's mixed reverie, Mettaton's words do. And not in a positive direction.]
You can't--
[He cuts himself off with a choked noise, half-irritated, half-pained. His hackles instinctively rise. While not being lumped in with humanity was good, as Emet-Selch never appreciated being compared to them whatsoever in all their flaws (his flaws were different, and superior), the implication in Mettaton's words were... worrying. Complicated.]
And what mistaken form do you think yours takes?
[It's sharper, more testily spoken, even as his hand rubs at the base of one of Mettaton's ears. Even as he remains close, leaning still closer. But he tenses as well, in a more defensive way.
Emet-Selch didn't know what to think, as his mind refused to do more than glide around the topic. Fondness was bad enough, genuine affection remained difficult to receive or demonstrate, as soon as he became aware of what it was. As soon as thought or word was applied. This was even worse than that, and of course Mettaton would bring it up. And while he was coming to appreciate the puca's lack of constraints, this was one area that unnerved the Ascian badly.
...He'd never considered himself one to move quickly. And yet- his interests were few, but intense- and Emet-Selch knew that applied to people as well as topics. Either something or someone was worthwhile or they weren't, and no amount of waiting around would change things. It was perhaps more that his investments were progressively fewer, unwilling to risk himself on even the attempt. But once begun--
Even so. Even so, as soon as something touched him on a more personal level, and moreover that he was made aware of it, was forced to be conscious of it- then he recoiled. Anticipating pain even before it had been applied, because what else could he expect? Never mind that most of his suffering was self-inflicted. He'd never learned to cope.]
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Who doesn't? But for somebody like himself, loss after loss after loss... He wonders if all he sees in a relationship is the accompanying loss. It's terribly sad to think about.
Even thinking as much gives Mettaton a pang of guilt, imagining having to make somebody else go through the heartache of loss. That Emet-Selch would already be feeling as much, it... makes sense. Closeness is cruel, when that bond is yanked from one's clutches. That's his greatest regret, after all. Two deeply bonded individuals could be close enough to see each other at any time of day for years and years, sharing in all things and being perfectly at ease that neither of them would leave, exchange their fears of disappearing, only to find that one day, the other half to their whole has... gone missing. (Hidden in plain sight.)
Mettaton hesitates. Feels pain that isn't his, from two sources. And then, feels pain that is his. He's susceptible to emotion, deeply so. But those aren't how he feels right now, and it's easy for him to shed it in favor of this moment: he couldn't imagine suffering for something that isn't even happening, all the time. It's back to affection, the light dizziness of expressing himself, and the accompanying feelings for Emet-Selch that color his mood.
There's that word again, "mistaken." He's thrilled to be considered "mistaken" now, regardless. It hurts when he thinks about loss, but when he thinks about now, it drowns such heartache out with a buzz of warmth. Even Emet-Selch's evident distress won't stop him from speaking his heart, which he will do readily, always. Love has a way of being both delightful and hurtful, after all, but so delightful while it's there.]
You're important to me, gorgeous. You are. Hades. You're my friend, and...
[Oh, but he wouldn't treat his friends to all of this. He doesn't treat anybody else to this, actually. Mettaton breathes Emet-Selch in, as if he could smell him, but he can't. He holds him closer.]
Well. You've made yourself quite at home... in some exclusive part of my heart. You're special to me. ...Very.
[Special enough that it would hurt to lose him. It will, so much that he can't think about it yet. How could he, when he has him in his arms right now? Breathing him in like this, Mettaton finds that he can still get a strange feeling of his warmth by air detectable by his tongue. He grips onto his waist, and kisses his skin.]
Oh. I'm afraid I'm mistaken about nothing, by the way. It should be obvious to you... that I know how I feel. Don't doubt, darling.
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