[In all likelihood, there was no permanent risk, he did know that. Even if- when- he faced indelible pain here, it wouldn't be added to his collection of memories.
That wasn't a reassurance. How could forgetting anything that meant something to him be reassuring? The only reason there wasn't a risk was because it couldn't last, but if it couldn't last, then loss was guaranteed. But it wouldn't matter because he'd forget? None of that was acceptable.]
What you're asking--
[It was cruel of Mettaton to remember his words and hold him to them. He hadn't been thinking in these terms. How could he? Even the idea- he could scarcely even begin to approach it.
But he had to. Emet-Selch tries to focus on that, resign himself to it. Let himself be crushed by it if he had to. If there was no escape regardless, arguing against the flood accomplished nothing. The sound he makes is some choked, bleak echo of what should've been a laugh.]
--You're right, aren't you? 'Tis not as though it matters. Who or what I love here.
[He doesn't relax so much as- give up. Or run out of defiance, at least for the moment. There remained a small trembling, as he listened to the sound of his own struggled pulse, felt the stroke of his back. Thought of the tighter way Mettaton had held him. Despised how pathetic it felt, to be so affected once again by something so transitory. No matter how much he tried, he never, ever learned--
Of course he didn't want there to be any pretense between them. That would be- cruel and unpleasant, rather than just painful. Emet-Selch could never ask that or want it of him. Just the thought was repulsive, and his grip on his lover tightens for a few seconds, before gradually calming again. His fingers still against Mettaton's ears; his breath barely stirs his hair.
His tone is nearly even. Less broken or despairing, but not resolute or anything approaching it either. Only very small. Quiet.]
Just... don't forget.
[He knows its an impossible request. There's a hesitation in his breath.]
[There. If he can shift his energy from rejection into some manner of acceptance, it's a start. It's despair, but it has its purpose. Don't bother becomes do your worst, in a sense. He'll take that.
The appropriate, human response to a request so delicate is a heartfelt "I'll remember for as long as fate permits it." Everything here is left up to some other masterful design, apparently, from their transformations to their passing through mirrors... But that sentiment doesn't feel impactful enough to the robotic idol.
There are no guarantees in a place like Geardagas and beyond it, but Mettaton barely thinks on what he wants to say next, a statement bold, impossible, and impressive, given the circumstances. Something someone with a penchant for trouble would say, as though he's spitting in the face of the universe itself while knowing it'll haunt him until it stops.
Mettaton smiles, and pulls from Emet-Selch's neck, lips traveling along his jaw until he brushes them against his Bonded's. His lover's. He drinks in the way they feel against him, another thing he wouldn't wish to forget, sensation. His eye remains closed.]
I promise. I'll remember... You. Us. This. How could I want to forget?
[A fool's move: he's bound by a word he has no control over and with little in the ways of exchange, abstract as it is, but it's what his heart told him to say in the heat of the moment. As if in promising, the rules of Geardagas itself would favor his honorable need and grant him exception, forcing him to remember by virtue of feeling compulsion to hold a promise even to his ultimate demise. This one's a heavy promise to make, far harder than promising to give and take in passion, daunting and stupid to have said. Impossible.
Whoops. How romantic. Maybe, if he forgot, he'd feel haunted by it forever until he finally conjured up some wild fantasy about it after living on the Surface for who knows how long... So long wondering what dreadful feeling he harbored, with the sweet release of coming up with a man beyond his original comprehension with a sharp yet dispassionate gaze. He even sighs dreamily at the thought, inspired under the weight of such a brazen promise.
He can't resist being dramatic. Emet-Selch didn't seem to understand this troubling aspect of his development as a Puca earlier, and that's just as well.]
I'm relieved. That you'd give in... The thought of stopping is dreadful.
Edited (i wisth i wouldn't typo) 2020-03-15 00:28 (UTC)
[It really wasn't the statement he'd expected. Promising something so wholly unrealistic, unbelievable....
If he ever learns about what promises entail for pucas, Emet-Selch will certainly return to this moment in a slightly different way.
But for now: he takes in Mettaton's words, the way his lips had trailed over his face until they had reached his own. It had probably been the right thing to say. Even though Emet-Selch didn't believe it, didn't have any hope for it- an absurdity like that held more comfort than a realistic pledge. Refusing to acknowledge failure, rather than meekly accepting its inevitability--
What a troublesome man. It didn't change anything, but it felt better, somehow.]
...Then I'll hold you to that.
[It was no more possible, but apparently that didn't matter either. He presses back against his lips regardless. There was sensation and company, and the sensation of company.
His hand drifts from warm ears to brush the back of his fingers against the side of Mettaton's face, as he keeps his own pressed close. All of his problems and miseries were still there, but- for the moment, at least, it was becoming possible to not focus exclusively on them. If they would always be there, there was no need to keep revisiting them, after all. For a little while....]
As if stopping were still possible... I certainly have my doubts.
[So it was just giving in to a different sort of inevitability. But Emet-Selch didn't think anything would be likely to change it. They already knew how differently they felt regarding subjects such as humanity and its value; there weren't any unpleasant surprises left there. And if opposing moralities wasn't enough to dissuade....
What a strange, lingering result to being captured and tortured.]
[Sounding blissful, the Puca leans into their kiss with a renewed longing. His smile is fond while he thinking about what an interesting person Emet-Selch is, though terribly loving. Reliable, trustworthy, unique. Frustrating, vulnerable yet deliberate... He's a totally different person from himself, a delightful contrast clever in his company. Company which he keeps to himself.
His mind could go on, but the buzzing of contact is ever present, fixated on their kiss. Mettaton opens his eye half-way, but this close up, it's difficult to meet his the gaze of his left eye with his own. Shame, that it's both of their right eyes that have some defect. He leans toward the Ascian's fingers and rubs his face against them — he appreciates his gentleness, but he couldn't help himself, covetous as he is.]
I'd call it impossible... knowing us. Yes... You're right. When I want something, I get my way. I'm persistent. [Or, in Emet-Selch's words, troublesome.] And trying to stop you... Oh my. Chilling. Though I couldn't put up much of a fight against you, dear...
[With a self-satisfied smirk, he thinks about how he would gladly take unending kisses from his Bonded, if he weren't already occupied by him.
He presses another kiss to the Ascian's lips, shifting his body ever closer to Emet-Selch's with a need. His fingers rub into his back some more with a tightening grip, but one of his arms snakes up so that his hand might wander up the back of his neck and entwine in his dark hair, comfortably.]
[His feelings remained heavy, as they ever were, but the lighter sort of emotion he could notice from Mettaton... helped, a little, kept him from sinking entirely, when allowed himself to focus on it. Even if he'd never be able to possess it for himself, Emet-Selch wondered what it was like, to live with such intensity in the present. He's a little amused, but mostly pleased at the rubbing against his hand, returning the encouragement with a firmer touch, fingers stroking over the contours of his face. A firmness echoed in their kiss, even as he interrupts it by tugging at Mettaton's lower lip with his teeth, before letting go of it and running his tongue along it instead. And then interrupts it again through speech.]
Is that so...? How fortunate, then... that we've aligned so well.
[In wanting each other in all ways, at least, if not in... attitudes or viewpoints. Those sorts of details.]
And between our mutual persistence- it hardly seems fair to anything that would rise in opposition.
[Or reality would crush them, either or.
But now that he was moving past the clutches of near-panic and despair, disordered thoughts closer to their usual levels- Emet-Selch found himself dwelling on Mettaton's response. An unusual thing for him to do, but these were unusual times. Even if the puca was overwhelming with unnecessary fondness and affection- states that remained alarming in their unfamiliarity- it felt conscious, a deliberate expression. The response of someone who knew what they wanted, and was able to express it. Completely undaunted, open, shameless and passionate- it was frustrating, but Emet-Selch could appreciate it. That brashness and directness of emotion.... Even the oft-irritating smugness was likely a necessary part of him.
The Ascian wasn't sure if there was anyone else who could witness his despair, without cracking underneath it, goading him to anger, or disappointing him with false platitudes. To convince him to at least accept what was going on, rather than leave it unaddressed.
Not that he felt at all at ease with it, but there was a measure of catharsis too, in being forced to deal with it. And there's no indecision in the way he meets the shifting of Mettaton's body with his own, melding against him with a muffled sigh against his lips. The strangeness of his body- that mix of metal and fur- was starting to become normal, or at least, no longer unfamiliar. His hand drifts to the back of Mettaton's head as well, matching the need to keep him close.]
[Mettaton slackens in the Ascian's arms, yielding rather than helpless, with each increment in passion shown to him in their kisses, though he's always quick to match. Biting him, stroking him, licking at him... Mettaton knows his own appetite could never be satisfied, but Emet-Selch never makes it easy for him to keep control, does he? He's made to close his eye, even if it only makes it easier to slip into intoxicating sensation. But it's not only a desire for physical proximity at this point, he recognizes, and that interests him. Not that it had ever been only that, though with Mettaton, such a thing was obviously a novelty and a focus of passion.
With two people who cover each other's shortcomings so thoroughly, could they really be stopped? Even reality seems fake in comparison, but it could be because he's dazed and deeply involved in this, right now. He hums an affirmative, pleased that Emet-Selch would agree with him. The agreement serves to reinforce and bolster what resolve a monster like himself is allowed. Which is an inordinate amount, in a matter like this.
... in thinking about their Bonding, it brings him satisfaction to know he's connected to the Ascian on such a level beyond sight. By soul. Magic. Whatever Aefenglom wants to call it, it's the same to him. He's hooked on the feeling of Emet-Selch against his lips, warm and soft and close, no options for either of them as they each keep their hands against each other's necks.
Mettaton's eye remains closed while he thinks on it.]
In Bonding... Our souls are still tied together, just like we saw it. Right? ... Then...
[He's had this physical body for some time, and spent the greater portion of it controlling it with a weaker connection than now. It requires time for a ghost to take to their form, something that took him years to do. Given that, he has a unique advantage of having been something made entirely of his soul, then rendered physically before arriving in Geardagas. He's allowed knowledge of how such a figure works. Mettaton feels the difference between his body and his soul in a way only someone with a divided understanding of incorporeality and physicality could.
But it only makes him curious: how easy it would be to interact directly with Emet-Selch's soul here? Just because he couldn't see it didn't mean the principle of the matter shouldn't be the same, right? Humans would never know how to manipulate their own souls so readily, after all, which is perfectly fine in Mettaton's eyes. To him, it's not as though this has ever been particularly unique. The expression of the self by way of soul and magic is normal, whereas the human method of expressing physically, intentionally, is Mettaton's area of intrigue. But some interest in his own experience, expression by soul, is rekindled if not because it can't be seen, or even performed the same way anymore.
So the robot focuses... on proximity. Closeness between what he felt of his soul Bonded to Emet-Selch's, and it's absolutely intuitive. Tries to see how tightly he could follow that thread that connects them by way of Bond, how close he could get, even if they're restricted to their vessels as they are. Naturally, this is incredibly easy for him and even successful — their connection by Bond permits such closeness, as it turns out. The Puca is able to impress his being upon Emet-Selch with more sincerity than ever.
He waits for a reaction to his proximity that goes beyond their bodies, which are already terribly close. Though this is different even from his own experiences, it all feels completely new to him: like his awareness of all else has been shut out, even as his ears stand and swivel with an attempt to hear. It's oddly muffled beyond the sound of Emet-Selch, and he sees nothing with his eyes closed. All of it is replaced by the impression of his core presence, powerful and otherworldly from Mettaton's perspective — Emet-Selch is not like any being he's known, after all, but he still feels familiar by virtue of being... Hades. MTT tries to feel for more, to gain understanding in whatever way he can, and his arms lock him in place.
It's like knowing without sight. He can't see this soul the way he's accustomed to, but he can get a feel for it. He sighs; shivers mildly at the knowledge of their intimacy.]
Ah. It seems a Bond would permit even this. ... Does it quite compensate for your lack of sight, Hades-darling...?
[Once presented with some opportunity for emotional closeness, the Ascian's requirement of it was near insatiable. Physical closeness was only the conduit for obtaining it, which imposed unfortunate limitations of stamina when one was possessed of mortal form. Even so, Mettaton's continued nearness encouraged a degree of recklessness that Emet-Selch was unused to experiencing, and which left him slightly exasperated at his own neediness. How youthful, to be so taken by someone again.
At Mettaton's words, the Ascian's manner contains a note of questioning, unsure of where he was going with this, or what he was doing. Of course their souls were still tied, but apart from as an abstract, or through the sharing of emotion, it was little more than a nice thought--
And then he felt- something. A presence, a touch, but nothing physical; it was far closer, more personal than that. He stills entirely, scarcely breathing as though he might disturb it, focused on that sensation.]
I... how are you--
[...The souls of the sundered peoples were like a candle, flickering and feeble, threatened by every suggestion of a breeze. In comparison, the Ascian's was more of a bonfire, a strength and intensity of burning that felt nigh inextinguishable. During each Bonding ceremony, Emet-Selch had been able to see the edge of it- that it was still there, that its color remained unchanged. But its full shape had been unknown, and with his powers sealed, he had... wondered. If he hadn't been reduced to the same level as those candles.
But though he still couldn't see it- Mettaton's proximity to it, contact with it, allows him to sense the shape of it himself. It appeared unharmed, its status unaltered, for all that he could no longer reach it.
Relief washes through him, simple and uncomplicated. Followed by gratitude, continued bewilderment, and deep affection. He can't help but kiss Mettaton again, in some added expression of those feelings, as the knowledge that he was still whole slowly began to sink in, and he could think about the rest.
It should've felt threatening. The last time something had contacted his soul, he'd been tempered by it. The next time something would reach his soul, he'd been sealed and shattered- apparently. This didn't seem like either of those. While Bonding had possessed a portion of the same feeling, it had been fleeting- a tendril of sensation, while this was far more than that.
And yet- he felt no alarm. It was only intimate- deeply, deeply so- an impression and closeness of self. While the spiritual world was familiar to Emet-Selch, this was not. He had no idea how Mettaton was accomplishing this; it was more than an infliction of feeling through the Bond. This was going right to the source.]
It's quite different of an experience.... [Soul-touch rather than sight. Murmured against his lips; it's clear that he's taken by the feeling, unfamiliar as it is. His arm tightens a little, as though he could hold on to this sensation somehow, though he otherwise remains still.] How did you manage this...?
[And Mettaton exacts upon Emet-Selch his own kiss, an immediate follow-up, eye still closed. This is not quite something he'd imagine attempting here and while it echoes with some normalcy to his experiences, it's very... odd-feeling, given the new parameters of Geardagas. He feels stilted from expression, but this is just as well. The Bond facilitates what it can, blind as it is.]
It only made sense to try... It feels natural. If Bonding permits me to feel your feelings, or share your dreams, why not reach for your heart? We are linked, after all. I merely traced from me, to you... It's distance, darling. And now, you feel so very close... And so intimate.
[Being attuned to his soul by condition likely helps, but he's by no means the same composition as he would've been. Same soul, capabilities and weaknesses of it done away with.
He seems satisfied at Emet-Selch's response, smug even, keeping focus on the sensation. Without ever having seen one of these sundered souls, Mettaton can only compare his to the likes of a human's or monster's. It still feels powerful, and he wonders if it's due to the tempering, or if that's the native state of his soul. Nonetheless, it's still hard to compare it to anything he knows. It's powerful, indomitable, imposing. Mettaton finds himself eagerly shifting closer, even if its power feels like easily enough to strike him down.]
My. You're really something... You know that. Were I standing, I might feel weak-kneed. I wonder if this is what it feels like to take a soul? ... Haha. As if. It would have to be me taking from you, not this.
[Casually say some disturbing stuff.
Mettaton hardly cares to regard the nature of his own soul, unremarkable as he finds it. And it's unremarkable to him, anyway, since all monster souls are the same. About all that could possibly be gathered from it in this magic-based, Bond-facilitated tactile foray is how raw and unguarded it feels: fragile, weak to intent, worse than a candle — like a light bulb, easy as glass to break. How lacking in quality it is, something pure and without character. Most remarkably, since this is based on feeling, his soul is distinctly inverted: if it weren't, it might feel very normal in shape or form.
Well, he can't control what Emet-Selch thinks of all of that. He just wanted to feel him closer, and he finds himself a bit resentful at the presence of Zodiark's influence on his soul. What would he be like without? Even so, the Puca hums, pressing his cheek against the Ascian's fondly.]
[Even blind and limited, it was a both new and strangely pleasant experience for Emet-Selch, though he doubts it would've been as such if they hadn't become so close, if his guard hadn't been lowered. But it was company in an entirely different way, a companionship so close that he couldn't deny it. He keeps his own eyes closed as well, trying to imagine what their souls must look like, in this state. The Ascian could fill in the visual details of his own well enough; he knew its appearance by heart, and now that he knew its shape was the same, it was a simple thing to consider. But Mettaton's....
It was interesting to be able to- not observe Mettaton's soul, exactly, but explore it all the same. How... astoundingly fragile it felt, though not in the same way as those malformed remnants. And not in the way of simple beasts either. It felt unique to Emet-Selch, since it was the first soul like it he'd encountered, the inversion he assumed was normal, as unexpected as it was. And simple in a different way, straightforward- which both surprised him and didn't. For how... distinct Mettaton was in personality, his soul, while new to the Ascian, seemed rather... unvarnished. As though it had yet to have any sort of history imposed upon it. But he supposed it fit with how direct and unfettered the idol appeared to be.
It felt like the sort of thing that could be shattered even if Mettaton hadn't sealed it in an object. That he could crush it just by getting too close. And yet, Mettaton would be able to take his own...?
He responds to the last comment first, even as he presses his cheek back to his.]
Hmph. Enjoy it while it lasts, you won't see it often.
[Though Mettaton surprised him more than most....
And the threat(?) of the puca taking his soul should've probably sparked some concern, but considering their earlier conversation, with Mettaton's willingness to save Amaurot.... But the Ascian's soul was presumably different from the humans of the monster's world. Would absorbing it even be possible? If so, would it have the same effect? So his tone is only thoughtful, though punctuated by a brief kiss to the side of his face.]
...I assume you can't claim my soul this way, can you?
[Because if he could absorb souls like this... surely a god could bypass whatever restrictions had been placed upon them?]
A pity, if so. With mine in hand, you might not need the full seven.
[Controlling a Zodiark-tempered soul with a will like the Ascian's would surely go entirely well. But he doesn't even stop to consider not being willing to do it. If it would save his people, being absorbed by an eccentric TV-star from another world was a small price.]
[It would go perfectly. Nothing could possibly go wrong. Not like Emet-Selch would find himself with any upper hand over Mettaton, no way. (But Mettaton is bossy. Granted the resolve he could borrow from the Ascian, he might be able to match him, at least.)]
I told you. You would have to break ties with this body of yours, first... Likely, via death. However you might normally leave it. I wouldn't like that. [Mentioning his body earns a caress of Mettaton's hand against his back, following his shoulder blade and moving down to his waist.] And then, we're still... here. I can't even see souls anymore. I doubt I could take them, as I am.
Ooh, but if I could. If only I could. You might be right, darling...! I wonder what power your soul would guarantee? And how would it feel to have you...?
[Stressed less on his want to have someone like him, and more emphasis on having Emet-Selch. He shifts against his lover's body energetically, seeming to desperately covet something so vital to his being. All that mattered was that it could persist beyond his body, and it was as good as his. There's not much desire for power in his want, but his want is there all the same. The want that comes with wanting to have Emet-Selch, but having limited avenues to take.
It's far more basic than the craving for power. It's the lust for his love, another simple want, easily distinguishable in the feverish edge a kiss to his cheek takes. Close proximity to the Ascian is too much for him after a long time spent without touch, and he wants it however he can get it, smiling against his lips and his skin.]
I wonder if it wouldn't count as more than one. And, accustomed to taking on new hosts as you are... Surely, you could simply take a new body once I was through with you. Humans eventually perish without a body, but you...
[Squirming closer again, and this time rubbing his cheek against him. Feeling Emet-Selch's powerful being against his own in more than one way in this moment makes him feel safe, but he finds himself enticed by closeness to him, someone who grows more and more familiar by the second. The room is still hazy to him, the choice to bridge such a gap robbing him of sense as he is.
He places a kiss closer to his lips this time.]
Though, I like this body. [He's distracted, and he falls into him some more in a sigh.] Ah... You dazzle me, Hades, dearest.
[Whether it resulted in a fight for control, or a more terrible cooperation, the outcome only bodes well for everyone.]
Normally I would be able to abandon a host at my choosing, but here.... [And with Mettaton not being certain if he could take it, it wasn't quite worth the risk of killing him just to see what happened.] Well- if something unfortunate should happen to this body, I expect you to be in attendance, prepared to claim any soul that might become dislodged.
[But Mettaton was being very distracting. Every shift of his body reminding Emet-Selch of every place they touched, everything they had done before. The hand slipping to his waist draws a shiver, a reflexive lean closer, tighter to him. The contact being soul-deep didn't help matters (or if viewed from another angle, helped matters considerably), such intimacy only inspiring the need for more of it.
And the very concept of being taken so completely... it both alarmed and fascinated him. After this long in solitude, could anything less even begin to satisfy his need for company? The thought brings a shudder to his body, a sharp breath, a lifted pulse- as though this were something that could even happen now, was anything to be frightened of or hopeful for.
The feeling of being wanted in such an absolute way leaves him breathless entirely, both at the depth of the feeling, and the realization of how much he wanted him in turn. By being taken, he could possess him as well...
What would that feel like? If it was anything like tempering, it would only be good. Lost in the thought for the moment, the intimacy of their souls, the way his body was beginning to respond to those shivers of arousal go unnoticed by him.]
Though... are you telling me you would let my soul go after you were done with it? How cold....
[Even if he should be more focused on the apparent ability to remove souls once obtained, on Mettaton's willingness to do so, or on being relieved at not having to spend eternity feeding some manner of dubious godhood... no, Emet-Selch is going to focus on being vaguely insulted that Mettaton could just... give him up, after all that.
His hand drags from the back of Mettaton's neck to his upper back, arm tense, as though trying to keep as much of him against himself as possible. Eyes open- though the Ascian can't see much, this close to the other's face- his lips linger at the corner of Mettaton's mouth. His voice is a soft hiss.]
[His mind goes blank; his ears stand tall. Mettaton trembles, everything about Emet-Selch overpowering him absolutely. Were he not so deeply aroused by the notion, the quality of Emet-Selch's voice and the deepening proximity, the desire for more of him, the idol would have some valid complaints. But right now, it's frightening, and therefore thrilling, and he wants it. He feels like he just set himself up, the terrifying notion that in closing in on something he desires, he's been taken up by it in return. The thought that Emet-Selch would demand that he keep him catches him off guard, because most people want agency over their own souls, not to be trapped.
And in being gripped onto, Mettaton gives in further. Feeling the sheer pressure of the Ascian's soul, the being of someone who has unfathomable power in his own right, he can almost feel the insinuation: take him, and be taken right back. Why would someone who could possess hosts of others have to surrender Mettaton's very own body back to him if he didn't wish to leave it? He wouldn't have to let him go, even when it was him who was absorbed in the first place.
Mettaton turns his head, his lips parted but lingering against Emet-Selch's while he tries to process it all. This is being overwhelmed; his arms tighten by a margin, gripping onto his Bonded while his ears fold back. He would have to submit to that.
What more could an idol want than to be craved constantly? This isn't a situation where he could simply do as he wished, even if that's how he operates. If Mettaton says he wouldn't leave, Emet-Selch wouldn't let him. That intensity's what he finds so attractive about Emet-Selch, after all.
Mettaton opens his eye and smiles against the other man's lips, dizzy and daunted but equally tantalized. His attention feels split between mind and body. Yet who could he have an experience that measures up to this with but the Ascian before him? He's all but lost his senses, having his attention spread between the power of Emet-Selch beyond what he can see and the power of him forcing himself against him.
Mettaton sighs, a sound smooth and soft.]
...We'll... have to see. Who... Who makes the decision. That I get to keep you.
[Because what if Emet-Selch did overwhelm him? If he didn't, it would be Mettaton's choice. That would be a dangerous line to tread, getting two incorporeal spirits in one body. Mettaton continues to tremble slightly, but he moves his body closer to Emet-Selch's. Receptive or demanding, it's a blend of both.]
[In a way that was growing less abstract by the moment, Emet-Selch wondered if he could crush Mettaton's soul like this. It was complete, yet so fragile, and his own darkness was so deep. Could he encroach on him entirely, even like this? Did he want to?]
Do you think... you're the only one who can claim another's soul?
[Soft, deathly serious, accompanied by a kiss to Mettaton's lips that's almost chaste. Even as it's followed by a sigh that shakes in his throat, and his eyes close.]
To erase the barriers of existence... is something Ascians can do as well.
[It's not something he'd ever considered doing. He'd never felt the need, complete as he was in a broken world. Unlike the sundered Ascians, or Lahabrea who'd weakened himself foolishly by frequently changing hosts, Emet-Selch had no reason to merge with another, lesser entity.
But he's not thinking of it in terms of mechanics or possibilities. Whether he'd be able to exact the same measure of influence over Mettaton, were his soul taken by him. Whether it would work with a non-Ascian soul at all. All that mattered was the desire to possess and be possessed, overwhelmed by the depths that he wanted it.
It was hard to pull himself back from it at all, this demand to be taken, even as he tried to wrap his soul around Mettaton entirely, maneuvering something he couldn't even see. It was all but impossible to not be lost in the moment, between the touch of souls and the open Bond, their physical proximity and the context of it.
But their powers weren't here, they were limited to these insufficient shells. There could be no satisfaction, only intensity.
How caught he was, between impossible, contradictory desires. The press to his lips is desperate, yet halting. The press to his body is urgent, expectant, as though trying to impress his full weight on him. How hard he was getting barely registered, was just another form of wanting. How much he... just wanted to be held, to have company that would last.]
[It's impossible to do anything to each other's souls here, realistically, but it doesn't make it any less foreboding or possible. It feels that way, anyway. Mettaton can almost feel Emet-Selch pulling him under in such a way he couldn't have anticipated in his wildest fantasies. It's panic-inducing, an uptick in frantic energy when Mettaton's only outlet for it is to writhe under Emet-Selch's weight and to cling to him, contradictory. He doesn't even care to test if he can pull back. He doesn't want to, and the feeling of pressure upon his very existence makes him close his eye with a gasp.
This could very well be dangerous, given any other circumstance, but Mettaton only delights in it. His mind races too far ahead of him to reason that it's not dangerous, especially with the feeling of his soul being swallowed up by his Bonded's, dark and intense. He can barely process what he's saying.
...He hadn't thought of Emet-Selch's capabilities, no. He certainly wouldn't have thought of them being any danger to him. He trusts him. What an oversight, with a presence like his. Too often Mettaton lets himself get carried away without considering the consequences.
Squirming in Emet-Selch's grip, he feels that tug against his being as his spatial awareness continues to diminish — not to any detriment, only to deliriousness. But he also shifts his heavy legs made heavier by the exertion of pressure against his body and soul, enough to rub hard against Emet-Selch's arousal, and Mettaton cries out, relenting to in a shifting mess with a satisfied, full-bodied shudder. His arms wind further about Emet-Selch's back, impossibly so, and he grips into his skin.
Mettaton tries to speak, but he can't, a block between speech and thought.
So they can both take souls. Mettaton acknowledges the danger here, and makes sure to communicate that understanding to his lover by catching his lips in a deep kiss, thrusting his tongue past his lips. Still, he feels the Asican winding about his soul, and it sets him trembling some more. He grips into his skin, pulls Emet-Selch's weight upon him forcefully, and drags his tongue along his lower lip as he kisses him around a sigh in his throat. He's something else, Emet-Selch. It's terrible, awe-inducing, haunting, and desirable, knowing (and not knowing) the things he could do, yet finding it delightful.]
[Half-dragged, half-shifting until he's mostly on top of Mettaton, Emet-Selch is barely aware of having done so until afterward, desirous only of some impossible feat of closeness. Or possessiveness. He'd never considered himself a particularly possessive person. Perhaps he'd just never come across much of anyone he wanted to possess. His people held a different sort of importance, and everyone else was... not.
And even this wasn't a possessiveness in all things, only wanting a claim to something soul-deep and scarring. Something to ensure that one couldn't be forgotten, even when separated by time and world. That even if neither could take the other's soul, that an imprint of it would be left regardless, some mark that they'd never be able to see, at least here. It didn't encompass everything that he wanted, but it was an appealing thought.
Every writhe and shift on Mettaton's part has Emet-Selch clinging tighter, both with his body and with his soul, reveling in the ability to sense him in two ways. Reveling in being able to sense souls at all, and even though it couldn't replace sight, it was its own intoxicating experience. He wondered if the soul echoed the body's twitches, or if it was the other way around....
He couldn't bear the thought of being apart from him now. Just the idea of being unable to feel his lover's soul fluttering against his own sets him aching, with anticipated grief. He would certainly be especially lonely later, but that was the price of moments like this, of being bound closer than reason would permit.
Gasping around his tongue, he presses his own against it, before giving in and providing a scrape of teeth instead on its retreat from his mouth. The Ascian's back arches up into Mettaton's hands, while his hips rub into his legs, stroking his cock firmly against him. A sensation that leaves him moaning into further kisses, and shivering more at each sound he heard from the other man, each squirm and press, the mix of panic and desire for more.
Repeatedly pressing his lips to Mettaton's face, in small needy touches that barely qualify as kisses, his breathing is shallow and quick. It's all deeply affectionate, despite the darkness and mutual danger. It was an insane balance to strike, and he was a little in awe of it, in what it provoked in him- at what it reduced him to.]
[He can hardly keep track of all of the sensations, not noticing how his thighs automatically press around the hardness of his arousal and his hands mold around the arch of his back. Every twitch of his body grabs his attention, and overload of longing and sensitivity: he's arrested by Emet-Selch's reciprocation of his kiss. Subject to the weight of him and the relentless rub of his cock, he spasms, clings to his back, and fails to notice the sound of his own desperate, broken cries muffled by kisses when the robotic idol is usually so aware of himself. His self-awareness is totally shelved.
The way Emet-Selch grips down on his very soul takes his gratification to unforeseen levels, and the intensity's enough to keep Mettaton's entire body trembling on constant. His thighs are tense around his arousal and he sighs and whines at how wanting he is deep, deep down, in every possible way for his Bonded. As he gazes up at Emet-Selch, he's unfocused, drunken, infatuated, and overwhelmed, always reaching greater heights of pleasure with each round they slip into with each other. Enticed into him on some core level of his being, he's absolutely hooked: he feels thoroughly caught under the pressure of a soul so immense impressing upon his own, heavy and undeniable. He didn't expect this perfect approach to sensuality when he reached out for his heart.
For as trapped as he feels, Mettaton grips back, both in body and soul. His head lolls to the side despite himself as he relishes the Ascian's affections with a heavy sigh, and he's absolutely taken, feeling his body press just right against his Bonded's while he feels so warmly toward Emet-Selch's essence. He does not let go of him, not in any way. He feels so deeply taken, deeply satisfied, and with the way his lover frenetically kisses him, he feels deeply cared for.
He regains some control of himself and wherever he can, he catches Emet-Selch's face with kisses of his own. How could anybody treat him to such unknown depths?]
Th... Yes, exact- exactly...!
[And even his ability to string words together fails him. Of course. How else can he say that Emet-Selch's bringing him beyond his expectations? There's so much else he wants, a never-ending list of desires, but this is like scratching an itch he could have never known how to convey. It's fortunate that he's been matched with the Ascian, he thinks. It's conveyed by Bond, by the intensifying grip on his very soul: Emet-Selch is never, ever getting away from him. He demands it: his pleasure, his affection, and his company, which never fails to put Mettaton at ease in its ever-growing familiarity. For how tantalizingly risky as their flirtation with danger is, Mettaton loves him immensely.
The Puca can't stop fidgeting his legs, the heat of his body rising ever higher. The hotter he feels, the more he needs to move. He tries desperately to catch his lips in a kiss, but he's just as satisfied with kissing him haphazardly under the weight of his body and soul.]
[Were there barriers left he hadn't been aware of? He wouldn't have thought so, and yet, wrapped around his soul like this, Emet-Selch felt more exposed than before. Though nothing had been deliberately hidden, with the core of themselves tied up in one another, it felt impossible to keep back anything at all. Even if there was too much to take in, it was all there, raw and available and vast, and he felt more susceptible to drowning within it than ever.
How could a soul so different, influence him so far? It felt once again that they were matched- that despite the tempestuous weight of his own, it was no less affected, no more able to ignore Mettaton's, unable to crush him underneath, swallow him up without a trace. He felt pierced by him, claimed in turn- that the more his soul encroached on him, the more Mettaton's own influence spread, becoming inescapable. Not that he felt the slightest inclination to even attempt to detach.
It was so profound that it hurt, and his cries are soft and pained. Thrusting between the squeeze of Mettaton's thighs, there's no sense of rhythm involved; a few desperate jerks of his hips, followed by shuddering pauses, gasps for air as he kisses and clings back. As though he couldn't concentrate on more than one action at a time. Which was likely to be true, given how overwhelmed he was by the whole of it.
He was so close, so quickly. When Emet-Selch leans up momentarily, it's to observe what he can of his lover's condition. The sight of him crying out, along with the sound, has his own breath turn into a shuddered whine. How uncontrolled and open he was, and with their souls mixed, it was as though he could feel Mettaton's pleasure as well, mirrored endlessly with his own. It hurt even to look upon it, and his eyes close again, though he can't shut any of it out. Even what he couldn't see, he could feel- the constant trembling of the form under his, every shiver of his legs, the continued pressure around his cock.
Falling into another kiss, he feels as equally drowned by the press of Mettaton's demands on him. How much he returned them. How much he loved him in that moment, in some terribly broken way. How heartfelt it was and full of fathomless longing, an edge of need that could never be fully satisfied. It's probably good that Emet-Selch finds himself incapable of speech, of language. All it would amount to would be pleas not to leave, demands giving way to desperation, each one more disconsolate than the last. But the sentiment is carried in his voice regardless, in the sounds he makes, ever softer, ever more swallowed up by deeper kisses.
When the pleasure his body feels suddenly crests, he's lost, nearly despairing of it. As though he'd never be able to find this again, that it was inexorably slipping away from him with each shudder, each breath, no matter how hard he clung to him. Emptying himself between his thighs once more, he collapses by degrees, face burying itself against Mettaton's neck, and trying not to cry.
[Even after Emet-Selch's release, Mettaton keeps him held tight with the same frantic trembling as he recognizes that his Bonded's surpassed his climax. He sighs despite himself, clutching his body tighter, still wound up beyond belief but satisfied in all of the dizzying feeling he gets from the other man. Even in this moment he feels the haunts of wherever he's kissed, rubbed, gripped, sucked, and bit him, and all he can think of is how deeply he's been taken by Emet-Selch, near possessed, and how badly he wants more.
But he's patient, and more will come. For now, he has the lingering feeling of everything they've done, the weight of the other man upon his body, and a Bond that's remains dangerously soul-deep. As if he weren't already clutching onto him with immense pressure (he is), Mettaton doesn't realize that he grabs onto him harder, though at least he shifts his arms to better hold the Ascian against him. In doing so, it distributes the pressure.
Even after Emet-Selch's gone limp against his body, cradled between the robot's neck and shoulder, he notes that his tremendous power doesn't fade. Not that it would, nor would he expect it. In focusing on it, it allows Mettaton some grounding point to ease himself off of his blinding pleasure, anchoring himself against him in some intangible manner as if his iron grip isn't enough. Mettaton sighs again, rubbing his cheek against the top of his Bonded's head, taking his soul in degrees closer despite how overwhelming he feels.
With the feeling of such immense despair, Mettaton always wondered when he'd eventually succumb to tears. Even if it strikes him as odd to have the Ascian cry into his neck, he always took him for someone who would — and now it's no longer odd, just one of the many ways he's had him. The idol smiles against his hair, his hand moving up the exposed skin of his back, sliding along his neck, and firmly pressing into his scalp as he tangles fingers with locks of hair. He strokes him, but also presses him closer into his neck, a mix of claiming and caring. How familiar he's grown with the weight and figure of the Ascian goes beyond his body now, doesn't it? He closes his eye, pleased with himself in spite of the despair he feels so strongly by Bond — he's familiar with that, too, far beyond these few months he's known him. Turns out being connected so deeply makes it even harder not to feel his Bonded's emotions, possibly even to the point of conflating them as his own. The dangers of forcing such a deep connection, most likely. Mettaton maintains it nonetheless, relishing the closeness, allowing the Ascian to his despair — but he'll have to accept his overbearing company, in the process. He shifts close, as though wordlessly acknowledging his stifled crying.
He still shivers, mildly by now, still keyed up. But the process to coming down is a bit slower, perhaps less jarring than orgasm must be, he imagines.
How terrible, that his standards for satisfaction would be shaped by Emet-Selch alone. He doubts anybody else could drown him quite like he does. Possessive, pleased, compassionate, fond, and surprised make up the bulk of his sentiment while he strokes his hair, his longing and eagerness ever present at the side. Eye still shut, he gives Emet-Selch a squeeze. His voice is as velvety as ever, but it's clear that he's still trying to come off a pleasurable, infatuated high.]
I could get used to this. Your... very self, mingling with mine.
[And he feels lucky, not just to have met him, but to have had their relationship develop down such a path. It could have played out differently, he feels.]
[Though Mettaton's neck is distinctly wetter than before, it's not too many tears, at least. Not through any particular display of control on the Ascian's part (emotional control was just... becoming not an option, in Mettaton's presence, under these circumstances), but being all he could manage. All he had energy for. His breathing remains shaky, from the weight of everything. And though he's not dismayed or ashamed of his own response, he is surprised by it. Every time he thought he was getting used to the intensity between them, it surprised him- or perhaps it was the sort of thing he couldn't truly get too accustomed to.
Despair remained, his timeless companion. There was no fighting it; it was an almost peaceful feeling, in its way. Mingled with all that Emet-Selch received from Mettaton in turn... there was no conflict. It could all coexist, as tied together as their souls were, as their bodies attempted to be.
There was a sort of relaxation in it, though it teetered on resignation.
It would be a bizarre introduction to intimacy, to be sure. It was intense and genuine, but poorly constrained and overwhelming when invoked. And possessing a misery intrinsic to the care, as though Emet-Selch no longer knew how to discern the two.
But there was a lot of care, and ever more so as he feels the slow stroke of his hair, the continued company of Mettaton's spirit, as though his soul itself was burrowing against him. Being held brought more comfort than it probably should, and he slowly rubs his cheek against the side of Mettaton's neck, still both damp, in some small expression of gratitude. How could he have expected to be balanced so thoroughly? He'd never thought to find this at all, and doubted he could ever do so again.
And how easily he could've missed out on any of this, if things had happened even a little differently. Bonding so quickly had been essential, he thinks, before they'd known the breadth of each other's views. And even so, to have stumbled so thoroughly in this direction... it defied reason.]
I would hope so. It will... be quite difficult to detach.
[He was dreading it already, as he shifts slightly, nestling more against him. It should've been less comfortable than it was- or at least, the comfort it did provide outweighed details like 'primarily metal.' That, and Emet-Selch was too exhausted to care, drained on every level he could think of, and probably a few he couldn't. Both satisfied and aware that it wouldn't last.
...Which was a fascinating feeling in itself, to want more from someone, and expect to receive it. Was this what it was like to 'look forward to' something...? How strange, and a mildly bewildering experience for the Ascian, in his tiredness and contented despair.]
[With the way he all but collapses upon his form, Mettaton's made to remember their earlier talk. It occurs to him to examine their activities through the lens of exhaustion. Emet-Selch's self-described fits of unconsciousness, and how he requires more sleep than usual... How much more is he sleeping? And when does the fainting begin, after he wakes? (Will he faint soon?) At least it's not him who's facilitating this link of souls, or else he fears it would break rather unpleasantly were he to lose consciousness. (No doubt that Mettaton wants to spend enough time with him to see for himself, out of concern... and curiosity.)
Or, it could be that the Ascian is experiencing a usual tiredness — which is a thing that would happen after three rounds, Mettaton acknowledges. (...With a cocky smirk, which only he's aware of, a private satisfaction for pulling him in over and over. What a rush.) Ever since he developed the ability to regain energy by way of sleep, he's learned beyond a rudimentary understanding of how tiredness and sleep work. The duo's level of intensity and passion is certainly draining.
He can only imagine how Emet-Selch's feeling now, as he succumbs to his metallic body. Even Mettaton knows it's likely not the most comfortable of things, especially now that he has a point of comparison, a body of flesh and blood that he has such thorough access to. That is, his lover's body, which he views as available to his fancy. His, by virtue of having staked claim upon the Ascian.
(Even thinking on it, he strokes his back, a bit envious of a form like his. Maybe a lot envious. Not to diminish his adoration for his own body, which he wouldn't trade in if given the chance. He kisses the top of his head, and... laughs, lightly.)]
Comfortable?
[A bit of a joke. He doubts it.
There's something deeply fulfilling about having another's soul entwined with is own, like it's supposed to be. How odd. And even worse is that it doesn't feel close enough. The proximity and intimacy are more than enjoyable, and he sighs, soft and intended to express his feeling more than anything.]
It doesn't feel like you're keen on going anywhere. And... neither am I. Thankfully, for the both of us.
[Even with the amount he wants to move, he knows it only serves to increase his temperature further when it needs to come down. (What a stupid system: I Feel Excess Heat Produced By Excess Movement, So I Need To Move More, To My Detriment. Mettaton knows this is true about him and doesn't care.)]
But, now you know my heart. Some familiarity... with the culmination of my being. And I, yours.
[Not that Mettaton finds choice in vessel to be arbitrary. Emet-Selch admitted so himself, that he made decisions about his own to reflect something about himself. There's importance to that, he believes. It's expression. But he can also appreciate the intimacy of knowing one's core essence, who Emet-Selch is beyond this host he assumed]
[Emet-Selch was also taking stock of his own consciousness. Which was a vaguely annoying thing to have to do. But though he was completely spent, and believed himself capable of falling asleep rather quickly, he didn't feel on the verge of uncontrollable napping. But then, those fainting spells happened very suddenly, with no more than a handful of seconds of warning that he'd managed to detect.
And privately, Emet-Selch is a bit relieved that he hasn't passed out yet. He was still working out how this new weakness manifested, a process that was made more difficult by it getting continually worse, rather than holding steady. Still, if it did happen now, he thought it would be a degree more acceptable than falling asleep in the middle of sex. He sighs to himself.
Though it was less sleep, and more of a complete unconsciousness. He didn't even feel particularly rested afterward, which was particularly galling. Not that he ever felt particularly rested, but it was like these fits of random darkness weren't even trying.
And Emet-Selch wouldn't be at all surprised to hear that Mettaton felt at all entitled to his body. Considering their shared possessiveness, he expected it, and it wouldn't even occur to him to mind it. Especially not after their souls had been wrapped up in one another; being protective of one's outer shell would feel almost arbitrary.
The comment about comfort gets a tired-sounding, but equally as amused hum from him, and he tilts his head to press a light kiss to Mettaton's neck.]
More than you'd expect.
[That is to say, he could deal with it, just as he could tolerate Mettaton's weight over him before. It was fine. Because he was definitely disinclined towards moving at all, and if the idol wasn't going to encourage him to shift elsewhere, he wasn't going to do it himself. Cuddling with a robot was his life now.
But when dwelling on their souls, whose continued contact felt almost natural, as though this was how they were meant to be, he continues.]
Mm... not too dark for you, I hope. [With a slight ironic lilt; since it couldn't be seen, it was entirely dark, technically.] But yours... is not quite what I expected.
[A slow, almost thoughtful tone. He was surprised by how endeared he was to it- perhaps having to do with whom it belonged to? The Bond encouraging a positive reception? Emet-Selch assumed he would've scorned something so much smaller than his own, so fragile. But it was complete in itself, not malformed- and considering the effect it had on him, certainly made a lot of itself.]
[The rudest of slumbers. What's the point of that? Mettaton continues to assume that slipping into unconsciousness would rest him, at the very least.
He would have been irrationally insulted if he had he passed out in the middle of sex, for sure. Not that he wouldn't have also understood the concept of passing out against his will, but he's the type whose petty spite is easily earned. With a side of concern, but the concern's prevalent besides.
That streak of possessiveness continues, following the thread between finding ownership of each other's bodies to the mention of Emet-Selch's darkness, an attribute he knows to be thanks to the tempering of his soul. It's his soul, not his body this time, but it causes Mettaton to pull tighter regardless. And funny that, after their discussion of the day, he should find some mild dissatisfaction now with knowing that Zodiark has claim over his soul... What's gotten into him?
Though he does find amusement at the comparison between the dark quality of it that he knows to be there, and the fact that neither of them can actually see anything. He hums a note of it, pouring this possessiveness into scenting him by rubbing into the top of his head affectionately. Mettaton still doesn't realize that's what he's doing to his Bonded when stricken with want.
Before he can continue, he works on stilling the remaining energy in his body, trembling with a brief chill while he focuses on the pleasant, numb, and warm sensation that begins to take center stage. One of fulfillment and deep fondness.]
Appropriately dark, yes. Enough for me to grope blindly... until I found myself in the imposing, yet enticing, clutches of my Bonded.
[He smiles against his hair at his entirely accurate answer that manages to capture both meanings. He closes his eye and focuses on his senses, touch and beyond.]
If anything, I expected as much out of your being... Yet it still astonished me. Unfamiliar's a word for it, I'll give you that. But I don't know what about me is unexpected. I feel I've already touched upon the qualities of my soul... Although you've touched it more than I have, at this point. Haha.
[It would've been pretty insulting, to be fair, even if it had been unintentional. Had the situation been reversed, he would've been nearly as annoyed, regardless of rationality. There were expectations.
Emet-Selch, though, feels no particular conflict in having been claimed by Zodiark, yet also desirous of Mettaton's own stake on him. Zodiark was perfect and eternal, and wanting to undo that tie was unthinkable- but he cared (what a terrible word) for Mettaton as well, and what was the point of caring for something if you couldn't keep it? Or be kept by it? So long as he didn't think about it too closely, there was no conflict. He still nestles that bit harder against him before relaxing, appreciating the tighter grip, even the affectionate rubbing.
That he was being scent-marked as well would strike him as odd, but not that much different from having his neck marked up by Mettaton's lips. More of a subtle claim, at that.]
A good thing tempering isn't catching... or else you would be long lost, by now.
[It's not contagious. He'd have to drag him before Zodiark for that, not that he would.]
But yours... 'tis smaller than expected. [Or Amaurotines had unusually large souls, skewing his perspective.] I wondered if I might crush it through mere proximity.
[Rather than inspiring a more reasonable disgust, Emet-Selch just feels protective of Mettaton instead, his own soul tightening its hold on him. It was his, to break or preserve; an unusual feeling.]
But yes- it does feel wholly 'you', at the same time. Open and direct, and honest of emotion. [It was no wonder he could remain in the present so easily.] ...I'd thought that sealing your soul into an object to be a reckless pursuit, but if you're from a place where they are ever available to be reached, I suppose it actually affords you a measure of protection.
[Mettaton finds himself dazed, exhaling at the sensation tightening about him on such a distinct level. It's almost familiar, interacting with someone else's soul directly, though he's never had such an encounter like this. If Emet-Selch's wondering if he might crush him, is that an explanation of this behavior...? Interesting.
It's true. The Ascian's taken him in so thoroughly that he's glad tempering isn't contagious, because he'd be done for. He gets the joy instead of Emet-Selch winding about his very essence like vines, and Mettaton hums, the shift in feeling as if he's leaning into his lover.
Mettaton's experience is too limited to humans and monsters to say any differently, but if he were forced to guess in the moment, he'd say such inordinate size is a trait unique to the Amaurotine. It would further explain why Emet-Selch is so appalled by fractures of a soul.
With his hands having drifted to Emet-Selch's upper back, he begins a pattern of tracing over the entire expanse of his back. He's warm, pleasant, soft, and Mettaton doesn't want to miss a moment of him.]
Yours feels like the biggest soul I've ever encountered. The strength of it is... staggering. [Mettaton talks on a smile, like he's thrilled at what he feels of him; he even takes a hand to fan himself dramatically before returning it to Emet-Selch's back.] Any perceived ability to crush me doesn't surprise me, considering how delicate my soul must feel. Especially compared to this.
[By this, he refers directly to the magnitude of Emet-Selch, giving to that tightening grip by nudging closer yet. If he wants to envelop his soul, he's free to — Mettaton considers that as good as having him in return.]
My body does offer more protection than most of my kind's afforded, yes. Any attack fueled by cruelty could instantly kill any monster, but I could probably survive it... Cruelty's all it takes to kill one of us, otherwise. Strength is arbitrary. So I hope your curiosity in crushing me... is fueled by love, instead. Since you have such exclusive access to me...
[Cruelty's so easy to come by, however. They must be easy to kill.]
[With more deliberation does he attempt to contain the whole of Mettaton's soul within his own. Moving something he couldn't see around something he also couldn't see, operating through touch and instinct alone.... It felt as though he could memorize every aspect of him in the process, and even the thought is a comfortable one.
Having any access to souls at all, after these months without was... reassuring on a deep level. Emet-Selch had thought he'd have to persist in this world cut off from that aspect of himself entirely, and to have that not be the case--
If Mettaton provided nothing more to him, he would remain grateful for this alone.
And it was far too pleasant to wrap himself around him like this. As dark as the Ascian's soul was anyway, it hardly mattered that it could not be seen, that it was trying to blot out the light entirely from the one within its amorphous grasp. The sort of thing that could've easily become threatening, oppressive, had there not been trust involved.
Emet-Selch hums in general, if tired, contentment, from the mixed feeling of their souls, to Mettaton's hands exploring his back in the most comfortable of ways. A both deep and casual intimacy that affected him greatly, and he quietly kisses the side of his lover's throat again. And while the appreciation for his soul was one thing (it was a very impressive entity, Emet-Selch could agree), when Mettaton describes how easy it was to kill a monster, he stills entirely.]
Any attack... [He trails off, almost in disbelief. Mettaton's soul had struck him as fragile, yes, but that was an unprecedented level of brittle. Cruelty was as common as air.] Is that true even here? Like this?
[How... exceedingly foolish again, if so. Trusting anyone this far. His own soul shifts endlessly around Mettaton's, as though restless. Leaning up enough so that he can observe the idol's face, he looks. Annoyed. Concerned. The latter was generally combined with the former. It wasn't as absolute as unhappiness feeding on anything positive, but it was common.]
...How did your people even survive contact with humanity long enough to be sealed away? How do they survive contact with each other?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
That wasn't a reassurance. How could forgetting anything that meant something to him be reassuring? The only reason there wasn't a risk was because it couldn't last, but if it couldn't last, then loss was guaranteed. But it wouldn't matter because he'd forget? None of that was acceptable.]
What you're asking--
[It was cruel of Mettaton to remember his words and hold him to them. He hadn't been thinking in these terms. How could he? Even the idea- he could scarcely even begin to approach it.
But he had to. Emet-Selch tries to focus on that, resign himself to it. Let himself be crushed by it if he had to. If there was no escape regardless, arguing against the flood accomplished nothing. The sound he makes is some choked, bleak echo of what should've been a laugh.]
--You're right, aren't you? 'Tis not as though it matters. Who or what I love here.
[He doesn't relax so much as- give up. Or run out of defiance, at least for the moment. There remained a small trembling, as he listened to the sound of his own struggled pulse, felt the stroke of his back. Thought of the tighter way Mettaton had held him. Despised how pathetic it felt, to be so affected once again by something so transitory. No matter how much he tried, he never, ever learned--
Of course he didn't want there to be any pretense between them. That would be- cruel and unpleasant, rather than just painful. Emet-Selch could never ask that or want it of him. Just the thought was repulsive, and his grip on his lover tightens for a few seconds, before gradually calming again. His fingers still against Mettaton's ears; his breath barely stirs his hair.
His tone is nearly even. Less broken or despairing, but not resolute or anything approaching it either. Only very small. Quiet.]
Just... don't forget.
[He knows its an impossible request. There's a hesitation in his breath.]
For as long as you can.
no subject
The appropriate, human response to a request so delicate is a heartfelt "I'll remember for as long as fate permits it." Everything here is left up to some other masterful design, apparently, from their transformations to their passing through mirrors... But that sentiment doesn't feel impactful enough to the robotic idol.
There are no guarantees in a place like Geardagas and beyond it, but Mettaton barely thinks on what he wants to say next, a statement bold, impossible, and impressive, given the circumstances. Something someone with a penchant for trouble would say, as though he's spitting in the face of the universe itself while knowing it'll haunt him until it stops.
Mettaton smiles, and pulls from Emet-Selch's neck, lips traveling along his jaw until he brushes them against his Bonded's. His lover's. He drinks in the way they feel against him, another thing he wouldn't wish to forget, sensation. His eye remains closed.]
I promise. I'll remember... You. Us. This. How could I want to forget?
[A fool's move: he's bound by a word he has no control over and with little in the ways of exchange, abstract as it is, but it's what his heart told him to say in the heat of the moment. As if in promising, the rules of Geardagas itself would favor his honorable need and grant him exception, forcing him to remember by virtue of feeling compulsion to hold a promise even to his ultimate demise. This one's a heavy promise to make, far harder than promising to give and take in passion, daunting and stupid to have said. Impossible.
Whoops. How romantic. Maybe, if he forgot, he'd feel haunted by it forever until he finally conjured up some wild fantasy about it after living on the Surface for who knows how long... So long wondering what dreadful feeling he harbored, with the sweet release of coming up with a man beyond his original comprehension with a sharp yet dispassionate gaze. He even sighs dreamily at the thought, inspired under the weight of such a brazen promise.
He can't resist being dramatic. Emet-Selch didn't seem to understand this troubling aspect of his development as a Puca earlier, and that's just as well.]
I'm relieved. That you'd give in... The thought of stopping is dreadful.
no subject
If he ever learns about what promises entail for pucas, Emet-Selch will certainly return to this moment in a slightly different way.
But for now: he takes in Mettaton's words, the way his lips had trailed over his face until they had reached his own. It had probably been the right thing to say. Even though Emet-Selch didn't believe it, didn't have any hope for it- an absurdity like that held more comfort than a realistic pledge. Refusing to acknowledge failure, rather than meekly accepting its inevitability--
What a troublesome man. It didn't change anything, but it felt better, somehow.]
...Then I'll hold you to that.
[It was no more possible, but apparently that didn't matter either. He presses back against his lips regardless. There was sensation and company, and the sensation of company.
His hand drifts from warm ears to brush the back of his fingers against the side of Mettaton's face, as he keeps his own pressed close. All of his problems and miseries were still there, but- for the moment, at least, it was becoming possible to not focus exclusively on them. If they would always be there, there was no need to keep revisiting them, after all. For a little while....]
As if stopping were still possible... I certainly have my doubts.
[So it was just giving in to a different sort of inevitability. But Emet-Selch didn't think anything would be likely to change it. They already knew how differently they felt regarding subjects such as humanity and its value; there weren't any unpleasant surprises left there. And if opposing moralities wasn't enough to dissuade....
What a strange, lingering result to being captured and tortured.]
no subject
[Sounding blissful, the Puca leans into their kiss with a renewed longing. His smile is fond while he thinking about what an interesting person Emet-Selch is, though terribly loving. Reliable, trustworthy, unique. Frustrating, vulnerable yet deliberate... He's a totally different person from himself, a delightful contrast clever in his company. Company which he keeps to himself.
His mind could go on, but the buzzing of contact is ever present, fixated on their kiss. Mettaton opens his eye half-way, but this close up, it's difficult to meet his the gaze of his left eye with his own. Shame, that it's both of their right eyes that have some defect. He leans toward the Ascian's fingers and rubs his face against them — he appreciates his gentleness, but he couldn't help himself, covetous as he is.]
I'd call it impossible... knowing us. Yes... You're right. When I want something, I get my way. I'm persistent. [Or, in Emet-Selch's words, troublesome.] And trying to stop you... Oh my. Chilling. Though I couldn't put up much of a fight against you, dear...
[With a self-satisfied smirk, he thinks about how he would gladly take unending kisses from his Bonded, if he weren't already occupied by him.
He presses another kiss to the Ascian's lips, shifting his body ever closer to Emet-Selch's with a need. His fingers rub into his back some more with a tightening grip, but one of his arms snakes up so that his hand might wander up the back of his neck and entwine in his dark hair, comfortably.]
no subject
Is that so...? How fortunate, then... that we've aligned so well.
[In wanting each other in all ways, at least, if not in... attitudes or viewpoints. Those sorts of details.]
And between our mutual persistence- it hardly seems fair to anything that would rise in opposition.
[Or reality would crush them, either or.
But now that he was moving past the clutches of near-panic and despair, disordered thoughts closer to their usual levels- Emet-Selch found himself dwelling on Mettaton's response. An unusual thing for him to do, but these were unusual times. Even if the puca was overwhelming with unnecessary fondness and affection- states that remained alarming in their unfamiliarity- it felt conscious, a deliberate expression. The response of someone who knew what they wanted, and was able to express it. Completely undaunted, open, shameless and passionate- it was frustrating, but Emet-Selch could appreciate it. That brashness and directness of emotion.... Even the oft-irritating smugness was likely a necessary part of him.
The Ascian wasn't sure if there was anyone else who could witness his despair, without cracking underneath it, goading him to anger, or disappointing him with false platitudes. To convince him to at least accept what was going on, rather than leave it unaddressed.
Not that he felt at all at ease with it, but there was a measure of catharsis too, in being forced to deal with it. And there's no indecision in the way he meets the shifting of Mettaton's body with his own, melding against him with a muffled sigh against his lips. The strangeness of his body- that mix of metal and fur- was starting to become normal, or at least, no longer unfamiliar. His hand drifts to the back of Mettaton's head as well, matching the need to keep him close.]
no subject
[Mettaton slackens in the Ascian's arms, yielding rather than helpless, with each increment in passion shown to him in their kisses, though he's always quick to match. Biting him, stroking him, licking at him... Mettaton knows his own appetite could never be satisfied, but Emet-Selch never makes it easy for him to keep control, does he? He's made to close his eye, even if it only makes it easier to slip into intoxicating sensation. But it's not only a desire for physical proximity at this point, he recognizes, and that interests him. Not that it had ever been only that, though with Mettaton, such a thing was obviously a novelty and a focus of passion.
With two people who cover each other's shortcomings so thoroughly, could they really be stopped? Even reality seems fake in comparison, but it could be because he's dazed and deeply involved in this, right now. He hums an affirmative, pleased that Emet-Selch would agree with him. The agreement serves to reinforce and bolster what resolve a monster like himself is allowed. Which is an inordinate amount, in a matter like this.
... in thinking about their Bonding, it brings him satisfaction to know he's connected to the Ascian on such a level beyond sight. By soul. Magic. Whatever Aefenglom wants to call it, it's the same to him. He's hooked on the feeling of Emet-Selch against his lips, warm and soft and close, no options for either of them as they each keep their hands against each other's necks.
Mettaton's eye remains closed while he thinks on it.]
In Bonding... Our souls are still tied together, just like we saw it. Right? ... Then...
[He's had this physical body for some time, and spent the greater portion of it controlling it with a weaker connection than now. It requires time for a ghost to take to their form, something that took him years to do. Given that, he has a unique advantage of having been something made entirely of his soul, then rendered physically before arriving in Geardagas. He's allowed knowledge of how such a figure works. Mettaton feels the difference between his body and his soul in a way only someone with a divided understanding of incorporeality and physicality could.
But it only makes him curious: how easy it would be to interact directly with Emet-Selch's soul here? Just because he couldn't see it didn't mean the principle of the matter shouldn't be the same, right? Humans would never know how to manipulate their own souls so readily, after all, which is perfectly fine in Mettaton's eyes. To him, it's not as though this has ever been particularly unique. The expression of the self by way of soul and magic is normal, whereas the human method of expressing physically, intentionally, is Mettaton's area of intrigue. But some interest in his own experience, expression by soul, is rekindled if not because it can't be seen, or even performed the same way anymore.
So the robot focuses... on proximity. Closeness between what he felt of his soul Bonded to Emet-Selch's, and it's absolutely intuitive. Tries to see how tightly he could follow that thread that connects them by way of Bond, how close he could get, even if they're restricted to their vessels as they are. Naturally, this is incredibly easy for him and even successful — their connection by Bond permits such closeness, as it turns out. The Puca is able to impress his being upon Emet-Selch with more sincerity than ever.
He waits for a reaction to his proximity that goes beyond their bodies, which are already terribly close. Though this is different even from his own experiences, it all feels completely new to him: like his awareness of all else has been shut out, even as his ears stand and swivel with an attempt to hear. It's oddly muffled beyond the sound of Emet-Selch, and he sees nothing with his eyes closed. All of it is replaced by the impression of his core presence, powerful and otherworldly from Mettaton's perspective — Emet-Selch is not like any being he's known, after all, but he still feels familiar by virtue of being... Hades. MTT tries to feel for more, to gain understanding in whatever way he can, and his arms lock him in place.
It's like knowing without sight. He can't see this soul the way he's accustomed to, but he can get a feel for it. He sighs; shivers mildly at the knowledge of their intimacy.]
Ah. It seems a Bond would permit even this. ... Does it quite compensate for your lack of sight, Hades-darling...?
no subject
At Mettaton's words, the Ascian's manner contains a note of questioning, unsure of where he was going with this, or what he was doing. Of course their souls were still tied, but apart from as an abstract, or through the sharing of emotion, it was little more than a nice thought--
And then he felt- something. A presence, a touch, but nothing physical; it was far closer, more personal than that. He stills entirely, scarcely breathing as though he might disturb it, focused on that sensation.]
I... how are you--
[...The souls of the sundered peoples were like a candle, flickering and feeble, threatened by every suggestion of a breeze. In comparison, the Ascian's was more of a bonfire, a strength and intensity of burning that felt nigh inextinguishable. During each Bonding ceremony, Emet-Selch had been able to see the edge of it- that it was still there, that its color remained unchanged. But its full shape had been unknown, and with his powers sealed, he had... wondered. If he hadn't been reduced to the same level as those candles.
But though he still couldn't see it- Mettaton's proximity to it, contact with it, allows him to sense the shape of it himself. It appeared unharmed, its status unaltered, for all that he could no longer reach it.
Relief washes through him, simple and uncomplicated. Followed by gratitude, continued bewilderment, and deep affection. He can't help but kiss Mettaton again, in some added expression of those feelings, as the knowledge that he was still whole slowly began to sink in, and he could think about the rest.
It should've felt threatening. The last time something had contacted his soul, he'd been tempered by it. The next time something would reach his soul, he'd been sealed and shattered- apparently. This didn't seem like either of those. While Bonding had possessed a portion of the same feeling, it had been fleeting- a tendril of sensation, while this was far more than that.
And yet- he felt no alarm. It was only intimate- deeply, deeply so- an impression and closeness of self. While the spiritual world was familiar to Emet-Selch, this was not. He had no idea how Mettaton was accomplishing this; it was more than an infliction of feeling through the Bond. This was going right to the source.]
It's quite different of an experience.... [Soul-touch rather than sight. Murmured against his lips; it's clear that he's taken by the feeling, unfamiliar as it is. His arm tightens a little, as though he could hold on to this sensation somehow, though he otherwise remains still.] How did you manage this...?
no subject
It only made sense to try... It feels natural. If Bonding permits me to feel your feelings, or share your dreams, why not reach for your heart? We are linked, after all. I merely traced from me, to you... It's distance, darling. And now, you feel so very close... And so intimate.
[Being attuned to his soul by condition likely helps, but he's by no means the same composition as he would've been. Same soul, capabilities and weaknesses of it done away with.
He seems satisfied at Emet-Selch's response, smug even, keeping focus on the sensation. Without ever having seen one of these sundered souls, Mettaton can only compare his to the likes of a human's or monster's. It still feels powerful, and he wonders if it's due to the tempering, or if that's the native state of his soul. Nonetheless, it's still hard to compare it to anything he knows. It's powerful, indomitable, imposing. Mettaton finds himself eagerly shifting closer, even if its power feels like easily enough to strike him down.]
My. You're really something... You know that. Were I standing, I might feel weak-kneed. I wonder if this is what it feels like to take a soul? ... Haha. As if. It would have to be me taking from you, not this.
[Casually say some disturbing stuff.
Mettaton hardly cares to regard the nature of his own soul, unremarkable as he finds it. And it's unremarkable to him, anyway, since all monster souls are the same. About all that could possibly be gathered from it in this magic-based, Bond-facilitated tactile foray is how raw and unguarded it feels: fragile, weak to intent, worse than a candle — like a light bulb, easy as glass to break. How lacking in quality it is, something pure and without character. Most remarkably, since this is based on feeling, his soul is distinctly inverted: if it weren't, it might feel very normal in shape or form.
Well, he can't control what Emet-Selch thinks of all of that. He just wanted to feel him closer, and he finds himself a bit resentful at the presence of Zodiark's influence on his soul. What would he be like without? Even so, the Puca hums, pressing his cheek against the Ascian's fondly.]
Surprise is a lovely look on you, by the way.
no subject
It was interesting to be able to- not observe Mettaton's soul, exactly, but explore it all the same. How... astoundingly fragile it felt, though not in the same way as those malformed remnants. And not in the way of simple beasts either. It felt unique to Emet-Selch, since it was the first soul like it he'd encountered, the inversion he assumed was normal, as unexpected as it was. And simple in a different way, straightforward- which both surprised him and didn't. For how... distinct Mettaton was in personality, his soul, while new to the Ascian, seemed rather... unvarnished. As though it had yet to have any sort of history imposed upon it. But he supposed it fit with how direct and unfettered the idol appeared to be.
It felt like the sort of thing that could be shattered even if Mettaton hadn't sealed it in an object. That he could crush it just by getting too close. And yet, Mettaton would be able to take his own...?
He responds to the last comment first, even as he presses his cheek back to his.]
Hmph. Enjoy it while it lasts, you won't see it often.
[Though Mettaton surprised him more than most....
And the threat(?) of the puca taking his soul should've probably sparked some concern, but considering their earlier conversation, with Mettaton's willingness to save Amaurot.... But the Ascian's soul was presumably different from the humans of the monster's world. Would absorbing it even be possible? If so, would it have the same effect? So his tone is only thoughtful, though punctuated by a brief kiss to the side of his face.]
...I assume you can't claim my soul this way, can you?
[Because if he could absorb souls like this... surely a god could bypass whatever restrictions had been placed upon them?]
A pity, if so. With mine in hand, you might not need the full seven.
[Controlling a Zodiark-tempered soul with a will like the Ascian's would surely go entirely well. But he doesn't even stop to consider not being willing to do it. If it would save his people, being absorbed by an eccentric TV-star from another world was a small price.]
no subject
I told you. You would have to break ties with this body of yours, first... Likely, via death. However you might normally leave it. I wouldn't like that. [Mentioning his body earns a caress of Mettaton's hand against his back, following his shoulder blade and moving down to his waist.] And then, we're still... here. I can't even see souls anymore. I doubt I could take them, as I am.
Ooh, but if I could. If only I could. You might be right, darling...! I wonder what power your soul would guarantee? And how would it feel to have you...?
[Stressed less on his want to have someone like him, and more emphasis on having Emet-Selch. He shifts against his lover's body energetically, seeming to desperately covet something so vital to his being. All that mattered was that it could persist beyond his body, and it was as good as his. There's not much desire for power in his want, but his want is there all the same. The want that comes with wanting to have Emet-Selch, but having limited avenues to take.
It's far more basic than the craving for power. It's the lust for his love, another simple want, easily distinguishable in the feverish edge a kiss to his cheek takes. Close proximity to the Ascian is too much for him after a long time spent without touch, and he wants it however he can get it, smiling against his lips and his skin.]
I wonder if it wouldn't count as more than one. And, accustomed to taking on new hosts as you are... Surely, you could simply take a new body once I was through with you. Humans eventually perish without a body, but you...
[Squirming closer again, and this time rubbing his cheek against him. Feeling Emet-Selch's powerful being against his own in more than one way in this moment makes him feel safe, but he finds himself enticed by closeness to him, someone who grows more and more familiar by the second. The room is still hazy to him, the choice to bridge such a gap robbing him of sense as he is.
He places a kiss closer to his lips this time.]
Though, I like this body. [He's distracted, and he falls into him some more in a sigh.] Ah... You dazzle me, Hades, dearest.
no subject
Normally I would be able to abandon a host at my choosing, but here.... [And with Mettaton not being certain if he could take it, it wasn't quite worth the risk of killing him just to see what happened.] Well- if something unfortunate should happen to this body, I expect you to be in attendance, prepared to claim any soul that might become dislodged.
[But Mettaton was being very distracting. Every shift of his body reminding Emet-Selch of every place they touched, everything they had done before. The hand slipping to his waist draws a shiver, a reflexive lean closer, tighter to him. The contact being soul-deep didn't help matters (or if viewed from another angle, helped matters considerably), such intimacy only inspiring the need for more of it.
And the very concept of being taken so completely... it both alarmed and fascinated him. After this long in solitude, could anything less even begin to satisfy his need for company? The thought brings a shudder to his body, a sharp breath, a lifted pulse- as though this were something that could even happen now, was anything to be frightened of or hopeful for.
The feeling of being wanted in such an absolute way leaves him breathless entirely, both at the depth of the feeling, and the realization of how much he wanted him in turn. By being taken, he could possess him as well...
What would that feel like? If it was anything like tempering, it would only be good. Lost in the thought for the moment, the intimacy of their souls, the way his body was beginning to respond to those shivers of arousal go unnoticed by him.]
Though... are you telling me you would let my soul go after you were done with it? How cold....
[Even if he should be more focused on the apparent ability to remove souls once obtained, on Mettaton's willingness to do so, or on being relieved at not having to spend eternity feeding some manner of dubious godhood... no, Emet-Selch is going to focus on being vaguely insulted that Mettaton could just... give him up, after all that.
His hand drags from the back of Mettaton's neck to his upper back, arm tense, as though trying to keep as much of him against himself as possible. Eyes open- though the Ascian can't see much, this close to the other's face- his lips linger at the corner of Mettaton's mouth. His voice is a soft hiss.]
Do you think I'd let you leave me...?
no subject
[His mind goes blank; his ears stand tall. Mettaton trembles, everything about Emet-Selch overpowering him absolutely. Were he not so deeply aroused by the notion, the quality of Emet-Selch's voice and the deepening proximity, the desire for more of him, the idol would have some valid complaints. But right now, it's frightening, and therefore thrilling, and he wants it. He feels like he just set himself up, the terrifying notion that in closing in on something he desires, he's been taken up by it in return. The thought that Emet-Selch would demand that he keep him catches him off guard, because most people want agency over their own souls, not to be trapped.
And in being gripped onto, Mettaton gives in further. Feeling the sheer pressure of the Ascian's soul, the being of someone who has unfathomable power in his own right, he can almost feel the insinuation: take him, and be taken right back. Why would someone who could possess hosts of others have to surrender Mettaton's very own body back to him if he didn't wish to leave it? He wouldn't have to let him go, even when it was him who was absorbed in the first place.
Mettaton turns his head, his lips parted but lingering against Emet-Selch's while he tries to process it all. This is being overwhelmed; his arms tighten by a margin, gripping onto his Bonded while his ears fold back. He would have to submit to that.
What more could an idol want than to be craved constantly? This isn't a situation where he could simply do as he wished, even if that's how he operates. If Mettaton says he wouldn't leave, Emet-Selch wouldn't let him. That intensity's what he finds so attractive about Emet-Selch, after all.
Mettaton opens his eye and smiles against the other man's lips, dizzy and daunted but equally tantalized. His attention feels split between mind and body. Yet who could he have an experience that measures up to this with but the Ascian before him? He's all but lost his senses, having his attention spread between the power of Emet-Selch beyond what he can see and the power of him forcing himself against him.
Mettaton sighs, a sound smooth and soft.]
...We'll... have to see. Who... Who makes the decision. That I get to keep you.
[Because what if Emet-Selch did overwhelm him? If he didn't, it would be Mettaton's choice. That would be a dangerous line to tread, getting two incorporeal spirits in one body. Mettaton continues to tremble slightly, but he moves his body closer to Emet-Selch's. Receptive or demanding, it's a blend of both.]
no subject
Do you think... you're the only one who can claim another's soul?
[Soft, deathly serious, accompanied by a kiss to Mettaton's lips that's almost chaste. Even as it's followed by a sigh that shakes in his throat, and his eyes close.]
To erase the barriers of existence... is something Ascians can do as well.
[It's not something he'd ever considered doing. He'd never felt the need, complete as he was in a broken world. Unlike the sundered Ascians, or Lahabrea who'd weakened himself foolishly by frequently changing hosts, Emet-Selch had no reason to merge with another, lesser entity.
But he's not thinking of it in terms of mechanics or possibilities. Whether he'd be able to exact the same measure of influence over Mettaton, were his soul taken by him. Whether it would work with a non-Ascian soul at all. All that mattered was the desire to possess and be possessed, overwhelmed by the depths that he wanted it.
It was hard to pull himself back from it at all, this demand to be taken, even as he tried to wrap his soul around Mettaton entirely, maneuvering something he couldn't even see. It was all but impossible to not be lost in the moment, between the touch of souls and the open Bond, their physical proximity and the context of it.
But their powers weren't here, they were limited to these insufficient shells. There could be no satisfaction, only intensity.
How caught he was, between impossible, contradictory desires. The press to his lips is desperate, yet halting. The press to his body is urgent, expectant, as though trying to impress his full weight on him. How hard he was getting barely registered, was just another form of wanting. How much he... just wanted to be held, to have company that would last.]
no subject
[It's impossible to do anything to each other's souls here, realistically, but it doesn't make it any less foreboding or possible. It feels that way, anyway. Mettaton can almost feel Emet-Selch pulling him under in such a way he couldn't have anticipated in his wildest fantasies. It's panic-inducing, an uptick in frantic energy when Mettaton's only outlet for it is to writhe under Emet-Selch's weight and to cling to him, contradictory. He doesn't even care to test if he can pull back. He doesn't want to, and the feeling of pressure upon his very existence makes him close his eye with a gasp.
This could very well be dangerous, given any other circumstance, but Mettaton only delights in it. His mind races too far ahead of him to reason that it's not dangerous, especially with the feeling of his soul being swallowed up by his Bonded's, dark and intense. He can barely process what he's saying.
...He hadn't thought of Emet-Selch's capabilities, no. He certainly wouldn't have thought of them being any danger to him. He trusts him. What an oversight, with a presence like his. Too often Mettaton lets himself get carried away without considering the consequences.
Squirming in Emet-Selch's grip, he feels that tug against his being as his spatial awareness continues to diminish — not to any detriment, only to deliriousness. But he also shifts his heavy legs made heavier by the exertion of pressure against his body and soul, enough to rub hard against Emet-Selch's arousal, and Mettaton cries out, relenting to in a shifting mess with a satisfied, full-bodied shudder. His arms wind further about Emet-Selch's back, impossibly so, and he grips into his skin.
Mettaton tries to speak, but he can't, a block between speech and thought.
So they can both take souls. Mettaton acknowledges the danger here, and makes sure to communicate that understanding to his lover by catching his lips in a deep kiss, thrusting his tongue past his lips. Still, he feels the Asican winding about his soul, and it sets him trembling some more. He grips into his skin, pulls Emet-Selch's weight upon him forcefully, and drags his tongue along his lower lip as he kisses him around a sigh in his throat. He's something else, Emet-Selch. It's terrible, awe-inducing, haunting, and desirable, knowing (and not knowing) the things he could do, yet finding it delightful.]
no subject
And even this wasn't a possessiveness in all things, only wanting a claim to something soul-deep and scarring. Something to ensure that one couldn't be forgotten, even when separated by time and world. That even if neither could take the other's soul, that an imprint of it would be left regardless, some mark that they'd never be able to see, at least here. It didn't encompass everything that he wanted, but it was an appealing thought.
Every writhe and shift on Mettaton's part has Emet-Selch clinging tighter, both with his body and with his soul, reveling in the ability to sense him in two ways. Reveling in being able to sense souls at all, and even though it couldn't replace sight, it was its own intoxicating experience. He wondered if the soul echoed the body's twitches, or if it was the other way around....
He couldn't bear the thought of being apart from him now. Just the idea of being unable to feel his lover's soul fluttering against his own sets him aching, with anticipated grief. He would certainly be especially lonely later, but that was the price of moments like this, of being bound closer than reason would permit.
Gasping around his tongue, he presses his own against it, before giving in and providing a scrape of teeth instead on its retreat from his mouth. The Ascian's back arches up into Mettaton's hands, while his hips rub into his legs, stroking his cock firmly against him. A sensation that leaves him moaning into further kisses, and shivering more at each sound he heard from the other man, each squirm and press, the mix of panic and desire for more.
Repeatedly pressing his lips to Mettaton's face, in small needy touches that barely qualify as kisses, his breathing is shallow and quick. It's all deeply affectionate, despite the darkness and mutual danger. It was an insane balance to strike, and he was a little in awe of it, in what it provoked in him- at what it reduced him to.]
no subject
The way Emet-Selch grips down on his very soul takes his gratification to unforeseen levels, and the intensity's enough to keep Mettaton's entire body trembling on constant. His thighs are tense around his arousal and he sighs and whines at how wanting he is deep, deep down, in every possible way for his Bonded. As he gazes up at Emet-Selch, he's unfocused, drunken, infatuated, and overwhelmed, always reaching greater heights of pleasure with each round they slip into with each other. Enticed into him on some core level of his being, he's absolutely hooked: he feels thoroughly caught under the pressure of a soul so immense impressing upon his own, heavy and undeniable. He didn't expect this perfect approach to sensuality when he reached out for his heart.
For as trapped as he feels, Mettaton grips back, both in body and soul. His head lolls to the side despite himself as he relishes the Ascian's affections with a heavy sigh, and he's absolutely taken, feeling his body press just right against his Bonded's while he feels so warmly toward Emet-Selch's essence. He does not let go of him, not in any way. He feels so deeply taken, deeply satisfied, and with the way his lover frenetically kisses him, he feels deeply cared for.
He regains some control of himself and wherever he can, he catches Emet-Selch's face with kisses of his own. How could anybody treat him to such unknown depths?]
Th... Yes, exact- exactly...!
[And even his ability to string words together fails him. Of course. How else can he say that Emet-Selch's bringing him beyond his expectations? There's so much else he wants, a never-ending list of desires, but this is like scratching an itch he could have never known how to convey. It's fortunate that he's been matched with the Ascian, he thinks. It's conveyed by Bond, by the intensifying grip on his very soul: Emet-Selch is never, ever getting away from him. He demands it: his pleasure, his affection, and his company, which never fails to put Mettaton at ease in its ever-growing familiarity. For how tantalizingly risky as their flirtation with danger is, Mettaton loves him immensely.
The Puca can't stop fidgeting his legs, the heat of his body rising ever higher. The hotter he feels, the more he needs to move. He tries desperately to catch his lips in a kiss, but he's just as satisfied with kissing him haphazardly under the weight of his body and soul.]
no subject
How could a soul so different, influence him so far? It felt once again that they were matched- that despite the tempestuous weight of his own, it was no less affected, no more able to ignore Mettaton's, unable to crush him underneath, swallow him up without a trace. He felt pierced by him, claimed in turn- that the more his soul encroached on him, the more Mettaton's own influence spread, becoming inescapable. Not that he felt the slightest inclination to even attempt to detach.
It was so profound that it hurt, and his cries are soft and pained. Thrusting between the squeeze of Mettaton's thighs, there's no sense of rhythm involved; a few desperate jerks of his hips, followed by shuddering pauses, gasps for air as he kisses and clings back. As though he couldn't concentrate on more than one action at a time. Which was likely to be true, given how overwhelmed he was by the whole of it.
He was so close, so quickly. When Emet-Selch leans up momentarily, it's to observe what he can of his lover's condition. The sight of him crying out, along with the sound, has his own breath turn into a shuddered whine. How uncontrolled and open he was, and with their souls mixed, it was as though he could feel Mettaton's pleasure as well, mirrored endlessly with his own. It hurt even to look upon it, and his eyes close again, though he can't shut any of it out. Even what he couldn't see, he could feel- the constant trembling of the form under his, every shiver of his legs, the continued pressure around his cock.
Falling into another kiss, he feels as equally drowned by the press of Mettaton's demands on him. How much he returned them. How much he loved him in that moment, in some terribly broken way. How heartfelt it was and full of fathomless longing, an edge of need that could never be fully satisfied. It's probably good that Emet-Selch finds himself incapable of speech, of language. All it would amount to would be pleas not to leave, demands giving way to desperation, each one more disconsolate than the last. But the sentiment is carried in his voice regardless, in the sounds he makes, ever softer, ever more swallowed up by deeper kisses.
When the pleasure his body feels suddenly crests, he's lost, nearly despairing of it. As though he'd never be able to find this again, that it was inexorably slipping away from him with each shudder, each breath, no matter how hard he clung to him. Emptying himself between his thighs once more, he collapses by degrees, face burying itself against Mettaton's neck, and trying not to cry.
He doesn't entirely succeed.]
no subject
[Even after Emet-Selch's release, Mettaton keeps him held tight with the same frantic trembling as he recognizes that his Bonded's surpassed his climax. He sighs despite himself, clutching his body tighter, still wound up beyond belief but satisfied in all of the dizzying feeling he gets from the other man. Even in this moment he feels the haunts of wherever he's kissed, rubbed, gripped, sucked, and bit him, and all he can think of is how deeply he's been taken by Emet-Selch, near possessed, and how badly he wants more.
But he's patient, and more will come. For now, he has the lingering feeling of everything they've done, the weight of the other man upon his body, and a Bond that's remains dangerously soul-deep. As if he weren't already clutching onto him with immense pressure (he is), Mettaton doesn't realize that he grabs onto him harder, though at least he shifts his arms to better hold the Ascian against him. In doing so, it distributes the pressure.
Even after Emet-Selch's gone limp against his body, cradled between the robot's neck and shoulder, he notes that his tremendous power doesn't fade. Not that it would, nor would he expect it. In focusing on it, it allows Mettaton some grounding point to ease himself off of his blinding pleasure, anchoring himself against him in some intangible manner as if his iron grip isn't enough. Mettaton sighs again, rubbing his cheek against the top of his Bonded's head, taking his soul in degrees closer despite how overwhelming he feels.
With the feeling of such immense despair, Mettaton always wondered when he'd eventually succumb to tears. Even if it strikes him as odd to have the Ascian cry into his neck, he always took him for someone who would — and now it's no longer odd, just one of the many ways he's had him. The idol smiles against his hair, his hand moving up the exposed skin of his back, sliding along his neck, and firmly pressing into his scalp as he tangles fingers with locks of hair. He strokes him, but also presses him closer into his neck, a mix of claiming and caring. How familiar he's grown with the weight and figure of the Ascian goes beyond his body now, doesn't it? He closes his eye, pleased with himself in spite of the despair he feels so strongly by Bond — he's familiar with that, too, far beyond these few months he's known him. Turns out being connected so deeply makes it even harder not to feel his Bonded's emotions, possibly even to the point of conflating them as his own. The dangers of forcing such a deep connection, most likely. Mettaton maintains it nonetheless, relishing the closeness, allowing the Ascian to his despair — but he'll have to accept his overbearing company, in the process. He shifts close, as though wordlessly acknowledging his stifled crying.
He still shivers, mildly by now, still keyed up. But the process to coming down is a bit slower, perhaps less jarring than orgasm must be, he imagines.
How terrible, that his standards for satisfaction would be shaped by Emet-Selch alone. He doubts anybody else could drown him quite like he does. Possessive, pleased, compassionate, fond, and surprised make up the bulk of his sentiment while he strokes his hair, his longing and eagerness ever present at the side. Eye still shut, he gives Emet-Selch a squeeze. His voice is as velvety as ever, but it's clear that he's still trying to come off a pleasurable, infatuated high.]
I could get used to this. Your... very self, mingling with mine.
[And he feels lucky, not just to have met him, but to have had their relationship develop down such a path. It could have played out differently, he feels.]
no subject
Despair remained, his timeless companion. There was no fighting it; it was an almost peaceful feeling, in its way. Mingled with all that Emet-Selch received from Mettaton in turn... there was no conflict. It could all coexist, as tied together as their souls were, as their bodies attempted to be.
There was a sort of relaxation in it, though it teetered on resignation.
It would be a bizarre introduction to intimacy, to be sure. It was intense and genuine, but poorly constrained and overwhelming when invoked. And possessing a misery intrinsic to the care, as though Emet-Selch no longer knew how to discern the two.
But there was a lot of care, and ever more so as he feels the slow stroke of his hair, the continued company of Mettaton's spirit, as though his soul itself was burrowing against him. Being held brought more comfort than it probably should, and he slowly rubs his cheek against the side of Mettaton's neck, still both damp, in some small expression of gratitude. How could he have expected to be balanced so thoroughly? He'd never thought to find this at all, and doubted he could ever do so again.
And how easily he could've missed out on any of this, if things had happened even a little differently. Bonding so quickly had been essential, he thinks, before they'd known the breadth of each other's views. And even so, to have stumbled so thoroughly in this direction... it defied reason.]
I would hope so. It will... be quite difficult to detach.
[He was dreading it already, as he shifts slightly, nestling more against him. It should've been less comfortable than it was- or at least, the comfort it did provide outweighed details like 'primarily metal.' That, and Emet-Selch was too exhausted to care, drained on every level he could think of, and probably a few he couldn't. Both satisfied and aware that it wouldn't last.
...Which was a fascinating feeling in itself, to want more from someone, and expect to receive it. Was this what it was like to 'look forward to' something...? How strange, and a mildly bewildering experience for the Ascian, in his tiredness and contented despair.]
no subject
Or, it could be that the Ascian is experiencing a usual tiredness — which is a thing that would happen after three rounds, Mettaton acknowledges. (...With a cocky smirk, which only he's aware of, a private satisfaction for pulling him in over and over. What a rush.) Ever since he developed the ability to regain energy by way of sleep, he's learned beyond a rudimentary understanding of how tiredness and sleep work. The duo's level of intensity and passion is certainly draining.
He can only imagine how Emet-Selch's feeling now, as he succumbs to his metallic body. Even Mettaton knows it's likely not the most comfortable of things, especially now that he has a point of comparison, a body of flesh and blood that he has such thorough access to. That is, his lover's body, which he views as available to his fancy. His, by virtue of having staked claim upon the Ascian.
(Even thinking on it, he strokes his back, a bit envious of a form like his. Maybe a lot envious. Not to diminish his adoration for his own body, which he wouldn't trade in if given the chance. He kisses the top of his head, and... laughs, lightly.)]
Comfortable?
[A bit of a joke. He doubts it.
There's something deeply fulfilling about having another's soul entwined with is own, like it's supposed to be. How odd. And even worse is that it doesn't feel close enough. The proximity and intimacy are more than enjoyable, and he sighs, soft and intended to express his feeling more than anything.]
It doesn't feel like you're keen on going anywhere. And... neither am I. Thankfully, for the both of us.
[Even with the amount he wants to move, he knows it only serves to increase his temperature further when it needs to come down. (What a stupid system: I Feel Excess Heat Produced By Excess Movement, So I Need To Move More, To My Detriment. Mettaton knows this is true about him and doesn't care.)]
But, now you know my heart. Some familiarity... with the culmination of my being. And I, yours.
[Not that Mettaton finds choice in vessel to be arbitrary. Emet-Selch admitted so himself, that he made decisions about his own to reflect something about himself. There's importance to that, he believes. It's expression. But he can also appreciate the intimacy of knowing one's core essence, who Emet-Selch is beyond this host he assumed]
no subject
And privately, Emet-Selch is a bit relieved that he hasn't passed out yet. He was still working out how this new weakness manifested, a process that was made more difficult by it getting continually worse, rather than holding steady. Still, if it did happen now, he thought it would be a degree more acceptable than falling asleep in the middle of sex. He sighs to himself.
Though it was less sleep, and more of a complete unconsciousness. He didn't even feel particularly rested afterward, which was particularly galling. Not that he ever felt particularly rested, but it was like these fits of random darkness weren't even trying.
And Emet-Selch wouldn't be at all surprised to hear that Mettaton felt at all entitled to his body. Considering their shared possessiveness, he expected it, and it wouldn't even occur to him to mind it. Especially not after their souls had been wrapped up in one another; being protective of one's outer shell would feel almost arbitrary.
The comment about comfort gets a tired-sounding, but equally as amused hum from him, and he tilts his head to press a light kiss to Mettaton's neck.]
More than you'd expect.
[That is to say, he could deal with it, just as he could tolerate Mettaton's weight over him before. It was fine. Because he was definitely disinclined towards moving at all, and if the idol wasn't going to encourage him to shift elsewhere, he wasn't going to do it himself. Cuddling with a robot was his life now.
But when dwelling on their souls, whose continued contact felt almost natural, as though this was how they were meant to be, he continues.]
Mm... not too dark for you, I hope. [With a slight ironic lilt; since it couldn't be seen, it was entirely dark, technically.] But yours... is not quite what I expected.
[A slow, almost thoughtful tone. He was surprised by how endeared he was to it- perhaps having to do with whom it belonged to? The Bond encouraging a positive reception? Emet-Selch assumed he would've scorned something so much smaller than his own, so fragile. But it was complete in itself, not malformed- and considering the effect it had on him, certainly made a lot of itself.]
Not in a bad way at all. 'Tis only unfamiliar.
no subject
He would have been irrationally insulted if he had he passed out in the middle of sex, for sure. Not that he wouldn't have also understood the concept of passing out against his will, but he's the type whose petty spite is easily earned. With a side of concern, but the concern's prevalent besides.
That streak of possessiveness continues, following the thread between finding ownership of each other's bodies to the mention of Emet-Selch's darkness, an attribute he knows to be thanks to the tempering of his soul. It's his soul, not his body this time, but it causes Mettaton to pull tighter regardless. And funny that, after their discussion of the day, he should find some mild dissatisfaction now with knowing that Zodiark has claim over his soul... What's gotten into him?
Though he does find amusement at the comparison between the dark quality of it that he knows to be there, and the fact that neither of them can actually see anything. He hums a note of it, pouring this possessiveness into scenting him by rubbing into the top of his head affectionately. Mettaton still doesn't realize that's what he's doing to his Bonded when stricken with want.
Before he can continue, he works on stilling the remaining energy in his body, trembling with a brief chill while he focuses on the pleasant, numb, and warm sensation that begins to take center stage. One of fulfillment and deep fondness.]
Appropriately dark, yes. Enough for me to grope blindly... until I found myself in the imposing, yet enticing, clutches of my Bonded.
[He smiles against his hair at his entirely accurate answer that manages to capture both meanings. He closes his eye and focuses on his senses, touch and beyond.]
If anything, I expected as much out of your being... Yet it still astonished me. Unfamiliar's a word for it, I'll give you that. But I don't know what about me is unexpected. I feel I've already touched upon the qualities of my soul... Although you've touched it more than I have, at this point. Haha.
no subject
Emet-Selch, though, feels no particular conflict in having been claimed by Zodiark, yet also desirous of Mettaton's own stake on him. Zodiark was perfect and eternal, and wanting to undo that tie was unthinkable- but he cared (what a terrible word) for Mettaton as well, and what was the point of caring for something if you couldn't keep it? Or be kept by it? So long as he didn't think about it too closely, there was no conflict. He still nestles that bit harder against him before relaxing, appreciating the tighter grip, even the affectionate rubbing.
That he was being scent-marked as well would strike him as odd, but not that much different from having his neck marked up by Mettaton's lips. More of a subtle claim, at that.]
A good thing tempering isn't catching... or else you would be long lost, by now.
[It's not contagious. He'd have to drag him before Zodiark for that, not that he would.]
But yours... 'tis smaller than expected. [Or Amaurotines had unusually large souls, skewing his perspective.] I wondered if I might crush it through mere proximity.
[Rather than inspiring a more reasonable disgust, Emet-Selch just feels protective of Mettaton instead, his own soul tightening its hold on him. It was his, to break or preserve; an unusual feeling.]
But yes- it does feel wholly 'you', at the same time. Open and direct, and honest of emotion. [It was no wonder he could remain in the present so easily.] ...I'd thought that sealing your soul into an object to be a reckless pursuit, but if you're from a place where they are ever available to be reached, I suppose it actually affords you a measure of protection.
no subject
It's true. The Ascian's taken him in so thoroughly that he's glad tempering isn't contagious, because he'd be done for. He gets the joy instead of Emet-Selch winding about his very essence like vines, and Mettaton hums, the shift in feeling as if he's leaning into his lover.
Mettaton's experience is too limited to humans and monsters to say any differently, but if he were forced to guess in the moment, he'd say such inordinate size is a trait unique to the Amaurotine. It would further explain why Emet-Selch is so appalled by fractures of a soul.
With his hands having drifted to Emet-Selch's upper back, he begins a pattern of tracing over the entire expanse of his back. He's warm, pleasant, soft, and Mettaton doesn't want to miss a moment of him.]
Yours feels like the biggest soul I've ever encountered. The strength of it is... staggering. [Mettaton talks on a smile, like he's thrilled at what he feels of him; he even takes a hand to fan himself dramatically before returning it to Emet-Selch's back.] Any perceived ability to crush me doesn't surprise me, considering how delicate my soul must feel. Especially compared to this.
[By this, he refers directly to the magnitude of Emet-Selch, giving to that tightening grip by nudging closer yet. If he wants to envelop his soul, he's free to — Mettaton considers that as good as having him in return.]
My body does offer more protection than most of my kind's afforded, yes. Any attack fueled by cruelty could instantly kill any monster, but I could probably survive it... Cruelty's all it takes to kill one of us, otherwise. Strength is arbitrary. So I hope your curiosity in crushing me... is fueled by love, instead. Since you have such exclusive access to me...
[Cruelty's so easy to come by, however. They must be easy to kill.]
no subject
Having any access to souls at all, after these months without was... reassuring on a deep level. Emet-Selch had thought he'd have to persist in this world cut off from that aspect of himself entirely, and to have that not be the case--
If Mettaton provided nothing more to him, he would remain grateful for this alone.
And it was far too pleasant to wrap himself around him like this. As dark as the Ascian's soul was anyway, it hardly mattered that it could not be seen, that it was trying to blot out the light entirely from the one within its amorphous grasp. The sort of thing that could've easily become threatening, oppressive, had there not been trust involved.
Emet-Selch hums in general, if tired, contentment, from the mixed feeling of their souls, to Mettaton's hands exploring his back in the most comfortable of ways. A both deep and casual intimacy that affected him greatly, and he quietly kisses the side of his lover's throat again. And while the appreciation for his soul was one thing (it was a very impressive entity, Emet-Selch could agree), when Mettaton describes how easy it was to kill a monster, he stills entirely.]
Any attack... [He trails off, almost in disbelief. Mettaton's soul had struck him as fragile, yes, but that was an unprecedented level of brittle. Cruelty was as common as air.] Is that true even here? Like this?
[How... exceedingly foolish again, if so. Trusting anyone this far. His own soul shifts endlessly around Mettaton's, as though restless. Leaning up enough so that he can observe the idol's face, he looks. Annoyed. Concerned. The latter was generally combined with the former. It wasn't as absolute as unhappiness feeding on anything positive, but it was common.]
...How did your people even survive contact with humanity long enough to be sealed away? How do they survive contact with each other?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)