[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?
[Emet-Selch's expression doesn't appear to faze him, a mild smile still upon his features. What a question. The former's easy, the latter's just strange. (What does he mean, survive contact with each other? Before coming here, Mettaton hardly believed that anybody would act with senseless violence.) Mettaton seems to spare it some thought, attention directed toward the corner of the ceiling.]
We survived barely, of course. Being spared at all was a mercy, no doubt. But that was millennia ago, darling. ... I can't say we have issues with killing each other, in the meantime. Even if we wanted to... We fight with magic, and we resist magic. It's the brutality humans are capable of that could kill us.
[As he speaks, his voice is at a low, intimate volume, sometimes veering breathless against all odds while he appreciates such an odd mix of thrill and security. Emet-Selch grows more and more familiar feeling as time passes, though he takes the time to simply appreciate the sensation of him so close. Overall, his Bonded is a very, very comfortable presence for him, even as they try to learn more about each other. If he takes a step back to think on it, the development surprises him.
Relax, though. He directs his attention more wholly upon the Ascian upon noticing his restlessness, remaining perfectly at ease. While his hands continue moving against his back, palms flat against skin with fingers trailing behind, so too does he try to relax him by spirit. Something of a reciprocal pull, closer to himself.
He doesn't provide any of this to soothe anyone, of course. It's just a matter of fact. His own opinion on it isn't much matter, either, since this is his condition, if not a few degrees removed by being so different otherwise.]
Here, though... I don't think our souls are quite the same. [A glance toward the wall, something Mettaton does when he's made uncomfortable by something.] There was... another monster kidnapped alongside us, besides me. Not a ghost. Not a robot.
[Ghosts: can't be killed, corporealizing: kind of ruins that, robot: provides durability, so he makes sure to specify that this is an average monster. Mettaton refocuses his gaze upon Emet-Selch, somber. Talking about this is difficult for him to do: every time he does, he's usually doing it to reassure, since it's always in talking to the victim himself. He's obliged to do what he can to lift his spirits.]
... They did not treat him with any kindness. We both stand out in this crowd, even full of Mirrorbound. He survived it all... And remains as affable as ever. So I guess our frailty isn't the case, here.
They were awful. That was the kind of sentiment that would gravely wound, or even kill us.
[He can't help but lean closer to better hear Mettaton's voice, even though he was at no risk of not catching his words. His soul itself seemed inclined to still and listen, as though it could capture sound as well as spirit.
But that was right; Mettaton had mentioned that monsters could only kill with unwavering intent. And while Emet-Selch had assumed that to be little obstacle, perhaps he'd misjudged them (could there possibly be another population in existence that was predisposed to kindness, other than his own people?). So with that, on top of natural defenses against the only danger readily available... he could see why they'd managed to not destroy themselves once isolated from the real threat: humanity.
Regardless of intent, he's soothed a little nonetheless by the broader press of Mettaton's hands, the way the idol's soul seemed to embrace him in turn.
But when the conversation turns towards their captivity, it was hard to miss the puca's reaction. The discomfiture is obvious. Mettaton rarely avoided gazing directly at something, from what he'd noticed. And Emet-Selch had wondered how the man had dealt with all they'd been through and witnessed. If he had dealt with it at all. As poorly as the Ascian had fared, as new as the sense of helplessness had been, the actual actions on the part of their captors had been no surprise. His view of humanity remained justifiably intact. But Mettaton seemed quite... innocent. And possibly from a society unused to cruelty. What mark had their experiences left on him? It wasn't as though Emet-Selch had ever known him beforehand.]
So here, you're rendered some physicality, despite yourselves....
[Leaning in, he brushes a kiss to Mettaton's cheek, before pressing the side of his face against his, for a moment. To reassure? Emet-Selch isn't sure. He's also not sure why he's possessed of the inclination to. Part of that... 'caring' thing, perhaps.]
Your friend is quite forgiving, then. [There's a note of approval there, actually. He also just assumes that they're friends.] And how technically fortunate that this world saw fit to render your kind a degree more durability. Considering all that you'll continue to face.
[Not a very optimistic statement. It's downright pessimistic, even. He sighs. If Mettaton's people had attained their freedom through an impossible lack of bloodshed, to live a life of peaceful coexistence with humanity (an even more impossible thought), how... cruel again to be dragged here instead. Where there was freedom, yes... but fear and violence alongside it.
...At least they had a reason to look forward to going home, he supposed. A thought that has his own melancholy deepen. Shaking his head slightly, he has another thought.]
But... you presumably can't leave your current form without dying, same as myself- so I wonder what would've happened if you had arrived without one. A ghost outside the machine... would you have been made corporeal? If I'd appeared without mortal flesh, I doubt they would've allowed me to remain imperceptible to nearly everyone.
It settles over him heavier than Emet-Selch's body upon him the very moment he suggests arriving without his body. He can't even imagine himself prior to it, in Aefenglom, around all of these humans and other beings. Mortifying. What would he even do here? He wouldn't even have the options to keep him occupied in his hopeless perseverance, and he doubts very much that he'd have any company. Even independent of this body, it concerns him to consider who he might be without Napstablook to keep him at his best. (How does the very thought alone bring him right back to that mindset? Feeling worthless. ...That's in the past now. There's no way any sort of multiverse-based selection system would choose him, anyway, no matter the reasons, whether they're significant or arbitrary.)
The regret he'd feel if he had to be in such a unique set of circumstances but without a form he could consider his own is immense. He feels smaller now, perhaps glad to also feel swallowed up by Emet-Selch in this moment.
He hopes Emet-Selch doesn't notice all of this displeasure, but he dreads that he does. He probably does. Definitely. They're only connected by soul, their Bond incredibly transparent. That's... why he Bonded with him. (There's the feeling of relief, here. Just a bit.)
Mettaton rejects the thought of being a ghost who was also corporeal without form. What would that even be like? Uncomfortable, is what.]
No.
[Not the exact phrasing he was meaning to give...]
I believe that's why, by some design, we're brought as we are. With our hosts. They might have to provide one, or something...
[That's a bit more relieving, the thought that there would be something... As implausible as this all is. Though he imagines it would not be a great body... Most bodies, in Mettaton's experience, aren't right for him, but his selection hasn't been great. Not even his incorporeal one was right, but he could make do with others.
In response to earlier reassurances that linger (helpfully), Mettaton turns his head to press closer to Emet-Selch's, his hands smoothing down to the Ascian's lower back. He's not even too disturbed by the thought of what "all" they'll continue to face that will make having durability worthwhile, even as he considers it privately.
The Rathmores changed him. Of course they did, even if he keeps it private; nobody who wasn't there would want to talk about that. Even among those who were there, few do. Emet-Selch forces him to rethink his views, too, whether he likes it or not. He doesn't like feeling blindsided by his own adoration, and though he doesn't feel he'd ever stop loving people and could never stop hoping for their best... it sobers someone to experience something like that, and then find themselves Bonded to a man he met in those oppressive walls. It's a minor falter in ideology, an unsettling one, but one he places more hope in yet. He could find appreciation for a greater understanding of people. He just needs time.]
[That hadn't been the response he'd expected- both in word or in tone- and he hums quietly at the various emotions he couldn't help but feel, as close and as open as they were. This time it's curiosity that mixes with the concern; it was unusual for Mettaton to feel so unsettled. Bringing up his life and status as a ghost tended to make him uncomfortable, for some reason, though. The Ascian wasn't sure if it was worse this time, or whether he was just more attuned to his mood.
Emet-Selch still didn't see why. The problem had been incorporeality, surely. A practical issue, more than anything else. Was it just a matter of looking back on an unhappier time?]
You've asked whether I've modified this host to my choosing... but what of you?
[His soul shifts continuously around him, though not restless or agitated this time. It's more of a slow stroking, protective as it envelopes, as though trying to shut out the outside world entirely. His voice is the same, quiet and even, even though it wasn't as though they were in any threat of being overheard.]
How much do you share with your current appearances? What were you like, before your various forms were designed?
[The downside of gaining the Ascian's investment, is that he asks questions like these. Especially since it's actual interest, rather than idle curiosity. And while he wonders at the discomfiture, it's not enough to dissuade him.
Though he does continue to lean his head firmly against Mettaton's, unconsciously rubbing a little more against it. Emet-Selch didn't have too many reassuring instincts left to him, but what insufficient remnants remained were trying.
He's more than fine with not dragging up more memories of their torture; it was something he avoided considering anyway, with limited success. No, its effects manifested in other ways. It probably always would.]
I... I didn't look a thing like this. This is entirely my fantasy. None of these bodies bear resemblance to my... What I looked like. [With a bit of a laugh,] My classic's closest, I suppose. In that it lacks legs. But that's it.
[legs are crucial.
His eye's closed. He realizes he's answered quite readily, all things considered, but he did it without much awareness for it. Maybe he was prepared to say that all along, given how curious he's been about Emet-Selch.
It helps, having such deep intimacy, low volume, and close proximity. It's terribly relaxing, and in this moment, Mettaton doesn't know how he'd gone along without. He sighs, this time by necessity so as to relax more heavily into his Bonded's care. Mettaton feels again like his hearing is restricted to this bed, the sound of Emet-Selch breathing, his voice by the side of his face, soft and calming. He has every note of his voice memorized like song, from the deepest sorrow he's expressed to his coldest ire when he'd earned it, and it's so easy to sink into.
He tries to figure out where to go from there. Emet-Selch has been forthcoming about himself, and not just on matters of his appearance. He has little else prepared to explain, though he has the wherewithal to recognize how odd this might sound to anyone who didn't know how much distress he was in, without the body he'd always envisioned himself with. Emet-Selch, on the other hand, possessed an original body, lost it, and became incorporeal. If he could use his experience, maybe he could explain it.]
... Where you lost your original body, I have always been incorporeal. That's why I could will myself into perception. Not that being perceived does much for an unremarkable presence. ... It was... Simple in form. Not humanoid. White, varying transparency, empty-eyed, indistinguishable. I guess. But it wasn't "me." Back then... I'd do anything for a form like this.
[He doesn't even have any other words for his own form, and the thought of describing it is awkward.]
Nobody who knew me recognizes me, as I am. That person who I was is a thing of the past. ... Maybe, you'll see my cousin in a memory of mine. Since Bonds are likely to do that. If you see them... I looked like them.
[Holding him a bit tighter, Emet-Selch takes a moment to appreciate this form of intimacy, in addition to all else they'd already experienced. A natural continuation, a gradual exposing of ever more parts of themselves. Not necessarily comfortable, but... comforting, perhaps, in a way.
Mentally, he reclassifies the 'ghosts' of Mettaton's world from 'spiritual remnants of previously living entities' to 'naturally occurring incorporeal entities.' Which was fair enough, he supposed; in retrospect, it had been something of an assumption to believe that what constituted a ghost would be the same across worlds.
And he's quiet for a time as he thinks on all of that, nuzzling slowly at the side of Mettaton's face. A form without much shape, basic, insubstantial. Possessing of little willpower, and immortal almost as an afterthought. A pitiful existence in all regards. And considering how vibrant Mettaton was as his current self- difficult for the Ascian to imagine. Was his exuberance making up for lost time, he wondered. Or a constant seeking of distraction to keep from reminiscing on what life had once been limited to.
The idea of disconnecting from the past, in particular from one's very self is an alien thought to him. Of course Mettaton was the same person that he was before; form was immaterial. His soul was, presumably, unaltered.]
...I shall let you know should I encounter them in a dream.
[And as he considers again how reticent Mettaton was about his ghost self in all ways, from history to appearance... Emet-Selch felt as though he could understand that bit more of why he'd chosen to Bond with someone who'd guessed at the basics. If the secret was out anyway, there was less of an image to uphold. If his past self was so anathema... no wonder he would do all he could to keep the information to the absolute minimum of people.]
Did you leave many behind, when you severed from your past? ['Was there anyone to miss you', he does not say. Apart from that cousin, perhaps, depending on the relationship they had.] Or was it more of an... easy break? [That was a kinder way to put it.]
[While his composure remains surprisingly stable when recalling something that causes him great discomfort - recalling the body he'd once been restricted to - the mention of those he left behind seems to have a greater impact on unearthing any sorrow. There's no sorrow in finding himself, only the byproduct of it. It's not just a frown this time, but remorse.]
Ah...
[It doesn't matter how many there were who remembered him, because he left someone very important behind. He pulls on Emet-Selch's body even though they're already flush against each other, even though Emet-Selch is as close to his very soul without altogether fusing with it. He doesn't mind terribly that there weren't many to miss him, as much as the strength of being missed and missing in return.
He treats the proximity like a cure for his disquiet over these admissions, burying his face into Emet-Selch's hair. It helps: these tactile experiences are long desired, after all.]
... Only Bl- my cousin, I imagine. Maybe another. [Only one or two people, basically.] But that didn't make it easy.
[Difficult enough to dissuade him immediately upon hearing their voice not to continue on in the pursuit of his dreams of humanity, while keeping his attention even when they'd been granted freedom.
Here, in the now, Emet-Selch serves as company he can have as a blend of his entire experience. Something he never imagined he could have, and he grazes his fingertips along his sides against warm skin. The thought eases the lingering heartache that comes from splitting with someone.]
[Even more unusual feelings from Mettaton. And, once aware of them, he's momentarily at a loss of what to do with them. Not out of any sort of discomfort, but- how... did comforting work again...?
Probably a continuation of what he'd already been doing, Emet-Selch decided, he probably had that instinct for a reason. Though they couldn't much press any closer, he tilts his head a little at feeling the face in his hair. His soul maintained its slow ministrations, as though it were a dark blanket to wrap him up in. This closeness- none of it could replace what had already been lost. But it was something. He hums very softly at the feeling of fingers running along his sides, the lightness of the sensation almost causing him to twitch, though not unpleasantly.
The feelings in themselves, of course, were far too familiar to Emet-Selch. Most anything on the sorrowful end of the negative spectrum was. So that much, at least, settles onto him quite comfortably, as though it had always been there, despite originating from someone else. Unlike positive feelings, which remained a source of great suspicion, something to recoil from, these he could accept very easily.
The only strange part was the awareness of his own affectionate reactions- a heavy and tinged with melancholy sort, but affection all the same. A desire to sooth. What a strange thing to feel in response to someone else's unhappiness.
Though he's a touch amused at the hiding of that name, he doesn't question it, assuming Mettaton had some reason to keep it to himself. The Ascian could understand the value of names.]
...'Tis not number, but closeness which matters in the end. And yet you still selected this path.
[There's no judgement there. Not even remotely. If anything, he's entirely sympathetic. Sometimes... you had to take decisions that removed you from others. Important others. Even though their circumstances and reasons were entirely different, Emet-Selch could recognize the feeling.
There was one thing he didn't understand, though.]
But if they already knew what you were... why was it necessary to hide from them once you'd obtained these forms of yours?
[It really, really wasn't necessary. It wasn't unusual to learn that a ghost was off to corporealize, begin their life anew, yet Mettaton himself stole off without a word. Sometimes he wonders if anybody else noticed he was gone. He assumes not. Maybe Napstablook tried looking for him, but likely not — given their energy level, the best they'd have in them is resignation to a life alone. He doesn't blame them. Immediately despondent, assuming he'd left them because they were dragging him down or intolerable company otherwise. The fact that Mettaton is aware of how they must have taken it never fails to make him feel worse for leaving them in the dark.
He waits a moment, thinking it over. It takes Mettaton sorting through a number of excuses that don't actually pose the largest obstacle if questioned further, and questioning is something Emet-Selch is good at doing. He's not intending to lie — there's no reason, and Emet-Selch's companionship pulls Mettaton deeply into complacency, unguarded. But his other reasons aren't lies so much as not thorough enough. At the core of it all, there's always one thing left: guilt.]
Because... I told them I'd never leave them behind, for corporeality. But. Well. Here I am.
[There was no obstacle but his own feelings. He went against his word. Fame can go to one's head, and he took every opportunity to forget about what he'd left behind. It made it easier.
That goes unsaid, but the sentiment persists. It was easier to ignore it and leave it behind, to create an artificial distance between anyone who got close to him. All he needs are his fans, after all. Maybe that's not the case.]
The day I arrived here... I finally met them again, as my fan. Of course, I knew they'd like what I do. That they'd be a fan is no surprise to me. But it's strange. Meeting somebody you've always known... but they don't recognize you in the same way. They only know you in a removed sense. I'm their idol now, not their long lost family. I was going to tell them, and... I will. But I didn't. When they looked at me with such admiration, I...
[So he knew they were likely left in the darkest of mental spaces for years, but when he saw them in person, he couldn't bring himself to blur the lines between star and constant companion. What sort of reaction would that have elicited after he saw them excited for once? They would have been made upset all over again, he's sure.
Being transparent to Emet-Selch feels unusually natural. He can't place why, but it's something about his very being. He has his barbs, and the robot already knows he feels familiar, but his perceptiveness forces everything to lay out before both of them for appraisal. Feeling enclosed by the Ascian is so welcome that he can't even bring himself to think of what it feels like without the presence of his immense soul, darkness and all. From within that security, Mettaton latches on.]
I forgot... what I'd given up. How nice it is to have people close to me.
What a terrible feeling. Understandable under the circumstances, but terrible nonetheless. And considering Mettaton's words... Emet-Selch isn't about to tell him that he shouldn't feel that way. If it wasn't quite a betrayal of his companions, it was quite unkind behavior. Selfish and cowardly- but tinged with desperation, he imagined. To desire everything that corporeality entailed, to the point of abandoning all else. It didn't strike him as an easy or even careless decision.
Or perhaps since he cared about him, Emet-Selch was willing to make more concessions for his behavior. Or because he could feel some of the weight of how his choices had settled on him. The Ascian had wondered what had lay beyond Mettaton's usual cheer and exuberance, and... all of this seemed to be an answer.
Turning his head, he rests his lips against the side of Mettaton's face, allowing them to linger there, as though distracted by his thoughts. But he eventually pushes himself up enough to observe his face, expression neutral, serious- even as his soul remains circling warmly around him, latching on in return.]
The benefit to immortality... is that it affords you time to reconnect.
[Even if Mettaton had abandoned them for some time without a trace... with patience, and considering there had been no malicious intent- he thought it was possible to be forgiven. But though the idol said he would tell them- Emet-Selch was skeptical. It'd be an easy thing to continue putting off, indefinitely. Avoiding the immediate pain in favor of... long-term pain and continued guilt. He sighs, inwardly.]
Do you fear losing their admiration? Disappointing them, somehow...? It'll no doubt be an unpleasant experience for you both... but in the long term, wouldn't they prefer to have a person close to them return, rather than idolize a stranger from a distance?
[Mettaton's last comment gets a slightly uncomfortable look, but neither agreement nor denial. It was true- but it was a terrible thing to recognize as true.]
Well... I hope you do tell them, when you're given the chance to.
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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.]
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[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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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[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.]
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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.]
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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]
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.]
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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?
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We survived barely, of course. Being spared at all was a mercy, no doubt. But that was millennia ago, darling. ... I can't say we have issues with killing each other, in the meantime. Even if we wanted to... We fight with magic, and we resist magic. It's the brutality humans are capable of that could kill us.
[As he speaks, his voice is at a low, intimate volume, sometimes veering breathless against all odds while he appreciates such an odd mix of thrill and security. Emet-Selch grows more and more familiar feeling as time passes, though he takes the time to simply appreciate the sensation of him so close. Overall, his Bonded is a very, very comfortable presence for him, even as they try to learn more about each other. If he takes a step back to think on it, the development surprises him.
Relax, though. He directs his attention more wholly upon the Ascian upon noticing his restlessness, remaining perfectly at ease. While his hands continue moving against his back, palms flat against skin with fingers trailing behind, so too does he try to relax him by spirit. Something of a reciprocal pull, closer to himself.
He doesn't provide any of this to soothe anyone, of course. It's just a matter of fact. His own opinion on it isn't much matter, either, since this is his condition, if not a few degrees removed by being so different otherwise.]
Here, though... I don't think our souls are quite the same. [A glance toward the wall, something Mettaton does when he's made uncomfortable by something.] There was... another monster kidnapped alongside us, besides me. Not a ghost. Not a robot.
[Ghosts: can't be killed, corporealizing: kind of ruins that, robot: provides durability, so he makes sure to specify that this is an average monster. Mettaton refocuses his gaze upon Emet-Selch, somber. Talking about this is difficult for him to do: every time he does, he's usually doing it to reassure, since it's always in talking to the victim himself. He's obliged to do what he can to lift his spirits.]
... They did not treat him with any kindness. We both stand out in this crowd, even full of Mirrorbound. He survived it all... And remains as affable as ever. So I guess our frailty isn't the case, here.
They were awful. That was the kind of sentiment that would gravely wound, or even kill us.
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But that was right; Mettaton had mentioned that monsters could only kill with unwavering intent. And while Emet-Selch had assumed that to be little obstacle, perhaps he'd misjudged them (could there possibly be another population in existence that was predisposed to kindness, other than his own people?). So with that, on top of natural defenses against the only danger readily available... he could see why they'd managed to not destroy themselves once isolated from the real threat: humanity.
Regardless of intent, he's soothed a little nonetheless by the broader press of Mettaton's hands, the way the idol's soul seemed to embrace him in turn.
But when the conversation turns towards their captivity, it was hard to miss the puca's reaction. The discomfiture is obvious. Mettaton rarely avoided gazing directly at something, from what he'd noticed. And Emet-Selch had wondered how the man had dealt with all they'd been through and witnessed. If he had dealt with it at all. As poorly as the Ascian had fared, as new as the sense of helplessness had been, the actual actions on the part of their captors had been no surprise. His view of humanity remained justifiably intact. But Mettaton seemed quite... innocent. And possibly from a society unused to cruelty. What mark had their experiences left on him? It wasn't as though Emet-Selch had ever known him beforehand.]
So here, you're rendered some physicality, despite yourselves....
[Leaning in, he brushes a kiss to Mettaton's cheek, before pressing the side of his face against his, for a moment. To reassure? Emet-Selch isn't sure. He's also not sure why he's possessed of the inclination to. Part of that... 'caring' thing, perhaps.]
Your friend is quite forgiving, then. [There's a note of approval there, actually. He also just assumes that they're friends.] And how technically fortunate that this world saw fit to render your kind a degree more durability. Considering all that you'll continue to face.
[Not a very optimistic statement. It's downright pessimistic, even. He sighs. If Mettaton's people had attained their freedom through an impossible lack of bloodshed, to live a life of peaceful coexistence with humanity (an even more impossible thought), how... cruel again to be dragged here instead. Where there was freedom, yes... but fear and violence alongside it.
...At least they had a reason to look forward to going home, he supposed. A thought that has his own melancholy deepen. Shaking his head slightly, he has another thought.]
But... you presumably can't leave your current form without dying, same as myself- so I wonder what would've happened if you had arrived without one. A ghost outside the machine... would you have been made corporeal? If I'd appeared without mortal flesh, I doubt they would've allowed me to remain imperceptible to nearly everyone.
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[Feel that unease. Mettaton frowns, hesitant.
It settles over him heavier than Emet-Selch's body upon him the very moment he suggests arriving without his body. He can't even imagine himself prior to it, in Aefenglom, around all of these humans and other beings. Mortifying. What would he even do here? He wouldn't even have the options to keep him occupied in his hopeless perseverance, and he doubts very much that he'd have any company. Even independent of this body, it concerns him to consider who he might be without Napstablook to keep him at his best. (How does the very thought alone bring him right back to that mindset? Feeling worthless. ...That's in the past now. There's no way any sort of multiverse-based selection system would choose him, anyway, no matter the reasons, whether they're significant or arbitrary.)
The regret he'd feel if he had to be in such a unique set of circumstances but without a form he could consider his own is immense. He feels smaller now, perhaps glad to also feel swallowed up by Emet-Selch in this moment.
He hopes Emet-Selch doesn't notice all of this displeasure, but he dreads that he does. He probably does. Definitely. They're only connected by soul, their Bond incredibly transparent. That's... why he Bonded with him. (There's the feeling of relief, here. Just a bit.)
Mettaton rejects the thought of being a ghost who was also corporeal without form. What would that even be like? Uncomfortable, is what.]
No.
[Not the exact phrasing he was meaning to give...]
I believe that's why, by some design, we're brought as we are. With our hosts. They might have to provide one, or something...
[That's a bit more relieving, the thought that there would be something... As implausible as this all is. Though he imagines it would not be a great body... Most bodies, in Mettaton's experience, aren't right for him, but his selection hasn't been great. Not even his incorporeal one was right, but he could make do with others.
In response to earlier reassurances that linger (helpfully), Mettaton turns his head to press closer to Emet-Selch's, his hands smoothing down to the Ascian's lower back. He's not even too disturbed by the thought of what "all" they'll continue to face that will make having durability worthwhile, even as he considers it privately.
The Rathmores changed him. Of course they did, even if he keeps it private; nobody who wasn't there would want to talk about that. Even among those who were there, few do. Emet-Selch forces him to rethink his views, too, whether he likes it or not. He doesn't like feeling blindsided by his own adoration, and though he doesn't feel he'd ever stop loving people and could never stop hoping for their best... it sobers someone to experience something like that, and then find themselves Bonded to a man he met in those oppressive walls. It's a minor falter in ideology, an unsettling one, but one he places more hope in yet. He could find appreciation for a greater understanding of people. He just needs time.]
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Emet-Selch still didn't see why. The problem had been incorporeality, surely. A practical issue, more than anything else. Was it just a matter of looking back on an unhappier time?]
You've asked whether I've modified this host to my choosing... but what of you?
[His soul shifts continuously around him, though not restless or agitated this time. It's more of a slow stroking, protective as it envelopes, as though trying to shut out the outside world entirely. His voice is the same, quiet and even, even though it wasn't as though they were in any threat of being overheard.]
How much do you share with your current appearances? What were you like, before your various forms were designed?
[The downside of gaining the Ascian's investment, is that he asks questions like these. Especially since it's actual interest, rather than idle curiosity. And while he wonders at the discomfiture, it's not enough to dissuade him.
Though he does continue to lean his head firmly against Mettaton's, unconsciously rubbing a little more against it. Emet-Selch didn't have too many reassuring instincts left to him, but what insufficient remnants remained were trying.
He's more than fine with not dragging up more memories of their torture; it was something he avoided considering anyway, with limited success. No, its effects manifested in other ways. It probably always would.]
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[legs are crucial.
His eye's closed. He realizes he's answered quite readily, all things considered, but he did it without much awareness for it. Maybe he was prepared to say that all along, given how curious he's been about Emet-Selch.
It helps, having such deep intimacy, low volume, and close proximity. It's terribly relaxing, and in this moment, Mettaton doesn't know how he'd gone along without. He sighs, this time by necessity so as to relax more heavily into his Bonded's care. Mettaton feels again like his hearing is restricted to this bed, the sound of Emet-Selch breathing, his voice by the side of his face, soft and calming. He has every note of his voice memorized like song, from the deepest sorrow he's expressed to his coldest ire when he'd earned it, and it's so easy to sink into.
He tries to figure out where to go from there. Emet-Selch has been forthcoming about himself, and not just on matters of his appearance. He has little else prepared to explain, though he has the wherewithal to recognize how odd this might sound to anyone who didn't know how much distress he was in, without the body he'd always envisioned himself with. Emet-Selch, on the other hand, possessed an original body, lost it, and became incorporeal. If he could use his experience, maybe he could explain it.]
... Where you lost your original body, I have always been incorporeal. That's why I could will myself into perception. Not that being perceived does much for an unremarkable presence. ... It was... Simple in form. Not humanoid. White, varying transparency, empty-eyed, indistinguishable. I guess. But it wasn't "me." Back then... I'd do anything for a form like this.
[He doesn't even have any other words for his own form, and the thought of describing it is awkward.]
Nobody who knew me recognizes me, as I am. That person who I was is a thing of the past. ... Maybe, you'll see my cousin in a memory of mine. Since Bonds are likely to do that. If you see them... I looked like them.
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Mentally, he reclassifies the 'ghosts' of Mettaton's world from 'spiritual remnants of previously living entities' to 'naturally occurring incorporeal entities.' Which was fair enough, he supposed; in retrospect, it had been something of an assumption to believe that what constituted a ghost would be the same across worlds.
And he's quiet for a time as he thinks on all of that, nuzzling slowly at the side of Mettaton's face. A form without much shape, basic, insubstantial. Possessing of little willpower, and immortal almost as an afterthought. A pitiful existence in all regards. And considering how vibrant Mettaton was as his current self- difficult for the Ascian to imagine. Was his exuberance making up for lost time, he wondered. Or a constant seeking of distraction to keep from reminiscing on what life had once been limited to.
The idea of disconnecting from the past, in particular from one's very self is an alien thought to him. Of course Mettaton was the same person that he was before; form was immaterial. His soul was, presumably, unaltered.]
...I shall let you know should I encounter them in a dream.
[And as he considers again how reticent Mettaton was about his ghost self in all ways, from history to appearance... Emet-Selch felt as though he could understand that bit more of why he'd chosen to Bond with someone who'd guessed at the basics. If the secret was out anyway, there was less of an image to uphold. If his past self was so anathema... no wonder he would do all he could to keep the information to the absolute minimum of people.]
Did you leave many behind, when you severed from your past? ['Was there anyone to miss you', he does not say. Apart from that cousin, perhaps, depending on the relationship they had.] Or was it more of an... easy break? [That was a kinder way to put it.]
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Ah...
[It doesn't matter how many there were who remembered him, because he left someone very important behind. He pulls on Emet-Selch's body even though they're already flush against each other, even though Emet-Selch is as close to his very soul without altogether fusing with it. He doesn't mind terribly that there weren't many to miss him, as much as the strength of being missed and missing in return.
He treats the proximity like a cure for his disquiet over these admissions, burying his face into Emet-Selch's hair. It helps: these tactile experiences are long desired, after all.]
... Only Bl- my cousin, I imagine. Maybe another. [Only one or two people, basically.] But that didn't make it easy.
[Difficult enough to dissuade him immediately upon hearing their voice not to continue on in the pursuit of his dreams of humanity, while keeping his attention even when they'd been granted freedom.
Here, in the now, Emet-Selch serves as company he can have as a blend of his entire experience. Something he never imagined he could have, and he grazes his fingertips along his sides against warm skin. The thought eases the lingering heartache that comes from splitting with someone.]
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Probably a continuation of what he'd already been doing, Emet-Selch decided, he probably had that instinct for a reason. Though they couldn't much press any closer, he tilts his head a little at feeling the face in his hair. His soul maintained its slow ministrations, as though it were a dark blanket to wrap him up in. This closeness- none of it could replace what had already been lost. But it was something. He hums very softly at the feeling of fingers running along his sides, the lightness of the sensation almost causing him to twitch, though not unpleasantly.
The feelings in themselves, of course, were far too familiar to Emet-Selch. Most anything on the sorrowful end of the negative spectrum was. So that much, at least, settles onto him quite comfortably, as though it had always been there, despite originating from someone else. Unlike positive feelings, which remained a source of great suspicion, something to recoil from, these he could accept very easily.
The only strange part was the awareness of his own affectionate reactions- a heavy and tinged with melancholy sort, but affection all the same. A desire to sooth. What a strange thing to feel in response to someone else's unhappiness.
Though he's a touch amused at the hiding of that name, he doesn't question it, assuming Mettaton had some reason to keep it to himself. The Ascian could understand the value of names.]
...'Tis not number, but closeness which matters in the end. And yet you still selected this path.
[There's no judgement there. Not even remotely. If anything, he's entirely sympathetic. Sometimes... you had to take decisions that removed you from others. Important others. Even though their circumstances and reasons were entirely different, Emet-Selch could recognize the feeling.
There was one thing he didn't understand, though.]
But if they already knew what you were... why was it necessary to hide from them once you'd obtained these forms of yours?
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He waits a moment, thinking it over. It takes Mettaton sorting through a number of excuses that don't actually pose the largest obstacle if questioned further, and questioning is something Emet-Selch is good at doing. He's not intending to lie — there's no reason, and Emet-Selch's companionship pulls Mettaton deeply into complacency, unguarded. But his other reasons aren't lies so much as not thorough enough. At the core of it all, there's always one thing left: guilt.]
Because... I told them I'd never leave them behind, for corporeality. But. Well. Here I am.
[There was no obstacle but his own feelings. He went against his word. Fame can go to one's head, and he took every opportunity to forget about what he'd left behind. It made it easier.
That goes unsaid, but the sentiment persists. It was easier to ignore it and leave it behind, to create an artificial distance between anyone who got close to him. All he needs are his fans, after all. Maybe that's not the case.]
The day I arrived here... I finally met them again, as my fan. Of course, I knew they'd like what I do. That they'd be a fan is no surprise to me. But it's strange. Meeting somebody you've always known... but they don't recognize you in the same way. They only know you in a removed sense. I'm their idol now, not their long lost family. I was going to tell them, and... I will. But I didn't. When they looked at me with such admiration, I...
[So he knew they were likely left in the darkest of mental spaces for years, but when he saw them in person, he couldn't bring himself to blur the lines between star and constant companion. What sort of reaction would that have elicited after he saw them excited for once? They would have been made upset all over again, he's sure.
Being transparent to Emet-Selch feels unusually natural. He can't place why, but it's something about his very being. He has his barbs, and the robot already knows he feels familiar, but his perceptiveness forces everything to lay out before both of them for appraisal. Feeling enclosed by the Ascian is so welcome that he can't even bring himself to think of what it feels like without the presence of his immense soul, darkness and all. From within that security, Mettaton latches on.]
I forgot... what I'd given up. How nice it is to have people close to me.
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What a terrible feeling. Understandable under the circumstances, but terrible nonetheless. And considering Mettaton's words... Emet-Selch isn't about to tell him that he shouldn't feel that way. If it wasn't quite a betrayal of his companions, it was quite unkind behavior. Selfish and cowardly- but tinged with desperation, he imagined. To desire everything that corporeality entailed, to the point of abandoning all else. It didn't strike him as an easy or even careless decision.
Or perhaps since he cared about him, Emet-Selch was willing to make more concessions for his behavior. Or because he could feel some of the weight of how his choices had settled on him. The Ascian had wondered what had lay beyond Mettaton's usual cheer and exuberance, and... all of this seemed to be an answer.
Turning his head, he rests his lips against the side of Mettaton's face, allowing them to linger there, as though distracted by his thoughts. But he eventually pushes himself up enough to observe his face, expression neutral, serious- even as his soul remains circling warmly around him, latching on in return.]
The benefit to immortality... is that it affords you time to reconnect.
[Even if Mettaton had abandoned them for some time without a trace... with patience, and considering there had been no malicious intent- he thought it was possible to be forgiven. But though the idol said he would tell them- Emet-Selch was skeptical. It'd be an easy thing to continue putting off, indefinitely. Avoiding the immediate pain in favor of... long-term pain and continued guilt. He sighs, inwardly.]
Do you fear losing their admiration? Disappointing them, somehow...? It'll no doubt be an unpleasant experience for you both... but in the long term, wouldn't they prefer to have a person close to them return, rather than idolize a stranger from a distance?
[Mettaton's last comment gets a slightly uncomfortable look, but neither agreement nor denial. It was true- but it was a terrible thing to recognize as true.]
Well... I hope you do tell them, when you're given the chance to.
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