[He's a little taken aback, soul and body stilling. It was a form of recognition that... he wasn't sure he'd ever received, and his emotions reflect this uncertainty.
None of those Warriors had said as much. And he didn't expect it- and when it came to regret over his death, Emet-Selch didn't want it. How cruel would it be for them to regret it now, after the fact, accomplishing nothing? A regret that wouldn't even be able to travel back with them. But had any of them ever expressed empathy for anything else? Would it have made a difference if they had? They respected him, he thought, and he could no longer deny that they cared about him either.
But it was one of those awkward things no one brought up. Or perhaps they felt nothing at all, being from the place impacted by the Ascians' work, knowing of the lives they'd taken, and the suffering they'd wrought. What was one person's grief in comparison to that?
It was the most unsympathetic view, so he assumed it to be correct.
...It shouldn't matter. It didn't matter, but he found himself holding onto Mettaton's words nonetheless.
And holding onto him in general, breathing in his nearness on all levels. Eyes closed, dwelling on the sensation of the kiss, the fingers in his hair, the hand on his back. He didn't feel held in place so much as just- held, doused in the mix of their feelings, giving himself over to both. But he settles further, if more heavily, away from the limited energy that anger brought. Digging in that bit more, with what strength he could manage, as though he could keep himself from falling entirely. Emet-Selch wasn't sure if he was sinking further into despair, or just... sinking in general. A slow drift downward was inevitable, he supposed.
But affection deepened. He hadn't thought it could deepen so far.]
...Fear was a large part of it. And misunderstanding. They believed that for all that Zodiark's new laws governing reality appeared immutable, that time would find flaws in them. That Hydaelyn would serve to bind Him, should His power run rampant. But outside of this....
[This was the bit Emet-Selch tended to avoid mentioning. The only reason the heroes knew was because someone else told them. And while it was entirely true that a small number of his people feared Zodiark, for no proven cause, ruining the world in their panic- this other aspect was slightly less sympathetic towards the Ascian cause.]
...Once our world was healed, and life began to take root upon it again, our Convocation decided that after enough of it had amassed, a portion would be given to Zodiark in order that He may restore those who had first fed His creation.
[A forced sacrifice of the younger races. Emet-Selch still sees nothing wrong with this; his people deserved the world more than anyone else.]
So Hydaelyn was created to preserve them. Borne in part of this desire, 'tis no wonder She chooses to protect them at all cost, even if it meant breaking the world to do so. Hiding the past and lying to them, all to make exacting our plan ever harder. So long as none are given to Zodiark, I suppose She cares not how many of them perish....
[His tone is almost reprimanding, but mostly low, disbelieving. Mettaton's steady warmth immediately cools over, and he further communicates this shift in a slowing of his actions.
So. Sacrificing seven human lives for freedom would have checked out as okay, in Mettaton's book. Sacrificing one to protect the rest? Also okay. Sacrificing seven to destroy them all isn't okay. But what about sacrificing half of a people to save a world, restoring a world to its former health, then... trading in that sacrifice for an equivalent found in another life? A life that no doubt had no say in this transaction, because they didn't even exist yet. That strikes him as rotten. Probably more of his Bonded's usual thinking, that his people are far more deserving of their own lives and world.
Both sides are so extreme in their designs. Mettaton's exasperation and disappointment are mounting steadily just thinking on it as he stares at the ceiling, unmoving. It makes a lot more sense, why Hydaelyn would be created by a group of Amaurotine who disagreed with this deal. Zodiark's laws governing reality hardly seem to compare to this willful disregard for another population.
For as much as Emet-Selch has neglected mentioning this so far, Mettaton doesn't feel lied to or misled. He already thought of this whole affair, of the Rejoinings and calamitous nature of Emet-Selch's actions, as being driven by Ascians who did not value mortal life, even if it's also driven by a desire for the restoration of their home. He's already had to live among a race of people who craved humanity's destruction out of grief and had to rationalize his own desire for their continued survival despite the prevailing sentiment. Nothing's simple. This is just a lot more complex than what he's accustomed to, especially in stakes.
Even though he's frosted over, Mettaton isn't totally detached. His fondness is not gone, but his disapproval over injustice guides his feelings.]
Did those who sacrificed their lives know of this angle. The condition to sacrifice another's life, decided upon by your Convocation. Did they consider their sacrifice one that would be later undone... at the cost of other life?
[His voice is too flat to have any questioning intonation. Nonetheless, he holds him close. The Amaurotine are kind, says Emet-Selch... and clearly, there were some who disagreed so strongly with this bargain that Hydaelyn came to be. He recalls the first time he heard of Emet-Selch's story, and the Ascian said they might be upset with him about his ambitions... Which might very well be true for this part, too. Was the Convocation simply full of Amaurotine like Emet-Selch, who devalued life other than their own?
He wonders if this is why his friends turned their backs on him.]
[The sudden cooling doesn't come as a surprise to him; there was a reason this was a detail he always neglected to mention. Emet-Selch makes a soft, humorless sort of sound against Mettaton's neck. Of course he wouldn't approve of this, considering how much he favored humanity in general.
No one took well to the idea of involuntary sacrifice.]
Changed your mind about sympathizing, have you?
[His voice is low, with a falsely idle lilt. His fingers still distractedly knead near Mettaton's shoulder, as though his hand needed something to occupy itself.]
But no. They did not.
[It's stated with more reluctance than anything previously said. And it almost seems as though Emet-Selch intends to leave it at that, the words hanging in the air- but he pushes on with effort.]
No, their lives were freely offered, with no hope nor expectation of revival.
[Does he know what they would've thought of what the survivors had become willing to do in order to save them? Or how they would've felt at the cost since- the millions of lives taken in order to just have the chance to sacrifice more to an awakened Zodiark?
Not that the sundered races were alive, but would they have seen it like that?
--It didn't matter. They would be revived, brethren and Zodiark both. The Ascian's voice and manner also chills, arrogance slipping back in, a dark sort of resolution.]
But do they not have more right to the world than any other? Were it not for their perfect offering, all of us and the star itself would have been lost. Do they not deserve to be rescued?
[Something that could not be done without cost. But despite the price, despite everything- Emet-Selch could not imagine ever taking another path. Even knowing it would end up like this, how--
So long as he lived, he would see to their return.]
[Mettaton continues to become annoyed, disappointed... But not angry, and no more cold. In fact, he takes to him again, submits to his clutches in soul, as cold as Emet-Selch's become. Mettaton even warms to him, easily. It's a fragile sort of lenience that comes from not knowing what is right in a situation so complex, when there's nothing in this situation to be found that isn't pitiful. Somebody suffers unfairly. Emet-Selch's people suffer by causes against their control. The sundered people would suffer by the designs of the Convocation, on their behalf. And, in the wake of the two, they all suffer for it anyway. None of the options feel any less awful than the others.
With such a strong connection to his Bonded and his ever-developing love for Emet-Selch and his love for his people, the desire for him to find peace and happiness, Mettaton can't even bring himself to take favor to any side. This is what it means to find all life worth his adoration, he supposes. It certainly makes matters complicated.
Emet-Selch's view on mortal life is frustrating, though. But with such lingering affection, it's hard to get mad at him when he's already known this.
Ultimately, the Puca sighs. Concedes, but not in any agreement. He rests his cheek atop his head and resumes combing through his hair with his fingers, slow and soft, and holds him close. His mood speaks to his doubt, his inability to come to any concrete decision on the matter. Maybe they deserve to be rescued, but nobody deserves to die in their place...
Emet-Selch has had to make many a troubling decision. It's enough to break someone. Though Mettaton feels for those who lost their lives, a significant part of his heartsickness is very clearly directed for his Bonded, in spite of it all.]
... They didn't deserve to die, but... Perhaps, in choosing to sacrifice themselves, they did it for all who thrive in their death. To revive them at the expense of unwilling life... Is to disregard their choice. How awful it would be, to come to after all that... to learn that your life was bought back by another unwitting soul's. I couldn't bear the thought.
[This isn't said lightly.
Nonetheless, the relief he feels at knowing that this wasn't the original plan is weirdly immense. It doesn't make Emet-Selch any less at fault, but his people weren't on board for such an exchange.]
We continue to value life differently! Unsurprising, that neither of us would budge. But. This is... vexing, to me. None of this is easy to think on... Surely, you can see that it challenges what I hold dear. I wish nobody had to die.
[It must be a lot easier to make choices if one views the sundered souls as nonliving. Bothersome. His sympathy remains fully intact, despite Emet-Selch's inability to see life other than his own people's as worthwhile. They're completely opposite in that regard, but the longer Mettaton stays in Aefenglom, the more he sees beauty in lives he never knew existed. When it comes to Emet-Selch's people, the only frame of reference he has for them is the man he's laying with; he regards his soul with delicate deliberation, closing his eye and rubbing his cheek against his head.]
My heart aches for you still. Because I also hold you dear. You, and all you desire. ...They're not exactly in agreement, are they.
[The Ascian's mood was volatile as ever, fragile, coldness giving way again to grief, guilt. His soul is slower to settle, shifting uneasily around him. But his attachment to Mettaton hadn't wavered, for all that he'd been frustrated- and it's that attachment that makes it possible for him to listen to his words. For all that he didn't want to hear them.]
Even so....
[As he suspected Mettaton was right, and it was an uncomfortable thing to know, to hear his people's likely sentiments echoed back at him by an outsider. Both in word and in accompanying feeling. That conflict and heartache and caring....
Their actions: they had been the decision of a desperate and traumatized population. In those moments after the disaster, when the skies had just begun to clear, and the weight of everything that had happened began to sink in- all of their loved ones that they would never see again--
Most of their people would've done anything to even pretend that things could go back to the way they were. To accept sacrificing all else just to maintain that deluded hope.
...And so, thousands of years removed from that original choice, the remaining members of the Convocation were still working to enact it.]
Even if they should come to despise us for it, how could we leave them?
[But they wouldn't hate, Emet-Selch thought, which was the problem. They would be hurt, which was far worse. To wake up in a world like that, with so many still dead?
He's quiet. Dwells on the affectionate gestures, the words. That Mettaton would take a more measured view of things than anyone else he knew....
It was difficult to express appreciation. It was strange to want to, considering that he wasn't being agreed with. But he wasn't being dismissed either, and even if it was due in part to Mettaton's favor towards him- it still counted.]
Nothing's ever straightforward, is it? Would that no one had died to start... but the universe cares naught for either of our wishes.
[Said with a quiet sigh. Shifting up slightly, Emet-Selch leans the side of his face against Mettaton's, needing to express some portion of his fondness, his recognition. He knew Mettaton's views on humanity hadn't changed, but he was trying to see the Ascian's perspective nonetheless.]
[The Ascian's plight over the Amaurotines, sacrificing and leaving them... It earns him a squeeze with his one arm, at best. Because there's no answer; they're both aware of the difficulty of the subject.
He has much to think on for himself, and Mettaton's tolerance for Emet-Selch's disregard for life wears on him. It wears on him in patience, sure, but it also wears on him in his own beliefs. Perhaps not in their worthiness for life (they are most certainly worthwhile!), but in other regards, the haunts of earlier conversation still nipping at him. His adoration for them, when they really do have the capacity to be so vicious. He doesn't want his views to be tainted like this. Unnerving.
The universe seems to see to it that people have their share of suffering, after all.
Taking to the affection readily, he presses into the Ascian in return. For as much as Emet-Selch troubles him and irritates him, there's no part of him that isn't drawn right back to him. Deeply, deeply fond of him, he can only smile at the feelings he harbors for Emet-Selch.]
You're cute. [A kiss against his head.] Thanking me for basic concern. Of course I'd care about your troubles, Hades-darling. I wish... my sentiment could do more.
[Who wouldn't feel strong consideration for his cause? It's basic compassion. It feels natural to him, to want to understand and to care about him.
The idol shifts his arms as though to scoop Emet-Selch closer to his body, the perfect sort of position he feels he could be in while pressed against him. Three rounds, maintaining such closeness by Bond, and then their usual troublesome discussions on life... It would be enough to cause anybody to tire somewhat, no matter what time of day it is.
All while he feels compelled to revisit an earlier curiosity. He smirks against his hair, even shifting eagerly in place with the recollection of something. Something a lot nicer to talk about in Mettaton's eyes, because he wanted to know.
He nuzzles his cheek against the Ascian, sighing at the feeling of his lover's closeness and wanting more to get closer. Pressing his fingers into his body and feeling the give of his figure is nice, something that lulls him into a sense of comfort with Emet-Selch's familiar body. Familiar, still baring all skin, still impossible for him to resist.]
What were your friends like, dear? I've been wanting to know. In temperament... in personality. [There's the memory of something, the haunts from an earlier conversation.] Or... Wait. Could it be? You said you attracted charming personalities such as myself, didn't you? That's right... Though it's not important what word you used specifically, I recall it was... "obnoxious." Haha. You deliberately miss the allure of our ways with words...
Were your friends the amiable sorts, drawn fatally to us as you are?
[It was more concern than anyone else would spare. That Mettaton didn't even see it as remarkable- Emet-Selch considered that this was probably part of why he'd come around to caring about him so much. Sure, sentiment didn't accomplish anything. Neither did anything else, and while it wasn't much comfort- at the moment, the Ascian would take whatever kindness the idol deemed basic. To not write off his people entirely because they happened to be dead and in the past.
Emet-Selch continues to settle. And was certainly amenable to being held closer, at being handled so casually, sparing an approving sort of hum in response, a barely audible murmur in his throat. No amount of closeness ever felt sufficient, but all that they had was still remarkably reassuring.
And the shift in topic is fine with Emet-Selch, and despite the annoyance in his tone, it doesn't seem deeply felt. A casual irritation that could stretch across time and space, and he sighs against Mettaton's face, shaking his head very slightly.]
Obnoxious is far more accurate. Honestly, you would think that on a wholly different star, I would manage to escape being set upon by your type....
[Long-suffering, even as he nestles back, without even the slightest inclination of interest in pulling away.]
But yes, they were both amiable, as you insufficiently put it. One of them in particular. Hythlodaeus. A deeply frustrating man, who knew not the value of quiet, nor in leaving me to my thoughts. Friendly, [As though that's a flaw.] teasing, completely undaunted by any response I threw at him. Irredeemably smug. Really, the only reason we were friends was because he gave me little choice in the matter.
[Though Hythlodaeus was entirely different from Mettaton otherwise, Emet-Selch could grudgingly recognize a certain familiarity in dynamic. ...Gods, he hoped this didn't mean he had A Type. What a cruel fate, if so, to be attached to such... extroverts.]
The other....
['Drawn fatally to'... that sure was a phrase.]
They weren't quite so terrible. More stubborn than smug, we tended to disagree on most things... but we could always see the other's point. [Until they couldn't.] Tiresomely optimistic, but they had a way of convincing you to their nonsense if you weren't careful. ...They had a very distinct soul.
[It's a more subdued description, melancholy over irritation.]
[Oh, he certainly appears to have A Type. Mettaton hums a note of satisfaction at Emet-Selch's descriptions, finding it unusually nice to hear about these people who have long since disappeared, but remain in his memory. Speaking of them with his usual irritation only makes it more endearing. He'll let him gripe about wishing to "escape" the extroverted and nonsensical all he likes, because that's the kind of personality he has.
The idol pushes his hand through more of his hair beyond just the back of his head, even if it means that he can't rest his cheek atop his head. He shifts his leg as a reminder of their tangled limbs, a reaffirmation of how close he can keep him.
This second person seems to elicit a special sort of reaction out of Emet-Selch, and Mettaton takes interest in the cast of his description. He runs it over in his mind, in search of something unsaid.]
You like them both, clearly. Yes. What a good fit for you. [Based on his annoyance, for sure.] They must have taken one look at you and decided... That they had exactly the qualities missing from your life. How thoughtful. You have good taste in company.
[... Even as they ended up finally turning their backs on him, he supposes. What he sees as a complicated issue now was their complicated reality then, no doubt making it even harder to see each other's point when lives and worlds and futures were at stake and unknown to all.
It's harder yet to remember that he lost both of these people. People who were supposed to last as long as Emet-Selch himself, but had their days cut short. ...Finally being forced to think on mortality and immortality, Mettaton acknowledges how sad it is when someone with a lifespan meets their eventual end. It was always coming: their lives are brilliant, potent, and even short lives could feel long and unending with enough story to follow. That's his take on ephemeral life, he realizes to himself, and he squeezes Emet-Selch. Maybe that's one of the reasons he loves humanity so much, with their obviously short lives. He'd like to live his life as vibrantly as he imagines they do, even if it's many of these lives.
But maybe it's a bit different after all. To imagine someone who shouldn't have an end meeting one anyway... Though it might feel endless, it feels like the world's been robbed of something. A steady presence suddenly lost.
It doesn't take long for Mettaton to complete processing the peculiar tone Emet-Selch held for the latter, unnamed friend. Optimistic, distinct, tiresome, stubborn, disagreed with but understood. His smile softens.]
Did something of a particular gravity... take place with your second friend? They must have held a special place in your heart. ...Unresolved feelings?
[At one point, not that long ago, this would've been a line of questioning that would've led to nothing other than defensiveness. Demands to know why it was any business of Mettaton's. A complete refusal to discuss it any further, perhaps accompanied by an icy agitation, depending on how invasive he decided to take the topic.
Feeling the tie of their legs, the press of their forms, the mingling of their souls and how open they'd already been with one another- holding back on this would've felt almost arbitrary. What were a few more deeply personal details between lovers?
Which didn't make any of this terribly easy though, but the Ascian's hesitation is more in working out his own thoughts, finding words for any of it, rather than from a reluctance to speak at all.]
Yes, they could tell I was missing a certain clamor in my life, that I had far too few frustrations. What thoughtfulness indeed.
[That part was easy, at least, an idle counter as Emet-Selch thinks, nuzzling absently at the side of Mettaton's face. Yes, a truly terrible type to get involved with, as he continues to demonstrate.]
But whatever lurid affair you're imagining will have to go unrealized. [As he makes assumptions about Mettaton's assumptions.] We were only friends. Close, yes, but that was all.
[And the Ascian seems to mean it, mostly; there's a tinge of regret there, but not denial. Though he does add, barely conscious of the sigh in his tone.]
It was a slower time, you realize. With our lifespans, there was no need to rush into anything.
[It was possible to avoid personal issues indefinitely, just how he liked it. That it meant they became permanently unresolved- well. That was probably to the best.]
[The sigh carried on his voice and that final admission causes Mettaton to feel light, imagining a slow simmer of fondness, a long time spent growing closer to somebody with an easiness that comes with the comfort of time. He's definitely decided it was romance, even if it was only the suggestion of it.
What it must have been like, to live among a people who would last forever. Honestly, the thought seems too calm for Mettaton's taste for excitement and novelty, but it has its sweetness. He nuzzles back, too aware of Emet-Selch's actions and finding them all the more endearing with each passing second, each piece of information he learns of him.
Mettaton has never felt this way about somebody before.]
Lurid affair... Oooh. You caught me, and my sensuous leanings. I have an eye for it. Hahaha...
[He hasn't felt this way, and he never imagined it being like this. How odd, that he was such a romantic but scarcely saw himself in the heat of it. All of it was relegated to fantasy, until he found his best friend in love, until he came to Aefenglom found yet more of it. Now...
Hm. Mira's in love with this man. This doesn't cause Mettaton a single moment's pause — he adapts so quickly to culture that Aefenglom's seems to encourage multiple partners, with its Bonding system that could be familial or friendly, but with a romantic slant. Besides, he views himself on a completely different level from all others. If he wants a piece of Emet-Selch, he has it, and he can give a special part of himself back. He could have as much as he'd like. Either way, he can't control how he feels, and he feels very strongly about this. He doesn't care to analyze this too hard, either way. He's content, wants more, has reached a point where he wouldn't give this up.
He communicates by Bond, this possessiveness, drawing him ever closer, firmer. He communicates it when he rubs his leg against the other man's, slowly, as he tightens his grip around him.]
It's not as though you're the only one who benefits, darling. From such a thoughtful arrangement. [That's the playful precursor to a genuine feeling, and Mettaton presses his face closer to his, his voice soft, airy even — the most equivalent of being on a sigh without it, because he's not even thinking of performative sighs, surprisingly.] I, for one... thoroughly enjoy your company. Your tempered surface belies such tumultuous depths... Yes. You draw me in. ...They must have found you fun to talk to, and insightful at that.
[What would Mettaton think of Amaurot, Emet-Selch wondered, sometimes. He also suspected it would be too static for him, too peaceful. Too contained and uniform, with their identical garb and restrained manners. Over time, would he be unhappy there? The thought left him a little somber, somehow.
But the concept of multiple partners or attachments doesn't strike him as something even remotely worthy of note. Mortals- and not even all of them, admittedly- sometimes had hangups in that regard, the Ascian knew, and assumed it had something to do with their limited minds being incapable of focusing on more than one thing at a time. Their limited souls only having enough space for one person. How... tragic.
No, Emet-Selch's hangups had to do with attachments at all. Forming them, acknowledging them, dealing with them afterward- the whole package.
Even now, there's the occasional impulse to pull away or retreat, either physically or emotionally. But it's just as immediately stifled by the maintained contact, contrarily soothed by each note of possessiveness. As though feeling contained made him less desirous of freedom. Or perhaps there was safety in it, if of an unfamiliar and frightening variety. He'd never been... this open with anyone before, and it unsettled and enticed him in equal amounts.
His defenses felt so battered as to be non-existent, and while they would reform out of necessity once they were apart (though to what shape, he wasn't sure), Emet-Selch had little choice but to feel everything their Bond would permit. It remained alarming. Something so strong and deep and positive. It was a dizzying thing to be lost in, and he struggles to endure it.
...There's no deliberation in the way he answers it. It was dark and unhappy- for what strong emotions existed outside of despair?- but no less deeply felt.]
Of course not... I would even go so far as to claim that you would be the primary beneficiary of such an arrangement. [Mettaton's voice lands on him so lightly, yet settles so far. His own is soft, as though not to disturb it.] Perhaps I'm performing a public service, by taking some measure of your attention. Limiting your damage.
[That answering possessiveness. The expectation of mutual claim, regardless of all others. And very fond, even in its weight. Head tilting, Emet-Selch presses firm kisses along Mettaton's cheek, down along his jaw. His leg rubs that small bit back. If all his feelings were at the surface, immediate and terrible, displays of affection like this were something he could still control.]
--Not that I can claim to remaining detached in your company. Did you draw out the same in your morose associates...?
[Though he laughs at first, an airy thing, at Emet-Selch's dramatic pronouncement of diverting Mettaton's attention to prevent the "damage" he leaves in his wake, he finds the suggestion that he needs to be diverted amusing. As though without his lover to focus his attentions on, all else would suffer for it. And he's okay with being that threat in need of public service, as his words hitch in his throat at the feeling of the Ascian's lips pressed against his cheek with pressure. These kisses cause him to jump a little, their deliberation and intensity sensual and pleasant, and Mettaton sensitive to it with how thoroughly he takes in the moments.
His meaning, his response to Mettaton's claim on him, is conveyed crystal clear, and Mettaton gives him a satisfied noise, offering him his jawline.]
If you mean... did I bring them excitement? Coax them into doing what they never thought they would? Bring them jarringly into the moment, with me? Absolutely.
[The thought of his cousin doing anything performative on their own accord? Impossible. Alphys, swamped in her own version of grief that only seemed to grow (for reasons he's still wrapping his mind around but no thanks), being encouraged to pursue status as the royal scientist? With self-esteem like hers, would she really have done as much without a little push? Encouraging people to live in the moment and to abandon their hang-ups, at least for the moment, is something he finds himself good at.
He's a professional distraction.]
Do what you can to keep me under control, then, sweetheart. Your tenacity's enviable... Though you could never subdue me enough to prevent me from exacting some damage.
And if I'm the primary beneficiary, the one to be distracted by you...
[And Mettaton quickly catches Emet-Selch in a greedy kiss by suddenly turning his head, leaning into him and humming with the energy like he couldn't resist the temptation. He gives off that feeling a lot, indulging in his desires for Emet-Selch entirely too often. He lingers against Emet-Selch's lips, feeling his warmth against him in the only way he can. Talk about a mutual possessiveness.]
I'm flattered... For such care to be taken to satisfy my inclinations. With your company, as you do. That you find something worthwhile in it... Would only be my expectation. What am I, if not engaging...?
[Imagining Mettaton being- surely- a right terror towards his unhappy Underground companions... is a bit amusing. So long as the Ascian isn't the one being menaced at, it's an entertaining thought; his poor friends, who would surely much prefer to just continue what they were doing in peace, being forced to... occasionally go outside or do something other than mold away in familiar solitude. Who would ever want to remain in the present....
But it was good that he'd had people who could tolerate his enthusiasm, Emet-Selch thought, bring him in a little, possibly. A completely unregulated Mettaton was even more exhausting as a prospect. And he could accept that having a balance in one's life was- satisfying, in its way, even when it frustrated.
And the Ascian would agree with the idol's capacity for being a distraction. Which... wasn't all bad of a thing either, he could more reluctantly accept. Especially here, where- well, the other option was contemplating futility in all its beautiful variations.]
If you were completely subdued... no, I can't imagine it. Mere mitigation will have to suffice.
[If being captured and tortured wasn't enough to bring him down, Emet-Selch doubted much of anything would be given the opportunity. Which was reassuring and annoying both- but would anything less mixed, less intense of a person have managed to arrest so much of his attention?
The kiss was both surprising and not, and Emet-Selch leans into it with an immediacy that does surprise him a little. His breath catches as it ends, as their lips remain close, Mettaton's words felt against them as much as heard.]
Your inclinations are quite excessive, aren't they. Insatiable.
[It's not even a question, and the Ascian pushes himself up slightly, in order to look at him properly. Frown disapprovingly down at him, even.]
Some of us are yet constrained by mortal form.
[Regarding him with a mix of exasperation and extremely grudging attraction. Even with the break of conversation- which had been draining in its own way- he was still tired. Encouraging Mettaton at all was undoubtedly a poor idea, which is... why Emet-Selch leans in to kiss him again, trailing his tongue along his lower lip before slipping between them.]
[Catch Mettaton grinning at that frown. He's right! He's excessive. And yet it's the one with his mortal form who would egg him on...
(Did anyone actually manage to constrain him, or did Mettaton just do whatever he wanted as soon as he got his body, stopped only by the barrier itself? He definitely did whatever he wanted and everyone, everyone, was along for the ride. Not just his companions. Mettaton doesn't even care to revisit this topic, but he'd clarify as much.)
An ascending noise of amusement escapes from his throat as his Bonded closes in on him despite everything, finding this moment to be all the more delectable for its... excessiveness. An indulgence that continues to taste like both of them, a sign that he's thoroughly had Emet-Selch; the full sensation of him once again has the robot humming softly into the kiss, captivated by his weight, his taste, his skin, and his very being. Mettaton's reciprocation suggests that he really would have more of him, though, as his hands wander down his back to grip at the Ascian's hips and tugs him more firmly against his body, bold and demanding. He sucks back on his tongue, presses up and into him as an expression of his boundless want, taking the kiss (and perhaps even demanding he give it) for as long as Emet-Selch has the mortal capacity for it.
The inevitability of breaking away from him exists, even if it's not by Mettaton's need. As soon as it does, Mettaton gives his hips a squeeze and grins again, his eye fixed and narrow, sharp, gold, and predatory for not only being a Puca, but also for being beneath his lover.]
Oh...? I didn't realize a mortal form was a constraint...
[Any breathlessness on Mettaton's part is psychologically induced, as usual, but he's clearly affected.]
It only means I could take you... until you couldn't walk. Oh yes... I am insatiable.
[It was a strange mix, of particular fatigue and desire. Of feeling both languid and alert, of wanting ever more of Mettaton, whatever the cost might be. To give as much of himself as he could, whatever the Ascian had left- along with the accompanying demand that it be taken.
His breathing is quick against his lips, when Emet-Selch is finally forced to withdraw from the kiss, though his teeth drag along Mettaton's lower lip in the process. A small demonstration at his frustration towards things like the necessity for air interrupting them. It felt like a renewal of experience, as though this wanting for one another lay only shallowly beneath the surface, needing only the slightest of efforts to emerge once again. Just a reminder of the way they tasted together was enough, and it took some restraint to keep from delving into another kiss immediately.]
'Tis a most unfair advantage you hold... for now.
[At least until his studies into transfiguration became more adept. Surely, surely that would balance things out. Somewhat.
But he interrupts himself with a small shiver, at just the thought of being rendered so thoroughly depleted that he could no longer move. That wasn't extravagance so much as absurdity. But even if he'd had the inclination- the tug at his hips, the way Mettaton kept him snugly pulled close- Emet-Selch wouldn't have been able to hide the way he was slowly responding to him. Though it's definitely more of a gradual filling this time, the feeling of his cock just starting to actively press against his lover's body has the Ascian take Mettaton's lip between his teeth again for a more deliberate bite, to try and stifle any sound he might already produce.
What a terrible man, to be so effective against him. Releasing his lip some moments later, Emet-Selch presses a short, messy kiss to them before continuing.]
But isn't that getting ambitious...? Even for you.
[The idol shudders with a sigh at the sensation of his lip being bitten with such intent in conjunction with the renewed presence of Emet-Selch's hardening arousal. But even as he kneads his fingers into his skin, he can't help but repeat him. One of his long ears, pressed against the bed as they are, flicks in interest.]
... For now...?
[It's said quietly, lightly, curiously, with the quirk of his eyebrow. Nothing demanding further commentary, given how easily Mettaton can move along once it's been spoken. As far as his body goes, being a machine, when wouldn't he have this advantage over Emet-Selch with regards to wrecking him? (When is he going to lose this advantage?)
It's not a concern of his, given what else he has to focus on laid out immediately before him. Mettaton excitedly shifts his leg against his cock to encourage him, exacting a number of greedy kisses as soon as Emet-Selch quits talking. Pressing into him with just his fingers becomes his full hands, palming him and gripping into his flesh with an edge of craving. He hums, both in satisfaction and in thought, before taking Emet-Selch in for one last firm kiss. Their connection by Bond, by soul, remains a pleasant presence, an acknowledged warmth that only serves to deepen what he feels of and for his Bonded.]
Well. It's hardly ambitious, for me. My battery's fine. Don't worry, Hades-darling. I don't need to stop. [How reassuring, that MTT doesn't need to stop.] No risk of overheating right now... I was built to move.
[Now that all of its movement-related flaws have been recognized and addressed. The ears manage to be nothing but helpful to mitigate overheating, too. Though with the changes he's undergone in his anatomy, Mettaton could see how he might find himself with disagreeable legs, as he has before. But he rather likes the sensation of them trembling, giving in just by Emet-Selch's ministrations. Even the thought has him squirming, a focus placed on the drag of his erection against his body.
Mettaton licks at Emet-Selch's lips and steals him up in a wet kiss, demanding the Ascian's continued closeness with the shift of his hips. Sure, if he'll allow him, Mettaton will eagerly take him a fourth time. Even a fifth time, he's sure, even though the notion dazes the Puca. The very thought has his consciousness abuzz with static. What would it do to this host of his lover's, to be brought to orgasm times in a row? Against his lips, Mettaton smirks.]
Hmm... I think. I could keep going until you couldn't see straight...
[Emet-Selch was naturally a low-energy type. On top of this, he had unnatural fatigue, which Mettaton was well aware of. Or at least told of. The Ascian wasn't sure if this sort of strain on his body would actually make things worse or not, or whether it would simply limit his overall endurance, but he wasn't particularly worried. Even if it did have an influence, he wouldn't have changed anything; the manifestation of closeness was too alluring. A more pleasant form of futility, to want to be filled by Mettaton's presence to no end.
If nothing else, Emet-Selch was accustomed to living under perpetual exhaustion. Though of a more emotional sort than this....
His body presses up into his hands, and down against his legs, breath giving out in a shuddered sort of sigh.]
I think... that I would become- far too sore. Long before that point.
[Even under normal circumstances, a normal partner, his cock would still end up quite raw from the repeated friction. Mettaton's form was somewhat less forgiving than that, which would surely wear on him sooner.
Though would it actually dissuade him? Emet-Selch was honestly unsure, and was becoming less sure the harder his cock became. Or would something else give out before then? Would he pass out entirely (by chance, due to overbonding, or from exhaustion)? Would he just- lose the ability to respond, or more likely, to climax?
...If he were less aroused, it would probably be less reassuring to hear that Mettaton wouldn't need to stop. They were both excessive sorts, perhaps.
It was a lot of half-formed thoughts, each one derailed by a shift of his own hips, the squirming on Mettaton's part. His lips slide over his lover's, slick from their combined work, to drift over to his jaw, and down his neck. Emet-Selch still couldn't mark him, but he could leave a damp trail along his throat regardless, sucking hard over each place he lingered. A soft moan remains trapped in his throat, the intimacy of their souls echoing the intimacy of their bodies. His hand strokes over Mettaton's upper chest, in a firm exploration across its surface.]
A... small sacrifice. ... Soreness? For more of me.
[It's such a strange feeling, finding himself unable to string together words in anything more than broken sentences. In any other context it would be frustrating, but here, it's captivation in a way he can only appreciate. Mettaton gives his neck gladly, his eye shuttering closed with the feeling of his kisses, the sensation of pressure that comes with each. His fingers drift down to the back of his upper thighs and he presses into his muscle hungrily, the curious quality of his touch making it so that his behavior could only be called feeling him up. When the Puca gives himself to tactile senses, he finds himself surprised by the way Emet-Selch's body feels atop him, each drag of fingers or press of body and how much it differs from his expectations, yet satisfies greater than his imagination.
What he really didn't expect was how much it would please him, to feel even overtaken in soul when he places such great focus on form. How could it be this thrilling, yet comfortable? Eye still closed and lips parted, he grips tighter, lets out a soft, pleasurable moan, drinking Emet-Selch in as he receives his touch, but there's much to focus on. His wet kisses to his neck, the slickness of each left behind, hand against his chest, the way he arches into his palms only to bring his hips down, the rub of his cock against his thigh...
Mettaton's very good at letting himself get lost in the pleasure of such sensory details. For all he grips into the backs of the Ascian's thighs, his body's otherwise succumbed. He stutters again, something like a sharp inhale without being so. One of his hands follows the curves of his body to rest in the center of his lower back, and he presses down.]
Hades... Bite. Use— Bite me.
[He sure did just slip a demand in, but he finds himself trembling at the thought. Mettaton realizes how much he wants to feel that now that he's said it aloud, and he subconsciously brings his thighs closer together, fixed on Emet-Selch's erection, its sensual hardness, the knowledge of what he can do to the other man.
His voice is breathy, the same quality of being able to disappear into the air despite the way he usually projects himself.]
I want you.
[His fingers roam toward Emet-Selch's inner thigh as he grips into flesh, cupping him firmly while his other hand continues to press him close.]
[A small sacrifice that seemed more insignificant by the minute. What was hypothetical discomfort in the face of all of this? A breathy sound of concurrence doesn't interrupt the Ascian's ministrations; he'd take as much of Mettaton as was offered. What sort of negative consequence could there be from such indulgence? Nothing important.
In most other contexts, being ordered to do much of anything would've grated on him, but in this, there's not even the thought of questioning it. He shudders. The sucking of the idol's throat turns into a sharp, hard bite, a grinding of teeth into false-skin- as though he could tear it open if he tried. It's certainly harder than what he'd risk on someone with a non-robotic body- though the Ascian isn't much thinking about that. It was a given that Mettaton could take anything Emet-Selch gave him- both soul and body, all of his emotions. He expected it. He trusted him.
There's some slight discomfort in his own jaw as he eases up on one bite, lapping over the area with his tongue between quick breaths. The fingers exploring the various parts of his thighs provide another heady distraction, his muscles twitching uncontrollably underneath them. Sensations which seemed to run directly to his cock, setting him to aching for want of more of him.
As though to distract himself from the distraction, Emet-Selch bites down again, closer towards Mettaton's shoulder, shuddering from the grip, the texture and taste of him in his mouth, ignoring the frustration of not being able to actually bruise him. His fingers dig into the idol's chest, as though seeking purchase there.
But the press of thighs around his erection has the Ascian gasp, a hissed inhalation, losing his grip on the bit of Mettaton between his teeth. And almost immediately bites again, harder, in the same location, with a brief, accompanying sound of annoyance- halfway to a growl. As though irritated by his own body's needs, interfering of his claiming of Mettaton through bite.
But he moans around his new grip, from the feeling of being cupped and held close, his very soul shivering around him, as though wrapping even closer than that. It's something of a damp bite, saliva pooling in his mouth despite occasional efforts to swallow it back- but Emet-Selch doesn't much care what he leaves behind as his teeth grind into him.]
[And that first bite sends a jolt coursing through Mettaton, clenching his teeth with a sharp hiss of his own. He curves his back against the mattress into his lover while he clutches him closer, offering yet more of his neck for the taking.]
Ahhh—!! Yes, yesss! Ha-Hades...!
[Each bite has Mettaton writhing, crying out, tensing, gripping into his thigh desperately, reaching for more unexplored skin that he can sink his fingers into. It hurts, but that strong sensation is like nothing else to the robot. He's wracked with shudders, each move on Emet-Selch's part earning another stuttering sound as though Mettaton's trying to make some kind of noise or say anything at all, but can't form them in to words.
He tries to move a leg and it jerks instead, tensing in ways beyond his control while his mind processes only the ecstasy he finds in pain, pleasure given to him by a lover. Emet-Selch's claim over him, but it's Mettaton's claim over pain. It dizzies him as he notices just how hard Emet-Selch's biting in to his neck, and he wouldn't have it any other way than to have him sinking his teeth into him as firmly as he can manage. It renders Mettaton into a gasping mess, a reaction to intensity more than anything.
Could they grow so close that they'd always feel each other, even while apart? That darkness of Emet-Selch's that feels like an indulgence, an odd embrace that still makes his entire world feel like it belongs to him and him alone, too easy to slip into. Every time he tries to focus on the pressure of his soul, it overwhelms, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He sighs a note of affection, paying mind to the way his Bonded grips onto his chest plate with a tinge of fondness.
His fingers stroke firmly against his inner thigh, idly appreciating the twitches of muscle, flirting dangerously north inch by curious inch, yet never neglecting to dig into him, desirous. His other hand shifts from his lower back, gripping down on his ass with the sensuous intent to pull him close. As ever, the presence of his arousal, framed gently between the muscle of his thighs, continues to fascinate as he twitches and pushes into him, a heady, delirious thrill accompanying it all.
He wonders if it's these forays into the depths of passion that make it so that each time, he comes out loving him more deeply than before. Mettaton bites down on his lip, stifling another moan in his throat, wishing he could bury his face against the Ascian's neck. His need for him at his neck outweighs this desire, however.]
D... Don't stop...!
[Receiving pleasure of such intensity and having it stripped from him? He can't imagine it. Only these heights of sensation would do.]
[It's only his grip on Mettaton's neck that keeps him from crying out in turn, and though it takes considerable effort to not let go, the desire to keep holding onto him outweighed all else. But an intensifying shudder courses through his body at each reaction on his lover's part- each writhe, each sound, each time he clutched at him.
There's still sound, stifled into the bite, poorly muffled and ragged. When he can bite no harder, he grinds into him instead, the sort of thing that would leave deep, angry bruises on a normal form. And when he briefly lets go in order to pick a new location, the Ascian is panting, enjoying even the ache in his jaw. But more than anything, enjoying the strength of Mettaton's response, the way he could feel every shudder as though it were his own, how seemingly uncontrolled he could render him. And how much more of him he wanted to see like this- wracked with sensation. To give him as much of himself as he was taking in turn.
...How fond Emet-Selch was of him struck the Ascian then. A weighty feeling.
Still dizzied by it, he presses on, moving to the other side of Mettaton's neck for another bite, no lighter than before. No less insistent, as though he could leave some impression, some indentation on him if he only tried hard enough. As though he could hold him in place, restrain him through jaws and force of will. The more Mettaton responded, the more he snapped down, more than a trace animalistic- though it wasn't as if he could damage, much less tear a piece of him off. But the intent, the desire to possess was in evidence. To take some part of him with him.
The need of his cock was almost a backdrop, though one that spurred on the rest of his desires. His hips jerk against Mettaton's thighs, unsteady, distracted by bites. Distracted as well by the investigations of Mettaton's hands, twitching in place from the feeling, as though torn between pressing up into the contact, or continuing to seek out more friction for his cock.
The grip on his ass, pushing him closer seems to encourage the latter, and he moans against Mettaton's neck, overwhelmed by it all. The stiffness of his arousal pressed between slightly-yielding thighs, the rapidity of his pulse, the determined drag of his teeth into him. Any element on its own would have arrested his attention, but altogether have him pressing closer, pushing Mettaton back against the mattress, wanting every scrap of contact he could claim.]
[The other side of his neck is both given and taken, really. The Puca bites at his own lip again in pain/pleasure at the renewed mouthful Emet-Selch has taken of his neck, and he can feel each place he's bitten burning against the air, both in pain and the wetness left behind, invisible to the eye but not to Mettaton's sensitivity. For more of anything he can give, he'll move however Emet-Selch dictates. It's as though they've made a trade: Emet-Selch gives him the pleasure he seeks, and Mettaton will perform in any way he could ask.
Both of his hands readjust their grip on him frantically in response to being pushed full-force against the bed, harder and needier than before. His fingers stroke his thigh while he continues to palm him with his other hand, fingers prodding the supple flesh. He can hardly stand the feeling of his thrusts, suddenly feeling himself slamming against that wall of unfulfilled need with full force. If the Ascian were to move like that, if Mettaton weren't limited by the design of his own anatomy... The idol moans at his own obscene cravings, the longing for Emet-Selch to have more access to his body intensified. All he can do is shift helplessly beneath him, his own hips rocking against his Bonded's with unrealized desire as even the rest of him is made to squirm in his heat.
Hearing Emet-Selch moan against his neck fuels that endless feedback between the two. For while the other man thrives off of Mettaton's responses, the robot feeds off of his in turn, needing it desperately to reach any mark of fulfillment that he can never quite reach. He whines against the sheer pleasure of his teeth grinding into his neck, trembling hard enough for his hands to shake, his coordination shot, unable to open his eye for as overwhelmed as he is.
He's positively drowning in his Bonded, right down to being swallowed up in a soul so immense that it could daunt. But he takes his own claim on him, shifts to surround some of his being in return with his own fragile potency, to surround him in turn. The Bond they created with each other is entirely too precious to him, Mettaton acknowledges; in this abstract way, he clings to him, both for stability and to join him in his own undoing. Without really considering it, each thrust of Emet-Selch's is met with a gasp from Mettaton as he starts to slip into a mode of fantasy, blending the eroticism of feeling his hard cock pressing into him with the blinding pleasure each rough bite to his throat brings him. A cocktail like that lets his fancies get away from him, makes it so that his noises go unchecked.
Whose feelings of fondness are these, anyway? The idol easily accepts that they're his own, that all of these feelings belong to him. The lust, the possessiveness, the attraction, the affection, the ache for more, but the intense gratification only Emet-Selch could bring him. Yet the absolute love he feels is so intense...
He stutters around syllables he can't speak. Something about loving him, surely. Does he have to say it when he's so transparent?]
[Deeper, lingering bites finally give way to smaller, more pointed ones. Repeated drags of neck between his front teeth, for a sharper, more pinched sensation, in comparison to the heavier grinding of before. And though briefer, teeth scraping roughly over his throat with each attempt, there's more of them, each more desperate than the last. Each failing to contain the struggles of his breath, the low sounds that accompanied many of his exhalations.
That Mettaton would seek to contain his soul as well, surround his mass with its fragile self- it was absurd and endearing both. Something that has the Ascian's soul contracting, densifying itself as much as it could, to make it easier for more of it to be surrounded by him. The sensation was unusual, but- comforting, in a way.
Emet-Selch is finally forced to let go of his throat again in order to breathe properly, in desperate, hard pants. And echoed by still-harder thrusts, dragging his cock between Mettaton's thighs, shoving him back into the bed with each motion. Their cries were as tangled as their souls, their sentiments, everything blurred and reflected, made stronger through mirrored desire. How much more of him he wanted to take, but this was all he could reach--
His movements falter, through no intention of his own, even as his need sharpens, absolutely aching for completion. What energy the Ascian had regained in their pause was being recklessly depleted, and as painfully aroused as he was, it was difficult to to bite and rub himself that last bit of the way there.
A whine in his throat, he nips at Mettaton's throat again- not as hard as before, but still roughly, teeth dragging over the surface before snapping together with a shudder. He tries again to hold on, jerking against him, clinging to his body. Trying to let go simultaneously, to drown himself fully in the feeling of Mettaton's hands clutching at him, the incoherency of his voice which required no translation. In his own sounds- wordless entirely, but no less heartfelt, attachment shivers through him with just as much force and need as physical pleasure. The latter was just an expression of the former, really... the wantings all tied together. There was grief again, but that was alright; that just meant that he loved him, surely?
What a mess he felt. And what a mess he was making of Mettaton's thighs, repeatedly using them like this. But just the thought of it has Emet-Selch moaning louder, the evidence of his continual lust for him left on his body, the scent of it as well. Every sense was accounted for, every one suffused with Mettaton's presence.
Snapping down: it's another hard bite, as deep as the first, at the crook of the idol's neck. Unconsciously Emet-Selch grinds down on him, as much as he grinds his cock against Mettaton's legs. Altogether it's enough; with a sense of tremendous effort, climax finally courses through the Ascian, body shaking as he collapses gracelessly on top of Mettaton, even before the initial wave of relief had passed. Half-conscious, that hold on his lover's neck is the last thing to relax, though he's unable to move his face from its damp surface afterward, his breathing as unsteady as his body.
Every thought outside of this moment was lost; he trembles, as though trying to cling to the one thing left in the world, but lacking the strength to do so.]
[Each of his thrusts pull a stutter from him, each drag of teeth a whine, and for as much as Mettaton could continue dedicating his focus to fantasy, he finds himself being yanked intensely into the moment. It's their wants and feelings, each noise Emet-Selch makes, and every change in his behavior that Mettaton focuses on beyond the sheer pleasure he suffocates in, and it occurs to him despite his hunger for attaining more of his body, he just wants to hold him. Both to keep him close, and to let himself go. But he doesn't even have the focus to move his hands away, nor is it as though it doesn't make him moan in his throat just to allow his hands to roam in such intimate areas. Mettaton just happens to want a lot of things, conflicting things that he doesn't have enough hands for.
That final bite has the robotic Puca crying out on a voice as clear as ever, loud, pleasured. To be feeling things so openly between the two... He can feel what Emet-Selch's pleasure is compared to his own because it feels different (and that difference is enticing, desirable enough to hang onto), but at the same time, he can't precisely tell where his begins in relation to the other man's. Does it matter, when it all feels good?
He's dazed enough that he scarcely notices that Emet-Selch's edging on climax until it's too late, and Mettaton yelps at the sensation. It's a noise that evolves into a groan and he grips harder, pulls him closer, even though Mettaton all but sinks into the mattress with their combined weights.
Mettaton kisses the top of his head in haste, over and over for some kind of expression of his own while he continues to shudder with longing, shifting his legs, even as Emet-Selch's collapsed into him. His arms finally move, wrapping frantically around his body with the same energy one seeking climax of his own might have. But as soon as he clings onto him, Mettaton takes a deep breath into Emet-Selch's hair, trying to still himself. It's hard to tell who's shaking, since they both are.]
H-Hades...
[The only thing he can manage to say, and he's thankful that it's his name that he gets to say. He holds tight, an arm around his lover's waist with the other pressed along the length of his back so that his fingers curve around his neck. More kisses, longer and softer as he continues to shiver.]
[Every sound Mettaton made felt etched into not only his memory, but his very aether, the Ascian's soul shuddering from their combined pleasure. The thought of the experience burning itself into him keeps him conscious, if only just. The warmth and tightness of arms also served to keep the creeping darkness at bay, almost fearing the concept of sleep. As though if he lost track of it, this surreal, impossible moment would disappear. Either he'd forget, or Mettaton would, or none of it would have existed in the first place. It wasn't something he could've put into words, but he was afraid of it all the same.
Being held so close keeps the Ascian trembling- or was it just a sign of continued exhaustion? Reassurance and comfort and care were all things that settled on him heavily, unnaturally, and he wondered if the experience would ever stop feeling so raw, and unbelievable.
Slowly, Emet-Selch slides partially off of Mettaton's body to his side, purely to make it easier to wrap an arm around him in turn, needing to hold him nearly as much as he needed to be held. Pulling him back against his chest, he was unwilling to give up any amount of contact between them.
It didn't feel- normal, to be this exposed, as if every emotion was available to be experienced by the both of them, without filter. It surely wasn't normal, and probably not recommended. But the immediacy and intensity of it all was addictive: it was hard to imagine managing without. As though he'd given up so much of himself that, once parted, there wouldn't be enough to sustain what was left.
But he wasn't worried. The Ascian wasn't thinking about it either. His perpetual loss and sorrow had settled in, but that was only natural for something so strong. His own grip around Mettaton's tightens- insofar as he can manage, and with no less need than he'd possessed at the height of passion. His lips repeatedly press to his throat, echoing the kisses Mettaton was leaving at the top of his head. An overpouring of affection that he didn't know what to do with, or how else to express.
...It hadn't been that long ago that Emet-Selch wouldn't have recognized it as affection at all. But at this point, with something so evident- it seemed pointless to try and deny it. Even if he didn't have the words for it; any that tried to form in response became caught in his throat, swallowed back.
But the idol's neck wasn't enough; shifting his head up, Emet-Selch lets his lips stumble their way towards Mettaton's, pressing into his with a small, relieved sort of sound.]
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None of those Warriors had said as much. And he didn't expect it- and when it came to regret over his death, Emet-Selch didn't want it. How cruel would it be for them to regret it now, after the fact, accomplishing nothing? A regret that wouldn't even be able to travel back with them. But had any of them ever expressed empathy for anything else? Would it have made a difference if they had? They respected him, he thought, and he could no longer deny that they cared about him either.
But it was one of those awkward things no one brought up. Or perhaps they felt nothing at all, being from the place impacted by the Ascians' work, knowing of the lives they'd taken, and the suffering they'd wrought. What was one person's grief in comparison to that?
It was the most unsympathetic view, so he assumed it to be correct.
...It shouldn't matter. It didn't matter, but he found himself holding onto Mettaton's words nonetheless.
And holding onto him in general, breathing in his nearness on all levels. Eyes closed, dwelling on the sensation of the kiss, the fingers in his hair, the hand on his back. He didn't feel held in place so much as just- held, doused in the mix of their feelings, giving himself over to both. But he settles further, if more heavily, away from the limited energy that anger brought. Digging in that bit more, with what strength he could manage, as though he could keep himself from falling entirely. Emet-Selch wasn't sure if he was sinking further into despair, or just... sinking in general. A slow drift downward was inevitable, he supposed.
But affection deepened. He hadn't thought it could deepen so far.]
...Fear was a large part of it. And misunderstanding. They believed that for all that Zodiark's new laws governing reality appeared immutable, that time would find flaws in them. That Hydaelyn would serve to bind Him, should His power run rampant. But outside of this....
[This was the bit Emet-Selch tended to avoid mentioning. The only reason the heroes knew was because someone else told them. And while it was entirely true that a small number of his people feared Zodiark, for no proven cause, ruining the world in their panic- this other aspect was slightly less sympathetic towards the Ascian cause.]
...Once our world was healed, and life began to take root upon it again, our Convocation decided that after enough of it had amassed, a portion would be given to Zodiark in order that He may restore those who had first fed His creation.
[A forced sacrifice of the younger races. Emet-Selch still sees nothing wrong with this; his people deserved the world more than anyone else.]
So Hydaelyn was created to preserve them. Borne in part of this desire, 'tis no wonder She chooses to protect them at all cost, even if it meant breaking the world to do so. Hiding the past and lying to them, all to make exacting our plan ever harder. So long as none are given to Zodiark, I suppose She cares not how many of them perish....
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[His tone is almost reprimanding, but mostly low, disbelieving. Mettaton's steady warmth immediately cools over, and he further communicates this shift in a slowing of his actions.
So. Sacrificing seven human lives for freedom would have checked out as okay, in Mettaton's book. Sacrificing one to protect the rest? Also okay. Sacrificing seven to destroy them all isn't okay. But what about sacrificing half of a people to save a world, restoring a world to its former health, then... trading in that sacrifice for an equivalent found in another life? A life that no doubt had no say in this transaction, because they didn't even exist yet. That strikes him as rotten. Probably more of his Bonded's usual thinking, that his people are far more deserving of their own lives and world.
Both sides are so extreme in their designs. Mettaton's exasperation and disappointment are mounting steadily just thinking on it as he stares at the ceiling, unmoving. It makes a lot more sense, why Hydaelyn would be created by a group of Amaurotine who disagreed with this deal. Zodiark's laws governing reality hardly seem to compare to this willful disregard for another population.
For as much as Emet-Selch has neglected mentioning this so far, Mettaton doesn't feel lied to or misled. He already thought of this whole affair, of the Rejoinings and calamitous nature of Emet-Selch's actions, as being driven by Ascians who did not value mortal life, even if it's also driven by a desire for the restoration of their home. He's already had to live among a race of people who craved humanity's destruction out of grief and had to rationalize his own desire for their continued survival despite the prevailing sentiment. Nothing's simple. This is just a lot more complex than what he's accustomed to, especially in stakes.
Even though he's frosted over, Mettaton isn't totally detached. His fondness is not gone, but his disapproval over injustice guides his feelings.]
Did those who sacrificed their lives know of this angle. The condition to sacrifice another's life, decided upon by your Convocation. Did they consider their sacrifice one that would be later undone... at the cost of other life?
[His voice is too flat to have any questioning intonation. Nonetheless, he holds him close. The Amaurotine are kind, says Emet-Selch... and clearly, there were some who disagreed so strongly with this bargain that Hydaelyn came to be. He recalls the first time he heard of Emet-Selch's story, and the Ascian said they might be upset with him about his ambitions... Which might very well be true for this part, too. Was the Convocation simply full of Amaurotine like Emet-Selch, who devalued life other than their own?
He wonders if this is why his friends turned their backs on him.]
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No one took well to the idea of involuntary sacrifice.]
Changed your mind about sympathizing, have you?
[His voice is low, with a falsely idle lilt. His fingers still distractedly knead near Mettaton's shoulder, as though his hand needed something to occupy itself.]
But no. They did not.
[It's stated with more reluctance than anything previously said. And it almost seems as though Emet-Selch intends to leave it at that, the words hanging in the air- but he pushes on with effort.]
No, their lives were freely offered, with no hope nor expectation of revival.
[Does he know what they would've thought of what the survivors had become willing to do in order to save them? Or how they would've felt at the cost since- the millions of lives taken in order to just have the chance to sacrifice more to an awakened Zodiark?
Not that the sundered races were alive, but would they have seen it like that?
--It didn't matter. They would be revived, brethren and Zodiark both. The Ascian's voice and manner also chills, arrogance slipping back in, a dark sort of resolution.]
But do they not have more right to the world than any other? Were it not for their perfect offering, all of us and the star itself would have been lost. Do they not deserve to be rescued?
[Something that could not be done without cost. But despite the price, despite everything- Emet-Selch could not imagine ever taking another path. Even knowing it would end up like this, how--
So long as he lived, he would see to their return.]
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With such a strong connection to his Bonded and his ever-developing love for Emet-Selch and his love for his people, the desire for him to find peace and happiness, Mettaton can't even bring himself to take favor to any side. This is what it means to find all life worth his adoration, he supposes. It certainly makes matters complicated.
Emet-Selch's view on mortal life is frustrating, though. But with such lingering affection, it's hard to get mad at him when he's already known this.
Ultimately, the Puca sighs. Concedes, but not in any agreement. He rests his cheek atop his head and resumes combing through his hair with his fingers, slow and soft, and holds him close. His mood speaks to his doubt, his inability to come to any concrete decision on the matter. Maybe they deserve to be rescued, but nobody deserves to die in their place...
Emet-Selch has had to make many a troubling decision. It's enough to break someone. Though Mettaton feels for those who lost their lives, a significant part of his heartsickness is very clearly directed for his Bonded, in spite of it all.]
... They didn't deserve to die, but... Perhaps, in choosing to sacrifice themselves, they did it for all who thrive in their death. To revive them at the expense of unwilling life... Is to disregard their choice. How awful it would be, to come to after all that... to learn that your life was bought back by another unwitting soul's. I couldn't bear the thought.
[This isn't said lightly.
Nonetheless, the relief he feels at knowing that this wasn't the original plan is weirdly immense. It doesn't make Emet-Selch any less at fault, but his people weren't on board for such an exchange.]
We continue to value life differently! Unsurprising, that neither of us would budge. But. This is... vexing, to me. None of this is easy to think on... Surely, you can see that it challenges what I hold dear. I wish nobody had to die.
[It must be a lot easier to make choices if one views the sundered souls as nonliving. Bothersome. His sympathy remains fully intact, despite Emet-Selch's inability to see life other than his own people's as worthwhile. They're completely opposite in that regard, but the longer Mettaton stays in Aefenglom, the more he sees beauty in lives he never knew existed. When it comes to Emet-Selch's people, the only frame of reference he has for them is the man he's laying with; he regards his soul with delicate deliberation, closing his eye and rubbing his cheek against his head.]
My heart aches for you still. Because I also hold you dear. You, and all you desire. ...They're not exactly in agreement, are they.
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Even so....
[As he suspected Mettaton was right, and it was an uncomfortable thing to know, to hear his people's likely sentiments echoed back at him by an outsider. Both in word and in accompanying feeling. That conflict and heartache and caring....
Their actions: they had been the decision of a desperate and traumatized population. In those moments after the disaster, when the skies had just begun to clear, and the weight of everything that had happened began to sink in- all of their loved ones that they would never see again--
Most of their people would've done anything to even pretend that things could go back to the way they were. To accept sacrificing all else just to maintain that deluded hope.
...And so, thousands of years removed from that original choice, the remaining members of the Convocation were still working to enact it.]
Even if they should come to despise us for it, how could we leave them?
[But they wouldn't hate, Emet-Selch thought, which was the problem. They would be hurt, which was far worse. To wake up in a world like that, with so many still dead?
He's quiet. Dwells on the affectionate gestures, the words. That Mettaton would take a more measured view of things than anyone else he knew....
It was difficult to express appreciation. It was strange to want to, considering that he wasn't being agreed with. But he wasn't being dismissed either, and even if it was due in part to Mettaton's favor towards him- it still counted.]
Nothing's ever straightforward, is it? Would that no one had died to start... but the universe cares naught for either of our wishes.
[Said with a quiet sigh. Shifting up slightly, Emet-Selch leans the side of his face against Mettaton's, needing to express some portion of his fondness, his recognition. He knew Mettaton's views on humanity hadn't changed, but he was trying to see the Ascian's perspective nonetheless.]
...Still. Thank you for considering us at all.
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He has much to think on for himself, and Mettaton's tolerance for Emet-Selch's disregard for life wears on him. It wears on him in patience, sure, but it also wears on him in his own beliefs. Perhaps not in their worthiness for life (they are most certainly worthwhile!), but in other regards, the haunts of earlier conversation still nipping at him. His adoration for them, when they really do have the capacity to be so vicious. He doesn't want his views to be tainted like this. Unnerving.
The universe seems to see to it that people have their share of suffering, after all.
Taking to the affection readily, he presses into the Ascian in return. For as much as Emet-Selch troubles him and irritates him, there's no part of him that isn't drawn right back to him. Deeply, deeply fond of him, he can only smile at the feelings he harbors for Emet-Selch.]
You're cute. [A kiss against his head.] Thanking me for basic concern. Of course I'd care about your troubles, Hades-darling. I wish... my sentiment could do more.
[Who wouldn't feel strong consideration for his cause? It's basic compassion. It feels natural to him, to want to understand and to care about him.
The idol shifts his arms as though to scoop Emet-Selch closer to his body, the perfect sort of position he feels he could be in while pressed against him. Three rounds, maintaining such closeness by Bond, and then their usual troublesome discussions on life... It would be enough to cause anybody to tire somewhat, no matter what time of day it is.
All while he feels compelled to revisit an earlier curiosity. He smirks against his hair, even shifting eagerly in place with the recollection of something. Something a lot nicer to talk about in Mettaton's eyes, because he wanted to know.
He nuzzles his cheek against the Ascian, sighing at the feeling of his lover's closeness and wanting more to get closer. Pressing his fingers into his body and feeling the give of his figure is nice, something that lulls him into a sense of comfort with Emet-Selch's familiar body. Familiar, still baring all skin, still impossible for him to resist.]
What were your friends like, dear? I've been wanting to know. In temperament... in personality. [There's the memory of something, the haunts from an earlier conversation.] Or... Wait. Could it be? You said you attracted charming personalities such as myself, didn't you? That's right... Though it's not important what word you used specifically, I recall it was... "obnoxious." Haha. You deliberately miss the allure of our ways with words...
Were your friends the amiable sorts, drawn fatally to us as you are?
[Not what Emet-Selch said, but okay, Mettaton.]
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Emet-Selch continues to settle. And was certainly amenable to being held closer, at being handled so casually, sparing an approving sort of hum in response, a barely audible murmur in his throat. No amount of closeness ever felt sufficient, but all that they had was still remarkably reassuring.
And the shift in topic is fine with Emet-Selch, and despite the annoyance in his tone, it doesn't seem deeply felt. A casual irritation that could stretch across time and space, and he sighs against Mettaton's face, shaking his head very slightly.]
Obnoxious is far more accurate. Honestly, you would think that on a wholly different star, I would manage to escape being set upon by your type....
[Long-suffering, even as he nestles back, without even the slightest inclination of interest in pulling away.]
But yes, they were both amiable, as you insufficiently put it. One of them in particular. Hythlodaeus. A deeply frustrating man, who knew not the value of quiet, nor in leaving me to my thoughts. Friendly, [As though that's a flaw.] teasing, completely undaunted by any response I threw at him. Irredeemably smug. Really, the only reason we were friends was because he gave me little choice in the matter.
[Though Hythlodaeus was entirely different from Mettaton otherwise, Emet-Selch could grudgingly recognize a certain familiarity in dynamic. ...Gods, he hoped this didn't mean he had A Type. What a cruel fate, if so, to be attached to such... extroverts.]
The other....
['Drawn fatally to'... that sure was a phrase.]
They weren't quite so terrible. More stubborn than smug, we tended to disagree on most things... but we could always see the other's point. [Until they couldn't.] Tiresomely optimistic, but they had a way of convincing you to their nonsense if you weren't careful. ...They had a very distinct soul.
[It's a more subdued description, melancholy over irritation.]
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The idol pushes his hand through more of his hair beyond just the back of his head, even if it means that he can't rest his cheek atop his head. He shifts his leg as a reminder of their tangled limbs, a reaffirmation of how close he can keep him.
This second person seems to elicit a special sort of reaction out of Emet-Selch, and Mettaton takes interest in the cast of his description. He runs it over in his mind, in search of something unsaid.]
You like them both, clearly. Yes. What a good fit for you. [Based on his annoyance, for sure.] They must have taken one look at you and decided... That they had exactly the qualities missing from your life. How thoughtful. You have good taste in company.
[... Even as they ended up finally turning their backs on him, he supposes. What he sees as a complicated issue now was their complicated reality then, no doubt making it even harder to see each other's point when lives and worlds and futures were at stake and unknown to all.
It's harder yet to remember that he lost both of these people. People who were supposed to last as long as Emet-Selch himself, but had their days cut short. ...Finally being forced to think on mortality and immortality, Mettaton acknowledges how sad it is when someone with a lifespan meets their eventual end. It was always coming: their lives are brilliant, potent, and even short lives could feel long and unending with enough story to follow. That's his take on ephemeral life, he realizes to himself, and he squeezes Emet-Selch. Maybe that's one of the reasons he loves humanity so much, with their obviously short lives. He'd like to live his life as vibrantly as he imagines they do, even if it's many of these lives.
But maybe it's a bit different after all. To imagine someone who shouldn't have an end meeting one anyway... Though it might feel endless, it feels like the world's been robbed of something. A steady presence suddenly lost.
It doesn't take long for Mettaton to complete processing the peculiar tone Emet-Selch held for the latter, unnamed friend. Optimistic, distinct, tiresome, stubborn, disagreed with but understood. His smile softens.]
Did something of a particular gravity... take place with your second friend? They must have held a special place in your heart. ...Unresolved feelings?
[Mettaton loves romance.]
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Feeling the tie of their legs, the press of their forms, the mingling of their souls and how open they'd already been with one another- holding back on this would've felt almost arbitrary. What were a few more deeply personal details between lovers?
Which didn't make any of this terribly easy though, but the Ascian's hesitation is more in working out his own thoughts, finding words for any of it, rather than from a reluctance to speak at all.]
Yes, they could tell I was missing a certain clamor in my life, that I had far too few frustrations. What thoughtfulness indeed.
[That part was easy, at least, an idle counter as Emet-Selch thinks, nuzzling absently at the side of Mettaton's face. Yes, a truly terrible type to get involved with, as he continues to demonstrate.]
But whatever lurid affair you're imagining will have to go unrealized. [As he makes assumptions about Mettaton's assumptions.] We were only friends. Close, yes, but that was all.
[And the Ascian seems to mean it, mostly; there's a tinge of regret there, but not denial. Though he does add, barely conscious of the sigh in his tone.]
It was a slower time, you realize. With our lifespans, there was no need to rush into anything.
[It was possible to avoid personal issues indefinitely, just how he liked it. That it meant they became permanently unresolved- well. That was probably to the best.]
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What it must have been like, to live among a people who would last forever. Honestly, the thought seems too calm for Mettaton's taste for excitement and novelty, but it has its sweetness. He nuzzles back, too aware of Emet-Selch's actions and finding them all the more endearing with each passing second, each piece of information he learns of him.
Mettaton has never felt this way about somebody before.]
Lurid affair... Oooh. You caught me, and my sensuous leanings. I have an eye for it. Hahaha...
[He hasn't felt this way, and he never imagined it being like this. How odd, that he was such a romantic but scarcely saw himself in the heat of it. All of it was relegated to fantasy, until he found his best friend in love, until he came to Aefenglom found yet more of it. Now...
Hm. Mira's in love with this man. This doesn't cause Mettaton a single moment's pause — he adapts so quickly to culture that Aefenglom's seems to encourage multiple partners, with its Bonding system that could be familial or friendly, but with a romantic slant. Besides, he views himself on a completely different level from all others. If he wants a piece of Emet-Selch, he has it, and he can give a special part of himself back. He could have as much as he'd like. Either way, he can't control how he feels, and he feels very strongly about this. He doesn't care to analyze this too hard, either way. He's content, wants more, has reached a point where he wouldn't give this up.
He communicates by Bond, this possessiveness, drawing him ever closer, firmer. He communicates it when he rubs his leg against the other man's, slowly, as he tightens his grip around him.]
It's not as though you're the only one who benefits, darling. From such a thoughtful arrangement. [That's the playful precursor to a genuine feeling, and Mettaton presses his face closer to his, his voice soft, airy even — the most equivalent of being on a sigh without it, because he's not even thinking of performative sighs, surprisingly.] I, for one... thoroughly enjoy your company. Your tempered surface belies such tumultuous depths... Yes. You draw me in. ...They must have found you fun to talk to, and insightful at that.
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But the concept of multiple partners or attachments doesn't strike him as something even remotely worthy of note. Mortals- and not even all of them, admittedly- sometimes had hangups in that regard, the Ascian knew, and assumed it had something to do with their limited minds being incapable of focusing on more than one thing at a time. Their limited souls only having enough space for one person. How... tragic.
No, Emet-Selch's hangups had to do with attachments at all. Forming them, acknowledging them, dealing with them afterward- the whole package.
Even now, there's the occasional impulse to pull away or retreat, either physically or emotionally. But it's just as immediately stifled by the maintained contact, contrarily soothed by each note of possessiveness. As though feeling contained made him less desirous of freedom. Or perhaps there was safety in it, if of an unfamiliar and frightening variety. He'd never been... this open with anyone before, and it unsettled and enticed him in equal amounts.
His defenses felt so battered as to be non-existent, and while they would reform out of necessity once they were apart (though to what shape, he wasn't sure), Emet-Selch had little choice but to feel everything their Bond would permit. It remained alarming. Something so strong and deep and positive. It was a dizzying thing to be lost in, and he struggles to endure it.
...There's no deliberation in the way he answers it. It was dark and unhappy- for what strong emotions existed outside of despair?- but no less deeply felt.]
Of course not... I would even go so far as to claim that you would be the primary beneficiary of such an arrangement. [Mettaton's voice lands on him so lightly, yet settles so far. His own is soft, as though not to disturb it.] Perhaps I'm performing a public service, by taking some measure of your attention. Limiting your damage.
[That answering possessiveness. The expectation of mutual claim, regardless of all others. And very fond, even in its weight. Head tilting, Emet-Selch presses firm kisses along Mettaton's cheek, down along his jaw. His leg rubs that small bit back. If all his feelings were at the surface, immediate and terrible, displays of affection like this were something he could still control.]
--Not that I can claim to remaining detached in your company. Did you draw out the same in your morose associates...?
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[Though he laughs at first, an airy thing, at Emet-Selch's dramatic pronouncement of diverting Mettaton's attention to prevent the "damage" he leaves in his wake, he finds the suggestion that he needs to be diverted amusing. As though without his lover to focus his attentions on, all else would suffer for it. And he's okay with being that threat in need of public service, as his words hitch in his throat at the feeling of the Ascian's lips pressed against his cheek with pressure. These kisses cause him to jump a little, their deliberation and intensity sensual and pleasant, and Mettaton sensitive to it with how thoroughly he takes in the moments.
His meaning, his response to Mettaton's claim on him, is conveyed crystal clear, and Mettaton gives him a satisfied noise, offering him his jawline.]
If you mean... did I bring them excitement? Coax them into doing what they never thought they would? Bring them jarringly into the moment, with me? Absolutely.
[The thought of his cousin doing anything performative on their own accord? Impossible. Alphys, swamped in her own version of grief that only seemed to grow (for reasons he's still wrapping his mind around but no thanks), being encouraged to pursue status as the royal scientist? With self-esteem like hers, would she really have done as much without a little push? Encouraging people to live in the moment and to abandon their hang-ups, at least for the moment, is something he finds himself good at.
He's a professional distraction.]
Do what you can to keep me under control, then, sweetheart. Your tenacity's enviable... Though you could never subdue me enough to prevent me from exacting some damage.
And if I'm the primary beneficiary, the one to be distracted by you...
[And Mettaton quickly catches Emet-Selch in a greedy kiss by suddenly turning his head, leaning into him and humming with the energy like he couldn't resist the temptation. He gives off that feeling a lot, indulging in his desires for Emet-Selch entirely too often. He lingers against Emet-Selch's lips, feeling his warmth against him in the only way he can. Talk about a mutual possessiveness.]
I'm flattered... For such care to be taken to satisfy my inclinations. With your company, as you do. That you find something worthwhile in it... Would only be my expectation. What am I, if not engaging...?
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[Imagining Mettaton being- surely- a right terror towards his unhappy Underground companions... is a bit amusing. So long as the Ascian isn't the one being menaced at, it's an entertaining thought; his poor friends, who would surely much prefer to just continue what they were doing in peace, being forced to... occasionally go outside or do something other than mold away in familiar solitude. Who would ever want to remain in the present....
But it was good that he'd had people who could tolerate his enthusiasm, Emet-Selch thought, bring him in a little, possibly. A completely unregulated Mettaton was even more exhausting as a prospect. And he could accept that having a balance in one's life was- satisfying, in its way, even when it frustrated.
And the Ascian would agree with the idol's capacity for being a distraction. Which... wasn't all bad of a thing either, he could more reluctantly accept. Especially here, where- well, the other option was contemplating futility in all its beautiful variations.]
If you were completely subdued... no, I can't imagine it. Mere mitigation will have to suffice.
[If being captured and tortured wasn't enough to bring him down, Emet-Selch doubted much of anything would be given the opportunity. Which was reassuring and annoying both- but would anything less mixed, less intense of a person have managed to arrest so much of his attention?
The kiss was both surprising and not, and Emet-Selch leans into it with an immediacy that does surprise him a little. His breath catches as it ends, as their lips remain close, Mettaton's words felt against them as much as heard.]
Your inclinations are quite excessive, aren't they. Insatiable.
[It's not even a question, and the Ascian pushes himself up slightly, in order to look at him properly. Frown disapprovingly down at him, even.]
Some of us are yet constrained by mortal form.
[Regarding him with a mix of exasperation and extremely grudging attraction. Even with the break of conversation- which had been draining in its own way- he was still tired. Encouraging Mettaton at all was undoubtedly a poor idea, which is... why Emet-Selch leans in to kiss him again, trailing his tongue along his lower lip before slipping between them.]
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(Did anyone actually manage to constrain him, or did Mettaton just do whatever he wanted as soon as he got his body, stopped only by the barrier itself? He definitely did whatever he wanted and everyone, everyone, was along for the ride. Not just his companions. Mettaton doesn't even care to revisit this topic, but he'd clarify as much.)
An ascending noise of amusement escapes from his throat as his Bonded closes in on him despite everything, finding this moment to be all the more delectable for its... excessiveness. An indulgence that continues to taste like both of them, a sign that he's thoroughly had Emet-Selch; the full sensation of him once again has the robot humming softly into the kiss, captivated by his weight, his taste, his skin, and his very being. Mettaton's reciprocation suggests that he really would have more of him, though, as his hands wander down his back to grip at the Ascian's hips and tugs him more firmly against his body, bold and demanding. He sucks back on his tongue, presses up and into him as an expression of his boundless want, taking the kiss (and perhaps even demanding he give it) for as long as Emet-Selch has the mortal capacity for it.
The inevitability of breaking away from him exists, even if it's not by Mettaton's need. As soon as it does, Mettaton gives his hips a squeeze and grins again, his eye fixed and narrow, sharp, gold, and predatory for not only being a Puca, but also for being beneath his lover.]
Oh...? I didn't realize a mortal form was a constraint...
[Any breathlessness on Mettaton's part is psychologically induced, as usual, but he's clearly affected.]
It only means I could take you... until you couldn't walk. Oh yes... I am insatiable.
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His breathing is quick against his lips, when Emet-Selch is finally forced to withdraw from the kiss, though his teeth drag along Mettaton's lower lip in the process. A small demonstration at his frustration towards things like the necessity for air interrupting them. It felt like a renewal of experience, as though this wanting for one another lay only shallowly beneath the surface, needing only the slightest of efforts to emerge once again. Just a reminder of the way they tasted together was enough, and it took some restraint to keep from delving into another kiss immediately.]
'Tis a most unfair advantage you hold... for now.
[At least until his studies into transfiguration became more adept. Surely, surely that would balance things out. Somewhat.
But he interrupts himself with a small shiver, at just the thought of being rendered so thoroughly depleted that he could no longer move. That wasn't extravagance so much as absurdity. But even if he'd had the inclination- the tug at his hips, the way Mettaton kept him snugly pulled close- Emet-Selch wouldn't have been able to hide the way he was slowly responding to him. Though it's definitely more of a gradual filling this time, the feeling of his cock just starting to actively press against his lover's body has the Ascian take Mettaton's lip between his teeth again for a more deliberate bite, to try and stifle any sound he might already produce.
What a terrible man, to be so effective against him. Releasing his lip some moments later, Emet-Selch presses a short, messy kiss to them before continuing.]
But isn't that getting ambitious...? Even for you.
[What a thing to encourage.]
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... For now...?
[It's said quietly, lightly, curiously, with the quirk of his eyebrow. Nothing demanding further commentary, given how easily Mettaton can move along once it's been spoken. As far as his body goes, being a machine, when wouldn't he have this advantage over Emet-Selch with regards to wrecking him? (When is he going to lose this advantage?)
It's not a concern of his, given what else he has to focus on laid out immediately before him. Mettaton excitedly shifts his leg against his cock to encourage him, exacting a number of greedy kisses as soon as Emet-Selch quits talking. Pressing into him with just his fingers becomes his full hands, palming him and gripping into his flesh with an edge of craving. He hums, both in satisfaction and in thought, before taking Emet-Selch in for one last firm kiss. Their connection by Bond, by soul, remains a pleasant presence, an acknowledged warmth that only serves to deepen what he feels of and for his Bonded.]
Well. It's hardly ambitious, for me. My battery's fine. Don't worry, Hades-darling. I don't need to stop. [How reassuring, that MTT doesn't need to stop.] No risk of overheating right now... I was built to move.
[Now that all of its movement-related flaws have been recognized and addressed. The ears manage to be nothing but helpful to mitigate overheating, too. Though with the changes he's undergone in his anatomy, Mettaton could see how he might find himself with disagreeable legs, as he has before. But he rather likes the sensation of them trembling, giving in just by Emet-Selch's ministrations. Even the thought has him squirming, a focus placed on the drag of his erection against his body.
Mettaton licks at Emet-Selch's lips and steals him up in a wet kiss, demanding the Ascian's continued closeness with the shift of his hips. Sure, if he'll allow him, Mettaton will eagerly take him a fourth time. Even a fifth time, he's sure, even though the notion dazes the Puca. The very thought has his consciousness abuzz with static. What would it do to this host of his lover's, to be brought to orgasm times in a row? Against his lips, Mettaton smirks.]
Hmm... I think. I could keep going until you couldn't see straight...
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If nothing else, Emet-Selch was accustomed to living under perpetual exhaustion. Though of a more emotional sort than this....
His body presses up into his hands, and down against his legs, breath giving out in a shuddered sort of sigh.]
I think... that I would become- far too sore. Long before that point.
[Even under normal circumstances, a normal partner, his cock would still end up quite raw from the repeated friction. Mettaton's form was somewhat less forgiving than that, which would surely wear on him sooner.
Though would it actually dissuade him? Emet-Selch was honestly unsure, and was becoming less sure the harder his cock became. Or would something else give out before then? Would he pass out entirely (by chance, due to overbonding, or from exhaustion)? Would he just- lose the ability to respond, or more likely, to climax?
...If he were less aroused, it would probably be less reassuring to hear that Mettaton wouldn't need to stop. They were both excessive sorts, perhaps.
It was a lot of half-formed thoughts, each one derailed by a shift of his own hips, the squirming on Mettaton's part. His lips slide over his lover's, slick from their combined work, to drift over to his jaw, and down his neck. Emet-Selch still couldn't mark him, but he could leave a damp trail along his throat regardless, sucking hard over each place he lingered. A soft moan remains trapped in his throat, the intimacy of their souls echoing the intimacy of their bodies. His hand strokes over Mettaton's upper chest, in a firm exploration across its surface.]
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[It's such a strange feeling, finding himself unable to string together words in anything more than broken sentences. In any other context it would be frustrating, but here, it's captivation in a way he can only appreciate. Mettaton gives his neck gladly, his eye shuttering closed with the feeling of his kisses, the sensation of pressure that comes with each. His fingers drift down to the back of his upper thighs and he presses into his muscle hungrily, the curious quality of his touch making it so that his behavior could only be called feeling him up. When the Puca gives himself to tactile senses, he finds himself surprised by the way Emet-Selch's body feels atop him, each drag of fingers or press of body and how much it differs from his expectations, yet satisfies greater than his imagination.
What he really didn't expect was how much it would please him, to feel even overtaken in soul when he places such great focus on form. How could it be this thrilling, yet comfortable? Eye still closed and lips parted, he grips tighter, lets out a soft, pleasurable moan, drinking Emet-Selch in as he receives his touch, but there's much to focus on. His wet kisses to his neck, the slickness of each left behind, hand against his chest, the way he arches into his palms only to bring his hips down, the rub of his cock against his thigh...
Mettaton's very good at letting himself get lost in the pleasure of such sensory details. For all he grips into the backs of the Ascian's thighs, his body's otherwise succumbed. He stutters again, something like a sharp inhale without being so. One of his hands follows the curves of his body to rest in the center of his lower back, and he presses down.]
Hades... Bite. Use— Bite me.
[He sure did just slip a demand in, but he finds himself trembling at the thought. Mettaton realizes how much he wants to feel that now that he's said it aloud, and he subconsciously brings his thighs closer together, fixed on Emet-Selch's erection, its sensual hardness, the knowledge of what he can do to the other man.
His voice is breathy, the same quality of being able to disappear into the air despite the way he usually projects himself.]
I want you.
[His fingers roam toward Emet-Selch's inner thigh as he grips into flesh, cupping him firmly while his other hand continues to press him close.]
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In most other contexts, being ordered to do much of anything would've grated on him, but in this, there's not even the thought of questioning it. He shudders. The sucking of the idol's throat turns into a sharp, hard bite, a grinding of teeth into false-skin- as though he could tear it open if he tried. It's certainly harder than what he'd risk on someone with a non-robotic body- though the Ascian isn't much thinking about that. It was a given that Mettaton could take anything Emet-Selch gave him- both soul and body, all of his emotions. He expected it. He trusted him.
There's some slight discomfort in his own jaw as he eases up on one bite, lapping over the area with his tongue between quick breaths. The fingers exploring the various parts of his thighs provide another heady distraction, his muscles twitching uncontrollably underneath them. Sensations which seemed to run directly to his cock, setting him to aching for want of more of him.
As though to distract himself from the distraction, Emet-Selch bites down again, closer towards Mettaton's shoulder, shuddering from the grip, the texture and taste of him in his mouth, ignoring the frustration of not being able to actually bruise him. His fingers dig into the idol's chest, as though seeking purchase there.
But the press of thighs around his erection has the Ascian gasp, a hissed inhalation, losing his grip on the bit of Mettaton between his teeth. And almost immediately bites again, harder, in the same location, with a brief, accompanying sound of annoyance- halfway to a growl. As though irritated by his own body's needs, interfering of his claiming of Mettaton through bite.
But he moans around his new grip, from the feeling of being cupped and held close, his very soul shivering around him, as though wrapping even closer than that. It's something of a damp bite, saliva pooling in his mouth despite occasional efforts to swallow it back- but Emet-Selch doesn't much care what he leaves behind as his teeth grind into him.]
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Ahhh—!! Yes, yesss! Ha-Hades...!
[Each bite has Mettaton writhing, crying out, tensing, gripping into his thigh desperately, reaching for more unexplored skin that he can sink his fingers into. It hurts, but that strong sensation is like nothing else to the robot. He's wracked with shudders, each move on Emet-Selch's part earning another stuttering sound as though Mettaton's trying to make some kind of noise or say anything at all, but can't form them in to words.
He tries to move a leg and it jerks instead, tensing in ways beyond his control while his mind processes only the ecstasy he finds in pain, pleasure given to him by a lover. Emet-Selch's claim over him, but it's Mettaton's claim over pain. It dizzies him as he notices just how hard Emet-Selch's biting in to his neck, and he wouldn't have it any other way than to have him sinking his teeth into him as firmly as he can manage. It renders Mettaton into a gasping mess, a reaction to intensity more than anything.
Could they grow so close that they'd always feel each other, even while apart? That darkness of Emet-Selch's that feels like an indulgence, an odd embrace that still makes his entire world feel like it belongs to him and him alone, too easy to slip into. Every time he tries to focus on the pressure of his soul, it overwhelms, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He sighs a note of affection, paying mind to the way his Bonded grips onto his chest plate with a tinge of fondness.
His fingers stroke firmly against his inner thigh, idly appreciating the twitches of muscle, flirting dangerously north inch by curious inch, yet never neglecting to dig into him, desirous. His other hand shifts from his lower back, gripping down on his ass with the sensuous intent to pull him close. As ever, the presence of his arousal, framed gently between the muscle of his thighs, continues to fascinate as he twitches and pushes into him, a heady, delirious thrill accompanying it all.
He wonders if it's these forays into the depths of passion that make it so that each time, he comes out loving him more deeply than before. Mettaton bites down on his lip, stifling another moan in his throat, wishing he could bury his face against the Ascian's neck. His need for him at his neck outweighs this desire, however.]
D... Don't stop...!
[Receiving pleasure of such intensity and having it stripped from him? He can't imagine it. Only these heights of sensation would do.]
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There's still sound, stifled into the bite, poorly muffled and ragged. When he can bite no harder, he grinds into him instead, the sort of thing that would leave deep, angry bruises on a normal form. And when he briefly lets go in order to pick a new location, the Ascian is panting, enjoying even the ache in his jaw. But more than anything, enjoying the strength of Mettaton's response, the way he could feel every shudder as though it were his own, how seemingly uncontrolled he could render him. And how much more of him he wanted to see like this- wracked with sensation. To give him as much of himself as he was taking in turn.
...How fond Emet-Selch was of him struck the Ascian then. A weighty feeling.
Still dizzied by it, he presses on, moving to the other side of Mettaton's neck for another bite, no lighter than before. No less insistent, as though he could leave some impression, some indentation on him if he only tried hard enough. As though he could hold him in place, restrain him through jaws and force of will. The more Mettaton responded, the more he snapped down, more than a trace animalistic- though it wasn't as if he could damage, much less tear a piece of him off. But the intent, the desire to possess was in evidence. To take some part of him with him.
The need of his cock was almost a backdrop, though one that spurred on the rest of his desires. His hips jerk against Mettaton's thighs, unsteady, distracted by bites. Distracted as well by the investigations of Mettaton's hands, twitching in place from the feeling, as though torn between pressing up into the contact, or continuing to seek out more friction for his cock.
The grip on his ass, pushing him closer seems to encourage the latter, and he moans against Mettaton's neck, overwhelmed by it all. The stiffness of his arousal pressed between slightly-yielding thighs, the rapidity of his pulse, the determined drag of his teeth into him. Any element on its own would have arrested his attention, but altogether have him pressing closer, pushing Mettaton back against the mattress, wanting every scrap of contact he could claim.]
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[The other side of his neck is both given and taken, really. The Puca bites at his own lip again in pain/pleasure at the renewed mouthful Emet-Selch has taken of his neck, and he can feel each place he's bitten burning against the air, both in pain and the wetness left behind, invisible to the eye but not to Mettaton's sensitivity. For more of anything he can give, he'll move however Emet-Selch dictates. It's as though they've made a trade: Emet-Selch gives him the pleasure he seeks, and Mettaton will perform in any way he could ask.
Both of his hands readjust their grip on him frantically in response to being pushed full-force against the bed, harder and needier than before. His fingers stroke his thigh while he continues to palm him with his other hand, fingers prodding the supple flesh. He can hardly stand the feeling of his thrusts, suddenly feeling himself slamming against that wall of unfulfilled need with full force. If the Ascian were to move like that, if Mettaton weren't limited by the design of his own anatomy... The idol moans at his own obscene cravings, the longing for Emet-Selch to have more access to his body intensified. All he can do is shift helplessly beneath him, his own hips rocking against his Bonded's with unrealized desire as even the rest of him is made to squirm in his heat.
Hearing Emet-Selch moan against his neck fuels that endless feedback between the two. For while the other man thrives off of Mettaton's responses, the robot feeds off of his in turn, needing it desperately to reach any mark of fulfillment that he can never quite reach. He whines against the sheer pleasure of his teeth grinding into his neck, trembling hard enough for his hands to shake, his coordination shot, unable to open his eye for as overwhelmed as he is.
He's positively drowning in his Bonded, right down to being swallowed up in a soul so immense that it could daunt. But he takes his own claim on him, shifts to surround some of his being in return with his own fragile potency, to surround him in turn. The Bond they created with each other is entirely too precious to him, Mettaton acknowledges; in this abstract way, he clings to him, both for stability and to join him in his own undoing. Without really considering it, each thrust of Emet-Selch's is met with a gasp from Mettaton as he starts to slip into a mode of fantasy, blending the eroticism of feeling his hard cock pressing into him with the blinding pleasure each rough bite to his throat brings him. A cocktail like that lets his fancies get away from him, makes it so that his noises go unchecked.
Whose feelings of fondness are these, anyway? The idol easily accepts that they're his own, that all of these feelings belong to him. The lust, the possessiveness, the attraction, the affection, the ache for more, but the intense gratification only Emet-Selch could bring him. Yet the absolute love he feels is so intense...
He stutters around syllables he can't speak. Something about loving him, surely. Does he have to say it when he's so transparent?]
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That Mettaton would seek to contain his soul as well, surround his mass with its fragile self- it was absurd and endearing both. Something that has the Ascian's soul contracting, densifying itself as much as it could, to make it easier for more of it to be surrounded by him. The sensation was unusual, but- comforting, in a way.
Emet-Selch is finally forced to let go of his throat again in order to breathe properly, in desperate, hard pants. And echoed by still-harder thrusts, dragging his cock between Mettaton's thighs, shoving him back into the bed with each motion. Their cries were as tangled as their souls, their sentiments, everything blurred and reflected, made stronger through mirrored desire. How much more of him he wanted to take, but this was all he could reach--
His movements falter, through no intention of his own, even as his need sharpens, absolutely aching for completion. What energy the Ascian had regained in their pause was being recklessly depleted, and as painfully aroused as he was, it was difficult to to bite and rub himself that last bit of the way there.
A whine in his throat, he nips at Mettaton's throat again- not as hard as before, but still roughly, teeth dragging over the surface before snapping together with a shudder. He tries again to hold on, jerking against him, clinging to his body. Trying to let go simultaneously, to drown himself fully in the feeling of Mettaton's hands clutching at him, the incoherency of his voice which required no translation. In his own sounds- wordless entirely, but no less heartfelt, attachment shivers through him with just as much force and need as physical pleasure. The latter was just an expression of the former, really... the wantings all tied together. There was grief again, but that was alright; that just meant that he loved him, surely?
What a mess he felt. And what a mess he was making of Mettaton's thighs, repeatedly using them like this. But just the thought of it has Emet-Selch moaning louder, the evidence of his continual lust for him left on his body, the scent of it as well. Every sense was accounted for, every one suffused with Mettaton's presence.
Snapping down: it's another hard bite, as deep as the first, at the crook of the idol's neck. Unconsciously Emet-Selch grinds down on him, as much as he grinds his cock against Mettaton's legs. Altogether it's enough; with a sense of tremendous effort, climax finally courses through the Ascian, body shaking as he collapses gracelessly on top of Mettaton, even before the initial wave of relief had passed. Half-conscious, that hold on his lover's neck is the last thing to relax, though he's unable to move his face from its damp surface afterward, his breathing as unsteady as his body.
Every thought outside of this moment was lost; he trembles, as though trying to cling to the one thing left in the world, but lacking the strength to do so.]
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That final bite has the robotic Puca crying out on a voice as clear as ever, loud, pleasured. To be feeling things so openly between the two... He can feel what Emet-Selch's pleasure is compared to his own because it feels different (and that difference is enticing, desirable enough to hang onto), but at the same time, he can't precisely tell where his begins in relation to the other man's. Does it matter, when it all feels good?
He's dazed enough that he scarcely notices that Emet-Selch's edging on climax until it's too late, and Mettaton yelps at the sensation. It's a noise that evolves into a groan and he grips harder, pulls him closer, even though Mettaton all but sinks into the mattress with their combined weights.
Mettaton kisses the top of his head in haste, over and over for some kind of expression of his own while he continues to shudder with longing, shifting his legs, even as Emet-Selch's collapsed into him. His arms finally move, wrapping frantically around his body with the same energy one seeking climax of his own might have. But as soon as he clings onto him, Mettaton takes a deep breath into Emet-Selch's hair, trying to still himself. It's hard to tell who's shaking, since they both are.]
H-Hades...
[The only thing he can manage to say, and he's thankful that it's his name that he gets to say. He holds tight, an arm around his lover's waist with the other pressed along the length of his back so that his fingers curve around his neck. More kisses, longer and softer as he continues to shiver.]
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Being held so close keeps the Ascian trembling- or was it just a sign of continued exhaustion? Reassurance and comfort and care were all things that settled on him heavily, unnaturally, and he wondered if the experience would ever stop feeling so raw, and unbelievable.
Slowly, Emet-Selch slides partially off of Mettaton's body to his side, purely to make it easier to wrap an arm around him in turn, needing to hold him nearly as much as he needed to be held. Pulling him back against his chest, he was unwilling to give up any amount of contact between them.
It didn't feel- normal, to be this exposed, as if every emotion was available to be experienced by the both of them, without filter. It surely wasn't normal, and probably not recommended. But the immediacy and intensity of it all was addictive: it was hard to imagine managing without. As though he'd given up so much of himself that, once parted, there wouldn't be enough to sustain what was left.
But he wasn't worried. The Ascian wasn't thinking about it either. His perpetual loss and sorrow had settled in, but that was only natural for something so strong. His own grip around Mettaton's tightens- insofar as he can manage, and with no less need than he'd possessed at the height of passion. His lips repeatedly press to his throat, echoing the kisses Mettaton was leaving at the top of his head. An overpouring of affection that he didn't know what to do with, or how else to express.
...It hadn't been that long ago that Emet-Selch wouldn't have recognized it as affection at all. But at this point, with something so evident- it seemed pointless to try and deny it. Even if he didn't have the words for it; any that tried to form in response became caught in his throat, swallowed back.
But the idol's neck wasn't enough; shifting his head up, Emet-Selch lets his lips stumble their way towards Mettaton's, pressing into his with a small, relieved sort of sound.]
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