[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.]
[To find Emet-Selch kissing his neck some more after having bitten it to tenderness is enough to convert some of Mettaton's lust into sentimentality, and he sighs a note of contentment into his hair. The idol opens his eyes, moving his lips over to the shock of white at his hairline, where he presses a softer kiss than his more frenetic ones — a milestone in regaining control.
The idol maintains his attempt to keep hold over Emet-Selch's soul, despite everything. He's adamant, and finds himself charmed at the Ascian's earlier attempts to give him a fighting chance at enveloping him. Mettaton doesn't mind this disadvantage: he can keep him close anyway, and his presence is pleasant, for all that it may have been intimidating at some point. It's his now. He feels this strongly, and gives him yet another kiss atop his head.
If this isn't what a Bond is supposed to do - if this is inadvisable somehow - Mettaton is of the opinion that somebody should have told them. Unless nobody anticipates this level of intensity and intimacy between two people? What an oversight! Surely humanity possesses this level of investigative passion: he's seen it before. In practice, it's more delectable than he could have imagined. Who could resist giving themselves over to this, and searching for even more? What could the harm be, save for the dread of severing this closeness by creating any physical distance whatsoever? The inevitability of vacancy that will feel as though it needs filling? No bad decisions here. There's so much to get addicted to, and why not indulge?
Emet-Selch shifts and before he knows it, the Ascian has his lips pressed into his. Mettaton hums softly in return, warmth flooding him. It's amazing, how a kiss can fill him with such giddiness, too: he finds even his hum interrupted by small laughter, pulling Emet-Selch into the kiss with ardor. When he stops their kiss, it seems it's merely to readjust, for the Puca comes back into press his lips against his Bonded's once more.
He holds their kiss together for longer, as long as Emet-Selch seems to tolerate, and once they break apart, Mettaton smiles against him, appreciating what goes unspoken between them. How neither of them had the breath, the focus, or the real need to verbalize their affections.
... And yet, they both felt inclined toward it. Interesting, that. If Mettaton had to rationalize it, it's simply because sharing it, feeling it, being felt, expressing it... None of it is enough. Even speaking it might not be enough, but it's yet another way of making it known.]
[Becoming more conscious of it again, Emet-Selch is reluctantly charmed at Mettaton's continued effort to encircle his soul. And rather than reassert control, try and wrap around and trap him again, the Ascian keeps his spirit relatively pliant and compact, appreciating the feeling of the attempt, as though he were being embraced on several levels. It matched the various kisses, the points of attention, and it relaxes him further.
Even if this wasn't how Bonds were meant to be used, and even if they had been warned- would that have dissuaded either of them? Of course they knew better than anyone; they were an exception to any rule, limitations were for other people. Placed together, once the door to intimacy had been opened just a crack... it was perhaps inevitable to find the whole thing kicked in soon afterward, with no suggestion of ever fixing it.
And while Emet-Selch often had problems discerning where some feelings began or ended, he's entirely certain that any sort of giddiness is entirely Mettaton's fault and responsibility. Much of that warmth as well, anything wholly positive- the Ascian knew those weren't his own. And while it remained an alarming experience- something that kept his pulse from settling, his nerves pricked- it wasn't... completely terrible. Perhaps he was getting the barest bit used to Mettaton's positivity? There was a certain rush to it; even the sound of his laugh was pleasing, rather than irritating. Either his enthusiasm was catching, or affection itself was, because it was difficult to break from any of those kisses.
But breathe he must, and Emet-Selch reluctantly does so, though he keeps their lips close together. And again felt the impulse to say something, however unnecessary. But as physical acts expressed emotion, so too did words, didn't they? Nothing on their own was enough, and even altogether could hardly be sufficient. But at the same time, so long as the feeling was shared between them, was anything more required?
And yet, an affirmation....]
...Mettaton.
[He's quiet, slowly brushing his lips across the puca's as he thinks. It all felt oddly formal, somehow. Which was unsatisfactory. If Mettaton's sentiments were light and warm, his own remained sorrow-tinged and lonely. As though committing to the loss by virtue of accepting its presence.
His arm shifts, hand lifting to run his fingers through Mettaton's hair, to toy with the part that obscures his non-functional eye. The problem with sincerity was that it was hard to be casual about it. But the Ascian's tone is thoughtful, rather than reluctant.]
For all that I may regret this. As insubstantial as our meeting here is... as tenuous our fate. Despite this. I love you nonetheless.
[...Unnecessary. To be direct. But he thought he might regret it were he not.]
[It was already established, how both of them felt. But it surprises him anyway, that Emet-Selch should speak his own affections into being despite knowing, an answer to Mettaton's earlier admission... But more direct yet. Direct enough to make Mettaton's ability to think stall, because as it turns out, loving somebody would do that to someone.
Mettaton kisses him in response, soft and purposeful the way he takes his lower lip between his with a gentle suck, before letting him go but remaining close. An acknowledgement of his feelings.
He already told him he loves him earlier... But when he imagines not being able to do it again, if that were to come to pass, he feels compelled to do it all over again. He can say it in concrete terms. Not around humanity, not framing it or comparing it to anything else, and certainly not to be met with Emet-Selch telling him to stop.
Mettaton lights up, eager to give his reciprocation. It shows in his eye.]
I... I love you, too. Dearly, Hades.
[He sighs, still in the process of coming down from the highs of their passion, and gives him a squeeze with his embrace. (Trying to come down, but being hit with such sentimentality! Will Emet-Selch ever not overwhelm him? He'll take it.) Still a bit dazed from hearing Emet-Selch say as much, toward him. He's a romantic, but one who isn't terribly used to things coming for his own heart. For the idea of him, for the form of him, those are another story. But this is different.
Suddenly, words don't feel adequate enough to express his own feelings, just as he anticipated. That's okay, though. It only makes sense that he could find continuous ways to express as much: gestures, expressions, proximity, sentiment. He kisses him again, short and sweet, unable to control himself.]
I'll have many ways to show you that I do, at that. ...I hope you don't regret a thing. I know I won't. Not if I hold nothing back. [That's how he might avoid regrets in the future, right? He's smiling against his Bonded, a usual for Mettaton. Even thinking over Emet-Selch's confession leaves him feeling lighter and cheerier than before.] Even if I couldn't see you... Even if it made my heart ache. I wouldn't give this up.
[Then again, for someone who harbors so much heartbreak, adding another person onto the list must be difficult to do. Someone he'll inevitably lose, if people really do return home. Maybe that makes it more meaningful. Emet-Selch, for all of his experience and for all of his hardened shell, is terribly vulnerable in heart, Mettaton thinks. Could it be the nature of his person, or even the nature of this soul he's holding? (It's a comfortable effort: he doesn't strain to do something not exactly feasible.) It doesn't matter, because he just wants to be with him, happy or sad. Their feelings are what they are right now, and they're beyond pretending. Mettaton knows Emet-Selch knows that by now.
He knows that Emet-Selch's fate is death, even if an idealistic part of him hopes he could pursue a different path. Hard to disengage from what fate has in store for him. He loves him anyway, and he gives him another squeeze, appreciating the way the Ascian runs fingers through his hair. He doesn't mind what he does to it. ...It's already disheveled, as it is.]
[It remained unnecessary. These weren't sentiments that needed to be revealed, there was no new information to be expressed. But there was something to the effort of words, he supposed. Emet-Selch would've expected a sense of accompanying finality- as though he were giving in to some unbearable fate, submitting to terrible inevitability.
But it wasn't too bad. The feeling of Mettaton's kiss focuses his attention; the attention to his lip has his breath quiet. And Emet-Selch is immediately reassured that the effort- difficult as it had been for him- had been the right choice. Just feeling Mettaton's response would've been enough; the physical signs of his matching affection, the emotional closeness that remained.
He wondered, distantly, how accustomed Mettaton was to such shared 'confessions'. Love for a group was one thing: idealized, impractical. If returned, it wasn't exactly in the same fashion. It was different towards an individual. And for as friendly as the puca was, how clearly capable of deeper connections- Emet-Selch doubted that this was a terribly common occurrence.
It was a little hard to look at him. The words, when they came, were not unexpected, but startling all the same in his own response. The way his heart lurched painfully, and the Ascian didn't know why. Because it mattered to him? From stilling, his hand smooths over to gently cup the side of his lover's face, and he presses back to his lips in a long, answering kiss.
How could words be so overwhelming? Despite not being enough on their own, despite not being necessary at all? Even when he breaks the kiss, it's only technically, lips brushing over Mettaton's as he speaks.]
...Is there even anything left to hold back? 'Tis far too late for that- for either of us.
[Though Emet-Selch fully expected to continue being alarmed and unsettled on the regular. Emotions like these didn't settle easily on him; he doubted they ever would. Even in Amaurot he would've shied away from them, but--
For all they were immortals, there was no chance for eternity here. And while that thought remained a source of pain, something he'd continually return to, to remind himself of the pointlessness of it all- it did force him to acknowledge things far quicker than he otherwise would. With 'far quicker' really meaning 'at all'. If he didn't now, he might lose the chance- and that thought was even worse.
An impossible combination of circumstances, combined with an impossible person... If anything had been out of place, it never would've happened. Even with everything aligned, it still could've gone far differently, and the thought has him nestle slightly closer, kissing him again.]
[This kiss of theirs feels so romantic that it makes Mettaton feel surprisingly weak, off-kilter despite it all. Him, flustered by a kiss? It's the collective moment pressing down on him, his very thoughts as quick and as short-lived as sparks as he struggles to keep a clear head. Or, rather, to fill a rapidly emptying head with coherency.
But why bother? He's laying with his Bonded, his lover, with Emet-Selch. He can be a bit compromised, Mettaton thinks, and he sinks into the kiss with a desperation not quite lustful in nature, but seeking the feeling, life, and stability of the Ascian. It is overwhelming, and it leaves him lovestruck. All he can do is smile against Emet-Selch's lips.
Every single moment he spends time with him, he... falls, harder. It's not as though the other man spends his time trying to flatter him, either. But their actions speak just as loud as their words do, and it's always the intent behind things that seem to make him weak. Mettaton closes his eye, but only for a moment — he wants to see him.
Emet-Selch cuddles closer, fits into his contours more closely, and kisses him again. Mettaton sighs into it, losing himself to it all as it catches up to him. That he could express his care and even his love, and have it be reciprocated in terms?
The more he thinks about it, the more affected the idol becomes.]
W... We've doomed ourselves. Pleasantly, if you ask me. Ha.
[At least, as far as slipping directly into the trap of caring about people in a strange spacial-temporal pocket like Aefenglom goes. Caring deeply, at that. The longer they both acknowledge it, the more he sinks into it. Based on how Mettaton's feeling, his experience with this particular "doom" is light, electrified, infatuated, and thankful.
There's a part of Mettaton, too, who considers the likely transience of this arrangement. He's only been made so aware of it by the reluctance of other Mirrorbound who couldn't stand the thought of pain, and now, even anticipatory... No, he won't let himself dwell on it so much. What's the point? Mettaton makes the conscious choice to relish the pain when it comes, and here, he grips onto Emet-Selch more tightly. He has him right now, after all. He kisses him on his own volition.
Weird, how this makes him appreciate having been tortured. The slip in his own disposition that forced him to discuss things that hit close to home and allowed Emet-Selch's perceptive nature to penetrate him. He cares so much for Emet-Selch and his well-being, his experiences, his safety and his comfort. Oh, how dreadful. His ears flick, leaving them askew atop pillows as they try to push back against plush.]
... You may not realize. But. You really... Gave me something to be hopeful for. Back when we first met. I was in... a lot of pain. I'd go feral on full moons. I felt soulless. Empty. I don't... like to be figured out. And nobody could do it, but I needed it. I'm so relieved that you did, of anyone. You keep me on my toes in ways nobody could but you.
[A doom that could not be cleansed... it was something they could only wait out, never knowing how much longer either of them had left. An unsettling knowledge, and an unsettling experience; even giving themselves over to it entirely, Emet-Selch couldn't shake that sense of impending loss.
Affection traded, encouraged. A persistent affirmation of the other's existence, that this moment was currently happening. It was terrible how weak he was to this sort of thing, the Ascian thought. That openness, and understanding and acceptance cut through him, the moment he'd allowed himself even a moment of vulnerability. Even though Mettaton didn't agree with him, he hadn't left him.
He felt weak, just at the thought, lightheaded. Or was that exhaustion? Any time he tried to move or hold the robot firmly, Emet-Selch trembled from it; gentleness was all he had left. And determination to remain. A sound that's just as weak is swallowed up in their kiss, desperate for a similar feeling. To tie himself to something that wouldn't be lost, that wouldn't disappear.
Emet-Selch did not consider captivity to be a positive experience. Encountering Mettaton had been the one gain: their unusual circumstances had been a requirement, he could admit, to obtaining their current closeness. If they'd both been at their 'best', their most controlled, performative appearances- Emet-Selch is almost certain he would've written him off as a trivial annoyance. There would've been no reason, no chance for any sort of Bond. So that much was... fortunate, in some twisted way.
Oh, but the negatives. Paranoia, a greater awareness of his own helplessness, his own fragility. To someone else, this might make a learning or humbling experience, but it had just left him more unstable. Shaken, frightened- his nightmares layered captivity on top of Amaurot's destruction. The idea of going through it again terrified; he didn't know how he'd make it through the next time. Occasionally he wondered if everything now was the delusion- that he was still there, ever awaiting death. That moments like this were the cruelest of all possible torments, that he'd be stripped of it soon enough, to awaken alone and slowly dying.
Of course he hadn't spoken to anyone about any of this.
But Emet-Selch is quiet at Mettaton's words, hand returning to stroking through his hair, petting him as he speaks, and continuing to do so even after he finished.]
...It's not exactly often that an Ascian receives gratitude.
[And he's quite touched by it, while also- displeased to hear of what Mettaton had been suffering through, in addition to literal torture. ...But he supposed that was a normal reaction, when caring about someone. What trouble, feelings were. They always had been.
It's not a- bite exactly, but he takes Mettaton's lower lip between his teeth as he considers, trailing his tongue over it. They still tasted of each other, he thought. Another reassurance, even when he has to let go in order to speak.]
...I would go through it again, then. To meet you, and gain this. And to spare you from your continued fate.
[And Mettaton gives to him, sighing at the grazing of teeth and tongue. Against the disarming affection that leaves his head empty save for tipsy adoration, he listens, trying to process what it means to say he'd go through that again. To meet him.]
That... You... Ah...
[That's not something to say lightly. Mettaton doesn't quite mean to, but he ruminates over the worst of it. Flashes of Papyrus's bared teeth. Incisions down his neck, legs, hips, feet. The attempts to pull his body apart when it'd somewhat fused together in its transformation, and the successes they'd managed despite that defense. Depriving him of sense after sense so that he could only feel pain, depriving him even of speech, his greatest defense. Brute force attempts to open his body for their own curiosity. His figure pinched perilously between needle sharp teeth. ... Mettaton catches himself and realizes he's tensed, thoughts racing with nothing at all. He's gripped onto Emet-Selch subconsciously, and while he doesn't relieve his hold, he strokes his back with a hand.
He's positive Emet-Selch came out with worse. To what degree, Mettaton has no idea, but his own greatest loss besides the integrity of his body was his blind adoration in humanity. A major blow to his core, but if Emet-Selch never had that to begin with, his pessimism within those walls worried Mettaton.
The Puca leans in to kiss his Bonded on the lips, gently, soft as his voice. He'd live through it again, too. If he would, he has no room to question Emet-Selch's opting to go through it all again for this sake.]
Thank you. You... mean so much to me, Hades-darling. In body, and soul.
[Because really, he'd been in a wretched state in both beforehand. As if he needed some torture to make it any worse. And what Emet-Selch offers him in both. It amazes.
He feels dizzy from it all. How is Emet-Selch doing with this? Based on his trembling embrace, he can only imagine his exhaustion. There's the hints of it he can feel, though by soul, he feels strong. It never fails to fascinate him, that a soul could feel this level of tenacity while exhibiting external signs of weakness. That's certainly not the condition of monsters, anyway.
Mettaton can only sigh into him again, shifting his lips to kiss him at the corner of his mouth affectionately. He continues to hold him by soul, closing his eye to better allow that pressure to sink over him without knocking him down. He can take him, even knowing what intensity he has within that darkness.
Regrettable, that this extra Bond has left the Ascian in such a state. This spontaneous loss of consciousness he reported. He drifts back toward his lips, kissing him still somewhat skewed to the side. His fingers trace circles into his back, and he speaks close to his face.]
...My gratitude. I'll see if I can find something for you. To keep you from slipping into uncontrollable unconsciousness.
[He's not a Witch, so there's no way he could do something magically. But he can get around and ask questions, pull strings, work favors. He's good at that.]
[That Mettaton should have any doubts about loving humanity- Emet-Selch would only encourage it. Agree with it. But he would, at this point, also sympathize, likening it to his own first experiences with the mortal generations post-sundering. The first times he'd ever witnessed cruelty. To have one's expectations so compromised, so threatened, on top of all else- it wasn't easy, nor straightforward. And in a way, Emet-Selch... despite his own views, also wished for Mettaton to come out of his ever greater contact with humanity with his love for them intact. They didn't deserve it, but to lose it would be- a sadder thing, he thought.
That they could cause any doubt at all would only make the Ascian more bitter towards them.]
Ah... thank you.
[For the offer of help, for everything. Just thinking on it all- the wash of emotion that runs through him is closer to adoration than love, leaving him ever weaker in its wake. Feeling that firmer grip, the idol's tension, Emet-Selch clings back in turn- or tries to, fingers shaking as they drag down to Mettaton's upper back, as his body huddles against his. He was so tired. And it was hard not to ruminate on what they'd been through. ...In some ways he supposes it's impressive that they both made it out 'intact.' That they functioned as well as they did.
But they came out of it with the groundwork for this. That was... surely worth some trauma. That was worth drowning himself with Bonds.
As with love, there's despair. Closing his eyes, he leans into those angled-kisses, scarcely breathing. Taking all of him in, soul and lips and arms, his person in its entirety.]
...Should I go under for a long time. Should I not wake up for--
[Months? Years? At all? He doesn't know. He doesn't specify. His host would be long dead after that, and he doesn't know what that would mean for him here. Sighing very quietly, he nudges back against Mettaton's face.]
He hurts, Mettaton knows. And the robot can't begin to fathom what existence quite feels like after so long, without the same people to live it alongside... Though he's begun to consider it. He only feels fondness for him, in the wake of it all. He gives him a squeeze, and smiles against him at the request. In the end, Mettaton likes being needed. He'd stay for someone who needed him, given dire circumstances. Even if he's gone back on his word before, the only thing that would draw him away is the draw of the mirrors, at this point. He's not even going to spare a thought toward those right now.]
Of course, darling. Being ever-present... It's what I do. You'll always know I'm there. And I will be.
[Mettaton takes the initiative to shift Emet-Selch around so that he could be closer, more comfortable in his grip, positioned in such a way that he could remain huddled against him easily. He'll remain here for as long as he pleases. He's comfortable, besides.
(And if he can ascertain that Emet-Selch has slipped into unconsciousness, he might take that moment to slip away and clean up, then tidy up his room to his liking. The thought excites Mettaton. A little organization to start with, of course. It's the little things. Not quite distractions, but things he enjoys doing. That they'd be distractions is just a benefit.)]
I might get bored, though. Waiting. You won't like what I do when I'm bored... Besides. I have it on good authority... that I'm not a presence conducive to sleep. So don't think you'll get away with a long slumber, at any point, sleeping beauty.
[He has his usual energy back... Mettaton kisses him, but otherwise settles against him.]
[At some point, not very long ago, the idea of Mettaton being ever-present would've been a deep aggravation. And vaguely ominous. More than vaguely. Specifically and solidly ominous. And now the Ascian was asking him for... more of his company. He could almost sigh again at that, even as he relaxes properly against him.]
I'm sure you can entertain yourself. You'll manage....
[If he only knew what his room would face... Emet-Selch might be slightly more inclined to find some way to fight unconsciousness. It would be inspirational. Futile, but valiant attempts may have been made. Both now and in future, longer naps.
(Though really, even if he'd been awake- would the Ascian have been able to mount an effective defense of his environment...?)
But as Mettaton seems to be regaining his energy, Emet-Selch is losing ever more of his. Or at least, his complete lack of energy is finally catching up with him (which it was very lazy about doing, honestly; he's been in bed almost this whole time, it wasn't as though it had to chase after him or anything). While there remained a concern that if he did fall asleep, if he did lose track of what was around him, he would wake up and find it all lost- he could see that inevitability approaching irrespective of his fears.
But he presses into that kiss before settling. He would just have to trust him- to exist, and to remain.]
And I wouldn't know about that... you might have a hard time stopping me.
[It might even be too late. Though whether it's just sleep or full unconsciousness, it's hard to say- the line between them is very indistinct. He'll be quite impossible to rouse.]
[Once more, Mettaton tightens his grip around the Ascian with a hum. Though he has his ambitions in place for whenever/if-ever Emet-Selch slips into a quiet sleep/unconsciousness, those are for later. He wouldn't mind falling asleep at his lover's side for now, though Mettaton knows himself — he usually doesn't sleep for long.
He turns his head to exact upon him soft kisses, starting close to his lips but drifting more toward his cheek and his jaw. The hand he has more control over like this continues to draw circles into his back, slow and easy, weighing whether or not he wants to try to pull him up from sleep or not. He decides not: Mettaton isn't aware that if it's unconsciousness, he won't feel rested, so either option just means rest to him. And he did say he'd need more of it than usual to keep from passing out on his feet. Instead of yanking him out of the possibility of slumber, he'll see to it that he falls into it.]
I like a challenge. For now... You get your sleep. [Another kiss, though he moves to give it directly on his lips this time. His voice is low, tinged in his usual spirits, but loving.] I'll see to that, instead.
[More threats for remaining close. The hand that formerly caressed his back moves up his spine, up his neck, and slides into his hair, rubbing circles into his scalp while the arm Emet-Selch lays upon wraps him up and keeps him close. Mettaton's discovered how much he adores closeness with his body, in all of its soft firmness, in all of its fascinating qualities that he covets. He raises his head and places lips to hairline instead, allowing Emet-Selch the ability to just lie there without having his face kissed relentlessly by an amorous Puca. Out of the goodness of his heart.]
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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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The idol maintains his attempt to keep hold over Emet-Selch's soul, despite everything. He's adamant, and finds himself charmed at the Ascian's earlier attempts to give him a fighting chance at enveloping him. Mettaton doesn't mind this disadvantage: he can keep him close anyway, and his presence is pleasant, for all that it may have been intimidating at some point. It's his now. He feels this strongly, and gives him yet another kiss atop his head.
If this isn't what a Bond is supposed to do - if this is inadvisable somehow - Mettaton is of the opinion that somebody should have told them. Unless nobody anticipates this level of intensity and intimacy between two people? What an oversight! Surely humanity possesses this level of investigative passion: he's seen it before. In practice, it's more delectable than he could have imagined. Who could resist giving themselves over to this, and searching for even more? What could the harm be, save for the dread of severing this closeness by creating any physical distance whatsoever? The inevitability of vacancy that will feel as though it needs filling? No bad decisions here. There's so much to get addicted to, and why not indulge?
Emet-Selch shifts and before he knows it, the Ascian has his lips pressed into his. Mettaton hums softly in return, warmth flooding him. It's amazing, how a kiss can fill him with such giddiness, too: he finds even his hum interrupted by small laughter, pulling Emet-Selch into the kiss with ardor. When he stops their kiss, it seems it's merely to readjust, for the Puca comes back into press his lips against his Bonded's once more.
He holds their kiss together for longer, as long as Emet-Selch seems to tolerate, and once they break apart, Mettaton smiles against him, appreciating what goes unspoken between them. How neither of them had the breath, the focus, or the real need to verbalize their affections.
... And yet, they both felt inclined toward it. Interesting, that. If Mettaton had to rationalize it, it's simply because sharing it, feeling it, being felt, expressing it... None of it is enough. Even speaking it might not be enough, but it's yet another way of making it known.]
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Even if this wasn't how Bonds were meant to be used, and even if they had been warned- would that have dissuaded either of them? Of course they knew better than anyone; they were an exception to any rule, limitations were for other people. Placed together, once the door to intimacy had been opened just a crack... it was perhaps inevitable to find the whole thing kicked in soon afterward, with no suggestion of ever fixing it.
And while Emet-Selch often had problems discerning where some feelings began or ended, he's entirely certain that any sort of giddiness is entirely Mettaton's fault and responsibility. Much of that warmth as well, anything wholly positive- the Ascian knew those weren't his own. And while it remained an alarming experience- something that kept his pulse from settling, his nerves pricked- it wasn't... completely terrible. Perhaps he was getting the barest bit used to Mettaton's positivity? There was a certain rush to it; even the sound of his laugh was pleasing, rather than irritating. Either his enthusiasm was catching, or affection itself was, because it was difficult to break from any of those kisses.
But breathe he must, and Emet-Selch reluctantly does so, though he keeps their lips close together. And again felt the impulse to say something, however unnecessary. But as physical acts expressed emotion, so too did words, didn't they? Nothing on their own was enough, and even altogether could hardly be sufficient. But at the same time, so long as the feeling was shared between them, was anything more required?
And yet, an affirmation....]
...Mettaton.
[He's quiet, slowly brushing his lips across the puca's as he thinks. It all felt oddly formal, somehow. Which was unsatisfactory. If Mettaton's sentiments were light and warm, his own remained sorrow-tinged and lonely. As though committing to the loss by virtue of accepting its presence.
His arm shifts, hand lifting to run his fingers through Mettaton's hair, to toy with the part that obscures his non-functional eye. The problem with sincerity was that it was hard to be casual about it. But the Ascian's tone is thoughtful, rather than reluctant.]
For all that I may regret this. As insubstantial as our meeting here is... as tenuous our fate. Despite this. I love you nonetheless.
[...Unnecessary. To be direct. But he thought he might regret it were he not.]
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Mettaton kisses him in response, soft and purposeful the way he takes his lower lip between his with a gentle suck, before letting him go but remaining close. An acknowledgement of his feelings.
He already told him he loves him earlier... But when he imagines not being able to do it again, if that were to come to pass, he feels compelled to do it all over again. He can say it in concrete terms. Not around humanity, not framing it or comparing it to anything else, and certainly not to be met with Emet-Selch telling him to stop.
Mettaton lights up, eager to give his reciprocation. It shows in his eye.]
I... I love you, too. Dearly, Hades.
[He sighs, still in the process of coming down from the highs of their passion, and gives him a squeeze with his embrace. (Trying to come down, but being hit with such sentimentality! Will Emet-Selch ever not overwhelm him? He'll take it.) Still a bit dazed from hearing Emet-Selch say as much, toward him. He's a romantic, but one who isn't terribly used to things coming for his own heart. For the idea of him, for the form of him, those are another story. But this is different.
Suddenly, words don't feel adequate enough to express his own feelings, just as he anticipated. That's okay, though. It only makes sense that he could find continuous ways to express as much: gestures, expressions, proximity, sentiment. He kisses him again, short and sweet, unable to control himself.]
I'll have many ways to show you that I do, at that. ...I hope you don't regret a thing. I know I won't. Not if I hold nothing back. [That's how he might avoid regrets in the future, right? He's smiling against his Bonded, a usual for Mettaton. Even thinking over Emet-Selch's confession leaves him feeling lighter and cheerier than before.] Even if I couldn't see you... Even if it made my heart ache. I wouldn't give this up.
[Then again, for someone who harbors so much heartbreak, adding another person onto the list must be difficult to do. Someone he'll inevitably lose, if people really do return home. Maybe that makes it more meaningful. Emet-Selch, for all of his experience and for all of his hardened shell, is terribly vulnerable in heart, Mettaton thinks. Could it be the nature of his person, or even the nature of this soul he's holding? (It's a comfortable effort: he doesn't strain to do something not exactly feasible.) It doesn't matter, because he just wants to be with him, happy or sad. Their feelings are what they are right now, and they're beyond pretending. Mettaton knows Emet-Selch knows that by now.
He knows that Emet-Selch's fate is death, even if an idealistic part of him hopes he could pursue a different path. Hard to disengage from what fate has in store for him. He loves him anyway, and he gives him another squeeze, appreciating the way the Ascian runs fingers through his hair. He doesn't mind what he does to it. ...It's already disheveled, as it is.]
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But it wasn't too bad. The feeling of Mettaton's kiss focuses his attention; the attention to his lip has his breath quiet. And Emet-Selch is immediately reassured that the effort- difficult as it had been for him- had been the right choice. Just feeling Mettaton's response would've been enough; the physical signs of his matching affection, the emotional closeness that remained.
He wondered, distantly, how accustomed Mettaton was to such shared 'confessions'. Love for a group was one thing: idealized, impractical. If returned, it wasn't exactly in the same fashion. It was different towards an individual. And for as friendly as the puca was, how clearly capable of deeper connections- Emet-Selch doubted that this was a terribly common occurrence.
It was a little hard to look at him. The words, when they came, were not unexpected, but startling all the same in his own response. The way his heart lurched painfully, and the Ascian didn't know why. Because it mattered to him? From stilling, his hand smooths over to gently cup the side of his lover's face, and he presses back to his lips in a long, answering kiss.
How could words be so overwhelming? Despite not being enough on their own, despite not being necessary at all? Even when he breaks the kiss, it's only technically, lips brushing over Mettaton's as he speaks.]
...Is there even anything left to hold back? 'Tis far too late for that- for either of us.
[Though Emet-Selch fully expected to continue being alarmed and unsettled on the regular. Emotions like these didn't settle easily on him; he doubted they ever would. Even in Amaurot he would've shied away from them, but--
For all they were immortals, there was no chance for eternity here. And while that thought remained a source of pain, something he'd continually return to, to remind himself of the pointlessness of it all- it did force him to acknowledge things far quicker than he otherwise would. With 'far quicker' really meaning 'at all'. If he didn't now, he might lose the chance- and that thought was even worse.
An impossible combination of circumstances, combined with an impossible person... If anything had been out of place, it never would've happened. Even with everything aligned, it still could've gone far differently, and the thought has him nestle slightly closer, kissing him again.]
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But why bother? He's laying with his Bonded, his lover, with Emet-Selch. He can be a bit compromised, Mettaton thinks, and he sinks into the kiss with a desperation not quite lustful in nature, but seeking the feeling, life, and stability of the Ascian. It is overwhelming, and it leaves him lovestruck. All he can do is smile against Emet-Selch's lips.
Every single moment he spends time with him, he... falls, harder. It's not as though the other man spends his time trying to flatter him, either. But their actions speak just as loud as their words do, and it's always the intent behind things that seem to make him weak. Mettaton closes his eye, but only for a moment — he wants to see him.
Emet-Selch cuddles closer, fits into his contours more closely, and kisses him again. Mettaton sighs into it, losing himself to it all as it catches up to him. That he could express his care and even his love, and have it be reciprocated in terms?
The more he thinks about it, the more affected the idol becomes.]
W... We've doomed ourselves. Pleasantly, if you ask me. Ha.
[At least, as far as slipping directly into the trap of caring about people in a strange spacial-temporal pocket like Aefenglom goes. Caring deeply, at that. The longer they both acknowledge it, the more he sinks into it. Based on how Mettaton's feeling, his experience with this particular "doom" is light, electrified, infatuated, and thankful.
There's a part of Mettaton, too, who considers the likely transience of this arrangement. He's only been made so aware of it by the reluctance of other Mirrorbound who couldn't stand the thought of pain, and now, even anticipatory... No, he won't let himself dwell on it so much. What's the point? Mettaton makes the conscious choice to relish the pain when it comes, and here, he grips onto Emet-Selch more tightly. He has him right now, after all. He kisses him on his own volition.
Weird, how this makes him appreciate having been tortured. The slip in his own disposition that forced him to discuss things that hit close to home and allowed Emet-Selch's perceptive nature to penetrate him. He cares so much for Emet-Selch and his well-being, his experiences, his safety and his comfort. Oh, how dreadful. His ears flick, leaving them askew atop pillows as they try to push back against plush.]
... You may not realize. But. You really... Gave me something to be hopeful for. Back when we first met. I was in... a lot of pain. I'd go feral on full moons. I felt soulless. Empty. I don't... like to be figured out. And nobody could do it, but I needed it. I'm so relieved that you did, of anyone. You keep me on my toes in ways nobody could but you.
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Affection traded, encouraged. A persistent affirmation of the other's existence, that this moment was currently happening. It was terrible how weak he was to this sort of thing, the Ascian thought. That openness, and understanding and acceptance cut through him, the moment he'd allowed himself even a moment of vulnerability. Even though Mettaton didn't agree with him, he hadn't left him.
He felt weak, just at the thought, lightheaded. Or was that exhaustion? Any time he tried to move or hold the robot firmly, Emet-Selch trembled from it; gentleness was all he had left. And determination to remain. A sound that's just as weak is swallowed up in their kiss, desperate for a similar feeling. To tie himself to something that wouldn't be lost, that wouldn't disappear.
Emet-Selch did not consider captivity to be a positive experience. Encountering Mettaton had been the one gain: their unusual circumstances had been a requirement, he could admit, to obtaining their current closeness. If they'd both been at their 'best', their most controlled, performative appearances- Emet-Selch is almost certain he would've written him off as a trivial annoyance. There would've been no reason, no chance for any sort of Bond. So that much was... fortunate, in some twisted way.
Oh, but the negatives. Paranoia, a greater awareness of his own helplessness, his own fragility. To someone else, this might make a learning or humbling experience, but it had just left him more unstable. Shaken, frightened- his nightmares layered captivity on top of Amaurot's destruction. The idea of going through it again terrified; he didn't know how he'd make it through the next time. Occasionally he wondered if everything now was the delusion- that he was still there, ever awaiting death. That moments like this were the cruelest of all possible torments, that he'd be stripped of it soon enough, to awaken alone and slowly dying.
Of course he hadn't spoken to anyone about any of this.
But Emet-Selch is quiet at Mettaton's words, hand returning to stroking through his hair, petting him as he speaks, and continuing to do so even after he finished.]
...It's not exactly often that an Ascian receives gratitude.
[And he's quite touched by it, while also- displeased to hear of what Mettaton had been suffering through, in addition to literal torture. ...But he supposed that was a normal reaction, when caring about someone. What trouble, feelings were. They always had been.
It's not a- bite exactly, but he takes Mettaton's lower lip between his teeth as he considers, trailing his tongue over it. They still tasted of each other, he thought. Another reassurance, even when he has to let go in order to speak.]
...I would go through it again, then. To meet you, and gain this. And to spare you from your continued fate.
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That... You... Ah...
[That's not something to say lightly. Mettaton doesn't quite mean to, but he ruminates over the worst of it. Flashes of Papyrus's bared teeth. Incisions down his neck, legs, hips, feet. The attempts to pull his body apart when it'd somewhat fused together in its transformation, and the successes they'd managed despite that defense. Depriving him of sense after sense so that he could only feel pain, depriving him even of speech, his greatest defense. Brute force attempts to open his body for their own curiosity. His figure pinched perilously between needle sharp teeth. ... Mettaton catches himself and realizes he's tensed, thoughts racing with nothing at all. He's gripped onto Emet-Selch subconsciously, and while he doesn't relieve his hold, he strokes his back with a hand.
He's positive Emet-Selch came out with worse. To what degree, Mettaton has no idea, but his own greatest loss besides the integrity of his body was his blind adoration in humanity. A major blow to his core, but if Emet-Selch never had that to begin with, his pessimism within those walls worried Mettaton.
The Puca leans in to kiss his Bonded on the lips, gently, soft as his voice. He'd live through it again, too. If he would, he has no room to question Emet-Selch's opting to go through it all again for this sake.]
Thank you. You... mean so much to me, Hades-darling. In body, and soul.
[Because really, he'd been in a wretched state in both beforehand. As if he needed some torture to make it any worse. And what Emet-Selch offers him in both. It amazes.
He feels dizzy from it all. How is Emet-Selch doing with this? Based on his trembling embrace, he can only imagine his exhaustion. There's the hints of it he can feel, though by soul, he feels strong. It never fails to fascinate him, that a soul could feel this level of tenacity while exhibiting external signs of weakness. That's certainly not the condition of monsters, anyway.
Mettaton can only sigh into him again, shifting his lips to kiss him at the corner of his mouth affectionately. He continues to hold him by soul, closing his eye to better allow that pressure to sink over him without knocking him down. He can take him, even knowing what intensity he has within that darkness.
Regrettable, that this extra Bond has left the Ascian in such a state. This spontaneous loss of consciousness he reported. He drifts back toward his lips, kissing him still somewhat skewed to the side. His fingers trace circles into his back, and he speaks close to his face.]
...My gratitude. I'll see if I can find something for you. To keep you from slipping into uncontrollable unconsciousness.
[He's not a Witch, so there's no way he could do something magically. But he can get around and ask questions, pull strings, work favors. He's good at that.]
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That they could cause any doubt at all would only make the Ascian more bitter towards them.]
Ah... thank you.
[For the offer of help, for everything. Just thinking on it all- the wash of emotion that runs through him is closer to adoration than love, leaving him ever weaker in its wake. Feeling that firmer grip, the idol's tension, Emet-Selch clings back in turn- or tries to, fingers shaking as they drag down to Mettaton's upper back, as his body huddles against his. He was so tired. And it was hard not to ruminate on what they'd been through. ...In some ways he supposes it's impressive that they both made it out 'intact.' That they functioned as well as they did.
But they came out of it with the groundwork for this. That was... surely worth some trauma. That was worth drowning himself with Bonds.
As with love, there's despair. Closing his eyes, he leans into those angled-kisses, scarcely breathing. Taking all of him in, soul and lips and arms, his person in its entirety.]
...Should I go under for a long time. Should I not wake up for--
[Months? Years? At all? He doesn't know. He doesn't specify. His host would be long dead after that, and he doesn't know what that would mean for him here. Sighing very quietly, he nudges back against Mettaton's face.]
You're immortal. --Be there when I return?
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He hurts, Mettaton knows. And the robot can't begin to fathom what existence quite feels like after so long, without the same people to live it alongside... Though he's begun to consider it. He only feels fondness for him, in the wake of it all. He gives him a squeeze, and smiles against him at the request. In the end, Mettaton likes being needed. He'd stay for someone who needed him, given dire circumstances. Even if he's gone back on his word before, the only thing that would draw him away is the draw of the mirrors, at this point. He's not even going to spare a thought toward those right now.]
Of course, darling. Being ever-present... It's what I do. You'll always know I'm there. And I will be.
[Mettaton takes the initiative to shift Emet-Selch around so that he could be closer, more comfortable in his grip, positioned in such a way that he could remain huddled against him easily. He'll remain here for as long as he pleases. He's comfortable, besides.
(And if he can ascertain that Emet-Selch has slipped into unconsciousness, he might take that moment to slip away and clean up, then tidy up his room to his liking. The thought excites Mettaton. A little organization to start with, of course. It's the little things. Not quite distractions, but things he enjoys doing. That they'd be distractions is just a benefit.)]
I might get bored, though. Waiting. You won't like what I do when I'm bored... Besides. I have it on good authority... that I'm not a presence conducive to sleep. So don't think you'll get away with a long slumber, at any point, sleeping beauty.
[He has his usual energy back... Mettaton kisses him, but otherwise settles against him.]
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I'm sure you can entertain yourself. You'll manage....
[If he only knew what his room would face... Emet-Selch might be slightly more inclined to find some way to fight unconsciousness. It would be inspirational. Futile, but valiant attempts may have been made. Both now and in future, longer naps.
(Though really, even if he'd been awake- would the Ascian have been able to mount an effective defense of his environment...?)
But as Mettaton seems to be regaining his energy, Emet-Selch is losing ever more of his. Or at least, his complete lack of energy is finally catching up with him (which it was very lazy about doing, honestly; he's been in bed almost this whole time, it wasn't as though it had to chase after him or anything). While there remained a concern that if he did fall asleep, if he did lose track of what was around him, he would wake up and find it all lost- he could see that inevitability approaching irrespective of his fears.
But he presses into that kiss before settling. He would just have to trust him- to exist, and to remain.]
And I wouldn't know about that... you might have a hard time stopping me.
[It might even be too late. Though whether it's just sleep or full unconsciousness, it's hard to say- the line between them is very indistinct. He'll be quite impossible to rouse.]
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He turns his head to exact upon him soft kisses, starting close to his lips but drifting more toward his cheek and his jaw. The hand he has more control over like this continues to draw circles into his back, slow and easy, weighing whether or not he wants to try to pull him up from sleep or not. He decides not: Mettaton isn't aware that if it's unconsciousness, he won't feel rested, so either option just means rest to him. And he did say he'd need more of it than usual to keep from passing out on his feet. Instead of yanking him out of the possibility of slumber, he'll see to it that he falls into it.]
I like a challenge. For now... You get your sleep. [Another kiss, though he moves to give it directly on his lips this time. His voice is low, tinged in his usual spirits, but loving.] I'll see to that, instead.
[More threats for remaining close. The hand that formerly caressed his back moves up his spine, up his neck, and slides into his hair, rubbing circles into his scalp while the arm Emet-Selch lays upon wraps him up and keeps him close. Mettaton's discovered how much he adores closeness with his body, in all of its soft firmness, in all of its fascinating qualities that he covets. He raises his head and places lips to hairline instead, allowing Emet-Selch the ability to just lie there without having his face kissed relentlessly by an amorous Puca. Out of the goodness of his heart.]