[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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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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]