[A memory of weakness, nothing more. Mettaton's statements don't sit entirely well with him, and Emet-Selch tenses slightly, with a degree more defensive irritability.]
It was nothing particularly strong. A lapse of judgement, nothing more.
[A flaw of unwanted sentimentality that he seemed cursed to keep repeating, on targets no more appropriate or lasting. Oh, he could well agree that feelings didn't make sense. If they did, he would've long since reasoned his way out of them. It would've made the passage of time far easier, a duty performed with the appropriate distance and detachment. Never tempted by those brief and shallow lives he was forced to surround himself with.
The other Ascians were not quite so conflicted. While they all disparaged mortals, they didn't despise or resent them to the same degree as Emet-Selch. They also didn't make the mistake of getting at all attached to any of them.
Distracted briefly by thinking back on Mettaton's first statement, he's both unsurprised that the idol had apparently gone for yet another memory, while bewildered as to why he received yet another recent one with Varis, of all people. It wasn't a moment of particular importance, though it would be the last time he'd ever be on the Source. He'd never return from the First....
Which was a thought he didn't particularly want to have (but when did that matter), and he shakes his head at it as he continues.]
But if you've seen that much... yes, Varis was experimenting with the science of cloning, using my original host's remains as a subject. [A light shrug, waiting as Mettaton unlocks the door to his own house (So this is property he's unwilling to damage with a kick, Emet-Selch makes a mental note of. He's also thoroughly unsurprised as to the particular district that Mettaton has decided to grace with his presence.).] The results provided me with a surplus of empty vessels, all at my current apparent age. Although- technically, this particular shell isn't even one of those.
[Might as well explain the rest, he supposes....]
The travel between Source and shard can only be done by soul alone. Though the Exarch found a way around that for our dear heroes... [A continued mystery to him and source of vexation; with another frown he forces himself back on subject.] On my arrival on the First without flesh of my own, I took over some unfortunate at random, molding him into this more familiar shape.
[A lapse of judgement, like any time Emet-Selch holds any manner of fondness for anyone, he supposes. It earns a very short hum that could either be one of curious doubt or one of acknowledgement.
He'd gathered as much about this cloning business, wondering just how many bodies existed in there for Emet-Selch's taking. Enough to jump to them at a moment's notice, he considers, as he pulls open the door and guides Emet-Selch into the dim lobby of the house, lit only by wayward lights from whatever remains down a flanking corridor. Pulling the door shut behind him, he's stricken with the news that this body... somehow isn't one of the products of cloning, but rather, of taking a body and manipulating it to his will. He analyzes it in the low light, but he doesn't really need to. He's already studied him many times before.]
That much ability to alter your form... Such talent. You look just as you did standing before Varis. Haha... You fill me with envy, you know.
[To punctuate this envy, Mettaton takes his free hand and graces his fingers along Emet-Selch's cheek in admiration.
Envy? Mettaton's not lying: he feels envious, but it's not a caustic sort that burns him and Emet-Selch in the process. There's jealousy, but it's more awe and intrigue in his Bonded's ability to not only jump from organic host to host, but the ability to subsequently customize its shape so thoroughly! ...And for as much as Mettaton loves humanity, it's another one of those situations where he feels that a human's life could be spent on housing himself. (Whoops.) Would that he could take on human hosts, only to manipulate them into the perfect image of himself! (Two reasons he'd kill a human: to save humanity, and to achieve a perfect body, apparently.)
But, that's neither here nor there. Impossibility beyond even what he's already achieved, nothing even dreaming could manage. He's more than satisfied with his robotic body, he decides.
It's still impressive that Emet-Selch's current form is the spitting image of the one he saw him with in all other instances, prior to arriving before... the Exarch, and the gaggle of "heroes," none of who were completely recognizable to him. Some of them, he thought he'd seen before, but only traces of.
Yes... another memory consumed. The only awareness he has of the Exarch, really.]
But I imagine it must take something out of you. Molding it to perfection. Clones would make the process far easier. I can see the benefit. Fewer lives taken, which is an added bonus!
[...To Mettaton!
The lights in this house are lit, which yields... a living room within sight, decorated in an expensive, formal-looking black couch, one that surprisingly predates Mettaton's stay here. Some of the furniture comes from previous residents, but none of them had taste objectionable to Mettaton. The overall colors of this room are of blacks and dark greys, with accents of red or, heaven forbid, magenta. Of course. The couch has such bright cushions on it, with the addition of some black, lacy ones... From a distance, it might be difficult to tell, but they've been chewed on by somebody. Not naming names or anything. It's as "modern"-appearing as it can be, given the setting — just the way Mettaton sees style, while Aefenglom's idea of it lags in floral print hell sometimes.
But Mettaton unhands Emet-Selch to let him have the house.]
Upstairs are the rooms. Most of which I also furnished. [Because this is what he does with his money.] Would you like to go there, darling?
[That's all fondness amounted to, ultimately: a mistake. That he was currently indulging in it didn't change that, or make it any less of a poor decision, he thought. A flaw he couldn't overcome, but wouldn't fully embrace. And so, he would continue to take the worst option of repeating the error, while making sure to not enjoy a moment of it.
The low light of the entranceway isn't particularly dimmer than the outside, so it takes little adjustment for Emet-Selch to take in as much as he could of the lobby, before being distracted by the touch to his face, glancing back up to Mettaton at the contact and the comment. Raising an eyebrow at the mention of envy, but- well, he wasn't about to deny the advantages such a skill had brought him.]
Hm, it is a convenient trick, isn't it? But quite tiring, you're right about that. [Lives taken was Not An Issue.] Though with your burgeoning shapeshifting ability, surely you'll be able to match me for it in time. Honestly- [And at this, he fixes Mettaton with an accusatory look- though not a wholly serious one.] I was learning transfiguration for your sake. If I'd known a puca's native talents would leave it redundant, I would've spent the time studying something more useful.
[It's not a field Emet-Selch would've bothered with otherwise. He sighs, even as they pass into the living room, a space where the lights remained lit and he could make out further detail of the house. Stepping into it slowly, approaching it like an animal being released into its new territory, he takes a brief, meandering look around.
The decor was decidedly less garish than he'd expected. Being surprised by that, Emet-Selch supposes, was probably unfair of him. Though not what he would've picked out, the room that Mettaton had taken upon himself to develop for him had been fine. So why wouldn't Mettaton's own house follow similar patterns of acceptable taste? It wasn't as though the Ascian was opposed to accents of color, and the splashes of red (or red-adjacent) in this living area kept it from looking too dull or cold. Aesthetic choices he could accept without issue (though the oddly-damaged pillows were... odd).
But it's soon enough that he completes his small exploratory foray, returning to Mettaton's side and regarding him again.]
You can show me the rest. 'Tis certainly a lot of space for one person.
[He'd been wondering about his note-taking on magic. It was an idle enough curiosity to never feel inclined to inquire upon it. But it leaves him stunned enough that he needs to take a moment to digest this information as he watches Emet-Selch roam, his mind wandering along the lines of his study of transfiguration on his behalf, something he doesn't appear interested in for any other purpose. His mind is quite vivid in its imagination of the whole process, and he suddenly remembers some sort of demand to know why he hadn't demonstrated his capability for shapeshifting before the first time he demonstrated his... trick. He doesn't remember the phrasing clearly — after all, he was a bit Distracted.
So it takes him a moment to recover, flattered and charmed by the effort. He can only imagine how delighted he'd be if he couldn't change the composition of his body on his own. As Emet-Selch returns to him, he waits with a finger pressed over his smile, arm folded over his middle in his satisfaction. He finds it thoughtful, worth all the love he feels for him at the attempted gesture, to know that he has someone who would go through the effort to alter his body further to his perfect liking.
He feels determined to show him his own attempts at practice now. ...Though there's a level of brief unease that washes over him at the prospect. A new development, and it's not insecurity. Unease. Something's gone wrong in his shapeshifting practice, but he'll get to that later.
The robot doesn't take any part of Emet-Selch's speech as criticism, not from the accusatory look to the spaciousness of his chosen residence. The house is a frivolous and convenient inclination on his part, but the reason for his delay in shapeshifting is more complicated. Mettaton nods.]
Yes. Oh! The kitchen is over there... [A point in the direction of it. It's out of sight, but it's one of the fancy houses that people might expect to hire chefs for. Mettaton hasn't quite gotten to that level of excessiveness yet. As for its fixings, there's primarily food that Papyrus eats, food that Mettaton doesn't need to eat but eats anyway, and attempts at cooking. On both of their parts. Dubious attempts with a hit-or-miss in the realm of success (with far more misses), Papyrus's only saved by some guidance from Toriel. Mettaton's? Well... he was surprised at how bad he actually was at cooking, and has remained surprised ever since.] But anyway.
[Upstairs, then. Mettaton doesn't feel he needs to tell Emet-Selch that he has free reign of the place — after all, it's the unspoken truth that what's Mettaton's should also be his, and vice versa. Emet-Selch knows that. As most of the upper area is where any personal quarters are, Mettaton takes this moment to raise a finger.]
I don't live on my own, by the way. I have one housemate... He was quite lonely, by himself. [as if implying that mettaton gave him the grace of moving in with him...] Papyrus. He's a monster, like me... And a Turnskin, here in Aefenglom. I mentioned him to you, I recall. He's chatty. Charming and friendly. Amusing, too... You'll surely meet him, but he keeps himself busy with this or that. Just like I do!
[Friendly and charming, said as a compliment to him with a subdued laugh. Mettaton finds his company pleasant, that much is evident through and through. He's mostly gotten over any residual Rathrmore-based fear of him, far more easily than he could with most. It's hard to find Papyrus scary forever, even if he still freezes up sometimes if he starts getting growly as the full moons close in... It's fine. Mettaton can deal.]
He seems much happier having somebody with my presence living with him! Spacious as it is, I have a way about filling a room. Or, a building.
[As unconscious as he'd been the past month and a few, the Ascian had made slower progress in his transfiguration study than he would've liked, so he figures it's probably to the best that Mettaton was capable of managing it on his own. Still, even if ended up being unnecessary, he didn't view the effort as completely wasted; it had been a project, something to focus some attention on. And if he ever needed to pick up the field again for some other reason, he'd have a head start on learning it.
Though he wasn't entirely sure why (as it hadn't amounted to anything useful in the end), Mettaton looked as though he appreciated his intent- and because he did, that in and of itself made the whole thing feel worthwhile. A strange response to aborted practice. Regardless, he was curious as to how far the idol would be able to go with his shapeshifting powers; what he'd already seen was surely not the limit of it. A thought that has him brush against him as they head towards the stairs, though he spares a look and a nod in the direction of the rumored kitchen.
But it wouldn't come as much of a surprise to Emet-Selch to find that Mettaton was poor at the art of food preparation. Why wouldn't he be? When would he have ever gotten to practice (neverminding that absurdity of a cooking show)? Ghosts and robots didn't or couldn't eat, and however it worked now was something the Ascian didn't particularly care to question. But this would be one household that he wouldn't be raiding for free meals. Would he ever bother to use the kitchen otherwise? Who knows... if anything held him back, it'd be a lack of interest rather than shyness. Everything in this house was his, by virtue of it also being Mettaton's. They both knew that.
The mention that Mettaton had a housemate gives him pause, but he continues momentarily (though he's briefly annoyed that his Bonded hadn't thought to bring this up before). Still, with as large as this place was, did it matter? Emet-Selch had survived a smaller space with three others, and up until recently, it had been something he had faced with a grudging toleration. The identity of said housemate gets more of a frown, and a thoughtful sort of hum, unsure of what he thought about that.]
We've spoken, if only over the network. A loud sort, even in writing. I would hope that doesn't translate elsewhere.
[His hopes were not very high. Still, Emet-Selch didn't particularly dislike him, based on his limited impression of him. An obnoxious, but harmless type. But was everyone from that world excessively optimistic...? It was probably premature to judge a population by two members of it, but he was prepared to do so anyway.]
But I'm unsurprised a sociable sort like him would find your dubious company agreeable. I've no doubt you could fill half the city with your presence if you tried.
[And he says it like it's a bad thing. Emet-Selch also remains under the impression that this was Mettaton's house originally and Papyrus was clearly invited to stay with him, rather than the other way around.]
[A correction he adds with a sort of cocky smirk. Onto addressing Papyrus.]
I'm glad you two have already met! Even if over the network. Yes... He's been a long-time fan of mine. How flattering, to now share space with me. But I think he'll like you, Hades-darling.
[No commentary on how loud Papyrus is. Mettaton doesn't notice anything of the sort, but that's because he's no doubt louder, or otherwise immune. Or otherwise distanced, in this spacious house. Or otherwise not home. It's particularly around full moons that things get stupid... Because Monsters get stupid. Mettaton acknowledges this with some mild chagrin.
The lingering sensation of his Bonded having brushed against him sets Mettaton on the course toward his own room, deciding concretely that he wants to take him in there. As he walks, he gestures with both palms out toward the whole of the hallway.]
Any of these rooms can be yours, at your choosing, sweetheart. Any time! For as long as you'd like. I'm sure there's one you'll find acceptable...
[No pressure to stay, but the invitation to stake claim to the space in a house that could, occasionally, get noisy (and very full of Mettaton), is there.
(For when he gets the chance to take the house for himself, there's a room adjacent to his own that Mettaton has decorated in deep navy blues, dark all around but with the warmth of a hint of gold — choices Mettaton picked to trade his into his Bonded's room as a retroactive correction to customize it to his tastes. But he felt it could wait. And the decor put to use, in the meantime. Now it could be his, only here?)
But Mettaton doesn't point to any room in particular at the moment, instead guiding Emet-Selch to his own. He turns his attention to his Bonded expectantly.]
But right now, I want you in mine.
[Beckoning him to follow, Mettaton's ears are tall yet relaxed. He'll close the door behind him once he enters.
The impression of color is surprisingly not pink. (He can change it to whatever he wants at any time.) Instead, it's purples and golds — and plenty of each, its angle something regal, if not over-the-top. Therefore, it's appropriately Mettaton.
The idol's room is well-kept with far more personal effects than anything Emet-Selch has, a lot of his inclinations leaning toward finery and objects that sparkle. A room for a person who is vain, complete with a full-body mirror. (All the better to admire himself with.) Gemstones and jewelry aren't things he wears for just any occasion, but he possesses it nonetheless, both for wearing and for mere display. He is both Mettaton, and a Puca. An open closet betrays a growing collection of fashion (and it leans ostentatious or crisp and sophisticated), some of which are intended to fit any configuration of his bodies, plus more... normal human-shaped attire. Some books, any indication at all that Mettaton reads sometimes, though the majority of them appear to be fiction. (There's one thick one on the mechanics of Bonding, as authored by a Witch from the Coven.) What else is he to do without TV and without sleep??
(...There's a bin full of chewed pen-shaped objects. Absolutely decimated, and not by the Turnskin in the house. Mettaton would rather that not be noticed.)]
[It would end up being a fairly workable arrangement: leaving his old house when it became too uncomfortable, or for a change of scenery; return to it whenever this place became too loud despite it being larger and having fewer people in it. And whenever Emet-Selch does get a chance to peer through the rooms (of course he'd look through all of them, what was potential privacy invasion), he'd wonder about the blue-and-gold one (which would be what he'd end up accepting). Had Mettaton been intending to invite him, or otherwise thinking of him? He's arrogant enough to assume that's the case, and not just coincidence, or Mettaton having a variety of color preferences. Why wouldn't each room have their own sort of theme?
But an expectation of following is fine with him, moving into Mettaton's space and finding it to be extremely him (even with the lack of pink). If not excessive to the point of tastelessness, it left an impression, and that impression was very Mettaton. And much like with the downstairs, Emet-Selch takes a small roam around the place, taking the measure of this new bit of territory as well.
Sorry, Mettaton, he does notice that bin of incredibly chewed-up pen-shaped detritus, though apart from a very low hum he doesn't comment on it or allow his gaze to linger on it for too long. An easy thing to do, considering how much else the room consisted of. The small details, the things that glittered from any number of directions. The books which stood out by not glittering and also by existing at all- though considering the city's lack of more modern entertainments, he supposed that even the idol might be reduced to having to read something, now and again, to pass the time.
But despite it all, the room didn't feel disordered or cluttered, or a demonstration of hording without intent. This was a place of someone who took care in their surroundings, rather than merely existed within them, which he supposed he could appreciate.]
For someone who doesn't require clothes, you've certainly gained a collection.
[Far, far more than anything the Ascian possessed, though that wasn't difficult. Shaking his head, he returns to stand in front of him, regarding Mettaton in the same way as his room, tone low and a touch amused.]
Do you even use half of all this...?
[It was another choice of living that was foreign to him, to collect things for the sake of the collection, for the display.]
[For now, he merely places a hand upon his hip as he relaxes, observing his Bonded as he wanders his own space with a sort of overbearing appreciation for it. Even if it's a space he's made for himself during this stay in Aefenglom, for however long that'll last, it's still his, as well as everything in it.]
Why does it matter? I like it all. Just as I like to be handsomely dressed.
[Simple as that, because Mettaton's rhyme and reason is to surround himself in things that appeal to his senses, which he's gained more and more of. New appreciations for things, such as touch and smell, yielding to him a preference for certain textiles or the smells of one candle over another. All of these things are things he'll take for himself.
...With such a careful eye for detail, a very troubling aspect of this room might be noticed. There's a spot on the rug for all that he tried to clean it, its fibers a color light enough for it to show. Blood. Mettaton doesn't bleed. The environmental storytelling continues: there's another book that isn't fiction. In fact, it's a text of Aefenglom's understanding of human-and-monster anatomy-physiology. Its spine is turned away from view, however. If it all escapes the Ascian's notice, it's just as well: Mettaton will likely talk about it.
what... what are you doin in here, mettaton...?
Standing before him, Mettaton smiles at him and reaches to press his fingertips to Emet-Selch's chest. His attention rakes up to meet his eyes, taking him in and enjoying his tone of voice.]
It must shock you. To find yourself in someone's space who enjoys possessions as much as I do. I wouldn't take anything in here that I didn't fancy, beautiful.
[As if Emet-Selch is among those things, even though he's a person, not a glittering diamond. His fingertips become his entire palm, a smooth transition into feeling him up again. As one does.]
[Mettaton could dress and own whatever he liked; for all that it was wasteful in a sense, Emet-Selch could appreciate his Bonded's consistency, the ability to know what he wanted, and do as he liked. It was the sort of confidence he could approve of, even if the result was unnecessary fashions and collectables.
And it's likely that he did notice that odd stain on the rug; a flaw in an otherwise tidy (if full of Things) room. Though blood wouldn't have been the first thing to come to Emet-Selch's mind anyway; Mettaton didn't bleed, so how would it be that? A careless drink residue, or some sort of dye- and for that matter, there's no reason to think that the idol even had to be the cause for whatever it was. This house had been lived in before, it was just as likely for it have to originated from a previous owner.
There were any number of viable explanations for something that his eyes note and pass over; 'my robot lover is bleeding somehow' is not one that actually occurs to him. Any alarm and/or concern will be delayed until he knows better.
Especially when he finds himself touched- an expected, anticipated, inevitable event. Though his gaze flickers down to the path of his hand, it otherwise stays on Mettaton's face, and he shifts slightly closer without thinking. Without needing to think, only drawn to him, as was natural. Mettaton's phrasing doesn't escape him; was he another object to be collected, then? The idea doesn't offend: of course he was worthy of possession, that went without question.]
Oh...? Though if you intend to display me here, I fear I don't match your current aesthetic.
[His darker clothes, at least, stood out against the glitter of the room. Or perhaps contrast itself was an appeal, he thought, reaching a hand up to let fingers glide along the side of Mettaton's neck, up and across his jawline, to touch his face. Light but deliberate, he focuses in on the sensation under his fingertips, a most delicate sort of claim. Feeling oddly possessive in turn, for being in a room filled with things that were very clearly Mettaton's (including himself). And, very distantly, a slight relaxation from being somewhere that wasn't a source of discomfort and omnipresent tension.]
[It's almost embarrassing, how little it takes for Mettaton to find himself so enticed by his Bonded, but Emet-Selch's receptiveness to his touch is beyond endearing. If his own hand is merely inviting, Emet-Selch's fingertips, gentle as they are, skim along him with enough potency to leave an impression, a method of claim just as he hopes. His gaze softens and Mettaton, too, shifts closer, keeping his palm pressed securely against the Ascian's chest even as he nudges their bodies together. But his bearing remains sensual in execution, thumb stroking his claim on his chest as the attraction takes the both of them, what follows to be seen.
His fingertips are nudged with his cheek, an invitation to keep him always. He meets Emet-Selch's eyes with that easy smile.]
You can't fool me into letting you slip away, Hades. Not that you want that.
[A smirk as he shifts his body into his Bonded's further yet: taking for himself, yet settling into the other man's claim of him.]
I've already set my sights on you. Intensity enough to leave me stunned, and always wanting more. Undeniable to my senses... Something I enjoy. Yes. You match what I'm after perfectly.
[If there's any tension to be found here, it's merely the electrifying kind, one Mettaton would define as inviting. Mettaton's free arm wraps around Emet-Selch's lower back, giving him greater leverage to firmly prod his lover's chest, covetous yet investigative all over again.
His hand drifts toward the fastenings of his shirt, holding Emet-Selch's gaze with his own. He doesn't quite make a move to disrobe him, but the desire is clear as day. He doesn't stop for lack of conviction, however. A new flash of eagerness shows in him, and he leans more comfortably into his Bonded.]
I did want to show you how much improvement I've made, at shapeshifting into organic beings. Before Bonding with you, I couldn't do it at all. [No shapeshifting, no locating, no luck, only the scarcest hint of sensing for impending danger. No magic whatsoever, and plenty of talents the Puca rely on are magical.] And now... I've found that it's quite a challenge. One I'm going to overcome.
[But it turns out it takes a lot of understanding about his destination form that he just lacks, fundamentally! Witches studying Transmutation find it's easiest to turn things into inanimate objects. A Puca who's already one has a difficult time bridging that gap of assumption.
Assumptions that he thought he'd been doing well on, but his smile seems to drop a shade when he glances away.]
I was making decent progress, until... [A refocus on Emet-Selch.] Anyway. I thought if I could see your body right before me, I could get it right.
[The familiar smugness, the presumption on his wants gets a brief eyeroll even as he settles himself closer. It was certainly the more favorable sort of tension between them, each touch leaving him that little bit more alert, leaning in to breathe a kiss against his lover's jaw. Letting his free hand rest at Mettaton's hip, he's conscious of each degree of their embrace; the closeness they had, the closeness they had yet to attain, and the promise of it.
How quickly his focus itself was claimed remained a source of mild exasperation to him, how easily he takes to him with just a few touches, coupled with the sound of his voice. The claim through words; Emet-Selch hadn't though himself to be after much of anyone, but he couldn't deny the peculiar intensity Mettaton was able to provoke in him. That desire to match and overcome, and be overwhelmed at the same time- yes. He'd found something important without even realizing anything like it existed. His hold on Mettaton tightens for a few seconds, in some unconscious reassurance that it was real.
Humming quietly to himself, he can imagine that it would be quite hard for many monsters to do much of anything without a Bond- especially after going without one for as long a period as Mettaton had seemed to. And while, really, Bonding to any witch would've surely had the same effect, Emet-Selch is satisfied regardless that it's his magic alone supporting him and allowing this- which made Mettaton's abilities also his. And in a fonder sense: pleasure that even his passive existence was providing a benefit to him, letting him obtain the more organic form that he wanted.
...Or sort of obtain, because that certainly sounded as though something had not gone entirely to plan.]
Until?
[Fascination and attraction remained, even as he focuses in on that word over the others. The touch of his hand at his face firms slightly, as he leans back just enough to meet his eye again. Watching Mettaton glance away and then back, his own attention steady, even as he keeps his face close. Aware of the hand reaching the fastenings of his shirt. An awareness that keeps him from pressing forward too much, not wanting to get in the way of it, clearly desiring to feel his hands and his eyes on his body properly.]
Still, if an example is all that you require- that's something you hardly need to ask for, is it? I admit my curiosity... towards seeing how far your practice has taken you.
[Preferring to focus the permission he didn't require, for an opportunity he's greatly appreciative of, Mettaton smile turns self-satisfied as his hand gets to work baring his lover's chest for his thorough examination. But he knows it's both that, and his face he needs the most of all. The proximity of his Witch's magic could only help, too.
It's hardly seeking permission, and more of a warning for his intent. The study and focus his body will be treated to, the kind Mettaton imagines he will be thoroughly distracted from even as he attempts to stare dead-on at his Bonded's form. Therefore, it's the the perfect kind of distraction. A distraction of lust rather than anything... unsuitable, unsavory, disturbing. The kind jarring enough to twist the outcome into something seared into his memory.
All he has now is a distorted memory of his end result. Even the thought has his thoughts deadening.
The robot soothes his own nerves, nerves nothing like the sort for stage fright or the like. It's been a gradual wearing of them, strung out and tested for their breaking point over the span of just weeks. His conviction bounces unsteadily between apprehension and total assurance in his abilities. His fingers work Emet-Selch's clothes, an easy initial response tumbling from his lips to buy time before describing the problem at hand.]
Thank you, darling. I always know I can rely on you to invest yourself in something that matters to me... [A smile, heartfelt even as his eyelids remain heavy.] I can't say for sure that I know exactly what it should feel like. Being human. But that's why it takes me this extra step. I studied it about a month ago, and then... Well. Having your body as my muse, I couldn't possibly get it wrong, at this point.
[Mettaton brings his other hand forward to assist him in making quicker work of Emet-Selch's clothes. He's sure, it can only improve. It was going so well. He was understanding better the nuance of a body, how to achieve a more convincing, lifelike form. Some of his initial attempts were good, but lacked proper elements to be better lifelike: a pulse, breathing, the proper bend to joints. He didn't see anything wrong with it... until he compared his mental notes of himself to people around him. Interesting how experience in itself enhances his own perception of others. A cycle of feedback.
Slipping his hands into Emet-Selch's clothes, one hand settles upon the Ascian's waist while the other moves to slip his clothes over his shoulder, beholding as much as proximity will allow with a once-over and a steady smile. Then, he meets his eyes again.]
There was something... I saw. Something in somebody's memories. It disrupts my thoughts sometimes, when I try to imitate a human form. When I messed up the first time, seeing my form like that... It's all I can think of, now. ... I need to get it right. That's all.
[To transform one's body into something never truly experienced before- a complicated task. Particularly when going from inorganic to fully living; the amount of messy detail involved, the things that could go wrong were honestly a bit staggering. That there would be setbacks was only to be expected. Yet he decides to not point this out; something like this required confidence and focus, and he suspected that admitting to the possibility of error would just make it more likely to occur. It was perhaps better to expect a perfect outcome, and then, if it went horribly wrong regardless, to deal with the consequences at that point.
So Emet-Selch nods, believing that he understood the problem, if not exactly the imagery plaguing Mettaton's attempts. But the idol had seen something unpleasant and disruptive and presumably humanoid, if attempting to transform himself was leading to recall that distortion instead. A similar thing could happen in concept creation, with a distraction, or a stray thought during the process leading to unintended results. But when the subject of such magic was one's own body, the consequences for distraction became far more troubling....
No wonder Mettaton seemed nervous, or unsettled; as the idol's hands began working at his clothes, Emet-Selch leans in to nuzzle slowly at his face, as though to assure, or distract in a more positive direction. It was unusual to sense anything from the robot other than confidence and related annoyances, and his reflex was to encourage him to remain on the more optimistic side of things. A bizarre thing for the Ascian to encourage, but- he wanted him to succeed; he expected him to. Without having witnessed any failed attempt, Emet-Selch believed he was entirely capable of getting it right. The idol was resourceful and competent at things that mattered to him, and this surely applied.
With his shirts undone, he briefly lets go of Mettaton's body to allow them to be pushed back, away from his shoulders, and from there, to work free from them entirely, letting the fabric drop to the side. It's only then that he responds to his Bonded's words, tone deliberately casual.]
Your place is in the present, isn't it...?
[What a thing for someone like him to remind Mettaton of, and his gaze is expectant, perhaps arrogant. There's no trace of concern- but then, concern could only exist if there was any reason to think about failure, a chance for some negative outcome. So rather than a gentle nudge towards reassurance, it edges towards daring instead, bringing his head up and leaning in to cover Mettaton's lips with his own. Hands going to either side of his head, he pulls him in, demanding his attention with a hitch of breath. If Mettaton was going to be distracted, it would be by him, not the terrors wrought by someone else's memories.
That's the goal, anyway. Emet-Selch was certainly distracting himself, at any rate, a touch out of breath when he finally has to pull back, though he lingers at his face, still holding onto him.]
Of course you'll succeed. With everything you require at your fingertips, there can be no other outcome.
[Emet-Selch is on the same wavelength as Mettaton. If he has his body before him, if Emet-Selch commands his attention entirely, how could he err? For all that his last attempts haunt him with their uncanny terrors manifested on his very own body, that's a thing of history if he has a proper example right before him. A reminder of what he wants, in the flesh.
And to be pulled into such a rough kiss... Mettaton starts, but he quickly takes the mood of his Bonded and runs with it, like adding gasoline to fire. He presses into him, shuttering his eye with a soft sigh of pleasure while a hand roams his chest. He feels for skin, the press of tissue and muscle, and not a single exposed rib. Naturally: everything here is properly formed. He doesn't even let himself think of those mistakes, instead slipping comfortably into desire for the other man. His pressure, his taste, and his touch... And soon, his warmth.
Because the Ascian's demand and dare is communicated crystal clear, and it settles into him as a hybrid mix of jealousy and daring for himself. He wants what he feels, both to steal his form, and to consume his body. Even to witness him edging toward breathless when he ends their kiss, Mettaton admires such a reaction and fixates on it. It's easy to do, considering how often he wants to render him in that way.
Mettaton responds well to the pressure of confidence. It feels like his only option is what's at his fingertips. He continues to prod flesh, to run his palm along skin, a smooth plane of distraction. Even as he caresses his thumb along scars, the whole of him only serves to tantalize the robot to his own pursuits.
He emits a short, breathy laugh. This was going to be easy. Why ever did he find it would be so difficult before? He pushes forward even in Emet-Selch's grip to recapture his lips in a firm kiss, swiping his tongue along his lower lip.
The idol's smile is cocky when he pulls back, keeping Emet-Selch's face in view.]
Yes... Yes. With a sight like you set before me, right now... For me to touch and experience. I'll finally achieve my best attempt yet. Now.
[Mettaton reaches up to readjust one of Emet-Selch's hands. The one on the right side of his face is made to remain, though he tosses his head to ensure that his lover's fingers remain pressed directly against the half of his face that's incomplete under that fringe of his bangs. A calculated move: a reminder that not... missing part of his face? (Even if it's incomplete. That doesn't translate well to being human, it turns out.) His other hand is free to do as he pleases. Mettaton's fingers return to busy with his chest.]
[His instinct seems to have been correct: to goad, rather than reassure. If confidence was the idol's strong-suit to begin with, there was no reason to not play into that.
Learning- or rather, reminding himself of him through touch was entirely reasonable, and the Ascian makes a low, approving sound at the thought of it. And, moreso, at the feeling of it. Scars may have marred his skin, but they were properly healed, only a variation of texture that still lied well within acceptable, normal limits. Flaws that were just details, and Emet-Selch shivers faintly under the explorations of Mettaton's hands. Presses into them, and closer to his body as well.
With one of his own hands encouraged to remain at the idol's face, his fingers cup the shape of it more firmly, thumb tracing along underneath that unfinished eye. Something that he considered only rarely as it was so normally hidden, though he wondered now, if Mettaton took a fully human body, whether it would remain non-functional. Not that it mattered in either case, Emet-Selch thought, considering the idol's hairstyle.
The hint of tongue and damp against his lip counted as a lure- or at the very least, it served as one, pressing back to Mettaton's with a swipe of his own. A contact followed by the claiming of his lip by teeth, sucking slowly at it, before slipping his own tongue past it, to claim the rest of his mouth as well. A feeling that has his own eyes finally close, to slip more fully into the moment. The familiar taste and heat of his mouth (a distinction he could only find early on, appreciating it while also looking forward to that point where they'd mingled so far that they tasted the same--), the shape of his face under his hand. Mettaton's own hands stroking over the skin of his chest, distinctly aware of the path of each finger.
His free hand drifts down from Mettaton's face to his neck, and from there to trace over the idol's chest in turn. The shape and unyielding nature of him was also familiar at this point, and expected. While it had certain disadvantages when it came to degrees of comfort while being pressed to it, he'd accepted that almost immediately. It was just a part of what Mettaton was, another distinction, and the Ascian doesn't think much of showing an inorganic shell his care and attention. Really, his only hesitation was in recognizing it as affection in the first place, rather than the consistency of Mettaton's body.
Even so, he was curious as to how far his Bonded's shapeshifting ability could go, how accurate it could be. But Emet-Selch was certain that whatever the result was, he could work with it; a robot body was fine, why would anything else daunt him?
Though he thinks to reply, that would mean not kissing him, would mean wasting his breath on speech when his actions were enough of an affirmation, he felt. His body shifts closer, still demanding his lover's touch, the whole of his attention, the small sound he makes swallowed up by their kiss.]
[So he focuses on this. Emet-Selch's kiss occupies much of his attention with all other stimuli an accompaniment. Mettaton falls into the kiss, slackening somewhat as he relies upon locked knees to keep himself upright.
There's something enchanting about having his body touched by somebody who exhibits signs of transparent love for him. Mettaton feels he's completely worthy of the attention, but when turning into a human hangs in the balance, it charms him all the more that Emet-Selch would always fascinate himself over his long-awaited body. It's evident in his fingers and his deliberation. His attention follows the path of his fingers, too, even as his own travel down Emet-Selch's sternum and move to handle his chest with both hands, pressing into him with both fingertips and palms. Their kiss is a delectable focus: mutually, he tastes for his Bonded and knows that, given their history, this is a taste that'll soon be lost to his own mouth in due time. He hums around his lover's tongue, fingers and claws subconsciously curling into his skin as if attempting to grip onto him. He slides his tongue against the other man's, the entirety of his action enough to give Mettaton a good shiver.
The feeling of his thumb taking such a gentle path around the remnant shape of his eye is unique, something he feels just about as often as Emet-Selch regards it at all, which is rare. But it's reassuring: Mettaton's tactile in affection. It soothes him, all while serving to remind him of tangibility. It's always a problem with that, in the end: what's present, and what's disturbingly not.
And he's very present, in all senses of the word. Drinking in the way Emet-Selch asserts himself, the way his fingers trace over his chest, takes further claim upon his mouth (something Mettaton's sure they'll be doing plenty of to come, he can feel it and it sparks like electricity to consider), and to take his cue for touch. Mettaton's fingers trace over his skin, one hand pressing firmly into his torso while the other flicks one of his nipples before rubbing, and it's another point toward just wanting, all of it.
He wants to experience this. The idol doesn't see why he can't have his way. He wants Emet-Selch in every way possible, and this is one of those absurd possibilities afforded to him, after all. He opens his eye. Focuses on Emet-Selch's face, even from this close proximity. He wants to impress him, but he also wants to have him in every way. And, he wants Emet-Selch to have him in return.
So he shifts. It's all of him, all at once, a drastic change in texture and tenderness. Emet-Selch's fingers trace over skin now, a body built and lean and decently toned. Skin warm, perhaps warmer than a human's should be, it's a forgivable mistake coming from his own perceptions of temperature. Mettaton's claws are gone, replaced by proper fingers (though he still envisions the wrong number of them); and though his eyes are closed, they're dark as his hair, the perfect image of what Mettaton would have been if he were made human instead of machine.
Importantly, there aren't any nightmarish mistakes. No missing pieces or exposed insides, no disfigurement or dripping blood. Only benign hiccups, like too-hot temperatures and too-few fingers.
And he knows it's worked: he has an actual pulse, and he feels it jump in his throat. Real functional lungs he could be rendered breathless with. And he emits a noise of pleasure at the way the air chills against his naked body — it's not as though he was wearing anything to act as a buffer against it. He jolts in place before he wraps his arms around his Bonded's back, hungrily drawing him close to his body: for contact, for love, and for warmth, even though he feels feverishly hot already. Hot, and already aroused.
The contact of pulling Emet-Selch to his body shocks him. He gasps at the feeling, and he's forced to break the kiss in his excitement. He takes a gulp of air, delirious.]
Ah— Hades...! I...
[There's a lot for the idol to focus on. His success, first of all. But the sudden sensation of the Ascian's body pulled flush to his own, his arousal shoved against his figure... Mettaton's eye's wide, lips parted, hips automatically grinding into his lover as muscle tenses.]
[The slide of tongue and grip of claws was enough on its own to keep his captured attention solely on the man in his arms. A fixation that Emet-Selch expects returned, and seems to receive, taking in the attention with a rush of emotional warmth joining the physical. The mutual wanting that was apparent in each bit of contact, no matter how small or teasing. And why shouldn't they have all of one another? It wasn't a matter of right or desire, but simple mechanical possibility. And with Mettaton's ability with the potential to bridge that divide- success was the only permitted outcome.
But it was still something of a startle, when the tracing of fingers across the firmness of metal became the differing firmness of skin. A solidity that yields to the reflexive tensing of his hands, a brief clutching at Mettaton's face and chest. At a skin too warm, perhaps, but not unpleasantly so; a fever that matched the idol's own nature.
If Mettaton hadn't broken the kiss from his own reaction, Emet-Selch would've been forced to in his stead, eyes flashing open again to stare, fascinating himself over everything he could see at this close distance. What he could make out of his face and upper torso, meeting his gaze when the idol's own eyes reopen. He'd found out that a puca's eyes were yellow; this darker violet then was Mettaton's original- or rather, his intended color, that detail standing out even amongst the overwhelming rest of him. And while he liked the gold in itself (a small point they had in common), he would admit that purple, perhaps, suited him better....
Unwilling (and once he's pulled closer again, unable) to get a full look at him yet, sensation would have to do in its place, but sensation was more than enough. His chest was pressed to the heat and texture of skin, something far easier to meld himself to. His Bonded's arms provide a similar sensation, and he shivers at his awareness of it. His own arms end up dropping to wrap around Mettaton in turn, smoothing quickly along the expanse of his back, getting an impression of muscle that just- hadn't been there before. The sign of organic strength rather than that from a machine. And of course, the clear feeling of the idol's erection pressing against his body, a hardness that has his own pulse leap, hips grinding back against him, taking an obvious pleasure at having that obvious sign of his lover's desire for him pressed to his body. Though his own was still clothed, the shape and increasing stiffness of it is more than evident as he shifts, to rub it against Mettaton's exposed cock.]
See? There-- [Breathless again for a moment, he brushes a brief kiss to his Bonded's lips. His voice is low, satisfaction- perhaps even excitement- writ into it.] There was no chance of failure.
[His breath becomes a shuddering sigh, as he dips his head to press lips along the idol's throat, learning and tasting this new texture of him, enticed by what he could feel of a pulse underneath skin. And, on curiosity, his mouth closes around a patch of his neck, wondering if he could suck a mark onto him for once.]
[Mettaton smiles silly with the eye contact of his Bonded, mind buzzing on a high while his attention is bright and lively, beside himself at this crash course to being made more human while in the presence of another person. The mere attention and unreality of it all astounds him. Mettaton can only agree: there was no chance for failure with both of their plans in motion. All notion of his previous mistakes are discarded, pushed far away from his immediate memory to make room for whatever he sees in this body and its successful conceptualization.
The way Emet-Selch shifts his hips so he can feel that hard line beneath clothes has Mettaton's grip tightening, breath catching on an exhale, making short work of a moan as he pushes forward his hips again, wanting greater contact with the Ascian's body. His body, shirtless, which is still something warm and pleasant even against his own: he grips onto him, just as delighted by that sensation as he imagined he'd be. Though built curvy in his own right with a narrow waist, it's nowhere near the dramatic angles and curves of his robotic figure, and Emet-Selch fits against him perfectly with the mutual give of their bodies. Even something that minute doesn't escape Mettaton's notice, and he hums, tugging him close.
His kiss is met with an electricity, even as he shudders. Mettaton stops focusing on his body for a moment to instead focus on Emet-Selch, his words filling him to the brim with adoration as his fleeting kiss is yet another way to fill him up. His hips roll into Emet-Selch, a movement almost brazen if it weren't that he was already completely revealed and completely hard to compare. It couldn't get more brazen than that.]
I take it you're... You like what you feel... Oh—!
[Emet-Selch moves to his throat and Mettaton predicts what he's going to do seconds before he does it, taking a preparatory gasp as he swallows hard. He can't even brace himself for the sensation, which is different than how it feels on his regular body: his moan has an edge of pain to it, but it softens into one of pleasure as soon as he acknowledges that this is how it feels. Mettaton bares his neck, granting access to his Bonded with a perverse excitement for the impending marks to be left behind, more things he's coveted desperately finally given to him.
His arms further entwine around the Ascian, shifting to his upper back as he pulls him in, demanding his complete attentions upon his body. His pulse thrums under Emet-Selch's attentions, and as Mettaton can feel the beat of it under the pressure of his lips. He shudders and clings, shoving his hips into him further, unashamed to show the full of his want. A rub against the form of his lover's arousal, the feeling of it and knowledge of it pleasurable in its own right. Mettaton closes his eyes to better appreciate the feeling of Emet-Selch at his neck.]
Yesss, Hades... I want to see... What you do me...
[It's terrible that he still wants to mark him up in return, with just as much fervor as he did in their dream. The lingering memory of blood entices him too much for him to leave it at brusies. But Mettaton is filled with every manner of want: a dizzying amount, and he exhales shakily at it all.]
[It was interesting how things that would normally be expected or routine became newly enticing all on their own, by virtue of circumstance. The give of skin and underlying muscle, the sound of breathing, the slight shift of Mettaton's chest with each exhalation, the thrum of a pulse underneath his lips: all basic signs of life became sensations worth particular enjoyment, largely in part because of Mettaton's own pleasure in it. In seeing him achieve something so wanted, Emet-Selch hums against his throat in satisfaction. It was the same feeling he'd had when the idol had first demonstrated a partial transformation to him, now only greater, and he still found it a bit strange to take so much pleasure in seeing someone else's happiness. A vicariously experienced positivity? Or just- caring for the welfare of someone important to him.
But the physical pleasure of it was nothing for him to discount either, noticing as well how more closely their bodies matched, the softness of the chest pressed to his, and Emet-Selch shivers again at the thought of having their bodies fully entwined like this. Flush and giving and excessively warm; he bites at Mettaton's neck to stave off a moan. Drawing back just enough to observe the mark he'd successfully left behind has his breathing catch anew- and then is caught again by the thrust of hips against his, the sudden pang of need leaving him shuddering, aching deeply for him. His eyes close again as he licks over the bruise he'd left behind, breath heavy as he trails to another spot on his neck, closing in on it with lips and teeth and pressure. Spurred on further by the sound of Mettaton's voice, unsurprised but still- rather touched to hear that the idol shared in his desire to leave some manner of reminder upon his skin. For all that it would only last as long as the transformation did, but- Emet-Selch didn't want to think about that.
They would both know that it had been there, for all that such demonstrations of possession weren't necessary to start.
And he had no doubt that Mettaton would be eager to return the favor, the thought of taking those marks from him again, now that they were no longer in a dream and would linger appropriately, has him biting harder again. Yes: a visual sort of claim that they could share in for a time, and he ached for his imagining of it.
But with such access to his lover's throat, Emet-Selch was disinclined to leave it yet, leaving a damp line over heated and vulnerable skin as he mouthed across it. Moaning softly against his skin at the blatant desire from the other man, the way they were rubbing their erections against one another, separated by only a few pieces of inconvenient fabric. Even with the constriction that he felt around his own, there was more a sense of anticipation rather than frustration. The knowledge of how soon and how easily they could press to one another, skin against skin, leaves his legs feeling almost weak. There was- so much that he wanted, something that he was still unused to feeling. There had been duty and naught else, but now--
To look forward to something so much- to want something so dearly. To want someone so dear to him: it has his breath trembling, hands kneading a slow path along his lover's spine, feeling as though he had to learn his body all over again, but not at all minding the prospect.]
[And Mettaton would agree that the fact that they both know of their mutual claim is what matters. Every mark he's ever made on Emet-Selch had been there, and the same is true for himself, even when marks cannot be made.
This isn't the first time Mettaton's attempted shapeshifting into a human, but it's the first time it's felt so correct. It's always felt right, but every part of this form responds to Emet-Selch's touches as it should, every nerve firing off just right, every prod and lick a different texture and sensation beyond even what he's been granted in his EX body.
He can feel all of the same by touch now, but who knew that the ability to feel temperature would change so much? Emet-Selch's mouth is so warm, he knew that. But to feel it on his neck, his tongue and teeth and lips, only to feel him drift elsewhere for his work to be left to chill... It leaves Mettaton shaking, clutching onto Emet-Selch with yet another shuddering breath. Wetness in itself feels entirely different, and the pressure of sucking on his skin and the subsequent bruising has him gasping some more, soft noises of pleasure accompanying each new kiss and mark. It's a needling sort of pain that blooms purple, at first mere pain before being converted immediately into raw pleasure. Signs of Emet-Selch's ardor, reciprocated by Mettaton entirely.
Being bitten down upon, harder this time, has Mettaton crying out. He squirms, pulls more tightly on the Ascian's body before hiccuping over his own breath, an interruption spared for the way his erection presses so firmly against his lover's.
Fixating so hard on how different everything feels has Mettaton's embrace tightening as his knees wobble, though his thighs remain taut as he continues to rub his cock against the impression of Emet-Selchs through fabric, unable to control his craving for more now that he's been given a taste. He exhales a particularly hard breath to accompany a tremble, sucking in air as he bites his lip at the sensation of both his lover at his neck and the way his hands travel down his back.
From chills of a psychological nature to the impression of air against saliva, to a lack of clothes and the suggestion of his lover's arousal and what it means for their immediate future, he has every reason in the book to shiver.
Mettaton's hands pet along Emet-Selch's back encouragingly. It's so nice to feel the press of skin against skin, the embrace in itself bringing a unique satisfaction in its warmth and softness. A softness bodies like these have that still expresses the passion he harbors. Mettaton can hardly stand it: it's surreal, holding his Bonded like this, and it feels like every time before is just as surreal and wonderful. He smiles. While Emet-Selch busies himself with his shoulders and his neck, Mettaton takes a chance to rub his cheek against the Ascian's head with a particular longing, full of love, aching and overfull at his attention and care and the want he feels from him.
The result of their entire relationship is that Mettaton loves him after all, for as much as he taunted him with it many months ago. Aside from the pain that comes of love, he could never hurt him. No matter what, he doubts he could. He doesn't have it in him, completely prone. He sighs, nuzzling him harder.]
Hades... Bed. Y... You're doing a number on me.
[That is, if both of them keep feeling weak-kneed, something ridiculous is bound to happen. It should be obvious that Mettaton's already made some of his weight Emet-Selch's responsibility. Taking his own weight back somewhat, one of his hands ventures down automatically to tease at the band of Emet-Selch's pants, pulling at the front with a finger before letting go. Flirting with the desire to strip him down, once he gets the chance.]
[Another moment, another patch of skin marred by ardent sucking, though the Ascian was reluctant to bite down too hard, at least just yet, unsure whether this body could withstand the same sort of grinding pressure as his robotic form. But the results, as they were, both satisfied, and left him with a need for ever more of them. Not only now, but in future- to repeatedly stake his claim on him in this fashion. Though possessiveness was nothing new at this point, the feeling of wanting all others to know that Mettaton was his was, and he wondered then if the puca had the same feeling when marking up his own neck.... It's a thought that leaves him both warm and a bit smug, presuming that of course Mettaton would have the inclination, and why shouldn't he? He was a worthy thing to be possessive of.
The nuzzling provokes a low, rumbling noise of pleasure from him, deep in his own throat, the sensation joining all else that he could feel and hear. The way he was pulled closer, each interruption to Mettaton's breathing, the trembling of skin against his providing the most delicate of friction. The far less delicate shove of the idol's cock against his body, and everything that it meant. The teasing suggestion offered by the brief tug at the front of his pants, though Emet-Selch can only sigh at the resulting throb of his arousal, how immediate his response was to even the thought of having his lover's hands and body pressing over sensitive flesh. How primed he was to react to him, to even the suggestion of him, the sound of his sighs and tone of his voice.]
Ah- yes....
[And the reminder it brought that they were still standing, and another suggestion worth heeding. Though it's with some reluctance that he has to lift his head slightly from Mettaton's neck- leaving it for the moment with another swipe of tongue against a most satisfactory bruised patch- in order to reorient himself in an unfamiliar room. To remember where the bed was, to make sure there was nothing in the way as his hold on his Bonded adjusts, to press and guide him back towards it. Even Mettaton moving to not lean on him to the same degree leaves him off-balance, and with as unsteady as they both were, it was both the most sensible and most comfortable option.
But apart from noting their surroundings out of necessity, Emet-Selch's gaze and attention is pulled back to Mettaton almost immediately, an inexorable pull towards his Bonded. And from looking at him, eyes flitting over his neck, his face, it became just as necessary to kiss him again, leaning up to capture his lips with... altogether more gentleness than he expected. But it's no less intense for it, that longing for him that much more evident, perhaps, in contrast to the soft deliberation in which he presses to his mouth.
...How completely prone they were to each other, he thought. An awareness that weighs heavily upon him, that dragged him under. But it's nothing that he would've changed, even if he could, even if it would be the more sensible thing- to not care, to not be so attached. Shifting a hand up again, he's drawn to touch his face once more, with the same feeling behind it as the kiss: soft but intense.]
[This pattern of their intensity swinging from sensual and lusting to vulnerable and emotional is all the more reason to find themselves somewhere they could fall into each other rather than away, and Mettaton, not wanting to separate from the Ascian in the slightest bit, starts to follow him... until he feels his eyes on him, attention locked on Emet-Selch in turn. A chill courses through him that serves only to heat him up, overcome as his Bonded steals him in yet another kiss along their way to the bed. Such a distraction, they both are to one another...
His kiss feels undeniable, an expression of his depths that Mettaton can only respond to with his own heights, arms once more encircling his body, fingers and palms pressing into his back. To appreciate his body, to memorize his dimensions, and to brand him with his touch, all in one.
Any manner of intensity is one that Mettaton will step up to and match in his own right. This is no different: it draws from an emotional reserve that grows deeper and deeper by the day for Emet-Selch, impossibly. He feels so alive in this moment between himself and his lover that the potency of his feeling leaves him forgetting to breathe or to even try, kiss gentle but likewise intense. He feels the heat of his own body warming the space between them. It's space he wants to close, Mettaton decides. Obscene, in the way that he wants so much. He could nearly succumb to his primal desire and pull him to the floor as he is, ravish him and take him there, and he shudders at the thought. His cock aches; his craving for the Ascian's body burns hot enough to sear him.
Just before he loses himself in the kiss, Mettaton breaks it with the same tenderness that it's built upon, exhaling whatever breath he has left as his body forgets how to respond at all. Such gentleness paid toward him, an obvious desire amidst an obvious care. His awareness is static, nothing more. He couldn't remove his arms from Emet-Selch if he tried.
But they still have a destination, and Mettaton remembers what it means to take a shallow breath, at least. He does, and immediately expels it in a short, dizzy laugh, lovestruck and heartsick both. Ultimately drunk, and wanting to slip further into intoxication. His voice is mildly teasing, incredibly flirtatious, and low with his desire. He leans his forehead into Emet-Selch's for some added stability. His entire world is within this room, right now.]
Oh, my. Aren't you distracting. You can have it all, darling. Every bit of me... You know patience.
[Mettaton takes initiative on unsteady feet, urging his Bonded along: if he's going to be so distracted by Mettaton, which he should be, he can finish guiding him to where he can indulge fully in this distraction he loves to provide. The idol lures him forward by stepping backwards toward the bed, and once he feels its edge against the backs of his legs, he slides onto it, pulling Emet-Selch down with him.
It's just as soon as they make it there, as soon as Emet-Selch edges onto the bed after Mettaton's body that Mettaton takes his turn to lunge for him, pulling Emet-Selch into a deep kiss with as much intensity as before, but with a touch of his unrestrained fever. A gentleness with a passion. The taste of his Bondmate has Mettaton moaning into their kiss, and he nips at his lower lip as his hands drop to the fastenings of his trousers, the ache he feels in his entire body suggestive to him of both adoration and carnal desire. He makes a soft noise into his kiss, a contented sigh to finally be somewhere he could fall. Somewhere they could both fall.]
[For once, he's not the only one with the limitation of breathing, the requirement for air. The same forgetfulness when it came to taking it, when there were far more important actions to occupy oneself with. And another thing he could finally steal from Mettaton, to add to all else that he wanted to take from him. Yet another thing he wanted to keep to himself- like that small laugh from his Bonded, his manner of expressing this distressing amount of need, with a lightness and joy that he could only witness and envy him for. And a voice he could lose himself to entirely, every aspect and quality having the capacity to distract and arouse him. To sharpen his focus onto sound alone, and the person behind it.
With an equal refusal when it came to separating from his body, Emet-Selch matches him for steps, moving with him as he closes in on the bed. That lurking intensity on Mettaton's part was a hard thing to miss, that awareness only feeding into his own, returning it back to him in a repeated building of pressure; it felt like skirting along a knife edge, softness and gentleness barely masking the passion underneath. Not really masking it at all, but tempering just the smallest degree, the barest amount, when any sudden move on either of their parts could lead to it snapping- a dragging down onto whatever surface was closest, to burn and tear and love without reserve. His breath still shudders at the strain of it, and he swallows heavily. Follows after without pause, crawling onto the bed and Mettaton, noting the sensation of both with a mild relief. If it was inevitable to collapse somewhere, this would at least be a more comfortable spot.
He did know patience. It was difficult, a painful thing, when he wanted something so much, had it dangled in front of him like this. A desire both stoked and soothed when he's dragged back against Mettaton's lips, an attempted breath choked off, pushed back, disappearing fully into that kiss. There was an adoration here that could burn, that was deep enough to cut, and Emet-Selch pushed back the pain too, nuzzling forward against his Bonded's lips with a small sound. And his hips jerk forward, unable to stop himself, at the promise Mettaton's hands brought him, his trousers feeling more constrictive by the moment. An ache that joined all the others, caused by a truly excessive amount of affection. Eventually, reluctantly, he has to breathe.]
Patience- is highly overrated. Or do you think you're any more prone to it?
[Words and the accompanying thought are interrupted by another sigh, another kiss- so light to keep from snapping down. Eyes half-open to keep an impression of Mettaton's face in mind, he trails a hand along neck and shoulder, digging in with the tips of his fingers, still becoming accustomed to the unfamiliar give to him. Where muscles attached, where blood (presumably) ran underneath.
And how warm; it wasn't as though his robotic shell had been cold, had contained a great deal of heat really, that just needed to be brought to the surface. But now that warmth was just there, completely available to bask in, a lure that he wanted to give into entirely.]
[And that jerk of his hips has Mettaton's eyes widening by degrees, an edge of excitement he already had compounded upon. It's a sharp intake of breath through his nose even into their kiss before the other man breaks it, all of which is expelled all at once when he moves to speak.
Instead of hearing him at first, Mettaton's attention is dragged down to the front of his pants, pleased that there's light enough for him to see it all — and for him to be seen in return. He loves being watched. He spares a glance to Emet-Selch's face again, noting his half-lidded gaze, before he brazenly fixates upon the work of his hands with an impatience for clothes and a hunger he wouldn't bother to disguise. His own hips shift impotently, sympathetic for his Bonded's desires and his captivity, even though he's never felt what it's like to be aroused beneath fabric. No, his sympathy comes from the feeling of being aroused and having nothing to show for it.
He practically tears Emet-Selch's fly open and yanks his pants down, increasingly feverish as his breaths become shorter and harder. His eye nearly glazes over just as he reveals his lover's cock, watching bounce to upright attention as he pulls it from its confines. And then, Mettaton moans in sympathy: there's no contact, nothing at all, just the sight and all of his craving, the way that being watch feels as if it intensifies even his own experiences. He exhales breath he almost has none of, finding it hard to take in anything more in the heights and heat of his appetite. He has no room in his body for air. He wants to fill himself with Emet-Selch instead.
The idol opens his mouth to speak as his hands reflexively grab onto Emet-Selch's hips. Something about patience, he thinks. It is overrated, and when he thinks about his Bonded's experience with it... This man has scarcely known reward from patience. It brings Mettaton to smile at him when he thinks about how he can be rewarded for a lack of it through indulgence, and he finally pries his attention from the coveted sight of Emet-Selch's cock to meet his lover's eyes, squirming against the bed as he resumes breathing, short and shallow as though to keep enough room in his body for everything else.]
I know it. [Patience. He... says he knows patience, all while unable to stay still and wait for anything at all. His hands are on Emet-Selch's hips, attempting to pull the other man onto his wanting, trembling body.] And... we don't need it. I-
[Dazed. Lusting. He can't think, gazing upon Emet-Selch's body in such a position slightly above his own after having crawled almost atop him on their way to bed. Mettaton realizes he has too much spit in his mouth, and he swallows thickly.]
I need-
[Greedy. He needs all of him at once. Not one position will do. Not one method of claim will do. The idol's eyes narrow, and a mark of frustration etches itself onto his features, a merge of libidinous irritation at the fact that he can't just... fuck him, be fucked, suck him off, be kissed from tip to toe, hold him close, force his lover to watch him pleasure himself... All of it at once.
This indecent list is endless, and it's enough to get Mettaton to lunge for Emet-Selch's neck in his impatience for it all. He sinks his perfect teeth into his neck without reserve: his blood is for him to take, and he immediately breaks out into a heavy moan at the taste. It's better tasting than he remembers, his blood...
Mettaton knows patience, but if he doesn't have to be, he doesn't see the point.]
[It's with a faint shiver that threatened to turn into another jerk of hips that Emet-Selch watches Mettaton's fingers, feels that incidental movement so close to his erection so intently that he can't think of anything outside of it. Though it hadn't really been that long, it still felt like a short eternity of waiting, from the time he'd become aroused to the time Mettaton finally got his pants open, allowing his cock to spring to some measure of freedom. The Ascian's moan is low and shamelessly pleased, reveling both in the brief relief that being exposed brought, as well as from watching (and hearing) Mettaton's own response to the sight. Even without being yet touched, it was a pleasure, fully aware and able to feel how much he was wanted, and how much it heightened his own reaction. A cycle that neither of them seemed to have any interest in breaking.
When their eyes finally meet again, his pulse leaps, breath stalling, all of that yearning plain in his expression. Agreeing with absolute conviction that they had no need for patience. Not between them. Not for this.
Too many (if such a thing were possible) needs at once made it hard to position himself for anything. Instead, his mind restlessly shifts between concepts and imaginings, along similar lines as Mettaton's. How much he wanted to take and touch and suck and simply be with him, to have enough of himself carved out and consumed so that he could never be abandoned.
But at the moment his requirements were to be closer and- not much of anything else. So closer he tries to press, encouraged by Mettaton's own drag at him, while a hand drops to the hem of his opened pants, shoving them still lower, even if he can't work out the coordination to kick himself free of them entirely just yet. He'd thought, for a fleeting moment earlier, that he'd be able to keep some measure of calm, to be able to take in the full sight of his lover's transformed body with deliberation, to explore him with hands and lips, but he knew there was no chance for that now. Not yet, not when they were both completely unsated and impatient, lusting for everything at once.
But right now, what he wants most of all is teeth in his throat- something Emet-Selch realized and decided on the moment Mettaton lunged for it, when he felt the pain of the bite blossoming outward from the points of impact. A gasping cry passes his lips as he bares his neck instinctively towards him; an absurd instinct to have, but a demand in the gesture, as though expecting to be torn open. The sharp sting let him know that skin had been successfully broken, and he shudders, the ache of his cock turning the pain into a point of simple intensity.
His hands fall back to Mettaton's own body, seeking some sort of purchase there, fingers digging into skin, in a tense and irregular kneading at it.
Patience was for things that required it. There was no reason to suffer it otherwise.]
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It was nothing particularly strong. A lapse of judgement, nothing more.
[A flaw of unwanted sentimentality that he seemed cursed to keep repeating, on targets no more appropriate or lasting. Oh, he could well agree that feelings didn't make sense. If they did, he would've long since reasoned his way out of them. It would've made the passage of time far easier, a duty performed with the appropriate distance and detachment. Never tempted by those brief and shallow lives he was forced to surround himself with.
The other Ascians were not quite so conflicted. While they all disparaged mortals, they didn't despise or resent them to the same degree as Emet-Selch. They also didn't make the mistake of getting at all attached to any of them.
Distracted briefly by thinking back on Mettaton's first statement, he's both unsurprised that the idol had apparently gone for yet another memory, while bewildered as to why he received yet another recent one with Varis, of all people. It wasn't a moment of particular importance, though it would be the last time he'd ever be on the Source. He'd never return from the First....
Which was a thought he didn't particularly want to have (but when did that matter), and he shakes his head at it as he continues.]
But if you've seen that much... yes, Varis was experimenting with the science of cloning, using my original host's remains as a subject. [A light shrug, waiting as Mettaton unlocks the door to his own house (So this is property he's unwilling to damage with a kick, Emet-Selch makes a mental note of. He's also thoroughly unsurprised as to the particular district that Mettaton has decided to grace with his presence.).] The results provided me with a surplus of empty vessels, all at my current apparent age. Although- technically, this particular shell isn't even one of those.
[Might as well explain the rest, he supposes....]
The travel between Source and shard can only be done by soul alone. Though the Exarch found a way around that for our dear heroes... [A continued mystery to him and source of vexation; with another frown he forces himself back on subject.] On my arrival on the First without flesh of my own, I took over some unfortunate at random, molding him into this more familiar shape.
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He'd gathered as much about this cloning business, wondering just how many bodies existed in there for Emet-Selch's taking. Enough to jump to them at a moment's notice, he considers, as he pulls open the door and guides Emet-Selch into the dim lobby of the house, lit only by wayward lights from whatever remains down a flanking corridor. Pulling the door shut behind him, he's stricken with the news that this body... somehow isn't one of the products of cloning, but rather, of taking a body and manipulating it to his will. He analyzes it in the low light, but he doesn't really need to. He's already studied him many times before.]
That much ability to alter your form... Such talent. You look just as you did standing before Varis. Haha... You fill me with envy, you know.
[To punctuate this envy, Mettaton takes his free hand and graces his fingers along Emet-Selch's cheek in admiration.
Envy? Mettaton's not lying: he feels envious, but it's not a caustic sort that burns him and Emet-Selch in the process. There's jealousy, but it's more awe and intrigue in his Bonded's ability to not only jump from organic host to host, but the ability to subsequently customize its shape so thoroughly! ...And for as much as Mettaton loves humanity, it's another one of those situations where he feels that a human's life could be spent on housing himself. (Whoops.) Would that he could take on human hosts, only to manipulate them into the perfect image of himself! (Two reasons he'd kill a human: to save humanity, and to achieve a perfect body, apparently.)
But, that's neither here nor there. Impossibility beyond even what he's already achieved, nothing even dreaming could manage. He's more than satisfied with his robotic body, he decides.
It's still impressive that Emet-Selch's current form is the spitting image of the one he saw him with in all other instances, prior to arriving before... the Exarch, and the gaggle of "heroes," none of who were completely recognizable to him. Some of them, he thought he'd seen before, but only traces of.
Yes... another memory consumed. The only awareness he has of the Exarch, really.]
But I imagine it must take something out of you. Molding it to perfection. Clones would make the process far easier. I can see the benefit. Fewer lives taken, which is an added bonus!
[...To Mettaton!
The lights in this house are lit, which yields... a living room within sight, decorated in an expensive, formal-looking black couch, one that surprisingly predates Mettaton's stay here. Some of the furniture comes from previous residents, but none of them had taste objectionable to Mettaton. The overall colors of this room are of blacks and dark greys, with accents of red or, heaven forbid, magenta. Of course. The couch has such bright cushions on it, with the addition of some black, lacy ones... From a distance, it might be difficult to tell, but they've been chewed on by somebody. Not naming names or anything. It's as "modern"-appearing as it can be, given the setting — just the way Mettaton sees style, while Aefenglom's idea of it lags in floral print hell sometimes.
But Mettaton unhands Emet-Selch to let him have the house.]
Upstairs are the rooms. Most of which I also furnished. [Because this is what he does with his money.] Would you like to go there, darling?
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The low light of the entranceway isn't particularly dimmer than the outside, so it takes little adjustment for Emet-Selch to take in as much as he could of the lobby, before being distracted by the touch to his face, glancing back up to Mettaton at the contact and the comment. Raising an eyebrow at the mention of envy, but- well, he wasn't about to deny the advantages such a skill had brought him.]
Hm, it is a convenient trick, isn't it? But quite tiring, you're right about that. [Lives taken was Not An Issue.] Though with your burgeoning shapeshifting ability, surely you'll be able to match me for it in time. Honestly- [And at this, he fixes Mettaton with an accusatory look- though not a wholly serious one.] I was learning transfiguration for your sake. If I'd known a puca's native talents would leave it redundant, I would've spent the time studying something more useful.
[It's not a field Emet-Selch would've bothered with otherwise. He sighs, even as they pass into the living room, a space where the lights remained lit and he could make out further detail of the house. Stepping into it slowly, approaching it like an animal being released into its new territory, he takes a brief, meandering look around.
The decor was decidedly less garish than he'd expected. Being surprised by that, Emet-Selch supposes, was probably unfair of him. Though not what he would've picked out, the room that Mettaton had taken upon himself to develop for him had been fine. So why wouldn't Mettaton's own house follow similar patterns of acceptable taste? It wasn't as though the Ascian was opposed to accents of color, and the splashes of red (or red-adjacent) in this living area kept it from looking too dull or cold. Aesthetic choices he could accept without issue (though the oddly-damaged pillows were... odd).
But it's soon enough that he completes his small exploratory foray, returning to Mettaton's side and regarding him again.]
You can show me the rest. 'Tis certainly a lot of space for one person.
[Not a criticism, just a comment.]
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[He'd been wondering about his note-taking on magic. It was an idle enough curiosity to never feel inclined to inquire upon it. But it leaves him stunned enough that he needs to take a moment to digest this information as he watches Emet-Selch roam, his mind wandering along the lines of his study of transfiguration on his behalf, something he doesn't appear interested in for any other purpose. His mind is quite vivid in its imagination of the whole process, and he suddenly remembers some sort of demand to know why he hadn't demonstrated his capability for shapeshifting before the first time he demonstrated his... trick. He doesn't remember the phrasing clearly — after all, he was a bit Distracted.
So it takes him a moment to recover, flattered and charmed by the effort. He can only imagine how delighted he'd be if he couldn't change the composition of his body on his own. As Emet-Selch returns to him, he waits with a finger pressed over his smile, arm folded over his middle in his satisfaction. He finds it thoughtful, worth all the love he feels for him at the attempted gesture, to know that he has someone who would go through the effort to alter his body further to his perfect liking.
He feels determined to show him his own attempts at practice now. ...Though there's a level of brief unease that washes over him at the prospect. A new development, and it's not insecurity. Unease. Something's gone wrong in his shapeshifting practice, but he'll get to that later.
The robot doesn't take any part of Emet-Selch's speech as criticism, not from the accusatory look to the spaciousness of his chosen residence. The house is a frivolous and convenient inclination on his part, but the reason for his delay in shapeshifting is more complicated. Mettaton nods.]
Yes. Oh! The kitchen is over there... [A point in the direction of it. It's out of sight, but it's one of the fancy houses that people might expect to hire chefs for. Mettaton hasn't quite gotten to that level of excessiveness yet. As for its fixings, there's primarily food that Papyrus eats, food that Mettaton doesn't need to eat but eats anyway, and attempts at cooking. On both of their parts. Dubious attempts with a hit-or-miss in the realm of success (with far more misses), Papyrus's only saved by some guidance from Toriel. Mettaton's? Well... he was surprised at how bad he actually was at cooking, and has remained surprised ever since.] But anyway.
[Upstairs, then. Mettaton doesn't feel he needs to tell Emet-Selch that he has free reign of the place — after all, it's the unspoken truth that what's Mettaton's should also be his, and vice versa. Emet-Selch knows that. As most of the upper area is where any personal quarters are, Mettaton takes this moment to raise a finger.]
I don't live on my own, by the way. I have one housemate... He was quite lonely, by himself. [as if implying that mettaton gave him the grace of moving in with him...] Papyrus. He's a monster, like me... And a Turnskin, here in Aefenglom. I mentioned him to you, I recall. He's chatty. Charming and friendly. Amusing, too... You'll surely meet him, but he keeps himself busy with this or that. Just like I do!
[Friendly and charming, said as a compliment to him with a subdued laugh. Mettaton finds his company pleasant, that much is evident through and through. He's mostly gotten over any residual Rathrmore-based fear of him, far more easily than he could with most. It's hard to find Papyrus scary forever, even if he still freezes up sometimes if he starts getting growly as the full moons close in... It's fine. Mettaton can deal.]
He seems much happier having somebody with my presence living with him! Spacious as it is, I have a way about filling a room. Or, a building.
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Though he wasn't entirely sure why (as it hadn't amounted to anything useful in the end), Mettaton looked as though he appreciated his intent- and because he did, that in and of itself made the whole thing feel worthwhile. A strange response to aborted practice. Regardless, he was curious as to how far the idol would be able to go with his shapeshifting powers; what he'd already seen was surely not the limit of it. A thought that has him brush against him as they head towards the stairs, though he spares a look and a nod in the direction of the rumored kitchen.
But it wouldn't come as much of a surprise to Emet-Selch to find that Mettaton was poor at the art of food preparation. Why wouldn't he be? When would he have ever gotten to practice (neverminding that absurdity of a cooking show)? Ghosts and robots didn't or couldn't eat, and however it worked now was something the Ascian didn't particularly care to question. But this would be one household that he wouldn't be raiding for free meals. Would he ever bother to use the kitchen otherwise? Who knows... if anything held him back, it'd be a lack of interest rather than shyness. Everything in this house was his, by virtue of it also being Mettaton's. They both knew that.
The mention that Mettaton had a housemate gives him pause, but he continues momentarily (though he's briefly annoyed that his Bonded hadn't thought to bring this up before). Still, with as large as this place was, did it matter? Emet-Selch had survived a smaller space with three others, and up until recently, it had been something he had faced with a grudging toleration. The identity of said housemate gets more of a frown, and a thoughtful sort of hum, unsure of what he thought about that.]
We've spoken, if only over the network. A loud sort, even in writing. I would hope that doesn't translate elsewhere.
[His hopes were not very high. Still, Emet-Selch didn't particularly dislike him, based on his limited impression of him. An obnoxious, but harmless type. But was everyone from that world excessively optimistic...? It was probably premature to judge a population by two members of it, but he was prepared to do so anyway.]
But I'm unsurprised a sociable sort like him would find your dubious company agreeable. I've no doubt you could fill half the city with your presence if you tried.
[And he says it like it's a bad thing. Emet-Selch also remains under the impression that this was Mettaton's house originally and Papyrus was clearly invited to stay with him, rather than the other way around.]
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[A correction he adds with a sort of cocky smirk. Onto addressing Papyrus.]
I'm glad you two have already met! Even if over the network. Yes... He's been a long-time fan of mine. How flattering, to now share space with me. But I think he'll like you, Hades-darling.
[No commentary on how loud Papyrus is. Mettaton doesn't notice anything of the sort, but that's because he's no doubt louder, or otherwise immune. Or otherwise distanced, in this spacious house. Or otherwise not home. It's particularly around full moons that things get stupid... Because Monsters get stupid. Mettaton acknowledges this with some mild chagrin.
The lingering sensation of his Bonded having brushed against him sets Mettaton on the course toward his own room, deciding concretely that he wants to take him in there. As he walks, he gestures with both palms out toward the whole of the hallway.]
Any of these rooms can be yours, at your choosing, sweetheart. Any time! For as long as you'd like. I'm sure there's one you'll find acceptable...
[No pressure to stay, but the invitation to stake claim to the space in a house that could, occasionally, get noisy (and very full of Mettaton), is there.
(For when he gets the chance to take the house for himself, there's a room adjacent to his own that Mettaton has decorated in deep navy blues, dark all around but with the warmth of a hint of gold — choices Mettaton picked to trade his into his Bonded's room as a retroactive correction to customize it to his tastes. But he felt it could wait. And the decor put to use, in the meantime. Now it could be his, only here?)
But Mettaton doesn't point to any room in particular at the moment, instead guiding Emet-Selch to his own. He turns his attention to his Bonded expectantly.]
But right now, I want you in mine.
[Beckoning him to follow, Mettaton's ears are tall yet relaxed. He'll close the door behind him once he enters.
The impression of color is surprisingly not pink. (He can change it to whatever he wants at any time.) Instead, it's purples and golds — and plenty of each, its angle something regal, if not over-the-top. Therefore, it's appropriately Mettaton.
The idol's room is well-kept with far more personal effects than anything Emet-Selch has, a lot of his inclinations leaning toward finery and objects that sparkle. A room for a person who is vain, complete with a full-body mirror. (All the better to admire himself with.) Gemstones and jewelry aren't things he wears for just any occasion, but he possesses it nonetheless, both for wearing and for mere display. He is both Mettaton, and a Puca. An open closet betrays a growing collection of fashion (and it leans ostentatious or crisp and sophisticated), some of which are intended to fit any configuration of his bodies, plus more... normal human-shaped attire. Some books, any indication at all that Mettaton reads sometimes, though the majority of them appear to be fiction. (There's one thick one on the mechanics of Bonding, as authored by a Witch from the Coven.) What else is he to do without TV and without sleep??
(...There's a bin full of chewed pen-shaped objects. Absolutely decimated, and not by the Turnskin in the house. Mettaton would rather that not be noticed.)]
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But an expectation of following is fine with him, moving into Mettaton's space and finding it to be extremely him (even with the lack of pink). If not excessive to the point of tastelessness, it left an impression, and that impression was very Mettaton. And much like with the downstairs, Emet-Selch takes a small roam around the place, taking the measure of this new bit of territory as well.
Sorry, Mettaton, he does notice that bin of incredibly chewed-up pen-shaped detritus, though apart from a very low hum he doesn't comment on it or allow his gaze to linger on it for too long. An easy thing to do, considering how much else the room consisted of. The small details, the things that glittered from any number of directions. The books which stood out by not glittering and also by existing at all- though considering the city's lack of more modern entertainments, he supposed that even the idol might be reduced to having to read something, now and again, to pass the time.
But despite it all, the room didn't feel disordered or cluttered, or a demonstration of hording without intent. This was a place of someone who took care in their surroundings, rather than merely existed within them, which he supposed he could appreciate.]
For someone who doesn't require clothes, you've certainly gained a collection.
[Far, far more than anything the Ascian possessed, though that wasn't difficult. Shaking his head, he returns to stand in front of him, regarding Mettaton in the same way as his room, tone low and a touch amused.]
Do you even use half of all this...?
[It was another choice of living that was foreign to him, to collect things for the sake of the collection, for the display.]
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Why does it matter? I like it all. Just as I like to be handsomely dressed.
[Simple as that, because Mettaton's rhyme and reason is to surround himself in things that appeal to his senses, which he's gained more and more of. New appreciations for things, such as touch and smell, yielding to him a preference for certain textiles or the smells of one candle over another. All of these things are things he'll take for himself.
...With such a careful eye for detail, a very troubling aspect of this room might be noticed. There's a spot on the rug for all that he tried to clean it, its fibers a color light enough for it to show. Blood. Mettaton doesn't bleed. The environmental storytelling continues: there's another book that isn't fiction. In fact, it's a text of Aefenglom's understanding of human-and-monster anatomy-physiology. Its spine is turned away from view, however. If it all escapes the Ascian's notice, it's just as well: Mettaton will likely talk about it.
what... what are you doin in here, mettaton...?
Standing before him, Mettaton smiles at him and reaches to press his fingertips to Emet-Selch's chest. His attention rakes up to meet his eyes, taking him in and enjoying his tone of voice.]
It must shock you. To find yourself in someone's space who enjoys possessions as much as I do. I wouldn't take anything in here that I didn't fancy, beautiful.
[As if Emet-Selch is among those things, even though he's a person, not a glittering diamond. His fingertips become his entire palm, a smooth transition into feeling him up again. As one does.]
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And it's likely that he did notice that odd stain on the rug; a flaw in an otherwise tidy (if full of Things) room. Though blood wouldn't have been the first thing to come to Emet-Selch's mind anyway; Mettaton didn't bleed, so how would it be that? A careless drink residue, or some sort of dye- and for that matter, there's no reason to think that the idol even had to be the cause for whatever it was. This house had been lived in before, it was just as likely for it have to originated from a previous owner.
There were any number of viable explanations for something that his eyes note and pass over; 'my robot lover is bleeding somehow' is not one that actually occurs to him. Any alarm and/or concern will be delayed until he knows better.
Especially when he finds himself touched- an expected, anticipated, inevitable event. Though his gaze flickers down to the path of his hand, it otherwise stays on Mettaton's face, and he shifts slightly closer without thinking. Without needing to think, only drawn to him, as was natural. Mettaton's phrasing doesn't escape him; was he another object to be collected, then? The idea doesn't offend: of course he was worthy of possession, that went without question.]
Oh...? Though if you intend to display me here, I fear I don't match your current aesthetic.
[His darker clothes, at least, stood out against the glitter of the room. Or perhaps contrast itself was an appeal, he thought, reaching a hand up to let fingers glide along the side of Mettaton's neck, up and across his jawline, to touch his face. Light but deliberate, he focuses in on the sensation under his fingertips, a most delicate sort of claim. Feeling oddly possessive in turn, for being in a room filled with things that were very clearly Mettaton's (including himself). And, very distantly, a slight relaxation from being somewhere that wasn't a source of discomfort and omnipresent tension.]
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His fingertips are nudged with his cheek, an invitation to keep him always. He meets Emet-Selch's eyes with that easy smile.]
You can't fool me into letting you slip away, Hades. Not that you want that.
[A smirk as he shifts his body into his Bonded's further yet: taking for himself, yet settling into the other man's claim of him.]
I've already set my sights on you. Intensity enough to leave me stunned, and always wanting more. Undeniable to my senses... Something I enjoy. Yes. You match what I'm after perfectly.
[If there's any tension to be found here, it's merely the electrifying kind, one Mettaton would define as inviting. Mettaton's free arm wraps around Emet-Selch's lower back, giving him greater leverage to firmly prod his lover's chest, covetous yet investigative all over again.
His hand drifts toward the fastenings of his shirt, holding Emet-Selch's gaze with his own. He doesn't quite make a move to disrobe him, but the desire is clear as day. He doesn't stop for lack of conviction, however. A new flash of eagerness shows in him, and he leans more comfortably into his Bonded.]
I did want to show you how much improvement I've made, at shapeshifting into organic beings. Before Bonding with you, I couldn't do it at all. [No shapeshifting, no locating, no luck, only the scarcest hint of sensing for impending danger. No magic whatsoever, and plenty of talents the Puca rely on are magical.] And now... I've found that it's quite a challenge. One I'm going to overcome.
[But it turns out it takes a lot of understanding about his destination form that he just lacks, fundamentally! Witches studying Transmutation find it's easiest to turn things into inanimate objects. A Puca who's already one has a difficult time bridging that gap of assumption.
Assumptions that he thought he'd been doing well on, but his smile seems to drop a shade when he glances away.]
I was making decent progress, until... [A refocus on Emet-Selch.] Anyway. I thought if I could see your body right before me, I could get it right.
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How quickly his focus itself was claimed remained a source of mild exasperation to him, how easily he takes to him with just a few touches, coupled with the sound of his voice. The claim through words; Emet-Selch hadn't though himself to be after much of anyone, but he couldn't deny the peculiar intensity Mettaton was able to provoke in him. That desire to match and overcome, and be overwhelmed at the same time- yes. He'd found something important without even realizing anything like it existed. His hold on Mettaton tightens for a few seconds, in some unconscious reassurance that it was real.
Humming quietly to himself, he can imagine that it would be quite hard for many monsters to do much of anything without a Bond- especially after going without one for as long a period as Mettaton had seemed to. And while, really, Bonding to any witch would've surely had the same effect, Emet-Selch is satisfied regardless that it's his magic alone supporting him and allowing this- which made Mettaton's abilities also his. And in a fonder sense: pleasure that even his passive existence was providing a benefit to him, letting him obtain the more organic form that he wanted.
...Or sort of obtain, because that certainly sounded as though something had not gone entirely to plan.]
Until?
[Fascination and attraction remained, even as he focuses in on that word over the others. The touch of his hand at his face firms slightly, as he leans back just enough to meet his eye again. Watching Mettaton glance away and then back, his own attention steady, even as he keeps his face close. Aware of the hand reaching the fastenings of his shirt. An awareness that keeps him from pressing forward too much, not wanting to get in the way of it, clearly desiring to feel his hands and his eyes on his body properly.]
Still, if an example is all that you require- that's something you hardly need to ask for, is it? I admit my curiosity... towards seeing how far your practice has taken you.
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It's hardly seeking permission, and more of a warning for his intent. The study and focus his body will be treated to, the kind Mettaton imagines he will be thoroughly distracted from even as he attempts to stare dead-on at his Bonded's form. Therefore, it's the the perfect kind of distraction. A distraction of lust rather than anything... unsuitable, unsavory, disturbing. The kind jarring enough to twist the outcome into something seared into his memory.
All he has now is a distorted memory of his end result. Even the thought has his thoughts deadening.
The robot soothes his own nerves, nerves nothing like the sort for stage fright or the like. It's been a gradual wearing of them, strung out and tested for their breaking point over the span of just weeks. His conviction bounces unsteadily between apprehension and total assurance in his abilities. His fingers work Emet-Selch's clothes, an easy initial response tumbling from his lips to buy time before describing the problem at hand.]
Thank you, darling. I always know I can rely on you to invest yourself in something that matters to me... [A smile, heartfelt even as his eyelids remain heavy.] I can't say for sure that I know exactly what it should feel like. Being human. But that's why it takes me this extra step. I studied it about a month ago, and then... Well. Having your body as my muse, I couldn't possibly get it wrong, at this point.
[Mettaton brings his other hand forward to assist him in making quicker work of Emet-Selch's clothes. He's sure, it can only improve. It was going so well. He was understanding better the nuance of a body, how to achieve a more convincing, lifelike form. Some of his initial attempts were good, but lacked proper elements to be better lifelike: a pulse, breathing, the proper bend to joints. He didn't see anything wrong with it... until he compared his mental notes of himself to people around him. Interesting how experience in itself enhances his own perception of others. A cycle of feedback.
Slipping his hands into Emet-Selch's clothes, one hand settles upon the Ascian's waist while the other moves to slip his clothes over his shoulder, beholding as much as proximity will allow with a once-over and a steady smile. Then, he meets his eyes again.]
There was something... I saw. Something in somebody's memories. It disrupts my thoughts sometimes, when I try to imitate a human form. When I messed up the first time, seeing my form like that... It's all I can think of, now. ... I need to get it right. That's all.
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So Emet-Selch nods, believing that he understood the problem, if not exactly the imagery plaguing Mettaton's attempts. But the idol had seen something unpleasant and disruptive and presumably humanoid, if attempting to transform himself was leading to recall that distortion instead. A similar thing could happen in concept creation, with a distraction, or a stray thought during the process leading to unintended results. But when the subject of such magic was one's own body, the consequences for distraction became far more troubling....
No wonder Mettaton seemed nervous, or unsettled; as the idol's hands began working at his clothes, Emet-Selch leans in to nuzzle slowly at his face, as though to assure, or distract in a more positive direction. It was unusual to sense anything from the robot other than confidence and related annoyances, and his reflex was to encourage him to remain on the more optimistic side of things. A bizarre thing for the Ascian to encourage, but- he wanted him to succeed; he expected him to. Without having witnessed any failed attempt, Emet-Selch believed he was entirely capable of getting it right. The idol was resourceful and competent at things that mattered to him, and this surely applied.
With his shirts undone, he briefly lets go of Mettaton's body to allow them to be pushed back, away from his shoulders, and from there, to work free from them entirely, letting the fabric drop to the side. It's only then that he responds to his Bonded's words, tone deliberately casual.]
Your place is in the present, isn't it...?
[What a thing for someone like him to remind Mettaton of, and his gaze is expectant, perhaps arrogant. There's no trace of concern- but then, concern could only exist if there was any reason to think about failure, a chance for some negative outcome. So rather than a gentle nudge towards reassurance, it edges towards daring instead, bringing his head up and leaning in to cover Mettaton's lips with his own. Hands going to either side of his head, he pulls him in, demanding his attention with a hitch of breath. If Mettaton was going to be distracted, it would be by him, not the terrors wrought by someone else's memories.
That's the goal, anyway. Emet-Selch was certainly distracting himself, at any rate, a touch out of breath when he finally has to pull back, though he lingers at his face, still holding onto him.]
Of course you'll succeed. With everything you require at your fingertips, there can be no other outcome.
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And to be pulled into such a rough kiss... Mettaton starts, but he quickly takes the mood of his Bonded and runs with it, like adding gasoline to fire. He presses into him, shuttering his eye with a soft sigh of pleasure while a hand roams his chest. He feels for skin, the press of tissue and muscle, and not a single exposed rib. Naturally: everything here is properly formed. He doesn't even let himself think of those mistakes, instead slipping comfortably into desire for the other man. His pressure, his taste, and his touch... And soon, his warmth.
Because the Ascian's demand and dare is communicated crystal clear, and it settles into him as a hybrid mix of jealousy and daring for himself. He wants what he feels, both to steal his form, and to consume his body. Even to witness him edging toward breathless when he ends their kiss, Mettaton admires such a reaction and fixates on it. It's easy to do, considering how often he wants to render him in that way.
Mettaton responds well to the pressure of confidence. It feels like his only option is what's at his fingertips. He continues to prod flesh, to run his palm along skin, a smooth plane of distraction. Even as he caresses his thumb along scars, the whole of him only serves to tantalize the robot to his own pursuits.
He emits a short, breathy laugh. This was going to be easy. Why ever did he find it would be so difficult before? He pushes forward even in Emet-Selch's grip to recapture his lips in a firm kiss, swiping his tongue along his lower lip.
The idol's smile is cocky when he pulls back, keeping Emet-Selch's face in view.]
Yes... Yes. With a sight like you set before me, right now... For me to touch and experience. I'll finally achieve my best attempt yet. Now.
[Mettaton reaches up to readjust one of Emet-Selch's hands. The one on the right side of his face is made to remain, though he tosses his head to ensure that his lover's fingers remain pressed directly against the half of his face that's incomplete under that fringe of his bangs. A calculated move: a reminder that not... missing part of his face? (Even if it's incomplete. That doesn't translate well to being human, it turns out.) His other hand is free to do as he pleases. Mettaton's fingers return to busy with his chest.]
Do your worst, and I'll do mine.
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Learning- or rather, reminding himself of him through touch was entirely reasonable, and the Ascian makes a low, approving sound at the thought of it. And, moreso, at the feeling of it. Scars may have marred his skin, but they were properly healed, only a variation of texture that still lied well within acceptable, normal limits. Flaws that were just details, and Emet-Selch shivers faintly under the explorations of Mettaton's hands. Presses into them, and closer to his body as well.
With one of his own hands encouraged to remain at the idol's face, his fingers cup the shape of it more firmly, thumb tracing along underneath that unfinished eye. Something that he considered only rarely as it was so normally hidden, though he wondered now, if Mettaton took a fully human body, whether it would remain non-functional. Not that it mattered in either case, Emet-Selch thought, considering the idol's hairstyle.
The hint of tongue and damp against his lip counted as a lure- or at the very least, it served as one, pressing back to Mettaton's with a swipe of his own. A contact followed by the claiming of his lip by teeth, sucking slowly at it, before slipping his own tongue past it, to claim the rest of his mouth as well. A feeling that has his own eyes finally close, to slip more fully into the moment. The familiar taste and heat of his mouth (a distinction he could only find early on, appreciating it while also looking forward to that point where they'd mingled so far that they tasted the same--), the shape of his face under his hand. Mettaton's own hands stroking over the skin of his chest, distinctly aware of the path of each finger.
His free hand drifts down from Mettaton's face to his neck, and from there to trace over the idol's chest in turn. The shape and unyielding nature of him was also familiar at this point, and expected. While it had certain disadvantages when it came to degrees of comfort while being pressed to it, he'd accepted that almost immediately. It was just a part of what Mettaton was, another distinction, and the Ascian doesn't think much of showing an inorganic shell his care and attention. Really, his only hesitation was in recognizing it as affection in the first place, rather than the consistency of Mettaton's body.
Even so, he was curious as to how far his Bonded's shapeshifting ability could go, how accurate it could be. But Emet-Selch was certain that whatever the result was, he could work with it; a robot body was fine, why would anything else daunt him?
Though he thinks to reply, that would mean not kissing him, would mean wasting his breath on speech when his actions were enough of an affirmation, he felt. His body shifts closer, still demanding his lover's touch, the whole of his attention, the small sound he makes swallowed up by their kiss.]
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There's something enchanting about having his body touched by somebody who exhibits signs of transparent love for him. Mettaton feels he's completely worthy of the attention, but when turning into a human hangs in the balance, it charms him all the more that Emet-Selch would always fascinate himself over his long-awaited body. It's evident in his fingers and his deliberation. His attention follows the path of his fingers, too, even as his own travel down Emet-Selch's sternum and move to handle his chest with both hands, pressing into him with both fingertips and palms. Their kiss is a delectable focus: mutually, he tastes for his Bonded and knows that, given their history, this is a taste that'll soon be lost to his own mouth in due time. He hums around his lover's tongue, fingers and claws subconsciously curling into his skin as if attempting to grip onto him. He slides his tongue against the other man's, the entirety of his action enough to give Mettaton a good shiver.
The feeling of his thumb taking such a gentle path around the remnant shape of his eye is unique, something he feels just about as often as Emet-Selch regards it at all, which is rare. But it's reassuring: Mettaton's tactile in affection. It soothes him, all while serving to remind him of tangibility. It's always a problem with that, in the end: what's present, and what's disturbingly not.
And he's very present, in all senses of the word. Drinking in the way Emet-Selch asserts himself, the way his fingers trace over his chest, takes further claim upon his mouth (something Mettaton's sure they'll be doing plenty of to come, he can feel it and it sparks like electricity to consider), and to take his cue for touch. Mettaton's fingers trace over his skin, one hand pressing firmly into his torso while the other flicks one of his nipples before rubbing, and it's another point toward just wanting, all of it.
He wants to experience this. The idol doesn't see why he can't have his way. He wants Emet-Selch in every way possible, and this is one of those absurd possibilities afforded to him, after all. He opens his eye. Focuses on Emet-Selch's face, even from this close proximity. He wants to impress him, but he also wants to have him in every way. And, he wants Emet-Selch to have him in return.
So he shifts. It's all of him, all at once, a drastic change in texture and tenderness. Emet-Selch's fingers trace over skin now, a body built and lean and decently toned. Skin warm, perhaps warmer than a human's should be, it's a forgivable mistake coming from his own perceptions of temperature. Mettaton's claws are gone, replaced by proper fingers (though he still envisions the wrong number of them); and though his eyes are closed, they're dark as his hair, the perfect image of what Mettaton would have been if he were made human instead of machine.
Importantly, there aren't any nightmarish mistakes. No missing pieces or exposed insides, no disfigurement or dripping blood. Only benign hiccups, like too-hot temperatures and too-few fingers.
And he knows it's worked: he has an actual pulse, and he feels it jump in his throat. Real functional lungs he could be rendered breathless with. And he emits a noise of pleasure at the way the air chills against his naked body — it's not as though he was wearing anything to act as a buffer against it. He jolts in place before he wraps his arms around his Bonded's back, hungrily drawing him close to his body: for contact, for love, and for warmth, even though he feels feverishly hot already. Hot, and already aroused.
The contact of pulling Emet-Selch to his body shocks him. He gasps at the feeling, and he's forced to break the kiss in his excitement. He takes a gulp of air, delirious.]
Ah— Hades...! I...
[There's a lot for the idol to focus on. His success, first of all. But the sudden sensation of the Ascian's body pulled flush to his own, his arousal shoved against his figure... Mettaton's eye's wide, lips parted, hips automatically grinding into his lover as muscle tenses.]
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But it was still something of a startle, when the tracing of fingers across the firmness of metal became the differing firmness of skin. A solidity that yields to the reflexive tensing of his hands, a brief clutching at Mettaton's face and chest. At a skin too warm, perhaps, but not unpleasantly so; a fever that matched the idol's own nature.
If Mettaton hadn't broken the kiss from his own reaction, Emet-Selch would've been forced to in his stead, eyes flashing open again to stare, fascinating himself over everything he could see at this close distance. What he could make out of his face and upper torso, meeting his gaze when the idol's own eyes reopen. He'd found out that a puca's eyes were yellow; this darker violet then was Mettaton's original- or rather, his intended color, that detail standing out even amongst the overwhelming rest of him. And while he liked the gold in itself (a small point they had in common), he would admit that purple, perhaps, suited him better....
Unwilling (and once he's pulled closer again, unable) to get a full look at him yet, sensation would have to do in its place, but sensation was more than enough. His chest was pressed to the heat and texture of skin, something far easier to meld himself to. His Bonded's arms provide a similar sensation, and he shivers at his awareness of it. His own arms end up dropping to wrap around Mettaton in turn, smoothing quickly along the expanse of his back, getting an impression of muscle that just- hadn't been there before. The sign of organic strength rather than that from a machine. And of course, the clear feeling of the idol's erection pressing against his body, a hardness that has his own pulse leap, hips grinding back against him, taking an obvious pleasure at having that obvious sign of his lover's desire for him pressed to his body. Though his own was still clothed, the shape and increasing stiffness of it is more than evident as he shifts, to rub it against Mettaton's exposed cock.]
See? There-- [Breathless again for a moment, he brushes a brief kiss to his Bonded's lips. His voice is low, satisfaction- perhaps even excitement- writ into it.] There was no chance of failure.
[His breath becomes a shuddering sigh, as he dips his head to press lips along the idol's throat, learning and tasting this new texture of him, enticed by what he could feel of a pulse underneath skin. And, on curiosity, his mouth closes around a patch of his neck, wondering if he could suck a mark onto him for once.]
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The way Emet-Selch shifts his hips so he can feel that hard line beneath clothes has Mettaton's grip tightening, breath catching on an exhale, making short work of a moan as he pushes forward his hips again, wanting greater contact with the Ascian's body. His body, shirtless, which is still something warm and pleasant even against his own: he grips onto him, just as delighted by that sensation as he imagined he'd be. Though built curvy in his own right with a narrow waist, it's nowhere near the dramatic angles and curves of his robotic figure, and Emet-Selch fits against him perfectly with the mutual give of their bodies. Even something that minute doesn't escape Mettaton's notice, and he hums, tugging him close.
His kiss is met with an electricity, even as he shudders. Mettaton stops focusing on his body for a moment to instead focus on Emet-Selch, his words filling him to the brim with adoration as his fleeting kiss is yet another way to fill him up. His hips roll into Emet-Selch, a movement almost brazen if it weren't that he was already completely revealed and completely hard to compare. It couldn't get more brazen than that.]
I take it you're... You like what you feel... Oh—!
[Emet-Selch moves to his throat and Mettaton predicts what he's going to do seconds before he does it, taking a preparatory gasp as he swallows hard. He can't even brace himself for the sensation, which is different than how it feels on his regular body: his moan has an edge of pain to it, but it softens into one of pleasure as soon as he acknowledges that this is how it feels. Mettaton bares his neck, granting access to his Bonded with a perverse excitement for the impending marks to be left behind, more things he's coveted desperately finally given to him.
His arms further entwine around the Ascian, shifting to his upper back as he pulls him in, demanding his complete attentions upon his body. His pulse thrums under Emet-Selch's attentions, and as Mettaton can feel the beat of it under the pressure of his lips. He shudders and clings, shoving his hips into him further, unashamed to show the full of his want. A rub against the form of his lover's arousal, the feeling of it and knowledge of it pleasurable in its own right. Mettaton closes his eyes to better appreciate the feeling of Emet-Selch at his neck.]
Yesss, Hades... I want to see... What you do me...
[It's terrible that he still wants to mark him up in return, with just as much fervor as he did in their dream. The lingering memory of blood entices him too much for him to leave it at brusies. But Mettaton is filled with every manner of want: a dizzying amount, and he exhales shakily at it all.]
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But the physical pleasure of it was nothing for him to discount either, noticing as well how more closely their bodies matched, the softness of the chest pressed to his, and Emet-Selch shivers again at the thought of having their bodies fully entwined like this. Flush and giving and excessively warm; he bites at Mettaton's neck to stave off a moan. Drawing back just enough to observe the mark he'd successfully left behind has his breathing catch anew- and then is caught again by the thrust of hips against his, the sudden pang of need leaving him shuddering, aching deeply for him. His eyes close again as he licks over the bruise he'd left behind, breath heavy as he trails to another spot on his neck, closing in on it with lips and teeth and pressure. Spurred on further by the sound of Mettaton's voice, unsurprised but still- rather touched to hear that the idol shared in his desire to leave some manner of reminder upon his skin. For all that it would only last as long as the transformation did, but- Emet-Selch didn't want to think about that.
They would both know that it had been there, for all that such demonstrations of possession weren't necessary to start.
And he had no doubt that Mettaton would be eager to return the favor, the thought of taking those marks from him again, now that they were no longer in a dream and would linger appropriately, has him biting harder again. Yes: a visual sort of claim that they could share in for a time, and he ached for his imagining of it.
But with such access to his lover's throat, Emet-Selch was disinclined to leave it yet, leaving a damp line over heated and vulnerable skin as he mouthed across it. Moaning softly against his skin at the blatant desire from the other man, the way they were rubbing their erections against one another, separated by only a few pieces of inconvenient fabric. Even with the constriction that he felt around his own, there was more a sense of anticipation rather than frustration. The knowledge of how soon and how easily they could press to one another, skin against skin, leaves his legs feeling almost weak. There was- so much that he wanted, something that he was still unused to feeling. There had been duty and naught else, but now--
To look forward to something so much- to want something so dearly. To want someone so dear to him: it has his breath trembling, hands kneading a slow path along his lover's spine, feeling as though he had to learn his body all over again, but not at all minding the prospect.]
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This isn't the first time Mettaton's attempted shapeshifting into a human, but it's the first time it's felt so correct. It's always felt right, but every part of this form responds to Emet-Selch's touches as it should, every nerve firing off just right, every prod and lick a different texture and sensation beyond even what he's been granted in his EX body.
He can feel all of the same by touch now, but who knew that the ability to feel temperature would change so much? Emet-Selch's mouth is so warm, he knew that. But to feel it on his neck, his tongue and teeth and lips, only to feel him drift elsewhere for his work to be left to chill... It leaves Mettaton shaking, clutching onto Emet-Selch with yet another shuddering breath. Wetness in itself feels entirely different, and the pressure of sucking on his skin and the subsequent bruising has him gasping some more, soft noises of pleasure accompanying each new kiss and mark. It's a needling sort of pain that blooms purple, at first mere pain before being converted immediately into raw pleasure. Signs of Emet-Selch's ardor, reciprocated by Mettaton entirely.
Being bitten down upon, harder this time, has Mettaton crying out. He squirms, pulls more tightly on the Ascian's body before hiccuping over his own breath, an interruption spared for the way his erection presses so firmly against his lover's.
Fixating so hard on how different everything feels has Mettaton's embrace tightening as his knees wobble, though his thighs remain taut as he continues to rub his cock against the impression of Emet-Selchs through fabric, unable to control his craving for more now that he's been given a taste. He exhales a particularly hard breath to accompany a tremble, sucking in air as he bites his lip at the sensation of both his lover at his neck and the way his hands travel down his back.
From chills of a psychological nature to the impression of air against saliva, to a lack of clothes and the suggestion of his lover's arousal and what it means for their immediate future, he has every reason in the book to shiver.
Mettaton's hands pet along Emet-Selch's back encouragingly. It's so nice to feel the press of skin against skin, the embrace in itself bringing a unique satisfaction in its warmth and softness. A softness bodies like these have that still expresses the passion he harbors. Mettaton can hardly stand it: it's surreal, holding his Bonded like this, and it feels like every time before is just as surreal and wonderful. He smiles. While Emet-Selch busies himself with his shoulders and his neck, Mettaton takes a chance to rub his cheek against the Ascian's head with a particular longing, full of love, aching and overfull at his attention and care and the want he feels from him.
The result of their entire relationship is that Mettaton loves him after all, for as much as he taunted him with it many months ago. Aside from the pain that comes of love, he could never hurt him. No matter what, he doubts he could. He doesn't have it in him, completely prone. He sighs, nuzzling him harder.]
Hades... Bed. Y... You're doing a number on me.
[That is, if both of them keep feeling weak-kneed, something ridiculous is bound to happen. It should be obvious that Mettaton's already made some of his weight Emet-Selch's responsibility. Taking his own weight back somewhat, one of his hands ventures down automatically to tease at the band of Emet-Selch's pants, pulling at the front with a finger before letting go. Flirting with the desire to strip him down, once he gets the chance.]
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The nuzzling provokes a low, rumbling noise of pleasure from him, deep in his own throat, the sensation joining all else that he could feel and hear. The way he was pulled closer, each interruption to Mettaton's breathing, the trembling of skin against his providing the most delicate of friction. The far less delicate shove of the idol's cock against his body, and everything that it meant. The teasing suggestion offered by the brief tug at the front of his pants, though Emet-Selch can only sigh at the resulting throb of his arousal, how immediate his response was to even the thought of having his lover's hands and body pressing over sensitive flesh. How primed he was to react to him, to even the suggestion of him, the sound of his sighs and tone of his voice.]
Ah- yes....
[And the reminder it brought that they were still standing, and another suggestion worth heeding. Though it's with some reluctance that he has to lift his head slightly from Mettaton's neck- leaving it for the moment with another swipe of tongue against a most satisfactory bruised patch- in order to reorient himself in an unfamiliar room. To remember where the bed was, to make sure there was nothing in the way as his hold on his Bonded adjusts, to press and guide him back towards it. Even Mettaton moving to not lean on him to the same degree leaves him off-balance, and with as unsteady as they both were, it was both the most sensible and most comfortable option.
But apart from noting their surroundings out of necessity, Emet-Selch's gaze and attention is pulled back to Mettaton almost immediately, an inexorable pull towards his Bonded. And from looking at him, eyes flitting over his neck, his face, it became just as necessary to kiss him again, leaning up to capture his lips with... altogether more gentleness than he expected. But it's no less intense for it, that longing for him that much more evident, perhaps, in contrast to the soft deliberation in which he presses to his mouth.
...How completely prone they were to each other, he thought. An awareness that weighs heavily upon him, that dragged him under. But it's nothing that he would've changed, even if he could, even if it would be the more sensible thing- to not care, to not be so attached. Shifting a hand up again, he's drawn to touch his face once more, with the same feeling behind it as the kiss: soft but intense.]
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His kiss feels undeniable, an expression of his depths that Mettaton can only respond to with his own heights, arms once more encircling his body, fingers and palms pressing into his back. To appreciate his body, to memorize his dimensions, and to brand him with his touch, all in one.
Any manner of intensity is one that Mettaton will step up to and match in his own right. This is no different: it draws from an emotional reserve that grows deeper and deeper by the day for Emet-Selch, impossibly. He feels so alive in this moment between himself and his lover that the potency of his feeling leaves him forgetting to breathe or to even try, kiss gentle but likewise intense. He feels the heat of his own body warming the space between them. It's space he wants to close, Mettaton decides. Obscene, in the way that he wants so much. He could nearly succumb to his primal desire and pull him to the floor as he is, ravish him and take him there, and he shudders at the thought. His cock aches; his craving for the Ascian's body burns hot enough to sear him.
Just before he loses himself in the kiss, Mettaton breaks it with the same tenderness that it's built upon, exhaling whatever breath he has left as his body forgets how to respond at all. Such gentleness paid toward him, an obvious desire amidst an obvious care. His awareness is static, nothing more. He couldn't remove his arms from Emet-Selch if he tried.
But they still have a destination, and Mettaton remembers what it means to take a shallow breath, at least. He does, and immediately expels it in a short, dizzy laugh, lovestruck and heartsick both. Ultimately drunk, and wanting to slip further into intoxication. His voice is mildly teasing, incredibly flirtatious, and low with his desire. He leans his forehead into Emet-Selch's for some added stability. His entire world is within this room, right now.]
Oh, my. Aren't you distracting. You can have it all, darling. Every bit of me... You know patience.
[Mettaton takes initiative on unsteady feet, urging his Bonded along: if he's going to be so distracted by Mettaton, which he should be, he can finish guiding him to where he can indulge fully in this distraction he loves to provide. The idol lures him forward by stepping backwards toward the bed, and once he feels its edge against the backs of his legs, he slides onto it, pulling Emet-Selch down with him.
It's just as soon as they make it there, as soon as Emet-Selch edges onto the bed after Mettaton's body that Mettaton takes his turn to lunge for him, pulling Emet-Selch into a deep kiss with as much intensity as before, but with a touch of his unrestrained fever. A gentleness with a passion. The taste of his Bondmate has Mettaton moaning into their kiss, and he nips at his lower lip as his hands drop to the fastenings of his trousers, the ache he feels in his entire body suggestive to him of both adoration and carnal desire. He makes a soft noise into his kiss, a contented sigh to finally be somewhere he could fall. Somewhere they could both fall.]
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With an equal refusal when it came to separating from his body, Emet-Selch matches him for steps, moving with him as he closes in on the bed. That lurking intensity on Mettaton's part was a hard thing to miss, that awareness only feeding into his own, returning it back to him in a repeated building of pressure; it felt like skirting along a knife edge, softness and gentleness barely masking the passion underneath. Not really masking it at all, but tempering just the smallest degree, the barest amount, when any sudden move on either of their parts could lead to it snapping- a dragging down onto whatever surface was closest, to burn and tear and love without reserve. His breath still shudders at the strain of it, and he swallows heavily. Follows after without pause, crawling onto the bed and Mettaton, noting the sensation of both with a mild relief. If it was inevitable to collapse somewhere, this would at least be a more comfortable spot.
He did know patience. It was difficult, a painful thing, when he wanted something so much, had it dangled in front of him like this. A desire both stoked and soothed when he's dragged back against Mettaton's lips, an attempted breath choked off, pushed back, disappearing fully into that kiss. There was an adoration here that could burn, that was deep enough to cut, and Emet-Selch pushed back the pain too, nuzzling forward against his Bonded's lips with a small sound. And his hips jerk forward, unable to stop himself, at the promise Mettaton's hands brought him, his trousers feeling more constrictive by the moment. An ache that joined all the others, caused by a truly excessive amount of affection. Eventually, reluctantly, he has to breathe.]
Patience- is highly overrated. Or do you think you're any more prone to it?
[Words and the accompanying thought are interrupted by another sigh, another kiss- so light to keep from snapping down. Eyes half-open to keep an impression of Mettaton's face in mind, he trails a hand along neck and shoulder, digging in with the tips of his fingers, still becoming accustomed to the unfamiliar give to him. Where muscles attached, where blood (presumably) ran underneath.
And how warm; it wasn't as though his robotic shell had been cold, had contained a great deal of heat really, that just needed to be brought to the surface. But now that warmth was just there, completely available to bask in, a lure that he wanted to give into entirely.]
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Instead of hearing him at first, Mettaton's attention is dragged down to the front of his pants, pleased that there's light enough for him to see it all — and for him to be seen in return. He loves being watched. He spares a glance to Emet-Selch's face again, noting his half-lidded gaze, before he brazenly fixates upon the work of his hands with an impatience for clothes and a hunger he wouldn't bother to disguise. His own hips shift impotently, sympathetic for his Bonded's desires and his captivity, even though he's never felt what it's like to be aroused beneath fabric. No, his sympathy comes from the feeling of being aroused and having nothing to show for it.
He practically tears Emet-Selch's fly open and yanks his pants down, increasingly feverish as his breaths become shorter and harder. His eye nearly glazes over just as he reveals his lover's cock, watching bounce to upright attention as he pulls it from its confines. And then, Mettaton moans in sympathy: there's no contact, nothing at all, just the sight and all of his craving, the way that being watch feels as if it intensifies even his own experiences. He exhales breath he almost has none of, finding it hard to take in anything more in the heights and heat of his appetite. He has no room in his body for air. He wants to fill himself with Emet-Selch instead.
The idol opens his mouth to speak as his hands reflexively grab onto Emet-Selch's hips. Something about patience, he thinks. It is overrated, and when he thinks about his Bonded's experience with it... This man has scarcely known reward from patience. It brings Mettaton to smile at him when he thinks about how he can be rewarded for a lack of it through indulgence, and he finally pries his attention from the coveted sight of Emet-Selch's cock to meet his lover's eyes, squirming against the bed as he resumes breathing, short and shallow as though to keep enough room in his body for everything else.]
I know it. [Patience. He... says he knows patience, all while unable to stay still and wait for anything at all. His hands are on Emet-Selch's hips, attempting to pull the other man onto his wanting, trembling body.] And... we don't need it. I-
[Dazed. Lusting. He can't think, gazing upon Emet-Selch's body in such a position slightly above his own after having crawled almost atop him on their way to bed. Mettaton realizes he has too much spit in his mouth, and he swallows thickly.]
I need-
[Greedy. He needs all of him at once. Not one position will do. Not one method of claim will do. The idol's eyes narrow, and a mark of frustration etches itself onto his features, a merge of libidinous irritation at the fact that he can't just... fuck him, be fucked, suck him off, be kissed from tip to toe, hold him close, force his lover to watch him pleasure himself... All of it at once.
This indecent list is endless, and it's enough to get Mettaton to lunge for Emet-Selch's neck in his impatience for it all. He sinks his perfect teeth into his neck without reserve: his blood is for him to take, and he immediately breaks out into a heavy moan at the taste. It's better tasting than he remembers, his blood...
Mettaton knows patience, but if he doesn't have to be, he doesn't see the point.]
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When their eyes finally meet again, his pulse leaps, breath stalling, all of that yearning plain in his expression. Agreeing with absolute conviction that they had no need for patience. Not between them. Not for this.
Too many (if such a thing were possible) needs at once made it hard to position himself for anything. Instead, his mind restlessly shifts between concepts and imaginings, along similar lines as Mettaton's. How much he wanted to take and touch and suck and simply be with him, to have enough of himself carved out and consumed so that he could never be abandoned.
But at the moment his requirements were to be closer and- not much of anything else. So closer he tries to press, encouraged by Mettaton's own drag at him, while a hand drops to the hem of his opened pants, shoving them still lower, even if he can't work out the coordination to kick himself free of them entirely just yet. He'd thought, for a fleeting moment earlier, that he'd be able to keep some measure of calm, to be able to take in the full sight of his lover's transformed body with deliberation, to explore him with hands and lips, but he knew there was no chance for that now. Not yet, not when they were both completely unsated and impatient, lusting for everything at once.
But right now, what he wants most of all is teeth in his throat- something Emet-Selch realized and decided on the moment Mettaton lunged for it, when he felt the pain of the bite blossoming outward from the points of impact. A gasping cry passes his lips as he bares his neck instinctively towards him; an absurd instinct to have, but a demand in the gesture, as though expecting to be torn open. The sharp sting let him know that skin had been successfully broken, and he shudders, the ache of his cock turning the pain into a point of simple intensity.
His hands fall back to Mettaton's own body, seeking some sort of purchase there, fingers digging into skin, in a tense and irregular kneading at it.
Patience was for things that required it. There was no reason to suffer it otherwise.]
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