[His fingers willingly lock around Mettaton's. Five against four, but... he didn't see that as a flaw to his Bonded's shapeshifting. Four was the Correct number for him, so what else would he have (though the Ascian would also agree that however many fingers Mettaton wanted would also be correct)? If anything, it made him feel he had slightly too many himself....]
One of someone like you is more than enough.
[It's more dryly spoke, but, well, Mettaton had some right to be smug, he supposed. To be able to capture his attentions like this was a special thing, of course. No one else had managed it (who else would want to, was something he refused to consider). Which softens him as well, and has him feeling gratitude once more.
Looking back down again, he watches as Mettaton trails attention over his neck, a sight and feeling that has him tilting his head slightly into it. Another movement that sets the whole area aching but he ignores that. Soreness was just going to be a part of his life for a while. But for decorations like this, it was a small enough price.
And how absurd it was that it was only under these precise circumstances that he found he could talk about this whatsoever. Drained and bruised and bloodied and several times fucked, with his lover's cock still inside him. With his body on full display to them both. But Emet-Selch couldn't think of any other way it could have worked; he needed to have been reduced this far. And even now, he didn't know how much longer he could maintain such... verbal sentiment. But he could manage once more.]
...Thank you, then- for reminding me that it's yet possible to manifest this degree of care for another. Even after so many years.
[While he would, and had, reminded those heroes that his people weren't unfeeling monsters, were capable of all the same emotions and relationships... that was a world and a time far removed from the present. For himself, he'd thought he'd lost that along with all the rest.
Shifting his free arm, Emet-Selch reaches up to touch the side of Mettaton's face with his fingertips. A gentle, familiar sort of touch.]
--You've given a great deal to me. Your heart, not least- and though you've taken mine in recompense, [Something that he still pauses over, as though this were a thing he had trouble comprehending.] is there anything else I can do for you? My means may not be what they once were... but what of it?
[At his obvious gratitude, Mettaton softens up further. Fingers that tangle with Emet-Selch's weave in his further yet. Another reminder of his normal, but on the higher end of acceptable, finger counts.
He wonders what it must be like, to feel his humanity's been lost to him with the fall of his civilization. There's no other explanation for his surprise at it. Of course Emet-Selch should be capable of caring, Mettaton thinks. But such a disturbing incident no doubt traumatized him, and everything thereafter... There is no recovery alone. But the admission itself strikes him as such a lonely existence, never once connecting with anybody, never finding anyone worth it or capable of leveling with him in this way... He squeezes him with his arms. So many years. It's no small wonder he struggles so greatly with coping, with processing, with simple discussion of touchy subjects.
And this softness only intensifies as he continues talking. Mettaton drags his hand laced with Emet-Selch's up to his chest, pressing both of their hands over his Bondmate's heart.
Something he could do for him? As more recompense, for loving him. Is he hearing this right? It strikes Mettaton as a bit absurd, but then, aren't they both a bit odd. Yes, Emet-Selch should be grateful to win his attentions in turn, but this strikes him as another sad sort of thing to say. Not quite founded on any insecurity over whether he's worth loving or not, but just that he felt so touched by the act of being loved and loving in return that he feels he could give more. Mettaton leans into that touch, closing his eyes.]
You're my Bonded Witch. I have your magic, and anything you do with it. I watch you unfold before me... I have your self. I keep your company. Your consideration. And your heart. [His eyes open half-way, fixing his attention upon Emet-Selch with a mild smile.] Yet you want to give me more...
[He says that in hopes of shining a light over the fact that he already does much for him, to start with. He presses his palm into his chest. Of course he'd do what he could for Emet-Selch, and it surprises him little that he should want to do for Mettaton what he can, too. If he ever wanted something beyond himself, Emet-Selch would be the first to know.]
Hmm. ... A kiss. Yes, that's what you can do for me, for now.
[He meets his eyes squarely with a growing smile.]
[Why did simple handholding feel like such a luxury? But he lets their hands tangle fully together, watching as Mettaton presses them over his heart, trying to memorize the quiet of the moment. Another small thing to sustain him.]
Ah....
[When put like that, it did seem like a fair amount that he was providing. And not trifling things either. Emet-Selch nods slowly after mulling it over, though he didn't think his question had been that strange. That he found mutual love to be at all a remarkable and heretofore impossible to obtain thing doesn't strike him as anything but expected. Natural. And it was normal to want to provide things to a person much cared for, wasn't it? But while it was no excuse to become complacent, it wasn't a lopsided arrangement, he supposed. But to be given so much... of course he would want there to remain parity.
Still, Mettaton didn't seem like the sort to keep his desires to himself. If there was anything he did want, the Ascian decided it would probably be safe to assume that the puca would tell him.
And this particular simple request gets a small, amused sound from him, followed by a sigh that's not quite put-upon.]
That means I'll have to move, you know. How demanding....
[Nevermind that he needed to move soon anyway. But there was little way he could kiss him properly without facing him, so he reluctantly pulls his hand free, needing the support of both of his arms to extricate himself from Mettaton's lap. Unconsciously, Emet-Selch finds himself holding his breath as he pulls free of his Bonded's cock, feeling again that mixture of relief and regret.
Standing up, there's a small wobble to his posture, and a smaller wince. Everything was going to be sore for a while; Mettaton gaining a human body whenever he wanted had dangerous implications for the safety of his own. But he wasn't concerned.
Turning back to him, Emet-Selch takes a moment to let his gaze linger over Mettaton's body again, seated on the edge of his bed, and is clearly taken by the sight of him, disheveled but so... secure, in himself, in everything, it felt like. Not nearly bitten enough, though; a detail to rectify on another occasion, he thought. His attention hones in on Mettaton's face as he leans in, cupping it between both hands, though with a small brush to the robot's bangs as he does so. Another brush follows, but of lips against his, light and almost testing. A small taste of him accompanied by a soft breath, and a pressure that slowly firms. The deliberation involved is clear, as is the passion underneath- a deep affection and emotional wanting of the other man, with his only tool for expressing it being a kiss.]
[No, he hadn't really considered that he'd have to move from his lap. It's a bit of a disappointment, but he considers that humans should likely not be flexible in such a manner... It makes sense that Emet-Selch would have to move to kiss him on the lips. Nonetheless, it brings him amusement in return to hear Emet-Selch's weak suggestion of being hassled by Mettaton's request. Even if he were truly burdened by a demand of his, he's dutiful. He can complain to his heart's content.
His voice is playful, singsong... But still a bit more hoarse than usual.]
Your efforts are appreciated, my dearest.
[Though the Puca thoroughly enjoys their position, the very moment Emet-Selch shifts, he realizes how sensitive and raw-feeling his cock's become. He could ignore bleeding out as long as he were doing it with the spark of his lover's embrace to placate him in the meanwhile... Perhaps, then, the detachment is welcome. But it's over and done with, and then he has his lover regaining the use of his (assuredly sore and disagreeable) legs, which also brings Mettaton a weird satisfaction to behold. He smirks at him, appreciating his work.
And appreciating his body in general. There's not a moment where he doesn't consider the man before him and mirror himself back in his thoughts, less of a comparison out of any insecurity and more of one out of appreciation for detail. Yes, he feels perfect this way: for Emet-Selch to notice it would suit Mettaton. He keeps his legs slightly spread to allow the Ascian perfect access and sight of him, still raking his eyes from thighs to face, taking in marks he's too satisfied with.
But that satisfaction simmers into anticipation upon meeting his gaze. Lip cut and swollen and hair tousled, Mettaton feels a wave of heat overcome him as Emet-Selch closes in. The kind of kiss that feels like a cherished first, something to remember.
How much he feels of his feelings through this manner of expression is intoxicating. Even without the Bond, Mettaton relies on that kiss for the other man's feelings, just how much he loves and craves him. A firm, sweet pressure, which Mettaton only presses into in return: how fond his own feelings run, his ardor, how stricken he is by his Bonded, and his love in return. A kiss completely laden with it from both sides, passionate and deep even without the involvement of mouths and tongue and fervor. It pierces him through, and he relishes it all.
When they break apart, it's softly. Mettaton sighs, realizing his pulse has jumped again, that he closed his eyes somewhere along the way. He blinks, dazed by a kiss.
Given the next opportunity to speak, he makes eye contact with his Bondmate.]
Come to bed with me...
[Though Mettaton generally has a lascivious edge to all he says and does as a standard, this is said more imploring, a request to simply be with him. He can't imagine Emet-Selch declining him, anyway. It's more of an expression of his own want.]
[The unfamiliar roughness to Mettaton's voice is still a pleasure, despite how he otherwise appreciated its usual smoothness. And how convenient it was, that they were both fully satisfied with themselves and each other, in both sight and sensation. A striking pair they made....
And bearing affections to drown one another. Made deep through sentiment rather than physicality, it hurt in a way that had nothing to do with a pierced lip, and left him with a sense of profound tenderness.
Trapped in a light fog from their kiss, Emet-Selch has to blink away the haze to focus back on Mettaton's eyes, his words. A flicker of surprise shows in his expression- less at the request (as unnecessary as it was; of course he was going to lie back down, and of course Mettaton would join him), but at the tone of it. While he'd come to value Mettaton's voice in all its variations, the slightly more unusual versions naturally attract specific attention.
It's something that has Emet-Selch pressing their lips together for a few moments more, struck by the need to. The small pain in his own is no dissuasion, not when there was this much affection to still express, a love and ardor to leave him slightly trembling. The way they captivated each other still startled him sometimes, especially when it came out in gestures so simple.
But he draws back sooner this time with a soft inhalation, eyes flickering open again to look at Mettaton with a terrible sort of fondness. His thumbs lightly stroke either side of his face.]
...Of course.
[Straightening back up, the Ascian's hands drift from Mettaton's face, down over his neck and shoulders. Any time he had the chance he seemed to want to look at his body- a new hobby that he shamelessly indulged in. And how beautiful Mettaton still was, and how himself, to ever more notable degrees. Not that he had ever been anyone else, but it was as though he were beholding the entirety of him at once.
Briefly distracted from moving by the sight of him, Emet-Selch shakes it off with a half-smile as he crawls back into bed. It's awkwardly done, limbs stiff and uncooperative, and not made much easier by the way he reaches back towards Mettaton. For his arms, his hands- anything to not lose contact with him, to pull him up, to stretch out beside him on the bed. Only when he was wrapped back up with his lover again could he relax.]
[Mettaton follows, eagerly. His body moves on automatic, finding this additional physical invitation to join his Bondmate too enticing to sit around for. Hand-in-hand, fingers locked around fingers, Mettaton regards even their digits as the suggestion of how they're bound to end up: laced with each other, as familiar as can be.
For a moment, the beautiful strangeness of it all catches up with the robot. The sight of his lover before him, completely exposed (as he would have him), crawling onto his own bed and reaching a hand out to beckon for him to join him. And in his vision comes his own hand, forearm, the bones and muscles and skin of it... He stares, spellbound, at their hands joined, finding this part to be worth disbelief. Perhaps even the part where he's found such a beloved man in the Ascian, when he'd otherwise found his values to be worth skepticism. (Even still, they disagree. He'd still like to talk about it some more, for all that he knows that Emet-Selch has a hard time of it. For all they disagree. For all that there are human lives lost already, for all that it's in the name of another beloved population, for all that Emet-Selch couldn't stop even if he felt differently, in the name of his people and Zodiark both. He understands this. He wants to better understand his own love in the wake of it all, beyond an adoration for frivolity and opulence and expressions of passion.)
His eyes skirt up to meet his face as he sidles up beside him, taking the initiative to actually pull back the covers for them both. For the first time in many nights, he doesn't fear sleep, not with Emet-Selch by his side and tiredness an inevitability. Above all, Mettaton's transfixed by the glimpse of that half-smile, an expression so loved by him when he otherwise rarely sees it on his features.
As soon as they both find themselves properly in bed, legs entangled and bodies flush, Mettaton takes his face in his hands and draws him into a kiss seeping with love for the sight of him.]
You're lovely, you know.
[That smile, the way he is when he's rendered so reduced, relaxed, unwound. And even when he's not, when he's testy and cynical and dour, his usual self... Mettaton finds that endearing, too. But they're different kinds of attractiveness.]
Since you offer to do so much for me... Tell me if there's ever any desire I could make true for you.
[Coming from someone without the same capabilities that Emet-Selch ever possessed, sure, but Mettaton would try. Anything in his power and even beyond it, he would attempt it for Emet-Selch. His will comes from the desire to shock and surprise, and that's a force to fuel him considerably.]
[It was something of a surreal moment, wasn't it? That circumstance and choice had led to being in this place, with this person, with their hands and souls joined. And Mettaton with a form of flesh and blood, muscle and bone- moving in the way that a human would, gathering up the covers and tangling their limbs together. Able to feel the warmth of both body and surrounding fabric, the Ascian imagined. And though he was all yet sore himself, the comfort of the moment far outweighed it, of being both tired and secure in the embrace of his lover. That he had not only a lover but someone that he loved... despite their stark contrasts (Or, possibly, because of them? Talking about those things was always an impassioned subject for him, but- with Mettaton, at least, there was the possibility of maintaining some kind of civility.
Not a guarantee. It was too important a topic for that. But he cared for Mettaton's opinion even when it was wrong (i.e., when it disagreed with his own.)).
The kiss felt so natural that Emet-Selch is struck that bit more by it, that it was possible to have something like it, casual and yet brimming with affection. Made special by virtue of familiarity, perhaps.
The compliment though, draws a few blinks, the statement unexpected. Different from the sorts of flattery Mettaton usually expressed towards everyone, as though part of a verbal tic. Unsure of the cause, the Ascian considered that it was nice, he supposed, that Mettaton thought so. He was something of a wreck... but that had its own appeal.
The offer produces a small hum from him, barely audible, and encourages a brief kiss before replying.]
You already provide enough. More than.... [Than he could ever truly express. A feeling that contained both gratitude and sorrow. Words against lips turn into another, still briefer kiss before he continues, voice remaining low.] But if something should occur to me... I'll be sure to inform you.
[It's an offer that warms him a little, to have someone to rely on, who cared about him so....]
Right now, 'tis only to sleep, and then to wake with you afterward.
[To still be with him in the morning, for as many mornings as possible.]
[Though he knows he'll lose this form as soon as he tries to sleep, Mettaton keeps it because he loves it. It's grown on him in this hour significantly, and he finds it a shame that it won't hold into his sleep. The heat of their bodies and the give of their skin being a mutual thing is... better than he imagined. It's a good thing, he thinks, that he'll be able to access it more often now, with absolutely no problems whatsoever.
The request has him pressing his forehead to Emet-Selch's. His hands move to wrap arms around his shoulders, hardly minding any of the injuries he's inflicted, letting his arm brush and bump against bites and bruises. He's either careless, or wanting to remind Emet-Selch of what's there even while in bed.]
Oh! We want the same thing. How wonderful.
[And completely unsurprising, but Mettaton will act like it's a big deal. Though he has a bright energy, as he usually does, there's a key to it that operates on a subdued level, one suggesting of exhaustion. Exhaustion beyond a physical state, the kind wrought by unease and depleted energy both. In addition to that comes the pleasant sort of depletion brought by their mutual attraction. A feeling he could slip into.
He shifts closer to Emet-Selch, appreciating the way their bodies fit together like this. It's not just Emet-Selch's body yielding to his figure this time: when draws Emet-Selch into an embrace, their chests press into each other in ways his robotic body couldn't possibly manage. Usually, it's only the give of Emet-Selch's body he has to rely on. Having two like that means new levels of closeness with the Ascian for him. Though he feels a mark of envy over this body he has, how could he if it's his now? It only means he has multiple ways to enjoy his lover, he decides.
Mettaton hardly thinks to say goodnight to him verbally, but he does lean in to give him a soft, but lazy kiss, accompanied by a pleasant hum. Being there in the morning... He'll probably have to wait around to wait for Emet-Selch to wake, knowing their track records. One of them sleeps more than the other.]
[Distantly, Emet-Selch does wonder if he'll be woken up at some point during the night by a sudden bodily-inflexibility on the part of his partner, of having the soft give of skin replaced by a more unforgiving metal-and-fur shell. Well, even when it happens, the Ascian knows he'd be fine with it after some initial startle. He was used to sleeping alongside a robotic form by now. But he would appreciate this softer version of Mettaton for as long as it lasted.
It wasn't as though it should be hard to see again later, now that Mettaton knew what he was doing. It was a perfect transformation, after all, and one success means permanent success, surely.
An embrace at all meant contact with injuries, so Mettaton's agitation of bitten skin comes as no surprise and no concern. In both touch and ache alike, there was the reminder of being possessed, of having that connection to him. So long as he remained marked, how could he ever lose him?
And though Mettaton seemed tired (unusual in itself, really), there was an unexpected edge to it alongside all of the normal feelings that Emet-Selch was used to sensing. It's just enough to have his grip firm up for a moment, nuzzle against his face before settling back down. As though he could sooth something that he wasn't sure needed soothed, or impress upon it with his presence, somehow.
Not that Emet-Selch could do so with much conscious effort, as the events and activities of the night were quickly catching up to him. But it was a pleasant sensation to be worn out through means like this, as opposed to the unnatural drain from too many Bonds. As well as to know that when he woke up (which would almost undoubtedly be after Mettaton; even in his normal state, he slept too much) that he'd be relatively rested. Insomuch as Emet-Selch ever was, at least.
And with as safe as he felt, a soft kiss at his lips was the perfect complement to the quiet ache of the rest of him, and he drifts into sleep in not very much time at all.]
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One of someone like you is more than enough.
[It's more dryly spoke, but, well, Mettaton had some right to be smug, he supposed. To be able to capture his attentions like this was a special thing, of course. No one else had managed it (who else would want to, was something he refused to consider). Which softens him as well, and has him feeling gratitude once more.
Looking back down again, he watches as Mettaton trails attention over his neck, a sight and feeling that has him tilting his head slightly into it. Another movement that sets the whole area aching but he ignores that. Soreness was just going to be a part of his life for a while. But for decorations like this, it was a small enough price.
And how absurd it was that it was only under these precise circumstances that he found he could talk about this whatsoever. Drained and bruised and bloodied and several times fucked, with his lover's cock still inside him. With his body on full display to them both. But Emet-Selch couldn't think of any other way it could have worked; he needed to have been reduced this far. And even now, he didn't know how much longer he could maintain such... verbal sentiment. But he could manage once more.]
...Thank you, then- for reminding me that it's yet possible to manifest this degree of care for another. Even after so many years.
[While he would, and had, reminded those heroes that his people weren't unfeeling monsters, were capable of all the same emotions and relationships... that was a world and a time far removed from the present. For himself, he'd thought he'd lost that along with all the rest.
Shifting his free arm, Emet-Selch reaches up to touch the side of Mettaton's face with his fingertips. A gentle, familiar sort of touch.]
--You've given a great deal to me. Your heart, not least- and though you've taken mine in recompense, [Something that he still pauses over, as though this were a thing he had trouble comprehending.] is there anything else I can do for you? My means may not be what they once were... but what of it?
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He wonders what it must be like, to feel his humanity's been lost to him with the fall of his civilization. There's no other explanation for his surprise at it. Of course Emet-Selch should be capable of caring, Mettaton thinks. But such a disturbing incident no doubt traumatized him, and everything thereafter... There is no recovery alone. But the admission itself strikes him as such a lonely existence, never once connecting with anybody, never finding anyone worth it or capable of leveling with him in this way... He squeezes him with his arms. So many years. It's no small wonder he struggles so greatly with coping, with processing, with simple discussion of touchy subjects.
And this softness only intensifies as he continues talking. Mettaton drags his hand laced with Emet-Selch's up to his chest, pressing both of their hands over his Bondmate's heart.
Something he could do for him? As more recompense, for loving him. Is he hearing this right? It strikes Mettaton as a bit absurd, but then, aren't they both a bit odd. Yes, Emet-Selch should be grateful to win his attentions in turn, but this strikes him as another sad sort of thing to say. Not quite founded on any insecurity over whether he's worth loving or not, but just that he felt so touched by the act of being loved and loving in return that he feels he could give more. Mettaton leans into that touch, closing his eyes.]
You're my Bonded Witch. I have your magic, and anything you do with it. I watch you unfold before me... I have your self. I keep your company. Your consideration. And your heart. [His eyes open half-way, fixing his attention upon Emet-Selch with a mild smile.] Yet you want to give me more...
[He says that in hopes of shining a light over the fact that he already does much for him, to start with. He presses his palm into his chest. Of course he'd do what he could for Emet-Selch, and it surprises him little that he should want to do for Mettaton what he can, too. If he ever wanted something beyond himself, Emet-Selch would be the first to know.]
Hmm. ... A kiss. Yes, that's what you can do for me, for now.
[He meets his eyes squarely with a growing smile.]
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Ah....
[When put like that, it did seem like a fair amount that he was providing. And not trifling things either. Emet-Selch nods slowly after mulling it over, though he didn't think his question had been that strange. That he found mutual love to be at all a remarkable and heretofore impossible to obtain thing doesn't strike him as anything but expected. Natural. And it was normal to want to provide things to a person much cared for, wasn't it? But while it was no excuse to become complacent, it wasn't a lopsided arrangement, he supposed. But to be given so much... of course he would want there to remain parity.
Still, Mettaton didn't seem like the sort to keep his desires to himself. If there was anything he did want, the Ascian decided it would probably be safe to assume that the puca would tell him.
And this particular simple request gets a small, amused sound from him, followed by a sigh that's not quite put-upon.]
That means I'll have to move, you know. How demanding....
[Nevermind that he needed to move soon anyway. But there was little way he could kiss him properly without facing him, so he reluctantly pulls his hand free, needing the support of both of his arms to extricate himself from Mettaton's lap. Unconsciously, Emet-Selch finds himself holding his breath as he pulls free of his Bonded's cock, feeling again that mixture of relief and regret.
Standing up, there's a small wobble to his posture, and a smaller wince. Everything was going to be sore for a while; Mettaton gaining a human body whenever he wanted had dangerous implications for the safety of his own. But he wasn't concerned.
Turning back to him, Emet-Selch takes a moment to let his gaze linger over Mettaton's body again, seated on the edge of his bed, and is clearly taken by the sight of him, disheveled but so... secure, in himself, in everything, it felt like. Not nearly bitten enough, though; a detail to rectify on another occasion, he thought. His attention hones in on Mettaton's face as he leans in, cupping it between both hands, though with a small brush to the robot's bangs as he does so. Another brush follows, but of lips against his, light and almost testing. A small taste of him accompanied by a soft breath, and a pressure that slowly firms. The deliberation involved is clear, as is the passion underneath- a deep affection and emotional wanting of the other man, with his only tool for expressing it being a kiss.]
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His voice is playful, singsong... But still a bit more hoarse than usual.]
Your efforts are appreciated, my dearest.
[Though the Puca thoroughly enjoys their position, the very moment Emet-Selch shifts, he realizes how sensitive and raw-feeling his cock's become. He could ignore bleeding out as long as he were doing it with the spark of his lover's embrace to placate him in the meanwhile... Perhaps, then, the detachment is welcome. But it's over and done with, and then he has his lover regaining the use of his (assuredly sore and disagreeable) legs, which also brings Mettaton a weird satisfaction to behold. He smirks at him, appreciating his work.
And appreciating his body in general. There's not a moment where he doesn't consider the man before him and mirror himself back in his thoughts, less of a comparison out of any insecurity and more of one out of appreciation for detail. Yes, he feels perfect this way: for Emet-Selch to notice it would suit Mettaton. He keeps his legs slightly spread to allow the Ascian perfect access and sight of him, still raking his eyes from thighs to face, taking in marks he's too satisfied with.
But that satisfaction simmers into anticipation upon meeting his gaze. Lip cut and swollen and hair tousled, Mettaton feels a wave of heat overcome him as Emet-Selch closes in. The kind of kiss that feels like a cherished first, something to remember.
How much he feels of his feelings through this manner of expression is intoxicating. Even without the Bond, Mettaton relies on that kiss for the other man's feelings, just how much he loves and craves him. A firm, sweet pressure, which Mettaton only presses into in return: how fond his own feelings run, his ardor, how stricken he is by his Bonded, and his love in return. A kiss completely laden with it from both sides, passionate and deep even without the involvement of mouths and tongue and fervor. It pierces him through, and he relishes it all.
When they break apart, it's softly. Mettaton sighs, realizing his pulse has jumped again, that he closed his eyes somewhere along the way. He blinks, dazed by a kiss.
Given the next opportunity to speak, he makes eye contact with his Bondmate.]
Come to bed with me...
[Though Mettaton generally has a lascivious edge to all he says and does as a standard, this is said more imploring, a request to simply be with him. He can't imagine Emet-Selch declining him, anyway. It's more of an expression of his own want.]
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And bearing affections to drown one another. Made deep through sentiment rather than physicality, it hurt in a way that had nothing to do with a pierced lip, and left him with a sense of profound tenderness.
Trapped in a light fog from their kiss, Emet-Selch has to blink away the haze to focus back on Mettaton's eyes, his words. A flicker of surprise shows in his expression- less at the request (as unnecessary as it was; of course he was going to lie back down, and of course Mettaton would join him), but at the tone of it. While he'd come to value Mettaton's voice in all its variations, the slightly more unusual versions naturally attract specific attention.
It's something that has Emet-Selch pressing their lips together for a few moments more, struck by the need to. The small pain in his own is no dissuasion, not when there was this much affection to still express, a love and ardor to leave him slightly trembling. The way they captivated each other still startled him sometimes, especially when it came out in gestures so simple.
But he draws back sooner this time with a soft inhalation, eyes flickering open again to look at Mettaton with a terrible sort of fondness. His thumbs lightly stroke either side of his face.]
...Of course.
[Straightening back up, the Ascian's hands drift from Mettaton's face, down over his neck and shoulders. Any time he had the chance he seemed to want to look at his body- a new hobby that he shamelessly indulged in. And how beautiful Mettaton still was, and how himself, to ever more notable degrees. Not that he had ever been anyone else, but it was as though he were beholding the entirety of him at once.
Briefly distracted from moving by the sight of him, Emet-Selch shakes it off with a half-smile as he crawls back into bed. It's awkwardly done, limbs stiff and uncooperative, and not made much easier by the way he reaches back towards Mettaton. For his arms, his hands- anything to not lose contact with him, to pull him up, to stretch out beside him on the bed. Only when he was wrapped back up with his lover again could he relax.]
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For a moment, the beautiful strangeness of it all catches up with the robot. The sight of his lover before him, completely exposed (as he would have him), crawling onto his own bed and reaching a hand out to beckon for him to join him. And in his vision comes his own hand, forearm, the bones and muscles and skin of it... He stares, spellbound, at their hands joined, finding this part to be worth disbelief. Perhaps even the part where he's found such a beloved man in the Ascian, when he'd otherwise found his values to be worth skepticism. (Even still, they disagree. He'd still like to talk about it some more, for all that he knows that Emet-Selch has a hard time of it. For all they disagree. For all that there are human lives lost already, for all that it's in the name of another beloved population, for all that Emet-Selch couldn't stop even if he felt differently, in the name of his people and Zodiark both. He understands this. He wants to better understand his own love in the wake of it all, beyond an adoration for frivolity and opulence and expressions of passion.)
His eyes skirt up to meet his face as he sidles up beside him, taking the initiative to actually pull back the covers for them both. For the first time in many nights, he doesn't fear sleep, not with Emet-Selch by his side and tiredness an inevitability. Above all, Mettaton's transfixed by the glimpse of that half-smile, an expression so loved by him when he otherwise rarely sees it on his features.
As soon as they both find themselves properly in bed, legs entangled and bodies flush, Mettaton takes his face in his hands and draws him into a kiss seeping with love for the sight of him.]
You're lovely, you know.
[That smile, the way he is when he's rendered so reduced, relaxed, unwound. And even when he's not, when he's testy and cynical and dour, his usual self... Mettaton finds that endearing, too. But they're different kinds of attractiveness.]
Since you offer to do so much for me... Tell me if there's ever any desire I could make true for you.
[Coming from someone without the same capabilities that Emet-Selch ever possessed, sure, but Mettaton would try. Anything in his power and even beyond it, he would attempt it for Emet-Selch. His will comes from the desire to shock and surprise, and that's a force to fuel him considerably.]
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Not a guarantee. It was too important a topic for that. But he cared for Mettaton's opinion even when it was wrong (i.e., when it disagreed with his own.)).
The kiss felt so natural that Emet-Selch is struck that bit more by it, that it was possible to have something like it, casual and yet brimming with affection. Made special by virtue of familiarity, perhaps.
The compliment though, draws a few blinks, the statement unexpected. Different from the sorts of flattery Mettaton usually expressed towards everyone, as though part of a verbal tic. Unsure of the cause, the Ascian considered that it was nice, he supposed, that Mettaton thought so. He was something of a wreck... but that had its own appeal.
The offer produces a small hum from him, barely audible, and encourages a brief kiss before replying.]
You already provide enough. More than.... [Than he could ever truly express. A feeling that contained both gratitude and sorrow. Words against lips turn into another, still briefer kiss before he continues, voice remaining low.] But if something should occur to me... I'll be sure to inform you.
[It's an offer that warms him a little, to have someone to rely on, who cared about him so....]
Right now, 'tis only to sleep, and then to wake with you afterward.
[To still be with him in the morning, for as many mornings as possible.]
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The request has him pressing his forehead to Emet-Selch's. His hands move to wrap arms around his shoulders, hardly minding any of the injuries he's inflicted, letting his arm brush and bump against bites and bruises. He's either careless, or wanting to remind Emet-Selch of what's there even while in bed.]
Oh! We want the same thing. How wonderful.
[And completely unsurprising, but Mettaton will act like it's a big deal. Though he has a bright energy, as he usually does, there's a key to it that operates on a subdued level, one suggesting of exhaustion. Exhaustion beyond a physical state, the kind wrought by unease and depleted energy both. In addition to that comes the pleasant sort of depletion brought by their mutual attraction. A feeling he could slip into.
He shifts closer to Emet-Selch, appreciating the way their bodies fit together like this. It's not just Emet-Selch's body yielding to his figure this time: when draws Emet-Selch into an embrace, their chests press into each other in ways his robotic body couldn't possibly manage. Usually, it's only the give of Emet-Selch's body he has to rely on. Having two like that means new levels of closeness with the Ascian for him. Though he feels a mark of envy over this body he has, how could he if it's his now? It only means he has multiple ways to enjoy his lover, he decides.
Mettaton hardly thinks to say goodnight to him verbally, but he does lean in to give him a soft, but lazy kiss, accompanied by a pleasant hum. Being there in the morning... He'll probably have to wait around to wait for Emet-Selch to wake, knowing their track records. One of them sleeps more than the other.]
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It wasn't as though it should be hard to see again later, now that Mettaton knew what he was doing. It was a perfect transformation, after all, and one success means permanent success, surely.
An embrace at all meant contact with injuries, so Mettaton's agitation of bitten skin comes as no surprise and no concern. In both touch and ache alike, there was the reminder of being possessed, of having that connection to him. So long as he remained marked, how could he ever lose him?
And though Mettaton seemed tired (unusual in itself, really), there was an unexpected edge to it alongside all of the normal feelings that Emet-Selch was used to sensing. It's just enough to have his grip firm up for a moment, nuzzle against his face before settling back down. As though he could sooth something that he wasn't sure needed soothed, or impress upon it with his presence, somehow.
Not that Emet-Selch could do so with much conscious effort, as the events and activities of the night were quickly catching up to him. But it was a pleasant sensation to be worn out through means like this, as opposed to the unnatural drain from too many Bonds. As well as to know that when he woke up (which would almost undoubtedly be after Mettaton; even in his normal state, he slept too much) that he'd be relatively rested. Insomuch as Emet-Selch ever was, at least.
And with as safe as he felt, a soft kiss at his lips was the perfect complement to the quiet ache of the rest of him, and he drifts into sleep in not very much time at all.]