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