[It's a good thing Mettaton is graceful enough for both of them; though there's no stumbling, the Ascian still bears a noticeable limp, made slightly worse by how much he'd been ignoring the protests of that injured leg. It was a very unhappy limb, and he cared no more for its opinions than before.
But it doesn't take much in the way of coaxing to get Emet-Selch to fall back upon the bed, imagining in turn the sight of Mettaton above him, the touch of his hands and pressure of his body flush against his skin. Even the idea is absurdly appealing, and with his back against the mattress, it was hard to not dwell on it, closing his eyes for a few moments as he tries to fight off a shiver.
But practicalities remained. Half-assisting with the fastenings of his clothes, half-getting in the way of Mettaton's hands, half-again (somehow) getting distracted by running his own hands up the other man's arms and chest, Emet-Selch stole what scraps of contact that he could. As progressively more skin was exposed to air, his anticipation only grew with it, and though his gaze remains a bit unfocused, his expression conveys something of that sense of longing.
Unfortunately, his skin is not unmarked. It is quite severely marked, in fact, fresh scarring of various depths litters his abdomen and chest, one trailing upwards towards his throat. Perhaps most unpleasant is the sense of deliberation in the marks; this wasn't the result of haphazard battle, but a conscious act on the part of their captors during that week. At least most of the bruising has since faded, apart from some faint discoloration.
A similar pattern can be found at his legs, the very worst scar being the one that extends across the length of one thigh. It still looks sore, for all the healing it's received; the damage beneath it had been extensive.
Not that Emet-Selch particularly cares what he looks like, and he felt no sense of shame or dismay over it; it probably helped that he never viewed his hosts as really being himself. Of far more value was watching Mettaton watch him, and he wondered distantly how much experience the robot had ever had with humans, having lived in a monster-filled society.]
[And with his Bondmate just where he wants him, Mettaton eases himself between his legs, at first drawing his body close to the other man's — but not quite touching. The temptation to press into him already is overbearing, and it takes great self-restraint to hold back. If he did, he'd lose himself to it. Undressing him is just as tantalizing, so it's not a hard diversion. A necessary one, at that.
Emet-Selch's "assistance" only serves to charm Mettaton, particularly when he intercepts and distracts himself with Mettaton's body. He can't wait to have him close once more, can he? Mettaotn smirks with a fond hum, and even rewards such behavior with a kiss to his neck here, or hard presses of his fingertips along his body there — but the Ascian wouldn't go without deliberate contact on Mettaton's part, who craves his body more and more with each passing moment. Seeing Emet-Selch rendered so vulnerable only heightens this craving, and that feeling snowballs the lss and less there is to cover him up.
...He'd seen what they did to people. Even where Mettaton has tissue and synthetic skin, they'd employed some similar tactics: he recognizes it as cruelly investigative. Mettaton traces a finger down the scar that spans his throat down, his eyes flicking up to watch Emet-Selch's face. These wouldn't heal, and the impact from the event itself... A pang of sympathy overcomes the Puca. Emet-Selch is too vulnerable to hanging onto such horrors, just like he is, but with his bleak outlook he wonders how badly it haunts him. Even for Mettaton, dauntless as he behaved, the experience changed him in ways he won't acknowledge.
His pants. Beyond those scars, the cyborg finds it impossible to wait a moment longer to get to touching his skin as he so desires. Mettaton moves to remove those quickly, eagerly, but not before ending his initial survey with a kiss into Emet-Selch's abdomen. Among beholding the entire rest of his body with a wide-eyed gaze, he fixes his attention on his injured leg and shakes his head in disbelief. His voice continues low, as if for Emet-Selch's ears only, though he idly brings a finger to rest against his own lower lip out of fascination with his body.]
I can't believe you. You know, darling... I'd have gladly taken you to bed far earlier, injury or not. Besides. I'm simply taken by you...
[He anchors his hands against Emet-Selch's hips. That means for all the times that he stood to meet him, he was doing it on a leg this injured. What a ridiculous man...
But while talking about his leg is a real concern of MTT's, it's also a thinly veiled excuse to stare at Emet-Selch's body, unabashed, long and hungry for every detail. It's... shocking, unfamiliar, but so recognizable to him, and he wants it. His fingers trace down from his hips to brush against the length of Emet-Selch's arousal, hardly able to contain his desire, his curiosity to experience how he's affected.]
[Having Mettaton's body so close, but contact so limited, had been a great tease in itself, moreso than no contact at all. And while his blood fairly hummed with expectation, the heaviness of want, it extended into the desire to draw out the moment, this feeling, for as long as possible. To shut out the din of intrusive thoughts, the existence of the outside world entirely--
Thoughts that were certainly worse in the aftermath of that torture. Emet-Selch had never possessed much in the way of coping methods for anything else in his life; he wasn't about to start developing them now. But... perhaps there was something to be said for the company of someone else who'd been there, had experienced the same things. Who understood the sort of things that couldn't be said.
Perhaps that made it easier for Emet-Selch to allow the idol so close now. His muscles tense pleasantly underneath that kiss, and even more at the way Mettaton was looking at him, an exploration by sight. It was a good thing the Ascian wasn't predisposed to shyness, feeling a touch amused- perhaps even flattered- at such close attention. While he wasn't the sort to crave attention in itself, he could appreciate care being taken. At Mettaton's seeming disapproval regarding his treatment of his leg, he hums in soft amusement.]
Such concern--
[Words that are cut off with a harsh intake of breath as soon as Mettaton's fingers drift from his hip to his cock. His eyes shut for a few seconds more, having to let that rush of sharper wanting run through him. From just a brush of contact; the Ascian almost has to shake his head at his own neediness. While there was still the occasional flicker of unease at being so unguarded with his own responses, the desire for company overwhelmed it.
Swallowing, he gathers his thoughts and his voice, eyes opening to gaze across at Mettaton once more.]
...Such concern is unnecessary. Though I'm not opposed to ending up here sooner.
[In future goes unspoken; the assumption that this wouldn't be the last time they were together. Raising an arm, the Ascian lets his hand trace slowly across the side of Mettaton's face, to brush through a few strands of his hair. It's- almost affectionate, in a way, though he wouldn't have recognized it as such.]
[Mettaton's eye widens again at the reaction to his touch, any words lodged behind a mental block. That does it, and he's ready to pounce; the ardor in his gaze suggests this well enough. He hears static, grounded only when Emet-Selch reaches for his face with such affection that it would surprise Mettaton to know that he didn't see it as such. His ears pull back at the feelings of desire and adoration overcoming him, relaxed, finding comfort in it, of all things. It tempers his blinded need into something he can wield with more intent, and perhaps it's for the better. It's potent, the combination of lust and infatuation.
He expects that there will be more after this, without a doubt. Tonight won't be enough. This already exceeds his expectations — perhaps not in the way that he always imagined intimacy would play out, but in its own way. Nobody he kissed and held would be Emet-Selch. He smiles playfully, quirking a brow at the Ascian's final remark.]
I'll... [Turns out he wasn't ready to speak, after all. He swallows.] Take that into... Consideration. I aim to please.
[He stares again at all of Emet-Selch, the slightest rise of his shoulders as he's taken aback at the sight of the man sprawled out before him. He decides that he can't let another second go by where he's not against him somehow, and his indecision is fleeting: he can have everything he wants and more, even if it's not all right now. Even if he wants all of him, every last bit of his composure, his body, and his soul. Already Mettaton's predisposed to thinking of him in such terms, knowing what he knows about Emet-Selch. (His mind revisits an two old considerations never clarified: how much of this body is as is, and what did Emet-Selch do to it to make it his, if anything? And... his name. What is his favored?)
That feverish intent doesn't leave even as his eyelid curtains, focusing with passion as he stoops forward. He licks his lips, his hands wandering to Emet-Selch's waist and taking hold of him firmly. The robot catches the head of his cock between his lips, his tongue stroking him from the underside, along the tip, and to the top in one fluid but deliberate motion. He keeps him between his lips, letting his tongue linger as he emits a noise of pleasant satisfaction at what he feels, tactile and temperature. He relishes it: Emet-Selch is warm, softer than he imagined, and he sucks at the tip before releasing him to let his tongue press against him sloppily. His attention's split between what's before his face and Emet-Selch's response.]
[It had been hard to be looked at like that and not touched; that for all of Mettaton's new rabbitine features, it felt like being appraised by something far more predatory. As though on the verge of being devoured in a less literal sense. While viewing such a fate as... wanted, somehow.
Had the Ascian expected any of this when he'd made that bet with the puca, while broken, bleeding, and awaiting death? Not even remotely. And though he'd never regretted the pact or its consequences, he was coming to realize that he would choose to maintain it, regardless of its potential practical value. That this Bond had... some sort of different value of its own.
...How strange, to feel as though in the process of being claimed. And why did it reassure him? Not that Emet-Selch was disinclined to dig his figurative claws into Mettaton in return.
He doesn't quite cry out, but he makes a choked sound nonetheless, an exhalation that shudders through him. The sudden presence of lips and tongue at his cock had come as a small surprise, for some reason, his next breath escaping as a low, pleased-sounding groan. His legs on either side of him tremble slightly, as Emet-Selch shifts up a little to watch Mettaton more readily.
Not that he found it easy to look at him- the sight of the other's mouth sucking at the tip of him, the way his tongue slid over sensitive, heated skin- it was nearly as intense as the feeling of it. Normally he didn't have much trouble watching this sort of thing, if he cared to bother at all- but this time the Ascian had to fight the impulse to look aside or keep his eyes closed. But he didn't want to miss a moment of it either, to pair sight with sensation, to remember them both.
And Emet-Selch had a very good memory.
Though they had stilled at the first stroke of tongue, his fingers settle further in Mettaton's hair, fingertips rubbing small, faintly unsteady circles against his scalp.]
[Even during the eye contact he makes with him to check his reception, Mettaton's attentions are purely sensuous and teetering on drunk. Delighted at being watched, it compels him to continue with a smile. Watching him in a state of longing and for him, even thinking about as much, causes Mettaton to shudder in return. Being desired isn't new to him, no, but having bonded in this manner with somebody in a way unlike anybody else...
If he knew he'd earned such a place with the Ascian, he'd say he knew he would. But it would be remiss to say that he didn't feel similarly, deciding he'd do whatever it took to keep him. Why would he give him up? He can justify keeping him in thousands of ways, though... fondness is at the forefront. He swallows again. Salivating is new to him, but he's decided that it's very, very welcome. It was already welcome, but this brings new appreciation for it.
Mettaton actively wonders what it must feel like, his ministrations which elicit such pleasure from Emet-Selch: it's contagious enough without feeling it for himself, and even that's a lot for the star to process. His sounds and his shivers are enough to give the android a heady rush, his attention fixed so wholly on the man beneath him and very little else. He tilts his head, drags the tip of his tongue down his shaft until he's at the very base, where he curls it around his girth and mouths him feverishly, wet and greedy, before dragging his lips back up to the very tip. With reestablished eye contact, he parts his lips and takes more yet of his length into his mouth, ambitious and wanting. His thumbs move down to Emet Selch's hips and his fingers wander in toward his soft abdomen, pressing gently. If he weren't treating his cock to his amorous treatment, he only imagines how he'd love to feel his naked body against himself right now, by far softer and warmer than himself — full of his vitality.
With his length far in enough to press at the back of his tongue, Mettaton hums; anyone with a gag reflex would be hard-pressed to achieve such a feat, but Mettaton doesn't even blink. Having his cock fill his mouth, hard and soft yet warm even against the heat of his mouth, makes Mettaton dizzy, and he trembles at the delight of it. He allows his tongue to rub along the underside of his cock, a sliding pressure that pulls gradually toward what he can reach of his head, though he has him in deep enough that there's not much space even for that.
Realizing this, Mettaton moans softly; his eye closes, his head lolls somewhat, kept in place by Emet-Selchs arousal. There's nowhere for it to go with an erection near the back of his throat, after all, but he loses himself to the pleasure of it, both in sensation and in psyche. Perhaps even Emet-Selch's fingers in his hair, or the reminder that his hand there, is enough to keep him from losing himself, and his eye cracks open as he pulls his mouth away from his erection, readjusting, then slides his mouth back down upon him.]
[Lips slightly parted, eyes half-closed but fixed on him, the Ascian's breath turns to a ragged panting. He doesn't even attempt to control it; it would be a futile endeavor, and he couldn't find any inclination to want to hide the effect Mettaton was having on him. As though his responses were something to inflict.
And it ached both terribly and wonderfully, feeling spurred on by each pass of the other's tongue, the softness of lips caressing his shaft, the slickness left in the wake of Mettaton's attentions. Whenever his eye met the idol's, his pulse lurched painfully, followed by an answering pang through his cock.
In a distant sort of way- the majority of his attention remaining on the sight of much of his erection being engulfed by the other man's mouth, feeling the head of it brush against the back of his throat, the sensation of humming, of all things- Emet-Selch noted that this was one occasion where not needing to breathe had specific advantages.
Unlike himself, who needed to breathe very much, and yet still felt as though he couldn't get enough air. Softer, ever needier sounds pass from his lips without being wholly conscious of it, as his body struggles not to writhe up under him, shuddering underneath the kneading of Mettaton's hands from the effort. The Ascian's free hand digs into the covers of the bed, fingers spasming slightly, unable to find any sort of anchor there- and not really wanting to.
It was unfamiliar, to let himself be overwhelmed like this- but it was a bit of an addicting sensation. And the strangest bit reassuring.
Even that brief moment without Mettaton's mouth around his cock almost hurts from the lack, a few seconds of chill as wet, hardened skin hit the cooler air around it. There's a palpable sense of relief when that heat surrounds the length of him again, even as it's followed by intensifying need. His hand settles for clutching at Mettaton's hair, unable to muster the coordination to do more than hold onto him.]
[This is the sight he'd been craving. The affection he feels over witnessing Emet-Selch coming undone before him is evident in the warmth of his gaze as he tips his head forward for the Ascian's fingers, allowing him greater access to grip into his hair, to his ears, whatever comes easiest. He wants to feel all of it.
Sentiment washes over him and he hums, love blending with his libidinous appetite and into a deep-seated ambition: to see just how much he'd come apart for him, how deeply he could touch him, how hard he could make him gasp.
After having the head of Emet-Selch's erection resting against the back of his tongue for just long enough, Mettaton pulls off of him. Reluctantly, he withdraws one of his hands from his abdomen and wipes up a bit of drool that falls from the corner of his mouth (for a lot of good that does him, all things considered), but he lets out a noise of satisfied interest as he beholds the stiffness of Emet-Selch's arousal. He thinks to speak: thinks to inform him that there are so many ways he'd have him, for all future intents; thinks to tell him how he delights him; thinks to tell him how he adores him; but he only manages to part his lips when he makes eye contact again, anticipation to take him palpable.
Hungrily, he grips at his length with his thumb against the underside of his shaft. He strokes him firmly, then leans into kiss him along the side, open-mouthed and messy. To accompany his kisses, his fingers drift up to squeeze just beneath the head, the length of his thumb following the curve of his arousal.
With another firm kiss placed against the very tip of his erection, Mettaton resumes what he's sure Emet-Selch will want. With his fingers entwined in MTT's hair, he'd be able to control him if he wanted... So he makes sure not to give him reason to. He presses him against his lips, allowing for him to pop through with a satisfied groan. As he pushes down over him he shivers as he feels his cock fill his mouth completely, clear to the back of his throat. The suddenness of it has him swallowing thickly by reflex, and MTT closes his eyes at the sensation of his throat tightening around his Bonded with another stifled gasp. As if he could gasp at all, given what occupies his throat. He'll begin to bob up and down over Emet-Selch, intent and completely lacking in any rhythm: when he remains with his lips around the base of his cock, it's because he's enjoying how his tongue lays against it; and when he comes up it's to otherwise run his tongue slow, over and around the head or to treat him to a good suck before pushing back over him. Could he get any more intense of a response than this? Could he take more of him?]
[Looking at him with heavy-lidded intent, Emet-Selch bites his lip when Mettaton pulls off of him for a time, his cock practically glistening from how slick he'd left it. It didn't feel frustrating, exactly, for all that he longed for him to continue, but it felt like a part of the experience- watching Mettaton observe his handiwork, the mess he was making of him. How much the Ascian wanted him, to an absurd degree--
The renewed touch, the firm drag of fingers down the length of his erection brings the briefest of relief, a hard shudder causing his muscles to clench. Paired with the different sensation of damp lips, the suggestion of heat from Mettaton's mouth against rigid flesh, and the feeling turns into an ever deeper ache. Something like a whine works deep in Emet-Selch's throat, and his hand returns to petting roughly at the idol's hair, as though he could coax more out of him in some way.
And the Ascian can't help but cry out when Mettaton finally takes him in again, the sound brief but loud, strangled off into another gasping for air. He's forced to close his eyes for a handful of seconds, able to hear only the rapid thudding of his heart, and the more distant echo of his own desperate breathing. When he feels himself swallowed up entirely, the constriction of Mettaton's throat around his cock, he forces himself to witness it, the sight of the man buried so fully between his thighs would have him moaning ever louder if he weren't so out of air. But he certainly seems to try, as though needing to express every scrap of intensity, every effect Mettaton was having on him. The lack of particular rhythm kept him that bit more off-balance, the mix of pressures and motions, the softness of tongue against the squeezing of being sucked upon.
There's a soft note of pleading amid the sharpness of his breath, the way the Ascian's fingers shakily stroked over the puca's rabbit ears. For- satisfaction, certainly, but a lot of other things with it. For his company, perhaps. For this moment to continue until it blotted out all other things, the despair and grief that he carried with him in perpetuity.
[If he ever had doubts about Emet-Selch's desperation, he couldn't have them any longer. The bleed of their Bond is significant with their mutual drop in guard, Mettaton attuned to the vastness of his longing and ache.
But it's not as though he needs this lack of barrier to be able to tell: the Ascian's expression, his gasps for air amidst cries of pleasure, and his body language are all he'd need to be able to tell as much, but he feels it. The true expression of his passion, however, penetrates Mettaton deep to his core, and he's affected by his lust by wanting him more and more. Compared to Emet-Selch's fingers, he can feel how blazing hot his ears are from the temperature of his body, the only real indicator of how flushed he could be if it were possible.
He can hardly think straight. For being someone lacking in the same sensory opportunities, the amount of pleasure Mettaton's experiencing is enough to make him tremble and doubt his vision, but it might not be so noticeable while they're both in the throes of passion. This is compounded upon by Emet-Selch — how could he have expected for this to be so intense?
His hand now unoccupied runs up Emet-Selch's inner thigh; the hand still on his abdomen drags from his navel down to his groin. Mettaton closes his eye for a moment but finds that even if it permits him focus, he wants to... lose himself, just like Emet-Selch. He wants to take everything he can get out of him and drown in it, so his eye opens again and he drinks in the sight of Emet-Selch, every moan and falter and plead.
He pulls back far enough that his lips, tight around the other man's shaft, catch on the head, where Mettaton finds himself lapping at him and sucking in tandem, eager and wanting. It doesn't feel like much longer before he's sliding back down enthusiastically, feeling his throat's empty without Emet-Selch's cock to press into all of the delicate parts of his mouth. He swallows again, this time intentional and hard. It's impossible to take him any deeper, but Mettaton readjusts, nuzzling into him with sincerity in his pleasure.
If he wants to forget, Mettaton can only deliver. He prides himself on being an escape. He shudders against the sensation of Emet-Selch's fingers, the press of his cock in his throat, the warmth of him there and the appearance of his Bonded before him. It's so, so much, more than he'd ever bargained for, and he doesn't even hear himself as he moans against him.]
[How could he have anticipated even a degree of this...? The Ascian's fingers squeeze intermittently at the puca's ears without realizing, noting only the heat of the skin underneath soft fur, one more point of absolute warmth touching him, yet another note to be drowned and stained by. To suffocate fully: nothing less would do, nothing else would drive the world back--
It was the depth of that combination that finally does it. The sight of his cock being taken fully by the other man's mouth. The softness of tongue and lips, the tightness of Mettaton's throat squeezing him. The overwhelming heat and wetness of it, the stroke of a hand across his thigh. The sounds, both his own, and whatever he could make out from the idol, even stifled by the cock in his mouth, but that much more arresting for it. The way their Bonds had bled together without the Ascian even realizing- shaken by how Mettaton was responding to him in turn.
Not that Emet-Selch couldn't have guessed either, due to everything else he was witnessing, but to feel it as well--
It was inevitable. Being pushed to the edge like this, there's nothing he can do to hold back, no way to stop himself from being dragged over, losing the last remnants of control as his release takes him. The Ascian's body convulses beneath Mettaton, back arching, legs shaking, head thrown back without even realizing it. And the sound he makes- it's surprisingly low, perhaps, and interrupted by irregular gasps for breath- but completely open, containing nothing but the intensity of all that was running through him. Rather than satisfied or relieved, it's a sound of hurt, raw and bordering on despair. That's what strong emotions were like. He's unsure how long it all lasts. He's unsure of much of anything, really.
When it finally begins to fade, Emet-Selch collapses, half-conscious, deafened by the blood rushing through his head, unable to stop himself from trembling.]
[He's already decided that he won't pull away from this at all, not a single aspect of this experience which blinds them so. He's dedicated to taking him and enduring all Emet-Selch has to give. And his undoing doesn't disappoint, though it surprises him that the Ascian's response is so deep and reaches him with such force. Sinking into the carnal is easy, but there's emotion.
Mettaton allows him to fill his mouth first, his tongue still coaxing him to his completion all along the way by rubbing across him until his ejaculation. Which he takes for himself, surprised by the twitches of his body and the taste of his come. It's so much all at once that he sees stars, both blinded by pleasure and blindsided by everything else. But for all this rattles Mettaton, there's far more. It's the sound Emet-Selch makes that would render him breathless, unsure of what to make of this response to intensity.
He concerns over him, that's for sure. He doesn't think that this experience brought him to despair, no, but he wonders if it's by virtue of dropping his guard at all that he'd react this way.
Mettaton is satisfied: he doesn't come to any climax like Emet-Selch, but such is his condition, heavily reliant on all of his other senses. It's hard to recover from that for both of them, but Mettaton pulls off of him far more readily, especially with Emet-Selch a mess collapsed beneath him. Mettaton straightens his posture, his ears bent forward, his attention soft while he spares a thought for foreign matters like being naked and temperature and comfort. He reaches for the edge of Emet-Selch's blankets and draws them up and around him so that when he moves to close in on the Ascian, he brings that with. (Though he doesn't ease himself all the way down before doing a very convenient thing for cuddling — the only good that came out of his post-Rathmore repairs, the ability to remove the too-broad shoulder guards that would have made cuddling kind of impossible.)
With those off, Mettaton eases himself down against Emet-Selch's side (he can figure out if he can tolerate his weight atop his body later, when he's coherent) and, laying on his side, he maneuvers one arm beneath Emet-Selch's neck and the other around his torso and tries to pull the other man into his arms, still deeply impacted by observed and experienced feelings.
He doesn't stop being made of metal and therefore inherently uncomfortable, but that doesn't keep him from pulling Emet-Selch closer to him. Once he gets his way, he twists his fingers into Emet-Selch's hair and presses a kiss to his hairline, humming against him thoughtfully.]
[Mettaton was moving; so long as he didn't feel his presence disappear, Emet-Selch could spare little more consciousness than that on what exactly he was doing. The Ascian remained scattered, thoughts disrupted, hollowed out and limp. It wasn't at all unpleasant, despite the sense of loss that mingled with physical euphoria, as though it were impossible for one to occur without the other. That was... just how it was. With closeness comes grief.
Gradually his breathing approaches a more normal rate. Though it takes some moments for anything beyond the sensation of blankets and contact to register, once it does, he's aware that Mettaton must've put a thought towards his comfort, which has a quiet effect on the Ascian. Small gestures like that tended to reach him.
Shifting more onto his side in turn, Emet-Selch willingly helps to burrow himself back against Mettaton's body. With a certain heaviness of limb, he wraps an arm around the other man's back, the Ascian's face hiding itself against the idol's throat. It was true that the robot wasn't as comfortable a form to meld to as one made of yielding flesh and additional skin, but that felt like a small detail compared to being embraced at all. To feel the hand in his hair, that small kiss- there was a sense of reassurance there, though from what, Emet-Selch wasn't certain.
He's silent for a time, not sure of what to say, or if anything in particular even needed to be said. But there was one thought, which he finally expresses, murmured against Metatton's neck.]
[During that period of quiet, Mettaton strokes the back of his head affectionately, finding it surreal what just took place and with who. But at the same time, when he tries to think up anybody in the entire world, Emet-Selch... has somehow earned this spot as the first person he'd fantasize about, romantically or sexually. He doesn't know when that started. He'd hate it if it came from that moment of deliberately poor acting back when they Bonded, when he leveraged his fingers under Mettaton's chin and asked if his affection would be worth his effort. That was not significant enough on its own to develop into this, though it certainly sparked in him a frustrated want.
It doesn't matter. Still during that silence, Mettaton nuzzles his cheek into his forehead, permitting and enjoying proximity with his neck. ...At this rate, Emet-Selch is going to just keep Smelling Like Mettaton, more and more. Enjoy that.]
Reciprocate. Oh... Do you mean, exact upon me as I did to you?
[That would make sense. And with how arrested Emet-Selch appeared to be, it was something of a shame. Mettaton relaxes against his body, staring off, finding himself in a rare moment of lament. But mostly, jealousy. He's felt that for the Ascian before. But he shifts his perspective into something more positive by will.]
It's too bad. However... I'm positive you can find an equivalent method of stealing my breath away. I have faith in your ability to think outside of the box, darling. More than I would many others...
[Because Mettaton wants to feel that way. He doesn't know how, but he craves it more than ever now.]
[There remained a sense of being raw, mentally, and despite being no longer in the hold of desperation and want, Emet-Selch found himself reluctant to close himself off again. Why was that? It was an uneasy feeling, and there was nothing to gain from it apart from... whatever all of this was.
The Ascian had been deeply annoyed after their Bonding ceremony, insulted at the idea of pretense- because it wasn't as though he'd ever give one whit of remotely genuine consideration towards the idol. He'd felt quite cold towards him.
Even if that was clearly no longer the case, Emet-Selch was not entirely sure what he thought of the puca now. He was still annoying (frequently). He disagreed with the Ascian when it came to small matters like 'are mortals really alive'. Their approach to existence was wildly different, despite both being generally-immortal ghosts. Was it the fault of the Bond developing itself, the sharing of histories, or something else? Did it even matter?
They were friends, he supposed.
The continued nuzzling gets a soft, approving hum from him. Surely smelling like Mettaton is only a good thing? One way of staking a claim on someone. He presses a kiss to his throat in response.]
Stealing your breath... when you don't have any to start with sounds destined to failure. Still- 'tis not as though I'm unaccustomed to taking on impossible tasks.
[Not that he was at all sure how he'd go about it; it was somewhat outside his realm of experience. Though Mettaton had seemed capable of attraction and pleasure, in some fashion, at least. He could tell that much; Emet-Selch knew he wouldn't have been able to react so strongly, to let down his own defenses, if he hadn't felt the other man's own wanting in reply. Why they'd started having this effect on one another he didn't know, but... it wasn't the worst of developments. His fingers stroke idly across Mettaton's upper back as he thinks; the Ascian still didn't see this as affection.]
[He closes his eye, having little else to be looking at with Emet-Selch beneath his gaze, and his room's a veritable eyesore. Even while his mood's light, he still thinks about Emet-Selch's despair contrasting against his want, and he starts to come up with some framework of an understanding, basic and disjointed as it is. He thinks about his loss, something Mettaton only has words to go off of. Imagination only goes so far in piecing together the history of a beloved people long lost. So long has gone by and he's still burdened by it... It runs deep.
He holds him a little tighter with his one arm, his fingers stroking through his hair. He said he tried to find worth in mortals, but was it the chaotic nature of humanity that he disapproved of? He called his people kind, but humanity can be, too. Simply the appearance of their souls, then? Maybe in Aefenglom he'll change his mind... Well, never mind that right now. He said he'd seek a compromise, but it's not something he wants to have weighing on his mind right now, even while it's pertinent to Emet-Selch's despair. Never mind that a compromise feels more impossible than finding some way to get a robot to feel pleasure. If it were a solution rather than a compromise, that would take some kind of divine, otherworldly intervention, at this rate...
Conversely, Mettaton views this as terribly affectionate. He hums at the feeling of his kiss, his ears pressing back far enough that he feels them flush against his head.]
Haha. You're right! But I'm eager for the result... It will take some grand, unorthodox method to find some workaround, Selchy-darling. I'm glad you realize that.
[new name... he kind of likes this one.
If Mettaton knew he were belittling his view on mortals as living and wonderful, he'd shove him off the bed.]
[While Mettaton was thinking on Emet-Selch's inherent misery, the Ascian had focused in on the task he'd been given, latching onto it as though it were some curious puzzle to solve.
The first problem was trying to just find some avenue that seemed worth exploring. Using the Bond, he thought, could be part of it. While they'd mingled experiences to some degree this time, Emet-Selch hadn't done so deliberately, and the Bond itself was still relatively fresh. If he consciously inflicted his own responses, the full weight of each moment, opened himself completely--
But that wouldn't be enough in itself, even were the Bond given more time to fully develop. Only part of an answer, if that.
The tighter grip of Mettaton's arm was both welcome, and a little distracting, his own hold squeezing back in response. Even if he was a primarily metal shell, it was satisfying to finally be pressed entirely to him. Emet-Selch still wondered how much the robot could feel of him, and to what degree. He'd said it had all been completely new, which meant that something had changed in his physiology to allow it to happen. But how could the Ascian simulate something that wasn't there?
...Sometimes, when people lost a limb, they reported still being able to feel it. The brain still believed it to be there, the nerves to agitate those sensations still existed, were able to fire accidentally. And with Mettaton being able to feel sensation now at all, was it possible similar pathways had developed for him, but had no way of being triggered naturally? What if there was a spell that could manipulate those areas, provide a sensation of contact that should've been impossible to have?
The problem then became developing an appropriate spell- which, if it were even possible, the Ascian doubted would be under either field he was specializing in. Which meant broadening his efforts- but that was fine. Emet-Selch only did things he found to be of interest, and this was interesting. Combining it with the Bond... it was a whole lot of hypotheticals, but it was something to think on.
But his thoughts on all of that are derailed entirely at this new abomination of his title. Mettaton's creativity was truly perverse at times. The sound he makes is quite exasperated, a breath of annoyance against the robot's throat.
And in addition to that- not an eyesore, but an earsore- there was a certain dissatisfaction in Mettaton using his title at all. Emet-Selch wasn't used to anyone using his real name yet- only his Warriors had leave to- but it wasn't as wholly unfamiliar to hear as it had once been. Though he'd never give it out casually, there was a certain... nostalgia to it that he'd never thought to feel again.
From thoughtful, the Ascian turns pensive, a more uncomfortable kind of tension present in his body as he decides what to do. It was such a small thing, but it was important to him.]
My personal name--
[He stops, reconsidering his phrasing. Lifting his head from its place at Mettaton's neck, the Ascian's gaze seeks out the idol's. His expression is guarded, aware that this was a strange thing to be so particular about. But apart from his name he had... nothing, absolutely nothing left that was truly his own.]
Emet-Selch is a title, the name of the position I held in Amaurot. My personal name is Hades.
[The prospect that Emet-Selch could have been thinking about how to get Mettaton to experience pleasure on a comparable level by any means necessary absolutely occurs to Mettaton. They're only talking about it, after all. But if he were aware of the lengths he's already puzzled this much of a rudimentary path in so short a moment, it might have been enough to fluster the showy idol who cultivates an image of sensuality and charismatic impenetrability. And without a doubt, it would turn him on all over again.
But that's beyond him at this point, when Emet-Selch's disposition changes somewhat. Mettaton opens his eye and adjusts the position of his head to meet Emet-Selch's eye, his attention captured immediately by the promise of a... personal name.
His eye's wide, and his anticipation's palpable. It's a name, the one that belongs to him and should obviously be the one he's called above all else, but when he discloses it to Mettaton, a whole cycle of emotions flickers across his features. Surprise, excitement, mellowing down to sentimental, warm.]
Ah...
[He'd known there was another name, though it was hard to tell which was his name of preference. Calling it a personal name implied something akin to what Mettaton's always looked for. Identity's important to him, however that manifests.
Wordlessly, the robot shifts his body just enough to bring his lips to the Ascian's.]
[When the Ascian accepts a task, he takes it seriously. It just didn't often happen. He'd ever been a low-energy sort, and he wasn't about to expend what little he had on something that held no interest. But this hadn't been something he'd ever tried, even in the past, with all his powers at hand; it made him curious, at least.
Even as he gives his name, Emet-Selch questions the decision, but- the touch of lips to his own helped. And hearing Mettaton use it then- yes. That sounded right. Before answering, he kisses him again, the contact firm, lingering. From the way the idol had looked at him, it seemed as though he'd understood that this disclosure was something that mattered. If it had been treated too lightly, he would've just gotten defensive.
He takes a breath.]
...I would prefer that you keep it between us. I've also permitted it to Mira and the other Warriors of Light of my star, but I'd rather it went no further.
[Not that it would put him at any sort of disadvantage, or even remotely matter to anyone other than himself, but. He hadn't heard it for thousands of years; even among themselves, the Ascians only used their titles. Even this degree of familiarity after so long- he doubted if he'd ever truly get used to it, but with very select people, it offered a degree of comfort.]
[Let's hope there is never an impassioned public moment where he nearly blurts out the wrong name! Mettaton is terrible at separating identities from their owners once they align in his mind, but he really does take it to heart when Emet-Selch states his terms. The worst that could happen is the slip of a soft "H," or a tease of its following vowel, which isn't... terrible, in comparison.
He's glad to have this name, and holds it dear. Knowing few others have it makes it more precious, even if Mettaton doesn't understand why one would keep their very name, important as it is to him, private from the world.
With one more kiss of his own, less lingering and more like a follow-up for a chance at contact, something of a confirmation, Mettaton nods.]
Understood. And so I don't assume these identities... Warriors of Light?
[Imagine knowing what he knows and not knowing what a Warrior of Light is. Apparently Mira's a Warrior of Light, he gathers, but...]
Who are the others?
[Aefenglom's Monster, his idea of monster. Mikasa's underground, his own Underground. There have been several times where Mettaton's encountered overlapping terms that mean completely different things to different people. Why should it be different that others had their own Warriors of Light, by chance? It sounded like a mythic title, and there were plenty of such heroes gathered here. It wouldn't be great if he found some other "Warrior of Light" and assumed the wrong thing, so he'd rather know.]
[A bit of relief shows in his expression as Mettaton agrees; he hadn't been entirely sure if he would take that request seriously. Emet-Selch had a hard time telling what the robot would be considerate of, and what he would not. And while the Ascian would be annoyed if he slipped up too badly, so long as it wasn't intentional, he'd probably forgive him.
At the question, he blinks; right, that was crucial information, wasn't it? There was no reason to assume Mettaton would know who that implied, and who that excluded.]
Apart from Mira... Irhya, K'rihnn, and Rose. Champions chosen by Hydaelyn.
[A note of scorn at the last, mild and dismissive, punctuating it with another small press of lips to Mettaton's. It was such a vague and absurd title, Emet-Selch wouldn't be at all surprised if people from other worlds took it on as well. As though something of the light was anything worth naming oneself after.
His hand rubs absently at Mettaton's back.]
...I apparently gave it to them before our final conflict. How fortunate that you did not have to go to such lengths.
[Though he still expected Mettaton would kill him and take his soul, had he the opportunity and ability. Emet-Selch assumed the worst at all times, and had yet to be disappointed.]
[Mettaton hums in understanding, closing his eye for a moment while appreciating their exchange of sorts like a buzz. It brings a hint of bitterness to his smile when he recalls what Emet-Selch had told him in his cold anger before, that he wouldn't... survive.
It's sad. This knowledge looms over Mettaton suddenly. Their conflict dealt with each other's very existences, and not both could survive it.
Amaurot, cherished by Emet-Selch, held against the many lives of mortals... No middle ground, no happy ending for all. Truly, his own world was privileged in that regard, weren't they? That both monsters would get their freedom and happiness, and humanity would get their continued survival and share the Surface. How could such an ending come to be, when it seemed so improbable in comparison? What made it possible for such peace in his own world, compared to the calamity-inducing, judgement-earning, and despair-wrought worlds he's heard of?]
...
[Eye still closed and in his thought, Mettaton leans in to place yet another soft kiss back against the Ascian's lips, slow and deliberate.]
Irhya... I know her. [cat girl... He's starting to realize that mortals must take on many different sorts in Emet-Selch's world.] So all of them... see your end.
[And perhaps even see to it.
Time stuff isn't as odd to Mettaton after enduring discussion of Alternate Universes for hours from Alphys, strangely enough. He's never experienced such disparity in time, no way, not possible, what timelines?? ...But what does he know? Still, with Emet-Selch's phrasing, apparently, and earlier, learned, he doesn't recall having done it. He must not remember all that they do.]
[The kiss was... very nice, and he presses into it with a conscious gentleness. Though he doesn't know of Mettaton's thoughts, there's a certain heaviness of atmosphere that... feels only natural to the Ascian. But curling up with people he (more-or-less) trusted was something that Emet-Selch could appreciate, whenever it managed to occur. It was low-effort for high-reward, company in a quiet setting.
And the trading of... alright, this much he could mostly recognize as affection, provides regular little nudges of comfort. Fleeting, ineffectual when it came to providing solace to the ruined heart of him, but something he returned to despite this. And he felt a measure of gratitude towards Mettaton for being able to do even this much.]
So you've met... ah, I'm also Bonded to both her and K'rihnn. [Three Bonds to people who'd killed him.
Between that thought, and Mettaton's other statement, the Ascian is silent. It was still an unsettling thing to know. What awaited him, his last words, all of it.
His arm shifts upward, to bury his hand in Mettaton's hair, stroking a little at the base of the puca's ears. His face he keeps close to his, breath warm against him. His eyes are mostly closed but not entirely, for all that he can't see much of anything.]
All of them are responsible for it.
[There's no bitterness there, nor resignation. It's an uncertain feeling; disbelieving, distraught, detached- as though recounting something that had occurred to someone else.]
[He can't help but lean his head into Emet-Selch's fingers. Getting his ears rubbed, as odd as it was to have them in the first place, is undeniably pleasant. Even more so when somebody else is the one doing it. His eyelid lifts a crack, and he smiles dimly at him.
This confirms that Emet-Selch fell at their hands... collectively, somehow. He doesn't quite understand the concept of the Warrior of Light, but it doesn't change that he can comprehend them all having a hand in it.
Yet, they're Bonded, all of them. Emet-Selch to Irhya, K'rihnn, and Mira. What an arrangement Mettaton came into, a man Bonded to people who kill him exclusively. If all three of these Warriors of Light sought the Ascian out and Bonded with him anyway (and he has a feeling they were the initiators), they, too, must all feel he's worth it. Not just Mira. It feels more impossible yet to change Emet-Selch's fate, if even his killers felt like that. Though Mettaton holds out for... something. That possibility that things could go differently.]
How haunting.
[That's Emet-Selch's future outside of Aefenglom. It can't be much to look forward to. He's reminded of his own hand against the back of the Ascian's head, and he runs his fingers through his hair rhythmically. Though Emet-Selch didn't give him a kiss this time (to Mettaton's slight disappointment; he's something of a romantic), the idol appreciates their closeness regardless and lets his lips brush against his.]
But you chose to Bond with them regardless. [People who probably all possess the souls he said he found grotesque... This is such a conflicting look!] Well. I hope four hasn't been taxing... Since I know the limit's three. Because I'm not allowing our Bond to be abolished, nor annulled. You won't be leaving me, Hades, darling.
[It wasn't much of a future. It wasn't much of a present either, trapped in a suspended instant, aware of what was coming, but unable to avert nor embrace it. Oh, he'd survived the Rathmore's dungeon, but he was still awaiting death. That hadn't changed.
He hums quietly at the stroke of his hair, the brush of Mettaton's lips on his. Did the Ascian regret any of his Bonds? No. Even if it was true that he wouldn't have sought them out to start, the idea of severing any of them was unacceptable. If he hadn't been approached by those heroes (or made an ill-advised bet with a puca), Emet-Selch was almost certain he would have remained stubbornly Bondless to this day, regardless of consequence. And now he was stubbornly going in the opposite direction, with just as much regard.
So had four Bonds been taxing...? The Ascian didn't think so. Sure, he was a bit more tired now and again, but he was still healing. That was probably it. And if it should get worse, if more problems were to arise over time--
--it was worth it.]
Of course I would Bond with them. We are friends, after all... [Despite also calling them grotesque, vermin; despite their hand in his demise. But some things didn't change. Even if he were the only one to remember.] But don't think I'm inclined to give you up either....
[To put it deceptively mildly. This time, Emet-Selch does kiss him again- and though it's still soft, deliberate, it carries that same message from before: the demand to not be left alone.]
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But it doesn't take much in the way of coaxing to get Emet-Selch to fall back upon the bed, imagining in turn the sight of Mettaton above him, the touch of his hands and pressure of his body flush against his skin. Even the idea is absurdly appealing, and with his back against the mattress, it was hard to not dwell on it, closing his eyes for a few moments as he tries to fight off a shiver.
But practicalities remained. Half-assisting with the fastenings of his clothes, half-getting in the way of Mettaton's hands, half-again (somehow) getting distracted by running his own hands up the other man's arms and chest, Emet-Selch stole what scraps of contact that he could. As progressively more skin was exposed to air, his anticipation only grew with it, and though his gaze remains a bit unfocused, his expression conveys something of that sense of longing.
Unfortunately, his skin is not unmarked. It is quite severely marked, in fact, fresh scarring of various depths litters his abdomen and chest, one trailing upwards towards his throat. Perhaps most unpleasant is the sense of deliberation in the marks; this wasn't the result of haphazard battle, but a conscious act on the part of their captors during that week. At least most of the bruising has since faded, apart from some faint discoloration.
A similar pattern can be found at his legs, the very worst scar being the one that extends across the length of one thigh. It still looks sore, for all the healing it's received; the damage beneath it had been extensive.
Not that Emet-Selch particularly cares what he looks like, and he felt no sense of shame or dismay over it; it probably helped that he never viewed his hosts as really being himself. Of far more value was watching Mettaton watch him, and he wondered distantly how much experience the robot had ever had with humans, having lived in a monster-filled society.]
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Emet-Selch's "assistance" only serves to charm Mettaton, particularly when he intercepts and distracts himself with Mettaton's body. He can't wait to have him close once more, can he? Mettaotn smirks with a fond hum, and even rewards such behavior with a kiss to his neck here, or hard presses of his fingertips along his body there — but the Ascian wouldn't go without deliberate contact on Mettaton's part, who craves his body more and more with each passing moment. Seeing Emet-Selch rendered so vulnerable only heightens this craving, and that feeling snowballs the lss and less there is to cover him up.
...He'd seen what they did to people. Even where Mettaton has tissue and synthetic skin, they'd employed some similar tactics: he recognizes it as cruelly investigative. Mettaton traces a finger down the scar that spans his throat down, his eyes flicking up to watch Emet-Selch's face. These wouldn't heal, and the impact from the event itself... A pang of sympathy overcomes the Puca. Emet-Selch is too vulnerable to hanging onto such horrors, just like he is, but with his bleak outlook he wonders how badly it haunts him. Even for Mettaton, dauntless as he behaved, the experience changed him in ways he won't acknowledge.
His pants. Beyond those scars, the cyborg finds it impossible to wait a moment longer to get to touching his skin as he so desires. Mettaton moves to remove those quickly, eagerly, but not before ending his initial survey with a kiss into Emet-Selch's abdomen. Among beholding the entire rest of his body with a wide-eyed gaze, he fixes his attention on his injured leg and shakes his head in disbelief. His voice continues low, as if for Emet-Selch's ears only, though he idly brings a finger to rest against his own lower lip out of fascination with his body.]
I can't believe you. You know, darling... I'd have gladly taken you to bed far earlier, injury or not. Besides. I'm simply taken by you...
[He anchors his hands against Emet-Selch's hips. That means for all the times that he stood to meet him, he was doing it on a leg this injured. What a ridiculous man...
But while talking about his leg is a real concern of MTT's, it's also a thinly veiled excuse to stare at Emet-Selch's body, unabashed, long and hungry for every detail. It's... shocking, unfamiliar, but so recognizable to him, and he wants it. His fingers trace down from his hips to brush against the length of Emet-Selch's arousal, hardly able to contain his desire, his curiosity to experience how he's affected.]
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Thoughts that were certainly worse in the aftermath of that torture. Emet-Selch had never possessed much in the way of coping methods for anything else in his life; he wasn't about to start developing them now. But... perhaps there was something to be said for the company of someone else who'd been there, had experienced the same things. Who understood the sort of things that couldn't be said.
Perhaps that made it easier for Emet-Selch to allow the idol so close now. His muscles tense pleasantly underneath that kiss, and even more at the way Mettaton was looking at him, an exploration by sight. It was a good thing the Ascian wasn't predisposed to shyness, feeling a touch amused- perhaps even flattered- at such close attention. While he wasn't the sort to crave attention in itself, he could appreciate care being taken. At Mettaton's seeming disapproval regarding his treatment of his leg, he hums in soft amusement.]
Such concern--
[Words that are cut off with a harsh intake of breath as soon as Mettaton's fingers drift from his hip to his cock. His eyes shut for a few seconds more, having to let that rush of sharper wanting run through him. From just a brush of contact; the Ascian almost has to shake his head at his own neediness. While there was still the occasional flicker of unease at being so unguarded with his own responses, the desire for company overwhelmed it.
Swallowing, he gathers his thoughts and his voice, eyes opening to gaze across at Mettaton once more.]
...Such concern is unnecessary. Though I'm not opposed to ending up here sooner.
[In future goes unspoken; the assumption that this wouldn't be the last time they were together. Raising an arm, the Ascian lets his hand trace slowly across the side of Mettaton's face, to brush through a few strands of his hair. It's- almost affectionate, in a way, though he wouldn't have recognized it as such.]
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He expects that there will be more after this, without a doubt. Tonight won't be enough. This already exceeds his expectations — perhaps not in the way that he always imagined intimacy would play out, but in its own way. Nobody he kissed and held would be Emet-Selch. He smiles playfully, quirking a brow at the Ascian's final remark.]
I'll... [Turns out he wasn't ready to speak, after all. He swallows.] Take that into... Consideration. I aim to please.
[He stares again at all of Emet-Selch, the slightest rise of his shoulders as he's taken aback at the sight of the man sprawled out before him. He decides that he can't let another second go by where he's not against him somehow, and his indecision is fleeting: he can have everything he wants and more, even if it's not all right now. Even if he wants all of him, every last bit of his composure, his body, and his soul. Already Mettaton's predisposed to thinking of him in such terms, knowing what he knows about Emet-Selch. (His mind revisits an two old considerations never clarified: how much of this body is as is, and what did Emet-Selch do to it to make it his, if anything? And... his name. What is his favored?)
That feverish intent doesn't leave even as his eyelid curtains, focusing with passion as he stoops forward. He licks his lips, his hands wandering to Emet-Selch's waist and taking hold of him firmly. The robot catches the head of his cock between his lips, his tongue stroking him from the underside, along the tip, and to the top in one fluid but deliberate motion. He keeps him between his lips, letting his tongue linger as he emits a noise of pleasant satisfaction at what he feels, tactile and temperature. He relishes it: Emet-Selch is warm, softer than he imagined, and he sucks at the tip before releasing him to let his tongue press against him sloppily. His attention's split between what's before his face and Emet-Selch's response.]
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Had the Ascian expected any of this when he'd made that bet with the puca, while broken, bleeding, and awaiting death? Not even remotely. And though he'd never regretted the pact or its consequences, he was coming to realize that he would choose to maintain it, regardless of its potential practical value. That this Bond had... some sort of different value of its own.
...How strange, to feel as though in the process of being claimed. And why did it reassure him? Not that Emet-Selch was disinclined to dig his figurative claws into Mettaton in return.
He doesn't quite cry out, but he makes a choked sound nonetheless, an exhalation that shudders through him. The sudden presence of lips and tongue at his cock had come as a small surprise, for some reason, his next breath escaping as a low, pleased-sounding groan. His legs on either side of him tremble slightly, as Emet-Selch shifts up a little to watch Mettaton more readily.
Not that he found it easy to look at him- the sight of the other's mouth sucking at the tip of him, the way his tongue slid over sensitive, heated skin- it was nearly as intense as the feeling of it. Normally he didn't have much trouble watching this sort of thing, if he cared to bother at all- but this time the Ascian had to fight the impulse to look aside or keep his eyes closed. But he didn't want to miss a moment of it either, to pair sight with sensation, to remember them both.
And Emet-Selch had a very good memory.
Though they had stilled at the first stroke of tongue, his fingers settle further in Mettaton's hair, fingertips rubbing small, faintly unsteady circles against his scalp.]
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If he knew he'd earned such a place with the Ascian, he'd say he knew he would. But it would be remiss to say that he didn't feel similarly, deciding he'd do whatever it took to keep him. Why would he give him up? He can justify keeping him in thousands of ways, though... fondness is at the forefront. He swallows again. Salivating is new to him, but he's decided that it's very, very welcome. It was already welcome, but this brings new appreciation for it.
Mettaton actively wonders what it must feel like, his ministrations which elicit such pleasure from Emet-Selch: it's contagious enough without feeling it for himself, and even that's a lot for the star to process. His sounds and his shivers are enough to give the android a heady rush, his attention fixed so wholly on the man beneath him and very little else. He tilts his head, drags the tip of his tongue down his shaft until he's at the very base, where he curls it around his girth and mouths him feverishly, wet and greedy, before dragging his lips back up to the very tip. With reestablished eye contact, he parts his lips and takes more yet of his length into his mouth, ambitious and wanting. His thumbs move down to Emet Selch's hips and his fingers wander in toward his soft abdomen, pressing gently. If he weren't treating his cock to his amorous treatment, he only imagines how he'd love to feel his naked body against himself right now, by far softer and warmer than himself — full of his vitality.
With his length far in enough to press at the back of his tongue, Mettaton hums; anyone with a gag reflex would be hard-pressed to achieve such a feat, but Mettaton doesn't even blink. Having his cock fill his mouth, hard and soft yet warm even against the heat of his mouth, makes Mettaton dizzy, and he trembles at the delight of it. He allows his tongue to rub along the underside of his cock, a sliding pressure that pulls gradually toward what he can reach of his head, though he has him in deep enough that there's not much space even for that.
Realizing this, Mettaton moans softly; his eye closes, his head lolls somewhat, kept in place by Emet-Selchs arousal. There's nowhere for it to go with an erection near the back of his throat, after all, but he loses himself to the pleasure of it, both in sensation and in psyche. Perhaps even Emet-Selch's fingers in his hair, or the reminder that his hand there, is enough to keep him from losing himself, and his eye cracks open as he pulls his mouth away from his erection, readjusting, then slides his mouth back down upon him.]
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And it ached both terribly and wonderfully, feeling spurred on by each pass of the other's tongue, the softness of lips caressing his shaft, the slickness left in the wake of Mettaton's attentions. Whenever his eye met the idol's, his pulse lurched painfully, followed by an answering pang through his cock.
In a distant sort of way- the majority of his attention remaining on the sight of much of his erection being engulfed by the other man's mouth, feeling the head of it brush against the back of his throat, the sensation of humming, of all things- Emet-Selch noted that this was one occasion where not needing to breathe had specific advantages.
Unlike himself, who needed to breathe very much, and yet still felt as though he couldn't get enough air. Softer, ever needier sounds pass from his lips without being wholly conscious of it, as his body struggles not to writhe up under him, shuddering underneath the kneading of Mettaton's hands from the effort. The Ascian's free hand digs into the covers of the bed, fingers spasming slightly, unable to find any sort of anchor there- and not really wanting to.
It was unfamiliar, to let himself be overwhelmed like this- but it was a bit of an addicting sensation. And the strangest bit reassuring.
Even that brief moment without Mettaton's mouth around his cock almost hurts from the lack, a few seconds of chill as wet, hardened skin hit the cooler air around it. There's a palpable sense of relief when that heat surrounds the length of him again, even as it's followed by intensifying need. His hand settles for clutching at Mettaton's hair, unable to muster the coordination to do more than hold onto him.]
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Sentiment washes over him and he hums, love blending with his libidinous appetite and into a deep-seated ambition: to see just how much he'd come apart for him, how deeply he could touch him, how hard he could make him gasp.
After having the head of Emet-Selch's erection resting against the back of his tongue for just long enough, Mettaton pulls off of him. Reluctantly, he withdraws one of his hands from his abdomen and wipes up a bit of drool that falls from the corner of his mouth (for a lot of good that does him, all things considered), but he lets out a noise of satisfied interest as he beholds the stiffness of Emet-Selch's arousal. He thinks to speak: thinks to inform him that there are so many ways he'd have him, for all future intents; thinks to tell him how he delights him; thinks to tell him how he adores him; but he only manages to part his lips when he makes eye contact again, anticipation to take him palpable.
Hungrily, he grips at his length with his thumb against the underside of his shaft. He strokes him firmly, then leans into kiss him along the side, open-mouthed and messy. To accompany his kisses, his fingers drift up to squeeze just beneath the head, the length of his thumb following the curve of his arousal.
With another firm kiss placed against the very tip of his erection, Mettaton resumes what he's sure Emet-Selch will want. With his fingers entwined in MTT's hair, he'd be able to control him if he wanted... So he makes sure not to give him reason to. He presses him against his lips, allowing for him to pop through with a satisfied groan. As he pushes down over him he shivers as he feels his cock fill his mouth completely, clear to the back of his throat. The suddenness of it has him swallowing thickly by reflex, and MTT closes his eyes at the sensation of his throat tightening around his Bonded with another stifled gasp. As if he could gasp at all, given what occupies his throat. He'll begin to bob up and down over Emet-Selch, intent and completely lacking in any rhythm: when he remains with his lips around the base of his cock, it's because he's enjoying how his tongue lays against it; and when he comes up it's to otherwise run his tongue slow, over and around the head or to treat him to a good suck before pushing back over him. Could he get any more intense of a response than this? Could he take more of him?]
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The renewed touch, the firm drag of fingers down the length of his erection brings the briefest of relief, a hard shudder causing his muscles to clench. Paired with the different sensation of damp lips, the suggestion of heat from Mettaton's mouth against rigid flesh, and the feeling turns into an ever deeper ache. Something like a whine works deep in Emet-Selch's throat, and his hand returns to petting roughly at the idol's hair, as though he could coax more out of him in some way.
And the Ascian can't help but cry out when Mettaton finally takes him in again, the sound brief but loud, strangled off into another gasping for air. He's forced to close his eyes for a handful of seconds, able to hear only the rapid thudding of his heart, and the more distant echo of his own desperate breathing. When he feels himself swallowed up entirely, the constriction of Mettaton's throat around his cock, he forces himself to witness it, the sight of the man buried so fully between his thighs would have him moaning ever louder if he weren't so out of air. But he certainly seems to try, as though needing to express every scrap of intensity, every effect Mettaton was having on him. The lack of particular rhythm kept him that bit more off-balance, the mix of pressures and motions, the softness of tongue against the squeezing of being sucked upon.
There's a soft note of pleading amid the sharpness of his breath, the way the Ascian's fingers shakily stroked over the puca's rabbit ears. For- satisfaction, certainly, but a lot of other things with it. For his company, perhaps. For this moment to continue until it blotted out all other things, the despair and grief that he carried with him in perpetuity.
To forget it all, if just for a short while.]
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But it's not as though he needs this lack of barrier to be able to tell: the Ascian's expression, his gasps for air amidst cries of pleasure, and his body language are all he'd need to be able to tell as much, but he feels it. The true expression of his passion, however, penetrates Mettaton deep to his core, and he's affected by his lust by wanting him more and more. Compared to Emet-Selch's fingers, he can feel how blazing hot his ears are from the temperature of his body, the only real indicator of how flushed he could be if it were possible.
He can hardly think straight. For being someone lacking in the same sensory opportunities, the amount of pleasure Mettaton's experiencing is enough to make him tremble and doubt his vision, but it might not be so noticeable while they're both in the throes of passion. This is compounded upon by Emet-Selch — how could he have expected for this to be so intense?
His hand now unoccupied runs up Emet-Selch's inner thigh; the hand still on his abdomen drags from his navel down to his groin. Mettaton closes his eye for a moment but finds that even if it permits him focus, he wants to... lose himself, just like Emet-Selch. He wants to take everything he can get out of him and drown in it, so his eye opens again and he drinks in the sight of Emet-Selch, every moan and falter and plead.
He pulls back far enough that his lips, tight around the other man's shaft, catch on the head, where Mettaton finds himself lapping at him and sucking in tandem, eager and wanting. It doesn't feel like much longer before he's sliding back down enthusiastically, feeling his throat's empty without Emet-Selch's cock to press into all of the delicate parts of his mouth. He swallows again, this time intentional and hard. It's impossible to take him any deeper, but Mettaton readjusts, nuzzling into him with sincerity in his pleasure.
If he wants to forget, Mettaton can only deliver. He prides himself on being an escape. He shudders against the sensation of Emet-Selch's fingers, the press of his cock in his throat, the warmth of him there and the appearance of his Bonded before him. It's so, so much, more than he'd ever bargained for, and he doesn't even hear himself as he moans against him.]
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It was the depth of that combination that finally does it. The sight of his cock being taken fully by the other man's mouth. The softness of tongue and lips, the tightness of Mettaton's throat squeezing him. The overwhelming heat and wetness of it, the stroke of a hand across his thigh. The sounds, both his own, and whatever he could make out from the idol, even stifled by the cock in his mouth, but that much more arresting for it. The way their Bonds had bled together without the Ascian even realizing- shaken by how Mettaton was responding to him in turn.
Not that Emet-Selch couldn't have guessed either, due to everything else he was witnessing, but to feel it as well--
It was inevitable. Being pushed to the edge like this, there's nothing he can do to hold back, no way to stop himself from being dragged over, losing the last remnants of control as his release takes him. The Ascian's body convulses beneath Mettaton, back arching, legs shaking, head thrown back without even realizing it. And the sound he makes- it's surprisingly low, perhaps, and interrupted by irregular gasps for breath- but completely open, containing nothing but the intensity of all that was running through him. Rather than satisfied or relieved, it's a sound of hurt, raw and bordering on despair. That's what strong emotions were like. He's unsure how long it all lasts. He's unsure of much of anything, really.
When it finally begins to fade, Emet-Selch collapses, half-conscious, deafened by the blood rushing through his head, unable to stop himself from trembling.]
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Mettaton allows him to fill his mouth first, his tongue still coaxing him to his completion all along the way by rubbing across him until his ejaculation. Which he takes for himself, surprised by the twitches of his body and the taste of his come. It's so much all at once that he sees stars, both blinded by pleasure and blindsided by everything else. But for all this rattles Mettaton, there's far more. It's the sound Emet-Selch makes that would render him breathless, unsure of what to make of this response to intensity.
He concerns over him, that's for sure. He doesn't think that this experience brought him to despair, no, but he wonders if it's by virtue of dropping his guard at all that he'd react this way.
Mettaton is satisfied: he doesn't come to any climax like Emet-Selch, but such is his condition, heavily reliant on all of his other senses. It's hard to recover from that for both of them, but Mettaton pulls off of him far more readily, especially with Emet-Selch a mess collapsed beneath him. Mettaton straightens his posture, his ears bent forward, his attention soft while he spares a thought for foreign matters like being naked and temperature and comfort. He reaches for the edge of Emet-Selch's blankets and draws them up and around him so that when he moves to close in on the Ascian, he brings that with. (Though he doesn't ease himself all the way down before doing a very convenient thing for cuddling — the only good that came out of his post-Rathmore repairs, the ability to remove the too-broad shoulder guards that would have made cuddling kind of impossible.)
With those off, Mettaton eases himself down against Emet-Selch's side (he can figure out if he can tolerate his weight atop his body later, when he's coherent) and, laying on his side, he maneuvers one arm beneath Emet-Selch's neck and the other around his torso and tries to pull the other man into his arms, still deeply impacted by observed and experienced feelings.
He doesn't stop being made of metal and therefore inherently uncomfortable, but that doesn't keep him from pulling Emet-Selch closer to him. Once he gets his way, he twists his fingers into Emet-Selch's hair and presses a kiss to his hairline, humming against him thoughtfully.]
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Gradually his breathing approaches a more normal rate. Though it takes some moments for anything beyond the sensation of blankets and contact to register, once it does, he's aware that Mettaton must've put a thought towards his comfort, which has a quiet effect on the Ascian. Small gestures like that tended to reach him.
Shifting more onto his side in turn, Emet-Selch willingly helps to burrow himself back against Mettaton's body. With a certain heaviness of limb, he wraps an arm around the other man's back, the Ascian's face hiding itself against the idol's throat. It was true that the robot wasn't as comfortable a form to meld to as one made of yielding flesh and additional skin, but that felt like a small detail compared to being embraced at all. To feel the hand in his hair, that small kiss- there was a sense of reassurance there, though from what, Emet-Selch wasn't certain.
He's silent for a time, not sure of what to say, or if anything in particular even needed to be said. But there was one thought, which he finally expresses, murmured against Metatton's neck.]
...'Tis a pity... that I cannot reciprocate.
[His tone carries a note of genuine regret.]
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It doesn't matter. Still during that silence, Mettaton nuzzles his cheek into his forehead, permitting and enjoying proximity with his neck. ...At this rate, Emet-Selch is going to just keep Smelling Like Mettaton, more and more. Enjoy that.]
Reciprocate. Oh... Do you mean, exact upon me as I did to you?
[That would make sense. And with how arrested Emet-Selch appeared to be, it was something of a shame. Mettaton relaxes against his body, staring off, finding himself in a rare moment of lament. But mostly, jealousy. He's felt that for the Ascian before. But he shifts his perspective into something more positive by will.]
It's too bad. However... I'm positive you can find an equivalent method of stealing my breath away. I have faith in your ability to think outside of the box, darling. More than I would many others...
[Because Mettaton wants to feel that way. He doesn't know how, but he craves it more than ever now.]
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The Ascian had been deeply annoyed after their Bonding ceremony, insulted at the idea of pretense- because it wasn't as though he'd ever give one whit of remotely genuine consideration towards the idol. He'd felt quite cold towards him.
Even if that was clearly no longer the case, Emet-Selch was not entirely sure what he thought of the puca now. He was still annoying (frequently). He disagreed with the Ascian when it came to small matters like 'are mortals really alive'. Their approach to existence was wildly different, despite both being generally-immortal ghosts. Was it the fault of the Bond developing itself, the sharing of histories, or something else? Did it even matter?
They were friends, he supposed.
The continued nuzzling gets a soft, approving hum from him. Surely smelling like Mettaton is only a good thing? One way of staking a claim on someone. He presses a kiss to his throat in response.]
Stealing your breath... when you don't have any to start with sounds destined to failure. Still- 'tis not as though I'm unaccustomed to taking on impossible tasks.
[Not that he was at all sure how he'd go about it; it was somewhat outside his realm of experience. Though Mettaton had seemed capable of attraction and pleasure, in some fashion, at least. He could tell that much; Emet-Selch knew he wouldn't have been able to react so strongly, to let down his own defenses, if he hadn't felt the other man's own wanting in reply. Why they'd started having this effect on one another he didn't know, but... it wasn't the worst of developments. His fingers stroke idly across Mettaton's upper back as he thinks; the Ascian still didn't see this as affection.]
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He holds him a little tighter with his one arm, his fingers stroking through his hair. He said he tried to find worth in mortals, but was it the chaotic nature of humanity that he disapproved of? He called his people kind, but humanity can be, too. Simply the appearance of their souls, then? Maybe in Aefenglom he'll change his mind... Well, never mind that right now. He said he'd seek a compromise, but it's not something he wants to have weighing on his mind right now, even while it's pertinent to Emet-Selch's despair. Never mind that a compromise feels more impossible than finding some way to get a robot to feel pleasure. If it were a solution rather than a compromise, that would take some kind of divine, otherworldly intervention, at this rate...
Conversely, Mettaton views this as terribly affectionate. He hums at the feeling of his kiss, his ears pressing back far enough that he feels them flush against his head.]
Haha. You're right! But I'm eager for the result... It will take some grand, unorthodox method to find some workaround, Selchy-darling. I'm glad you realize that.
[new name... he kind of likes this one.
If Mettaton knew he were belittling his view on mortals as living and wonderful, he'd shove him off the bed.]
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The first problem was trying to just find some avenue that seemed worth exploring. Using the Bond, he thought, could be part of it. While they'd mingled experiences to some degree this time, Emet-Selch hadn't done so deliberately, and the Bond itself was still relatively fresh. If he consciously inflicted his own responses, the full weight of each moment, opened himself completely--
But that wouldn't be enough in itself, even were the Bond given more time to fully develop. Only part of an answer, if that.
The tighter grip of Mettaton's arm was both welcome, and a little distracting, his own hold squeezing back in response. Even if he was a primarily metal shell, it was satisfying to finally be pressed entirely to him. Emet-Selch still wondered how much the robot could feel of him, and to what degree. He'd said it had all been completely new, which meant that something had changed in his physiology to allow it to happen. But how could the Ascian simulate something that wasn't there?
...Sometimes, when people lost a limb, they reported still being able to feel it. The brain still believed it to be there, the nerves to agitate those sensations still existed, were able to fire accidentally. And with Mettaton being able to feel sensation now at all, was it possible similar pathways had developed for him, but had no way of being triggered naturally? What if there was a spell that could manipulate those areas, provide a sensation of contact that should've been impossible to have?
The problem then became developing an appropriate spell- which, if it were even possible, the Ascian doubted would be under either field he was specializing in. Which meant broadening his efforts- but that was fine. Emet-Selch only did things he found to be of interest, and this was interesting. Combining it with the Bond... it was a whole lot of hypotheticals, but it was something to think on.
But his thoughts on all of that are derailed entirely at this new abomination of his title. Mettaton's creativity was truly perverse at times. The sound he makes is quite exasperated, a breath of annoyance against the robot's throat.
And in addition to that- not an eyesore, but an earsore- there was a certain dissatisfaction in Mettaton using his title at all. Emet-Selch wasn't used to anyone using his real name yet- only his Warriors had leave to- but it wasn't as wholly unfamiliar to hear as it had once been. Though he'd never give it out casually, there was a certain... nostalgia to it that he'd never thought to feel again.
From thoughtful, the Ascian turns pensive, a more uncomfortable kind of tension present in his body as he decides what to do. It was such a small thing, but it was important to him.]
My personal name--
[He stops, reconsidering his phrasing. Lifting his head from its place at Mettaton's neck, the Ascian's gaze seeks out the idol's. His expression is guarded, aware that this was a strange thing to be so particular about. But apart from his name he had... nothing, absolutely nothing left that was truly his own.]
Emet-Selch is a title, the name of the position I held in Amaurot. My personal name is Hades.
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But that's beyond him at this point, when Emet-Selch's disposition changes somewhat. Mettaton opens his eye and adjusts the position of his head to meet Emet-Selch's eye, his attention captured immediately by the promise of a... personal name.
His eye's wide, and his anticipation's palpable. It's a name, the one that belongs to him and should obviously be the one he's called above all else, but when he discloses it to Mettaton, a whole cycle of emotions flickers across his features. Surprise, excitement, mellowing down to sentimental, warm.]
Ah...
[He'd known there was another name, though it was hard to tell which was his name of preference. Calling it a personal name implied something akin to what Mettaton's always looked for. Identity's important to him, however that manifests.
Wordlessly, the robot shifts his body just enough to bring his lips to the Ascian's.]
... Well. It's about time you told me, Hades.
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Even as he gives his name, Emet-Selch questions the decision, but- the touch of lips to his own helped. And hearing Mettaton use it then- yes. That sounded right. Before answering, he kisses him again, the contact firm, lingering. From the way the idol had looked at him, it seemed as though he'd understood that this disclosure was something that mattered. If it had been treated too lightly, he would've just gotten defensive.
He takes a breath.]
...I would prefer that you keep it between us. I've also permitted it to Mira and the other Warriors of Light of my star, but I'd rather it went no further.
[Not that it would put him at any sort of disadvantage, or even remotely matter to anyone other than himself, but. He hadn't heard it for thousands of years; even among themselves, the Ascians only used their titles. Even this degree of familiarity after so long- he doubted if he'd ever truly get used to it, but with very select people, it offered a degree of comfort.]
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He's glad to have this name, and holds it dear. Knowing few others have it makes it more precious, even if Mettaton doesn't understand why one would keep their very name, important as it is to him, private from the world.
With one more kiss of his own, less lingering and more like a follow-up for a chance at contact, something of a confirmation, Mettaton nods.]
Understood. And so I don't assume these identities... Warriors of Light?
[Imagine knowing what he knows and not knowing what a Warrior of Light is. Apparently Mira's a Warrior of Light, he gathers, but...]
Who are the others?
[Aefenglom's Monster, his idea of monster. Mikasa's underground, his own Underground. There have been several times where Mettaton's encountered overlapping terms that mean completely different things to different people. Why should it be different that others had their own Warriors of Light, by chance? It sounded like a mythic title, and there were plenty of such heroes gathered here. It wouldn't be great if he found some other "Warrior of Light" and assumed the wrong thing, so he'd rather know.]
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At the question, he blinks; right, that was crucial information, wasn't it? There was no reason to assume Mettaton would know who that implied, and who that excluded.]
Apart from Mira... Irhya, K'rihnn, and Rose. Champions chosen by Hydaelyn.
[A note of scorn at the last, mild and dismissive, punctuating it with another small press of lips to Mettaton's. It was such a vague and absurd title, Emet-Selch wouldn't be at all surprised if people from other worlds took it on as well. As though something of the light was anything worth naming oneself after.
His hand rubs absently at Mettaton's back.]
...I apparently gave it to them before our final conflict. How fortunate that you did not have to go to such lengths.
[Though he still expected Mettaton would kill him and take his soul, had he the opportunity and ability. Emet-Selch assumed the worst at all times, and had yet to be disappointed.]
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It's sad. This knowledge looms over Mettaton suddenly. Their conflict dealt with each other's very existences, and not both could survive it.
Amaurot, cherished by Emet-Selch, held against the many lives of mortals... No middle ground, no happy ending for all. Truly, his own world was privileged in that regard, weren't they? That both monsters would get their freedom and happiness, and humanity would get their continued survival and share the Surface. How could such an ending come to be, when it seemed so improbable in comparison? What made it possible for such peace in his own world, compared to the calamity-inducing, judgement-earning, and despair-wrought worlds he's heard of?]
...
[Eye still closed and in his thought, Mettaton leans in to place yet another soft kiss back against the Ascian's lips, slow and deliberate.]
Irhya... I know her. [cat girl... He's starting to realize that mortals must take on many different sorts in Emet-Selch's world.] So all of them... see your end.
[And perhaps even see to it.
Time stuff isn't as odd to Mettaton after enduring discussion of Alternate Universes for hours from Alphys, strangely enough. He's never experienced such disparity in time, no way, not possible, what timelines?? ...But what does he know? Still, with Emet-Selch's phrasing, apparently, and earlier, learned, he doesn't recall having done it. He must not remember all that they do.]
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And the trading of... alright, this much he could mostly recognize as affection, provides regular little nudges of comfort. Fleeting, ineffectual when it came to providing solace to the ruined heart of him, but something he returned to despite this. And he felt a measure of gratitude towards Mettaton for being able to do even this much.]
So you've met... ah, I'm also Bonded to both her and K'rihnn. [Three Bonds to people who'd killed him.
Between that thought, and Mettaton's other statement, the Ascian is silent. It was still an unsettling thing to know. What awaited him, his last words, all of it.
His arm shifts upward, to bury his hand in Mettaton's hair, stroking a little at the base of the puca's ears. His face he keeps close to his, breath warm against him. His eyes are mostly closed but not entirely, for all that he can't see much of anything.]
All of them are responsible for it.
[There's no bitterness there, nor resignation. It's an uncertain feeling; disbelieving, distraught, detached- as though recounting something that had occurred to someone else.]
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This confirms that Emet-Selch fell at their hands... collectively, somehow. He doesn't quite understand the concept of the Warrior of Light, but it doesn't change that he can comprehend them all having a hand in it.
Yet, they're Bonded, all of them. Emet-Selch to Irhya, K'rihnn, and Mira. What an arrangement Mettaton came into, a man Bonded to people who kill him exclusively. If all three of these Warriors of Light sought the Ascian out and Bonded with him anyway (and he has a feeling they were the initiators), they, too, must all feel he's worth it. Not just Mira. It feels more impossible yet to change Emet-Selch's fate, if even his killers felt like that. Though Mettaton holds out for... something. That possibility that things could go differently.]
How haunting.
[That's Emet-Selch's future outside of Aefenglom. It can't be much to look forward to. He's reminded of his own hand against the back of the Ascian's head, and he runs his fingers through his hair rhythmically. Though Emet-Selch didn't give him a kiss this time (to Mettaton's slight disappointment; he's something of a romantic), the idol appreciates their closeness regardless and lets his lips brush against his.]
But you chose to Bond with them regardless. [People who probably all possess the souls he said he found grotesque... This is such a conflicting look!] Well. I hope four hasn't been taxing... Since I know the limit's three. Because I'm not allowing our Bond to be abolished, nor annulled. You won't be leaving me, Hades, darling.
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He hums quietly at the stroke of his hair, the brush of Mettaton's lips on his. Did the Ascian regret any of his Bonds? No. Even if it was true that he wouldn't have sought them out to start, the idea of severing any of them was unacceptable. If he hadn't been approached by those heroes (or made an ill-advised bet with a puca), Emet-Selch was almost certain he would have remained stubbornly Bondless to this day, regardless of consequence. And now he was stubbornly going in the opposite direction, with just as much regard.
So had four Bonds been taxing...? The Ascian didn't think so. Sure, he was a bit more tired now and again, but he was still healing. That was probably it. And if it should get worse, if more problems were to arise over time--
--it was worth it.]
Of course I would Bond with them. We are friends, after all... [Despite also calling them grotesque, vermin; despite their hand in his demise. But some things didn't change. Even if he were the only one to remember.] But don't think I'm inclined to give you up either....
[To put it deceptively mildly. This time, Emet-Selch does kiss him again- and though it's still soft, deliberate, it carries that same message from before: the demand to not be left alone.]
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