[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.]
[It's reassuring to hear him call them friends, and Mettaton believes him. He has no reason not to, but at least he knows where they stand with Emet-Selch. (It's a private victory for Mira in his mind, even though she'd already said they called each other friends.) He wonders when he started considering them friends in addition to... all else. Even more complicated: befriending these Warriors, and knowing they also kill you. How poetic.
At least he's committed to his four Bonds, as dubiously inadvisable as that is. Just as Emet-Selch moves to kiss him, Mettaton dons a smile. His lips against his are by no means a shock, but his intent, soft as it is, earns a hum, part surprise and contentment. But... it's that feeling again, the one that fills Mettaton with nostalgia, grief. And he can only do so much to temper that.
But he returns the kiss lovingly. The arm he has around Emet-Selch's body tightens, and he runs his tongue along Emet-Selch's lower lip. As soon as the Ascian breaks free of him (which will usually always be his call, considering), Mettaton kisses the side of his mouth one last time before tucking Emet-Selch's head back under his chin with another one of his nuzzles. It's his approval.]
Good. [Mettaton settles against Emet-Selch, drawing him close and running his fingers appreciatively over bare skin. He's... inviting himself to stay.] Tell me, however. If something goes awry, with this four-pointed arrangement of yours. Will you, beautiful?
[He doesn't know what he'd do or what it would look like, but he doesn't want to not know.]
[Whenever a kiss does come to an end (often due to his unfortunate tendency towards breathing), a flicker of regret tended to accompany it. At least their apparent frequency was some consolation, but that he should find this with Mettaton, of all people, still struck Emet-Selch as a bit surreal. Though they'd only met a handful of times, each encounter had been intense, in their own way. Eventful. And progressively more enjoyable.
Although, considering their first meeting had been in the midst of torture and captivity, it was hard to not improve on such circumstance. As memories went, he'd prefer to dwell on the more recent ones.
And now he had his face burrowed against the idol's neck, arms wrapped tight around one another, as though this were a comfortable thing to do. Which it was, at least in an emotional sense. Even physically, it was... fine. He could live with it; he very much intended to. Every touch over skin was an encouragement to that end; if Mettaton hadn't invited himself to stay, the Ascian would've been quite disappointed.
Lips moving against the other man's throat as he replies, Emet-Selch ends it with a more proper kiss to his neck.]
Mm... I suppose someone should be kept informed. Document our poor decisions. Leave a record behind as a warning to others.
[Because has he told any of his other Bonds about this? Of course not. Why would he do that? He hadn't told his prior three about one another either; the only reason they knew of each other at all was from speaking together.
It was his own business; why should it matter to anyone else what he did?]
[His reply doesn't come immediately, distracted by the feeling of Emet-Selch's breath against his neck, followed up by a kiss. Arbitrary; it's not the most intimate or affectionate thing they've done, but it manages to arrest his attention. He swallows, but his composure is easily regained.
His voice suggests that he's smiling. He would like to know if Emet-Selch were in any trouble thanks to the arrangement, but talking about it like he has to leave behind evidence as though Emet-Selch wouldn't survive to tell the tale is amusing when he doesn't take it seriously. Which, he doesn't. He's not going to die from something like this.]
Yes... And I will gladly play that part. We can't afford to miss out on such a sensational opportunity for our fill of tragedy. Local man with calamitous association coveted by so many Bonding prospects, that it leads to his own ruin. ...Ha. Whatever that should entail.
[Rules can be broken... Surely if more than three Bonds was so bad, the Coven would do better to explain what might be expected for Monsters and Witches alike. To him, Emet-Selch seems fine. Maybe he has just the right balance of Witches and Monsters... Or, he really can tolerate more than the recommended maximum.
He really is a piece of work. Mettaton got the hint that none of Emet-Selch's Bondmates were kept in the loop about such matters that might even impact them. Surely if something were to happen to Emet-Selch, it would affect all four of them in its wake. He'll consider telling them himself, maybe... He traces his finger against his skin in aimless patterns, occasionally choosing instead to press his hand into his back for greater contact.]
[On a whim, he licks slowly across the patch of neck that he could reach without needing to move his head. He follows it with a small sigh, letting lips rest against slightly-dampened metal.]
...well. I shall only hope that it will be an intriguing end. I'd hate to go to all this trouble only to expire in some mundane fashion.
[He'd hate to meet an end at all, but he doesn't say that; it was better to treat this as the light nonsense that it was. Emet-Selch still didn't know what dying in this world would entail for him. Was he fully mortal now? If so, what grand obscenity to perform to an entity such as himself.
That he could maintain to this degree a sense of unironic superiority was a testament to the effort of eons. Even if it had been damaged somewhat by the recent ministrations of harsh, uncaring reality- it was one of the only things he had holding himself together. If his confidence ever truly cracked- well. It wouldn't be a very good time for him or anyone in his vicinity. In any case, his arrogance meant his consideration for others was haphazard at best. Though he had a sense of fairness to some things, in others... he was quite selfish.
He can't press into the touch to his back without leaning away from Mettaton's front, so he doesn't, but the murmur, soft and low in his throat, is a pleased one. And he can't help the faint shiver at the near-ticklish sensation of a finger trailing unpredictably across skin, even when its soothed by the full press of his hand.]
...considering our natures. [Emet-Selch adds, after a moment, as he's reminded of the absurdity of how many Bonds he has, and yet Mettaton possessed only the one.] I'm surprised you don't have a veritable stable of Bonds to your name.
[How terrible Emet-Selch's being to him. He has no muscle with which to tense, but that doesn't stop Mettaton's body from the slightest stutter, the smallest groan sliding from his throat at the contact that he disguises as being a precursor to speaking. ...The robot notices his own easy state of sensitivity, and narrows his eye at the wall for his reaction. He enjoys the feeling, sure, but to be so easily impacted...
Developing sensation, even if it's not as fine-tuned as an organic being's might be, means finding most everything worth fixation. Things Emet-Selch does is of particular interest to him. Mettaton's inclined both toward gestures of intimacy and that which overwhelms him.]
Being wanted to death. What a way to go... The ways I could spin that story. If an extra Bond would kill you, which it won't.
[Mettaton, perhaps one of the very few people who would unironically agree that a mundane end is something worth avoiding by virtue of it being insignificant or unworthy.
Enjoying the way that Emet-Selch responds to his touch, endearing to it even, it takes him slightly off-guard that he'd ask about his Bonds. Mettaton is great at talking about himself, and he could talk about himself for hours in relation to his company, his desirability, his achievements and his dreams, but sharing details about his lived experiences isn't something he does as often. Not that he can blame this line of curiosity. He expected it at some point.]
Yes... I do have plenty of prospects. [None have expressly asked, none he's asked in return, but he knows of plenty Witches and Monsters who are available, of who he imagines would be delighted at the opportunity to Bond with him.] They're all lovely people. But... What can I say? I'm choosy.
[Choosy enough to have gone months without a Bond, apparently. To his dizzying paranoia and long nights in the company of strangers, the crawl of time difficult to keep track of. All so he could continue to spend his days pretending nothing was wrong, from that to his void his magic left behind in his soul. He wouldn't recommend not having a Bond.]
[...That was a nice sound, and the Ascian is a little caught by it in turn. If they weren't so close he's sure he wouldn't have been able to hear it, or written it off as something else, which made it that much more arresting, in a way. As though being treated to small details as well as grand ones.
Still, Emet-Selch forces himself to focus (or at least, to share focuses), since this was something he'd become curious about. And definitely a better topic than his own (very assured) non-death from overbond.]
So choosy... that you placed a bet with a complete stranger over it...?
[...Perhaps discussion could be combined with affection(?). Tilting his head this time, he runs his tongue along the underside of Mettaton's jaw before continuing, voice soft.]
Not that I'm criticizing your choice, of course. [A trace smug; Emet-Selch held the contradictory conviction that he was the finest choice someone could make, as well as an absolutely terrible one.] And I admit to being a bit flattered... but why?
[Not just why him, but why no one else before him? How could he be choosy and seemingly arbitrary? The Ascian had seen a bit of what a lack of Bond does to people, at least to witches, and he can't imagine a monster having a better time of it. He wasn't sure how long Mettaton had been in the city, though- but judging from his rabbitine features, he estimated it was at least as long as himself, if not more. Long enough to feel the lack.]
[Two moves is enough to rekindle Mettaton's taste for him, as if it had ever been sated. He shudders; how is he supposed to focus? And does he really need it? Focusing would mean that he was attempting to keep a story straight, and he's not sure he should even bother with that with the Ascian, his very own Bonded. His voice is low, a playful warning while he's supposed to be talking.]
You... Trying to fluster me so soon?
[He taps his finger against Emet-Selch's back like an extension of his warning, not that there appears to be any repercussions.
For all others, Mettaton has a perfect number of reasons he Bonded with Emet-Selch: "He needs somebody positive and charming like me in his life!! Don't you agree??" "What's winning a bet if it has no consequence for the loser...? I'm perfectly suited to being dreamy, AND nightmarish." And, his favorite ridiculous line: "Simple. He has nice eyebrows." These kinds of superficial replies would be enough to satisfy others, or at least to shock them into acceptance. They're not... false, eccentric as Mettaton's tastes are, but they're not his reasons.
Two arrogant personalities in one bed.]
Winning my exclusive attentions... Feeling flattered is natural! But it's your own fault, beautiful. I can't Bond with somebody who can't figure me out on their own! Which you did, in one conversation. I like how sharp you are, in more than just your wit. [Good thing that Emet-Selch can't see the way he still looks around uncomfortably in the dark, even though he already knows.] I'd hate for some mechanic of a Bond to be the reason somebody knows I'm a ghost. I can't have others knowing, whether they're a human, artificial intelligence, or... a miqo'te. [That's what Irhya called herself.] That's my secret.
[One reason. There are many, but a lot of them have come up during their Bond; he'll focus on the motivating factors. He holds tight.]
Besides. Even I can be a little sentimental, and find comfort in the familiar. ...Your stubborn resignation and melancholy are... nostalgic. Don't get me wrong. You're not at all like anybody I've met. But I'm accustomed to such company. You're much my opposite, and I like that.
[Those are all true, and far more of the reasons he felt compelled to Bond with Emet-Selch over mere whim alone. Though that did play a part. Mettaton obeys his intuition many times, and he enjoys the result of it.]
Edited (can't spell fantasy race) 2020-03-01 00:42 (UTC)
[Making an amused sound at the- did it even qualify as a protest? a warning?- the Ascian nips lightly along the other man's jawline. How metallic. Mettaton's responsiveness remained appealing, and he couldn't deny feeling a degree more alert in response. There was a lot to pay attention to, between contact and conversation.
When he'd formed his other Bonds, Emet-Selch had asked them the why of it beforehand. Had wanted to satisfy any suggestion that it had involved anything like pity or desperation. Their reasons had been acceptable, so he agreed.
It was a bit backwards to hear Mettaton's explanation- both for why the Ascian had felt an appropriate choice, as well as why he'd avoided Bonding so deliberately- long after the fact, but even that felt natural somehow. Nothing else about their combination was conventional; why not go from torture, to the tying of souls together- and only then get into the tragic backstories and explanations for why?
But comfort in the familiar is something Emet-Selch could entirely understand. To find an echo of a similar dynamic in some foreign place....]
Hm... so you're used to attracting the despairing and dissatisfied? You do seem accustomed to dealing with us.
[And even though he'd had little say in choosing this Bond to start, the Ascian can also understand not wanting personal details to come out because of some sort of tether. Though he'd yet to experience it for himself even with his older Bonds, he'd heard that beyond the sharing of emotions, there was the sharing of memories. So Emet-Selch was a bit relieved to have found Mettaton to be more congenial for long-term associations than first impressions had provided. He would've despised someone learning of Amaurot or his name without having a choice in the matter.
So while he still didn't understand why Mettaton was so reticent about being a ghost, he could understand that it was something he wanted to hide. That it was a private detail, not information anyone deserved access to. Shifting a hand, the Ascian's fingers rub slowly at the back of the puca's neck as he considers this. To have guessed at something so personal... Mettaton hadn't seemed offended or upset when he'd figured it out. Was it because he was something of a ghost himself?]
Still, I suppose we balance one another to a degree... [A low sigh, warm against his neck.] You'll soon have me convinced this was a good idea.
[Metallic, but at least pliant, for the sake of neck flexibility. But it's not as much give as a person would have, with metal immediately underneath. He can detect a sharper sensation of teeth, and he narrows his eye, bites down on his tongue, and swallows again. Deliberately defying him to get a rise out of him, is that how he's going to play? He won't forget.]
I fancy myself a pleasure for all personality types. But... Yes. Those I grew closest to trend gloomy, against all odds. I might even call it comfortable for me.
[Claiming that it was Emet-Selch's personality that drove him to want to pursue a Bond with him sounds awfully sentimental... Much more so than the practicality of not wanting people to see his memories, he realizes. But he's being candid.
He imagines many people would find having their memories shared to be uncomfortable, no matter how inconsequential. He couldn't tell when the possibility of memory-sharing might begin in a Bond, and it wasn't something he was about to risk with those he associated with, in case they caught a glimpse of something beyond his new robotic life and had their view of him altered. He didn't think they'd understand much of anything about it.
Though he got after him for amorous advances against his neck, the sigh isn't faulted. It's still a reminder of his closeness, and Mettaton closes his eye with a short, pleasant hum, bowing his head forward just a touch to express his appreciation for the Ascian's fingers against his neck. His long ears flatten again, though purely in relaxation. This seems to startle him for a moment, before relaxing again; he's still not used to the feeling of having long rabbit ears emote for him. Mettaton smiles, twirling his finger in Emet-Selch's hair to make short spirals between combing through it. His hand wanders just so that he's able to curl his fingers about Emet-Selch's waist, which he does with a slight pressure.]
I recall having suggested that this dynamic of ours would be part of the allure! I'm glad you've come to share my perspective. [He kisses the top of his head with a grin.] Opposites attract, and all. Haha.
[It was an interesting texture, at least, different than skin and lacking a pulse. There's a small drag of teeth towards neck, where the Ascian sucks, very briefly, at the center of Mettaton's throat before answering, as though he weren't trying to distract him at all.]
--I imagine we can be quite restful, if one can accept the more depressive aspects. ...Although, I'll say that I've experienced the same phenomena. In reverse, obviously- but those I knew best were the obnoxiously sociable type.
[He says it like it's a bad thing, even as his hand continues its exploration of Mettaton's neck. There's an alternation of pressures; the light drag of a nail, a firmer rubbing with the pads of his fingers, a gentle stroke with the whole of his hand, from the top of his neck down towards his shoulder. Even as he notes the puca's responses, Emet-Selch wondered about seeking this sort of dynamic, on either side of it. It was one thing to speak of balance, but it seemed as though it should bring nothing but frustration.
Not that frustration didn't exist, but it wasn't the whole of it.
Though possessing just a cheerful demeanor wasn't enough, Emet-Selch was certain of that much. Plenty of people were friendly with no substance. A superficial shell that covered far worse traits- or nothing at all. The Ascian had no patience for that. That there was something there besides a teasing chattiness- that was crucial, annoying, and appealing.
He still huffs a little on general principle at the kiss to his head; such an affectionate sort of gesture, and what were those for? Nevermind that they'd been cuddling for some time. Or the quietly pleased noise he finds himself making at the attention to his hair, the small grip to his waist.]
I wouldn't go so far as to call it allure... but you're occasionally more tolerable than I initially believed.
["High praise" met with a smug smile that is fortunately out of sight, because he'll take it. "Occasionally more tolerable" means "you're growing on me," which is more than acceptable.
He should have expected more action against his neck, but the redoubling of his efforts has Mettaton's grip tightening as he bites his lower lip, eye blowing wide in mind-numbing shock against the teeth then his mouth against his throat. Even though it surprises him and bears some resemblance to pain, he ends up exposing his neck all the same on reflex. It means Mettaton's reeling from it while Emet-Selch gives his reply, anyway.
...Restful, all right. The amount of sleeping/fake sleeping/lying around these types do... Emet-Selch is the perfect example of it. Trying to regain some of his composure with a clear of his throat, that effort's lost when he focuses on the experimental sensations of his fingers against his neck. Their variance feels like he's checking his reaction for each, but it all ends up feeling pleasant; he finds himself sinking into his Bonded with a contented note.
He tries to smooth himself over, both from Emet-Selch's mouth and his fingers against his neck. Mettaton does his very best to reply through that.]
It's almost part of some design, that you'd be stuck with people like me.
[Some more affection: he sighs, burying his nose into Emet-Selch's hair. ...Suddenly, something strikes him.]
Say, Hades. This body of yours... Did you take it like this, in all of its loveliness...? Or do you alter your host to your liking?
[The bared throat felt like an invitation, and one that he had no problem with accepting. Dragging his teeth over the length of Mettaton's exposed neck, Emet-Selch follows it with a swipe of his tongue back upward, damp and warm. His breathing catches just for a moment at the way Mettaton leaned into him, feeling further attuned to each small movement or noise his Bonded made.
And the sound of his name still carried with it a small pang of nostalgia each time the Ascian heard it, further reassuring him that it probably had been the right decision to share it with Mettaton. The question that follows surprises him somewhat, and the logistics of it have him pause for a few seconds. Technically, the original version of this host he'd kept until its natural mortal death in his late 80s. Then he'd slept, been woken up, and decided to use the same shape as before, though at its current apparent age. His grandson having used his mortal shell as a cloning project had been incentive; plenty of nice, empty hosts for the taking.
--But none of that felt technically relevant to what Mettaton was actually asking, so he decides to not complicate matters further.]
This current shape... 'tis mostly unaltered from its original version, though I may have- tweaked a few details. Nothing that would cause him to stand out among his people, but... well, I find it far easier to use a host that feels familiar.
[From Mettaton's neck, Emet-Selch's hand drifts to explore the robot's upper back, half-kneading for the sake of touching him, half-helping to keep him pressed close. The feeling of a sigh disturbing his hair was a little... endearing, almost; the Ascian wasn't certain, but he thought that was what that emotion was.]
...It's not advisable for us to change bodies on a frequent basis. While some of my brethren chose to ignore this to their ultimate detriment, I keep my hosts for as long as possible. Ensuring they're comfortable is essential.
[Of course, hitting his neck with more purpose and teeth earns a yelp out of him. Though it was quiet and short, Mettaton surprises even himself with the noise and his ears bounce to attention; even if he wished to pretend he hadn't made the noise, he only allows more access there. Allowing more access just in time for Emet-Selch to drag his tongue across him, and he can barely control a shudder.
He has the task of trying to pay attention through this, now. Another swallow, and he goes back to burying his face into Emet-Selch's hair. Hearing of some change that might not be too intrusive, he wonders if it's the shock of white — whatever that implies for a familiar attribute. He guesses that having had so many bodies, this familiarity must have come gradually: commonalities between bodies that defined him, despite the difference in shape. Unless, of course, this familiarity was something that came from an original form.
The hand he has against his skin slides along his waist to his side, feeling for the curve of his body. The one in his hair rubs his scalp. He feels he's collected enough to speak, at least.]
... Is the white in his hair your doing? [His inquiry expresses that he'd like to know what's familiar to him. Whatever it is, it must be a commonality between his forms, something Emet-Selch liked to have as a feature that defined him.] Or maybe, whatever that is on your forehead...
[He doesn't know what a Garlean is, but even after he says it, he seems to doubt that; it would cause him to stand out, if it weren't a normal thing. Emet-Selch's fingers against his back are nice, and they encourage him to shift his body close. Closer.]
[The yelp surprises and satisfies him in turn, and Emet-Selch can't help but bury his face into Mettaton's neck with more intent, in contrast to the relative gentleness of the kisses he decorates it with. But at the base of Mettaton's neck, where it curves towards shoulder, he bites down again, brief but firm, then sucks hard at the region with a muffled sound.
...Having to continually pull himself back a little from his actions in order to speak was- an interesting experience, more than a bit testing. The Ascian remained bemused at how much temptation there could be just from remaining in Mettaton's presence, having to take the time to collect himself again as his lips release his neck and he thinks on his answer.]
The white... [Emet-Selch interrupts himself, not intentionally; the hand sliding to his side was distracting, pleasant. The muscles underneath Mettaton's hand tense faintly. He takes a breath. The touch to his hair helped him focus, somehow.] In the original world, my hair was entirely white. Garleans- that is, the group this host belongs to- do possess white hair as well, but 'tis not as commonplace.
[Combining the two did probably stand out more, but it was within acceptable limits, he felt.]
This third eye, [Because technically that thing is an eye, apparently, for all that he can see little more out of it than his ruined one.] is a strictly Garlean trait, so no, that was already there when I claimed this form. And there it must remain.
[A form that was contently melding itself to the puca's, in response to his shifting, fingers kept firm to the other's back.]
[It's a rush, feeling Emet-Selch respond to his noise by closing in on him, and he knows better than not to predict that more's coming his way. He feels warmer, anticipatory; even if Mettaton had the chance to brace himself, the escalation from the gentle scraping of teeth to a firm bite doesn't occur to him.
So this level of contact and the sheer amount he feels from it causes his body to jerk and his legs to squirm. He cries out, and it fails to sound much like he's entirely in pain so much as in pleasure. He sees stars, the feeling of his neck being sucked on as a follow-up equally delightful, so much so that he fails to notice the moan that slips from his throat in response. The robot's neck slackens and his fingers press into Emet-Selch's side some more, while he pets the back of his head — all automatically, encouraging.
It'll take a moment for Mettaton to catch up with any talk after this as well, and he won't do it as effectively. Be patient, Emet-Selch: it's all he can do, and as if to demonstrate how it takes him, he hums gently in response to the sound of his Bonded's voice.
He gets the picture: his body's a Garlean, and it seems like there are so many kinds of creatures where he comes from. He wonders distantly if even Lalafell are from the same world, based on Tataru's manner of speaking... But he doesn't spare much thought for this, his attention distracted by the mere quality of Emet-Selch's voice, how even that's enough to give him a heady warmth of pleasure.
What he does come away with is that he had an original form, as he wondered. One with entirely white hair. He has to prioritize information after that, try to regain his composure meanwhile.]
White hair... I'd say I see it. But this— this isn't what you used to... appear as...
[And he has a feeling Emet-Selch prefers his original form, not this one. Feeling Emet-Selch shifting closer yet, as they always do to each other, has him shuddering.]
[The delay in reply is entirely congenial to Emet-Selch; every reaction has him transfixed, his own body tightening in reflexive sympathy. Barely pushing back his own moan, he clings that much harder at Mettaton when he squirms, wanting to feel every motion, as closely as he could.
The sound he made, the way Mettaton cried out was particularly arresting; even the memory of it sets him shivering, a feeling encouraged further by Mettaton's own hold on him. Leaving that bitten place on his neck with a kiss that contains more than a suggestion of teeth, Emet-Selch nuzzles roughly back up to the puca's jaw, scraping sharply along the edge of it with a soft, almost eager noise. Pressing the side of his face firmly against Mettaton's, his eyes are tightly closed.
And from there he tries to think. He swallows, ignoring the lifting of his pulse, the way his breath wanted to quicken with it. His voice, when he finally manages to use it on words, is soft and deep, rumbling against the side of Mettaton's face.]
...I was taller. At least- twice so. [Amaurotines were incredibly tall.] My eyes are the same. And something- something of the same build. Structure.
[With all of the squirming and shifting, as though if they kept trying, they could eliminate all space between them whatsoever, the Ascian is not remotely surprised to feel that he's gotten hard once more. Even the realization has him shudder faintly along Mettaton's body.]
[For some reason, being gripped onto more tightly sends a response like adrenaline through the Puca's body, one that demands he writhe harder or freeze still. It's primal, and he recognizes as much, finding it unusually satisfying when he chooses by will to still and give in. He shudders in the Ascian's grip and lets him keep him, allowing his eye to shut in turn. Giving in, but he's glad to be doing it: he wouldn't want to leave this. Each move against his neck has Mettaton making a sound as if his next word's caught in his throat.
When Emet-Selch begins speaking, Mettaton leans into him. His ears roll forward with interest, for content but largely for sound. That he would find somebody else's voice so captivating is a welcome surprise, but perhaps not so shocking when he considers that these tones on Emet-Selch's voice are carried mostly in intimate proximity: with his familiarity with them, then, he's grown to find it attractive. Dreadfully so: speaking to him like this would be enough to change the very context of his surroundings, he feels. Mettaton gently rubs his cheek against his Bonded's. He hears his description, but is finding it so difficult not to just kiss him already.]
Your eyes...
[He's not entirely sure where he was going with that. Repeating it? Trying to express that he likes his eyes, maybe. (He was tall, very, white of hair, yellow eyes, humanoid in build... In a sensible part of Mettaton's mind, he wants to know why he lost this original form. He thinks he might already be able to piece that answer together, but he's a bit dazed.)
Arcing into Emet-Selch eagerly, Mettaton turns his head to kiss him, his manner suggesting his long-standing want. More shifting of his body leads to discovering his erect cock, this time with no need for him to remove any clothes to access him. His body jolts at the sensation, and he moans into the kiss.]
[Though he'd felt no inclination on Mettaton's part towards escape, the way his body almost... surrendered to the Ascian's grip has his breathing catch, startled by the rush of possessiveness he felt in response. And though the grip of his arm doesn't slack, his hand turns gentle, as it moves up to the back of Mettaton's head once more. Stroking his hair, petting his ears, feeling that desire to contain him, to have him for himself, to not let himself be abandoned this time, as he always, always was--
Finally, finally the kiss arrives, Emet-Selch feeling the force of Mettaton's want and responding in kind. Nor does he hesitate to slip his tongue past the other man's lips, to taste and take what he can for the moment, already feeling out of breath and knowing he would soon need to break it. How inconvenient, his body was at times....
Hearing his name uttered in that way provokes an answering moan, soft but sharp, and poorly smothered by the kiss. Brushing his lips repeatedly over Mettaton's, he feels a peculiar sort of neediness. He was aroused yes, the stiffness of the cock pressing to Mettaton's body attested to that, but there were other needs alongside it. To claim and possess, as much as to be claimed, held, reassured--
He couldn't stand how emotional he was sometimes. It was painful. But it was either this or indifference, all or nothing. How had it flipped over? Was this the result of the Bond? How meaningless this was, but yet....
Tangling a leg with Mettaton's, he shivers at the extra bit of friction against his erection, taking a breath and kissing him harder once more.]
[It's thrilling, to feel so taken. Something he'd feel less inclined toward regularly — being contained, being stuck — becomes a fascinating thing in the context of this bed and even their Bond, especially without knowing the sheer depth of Emet-Selch's possessiveness. That might have daunted him, even as somebody who loves to be desired. It would be impossible to fathom it without knowing it first-hand. The robot nestles into him, yet ends up wanting to take him for himself right back.
Emet-Selch's gentleness touches Mettaton, then. His ears are blazing hot, functioning well with the energy-expending needs of his body, and he hums, leaning into him with a smile. He likes this. There was hardly a doubt that he would, but he likes this vulnerability, soft and deliberate, but fervent and wanting, and he loves it on Emet-Selch. Even feeling it for himself is a rush, not having any experiences with its emotional opposites. For him, it's pure, pleasurable feeling, no pain.
The more frantic his Bondmate grows, the softer it makes Mettaton in turn. He holds tight, leaning his upper body into the Ascian, and kisses him back just as much and as hard as he kisses him. They're making a mess of it, Mettaton doing anything in his power to steal away Emet-Selch's chances at breathing beyond what's necessary. He even slides against his erection, hoping to make him pant.
With a soft moan into Emet-Selch's lips, Mettaton leans forward farther yet, placing his hand against his hip to guide him onto his back. Of the things he fantasized about earlier, it had been difficult to choose between his ardent attentions on his arousal or the desire to take more of his body, and this is an opportunity for the latter. It works well that his leg's already tangled with his, giving him leverage onto the other man... But he still has to see if he can tolerate his weight. All he can do is surrender some of the other man's breathing rights back, and the robot sighs.
Mettaton ends their deep kissing and glances at him for only a moment, his gaze fiery intense.]
Not too heavy, am I...?
[He's heavier than he looks, made of metal and flesh and parts enough for three forms. With that, he presses his lips to Emet-Selch's throat. He wants to claim him, all right, and if there's no protest, he'll kiss down his throat and end it by capturing him between his lips, sucking hard.]
[The differences between Mettaton and a normal body remained interesting to note, and Emet-Selch appreciated the feeling of the heat evident in those ears, his fingers smoothing through fur, scratching gently at the base of them. That along with the more familiar sounds of excitement and pleasure, there were also things like unusually hot rabbit ears to take advantage of.
But in contrast to the touch to said ears, Emet-Selch returns Mettaton's kisses with more fervor than grace, snapping up what breath he can take between them, resenting even that much of a pause. The graze against his cock has him shudder again, panting, and even though he desperately needs the air, he wastes it on a noise of protest when Mettaton pulls back from the kiss.
But there's no reluctance to being encouraged onto his back, arms adjusting to wrap around Mettaton in turn. It was a heavier body than he was used to, and perhaps more than Emet-Selch was expecting, but it was within acceptable limits. The added weight felt only like a boon, the pressure of his body holding the Ascian in place, pushing him into the mattress a little- a comforting sensation. Perhaps it would occasionally make it that much harder to breathe, but it wasn't as though he was doing a very good job of breathing regularly anyway.]
Not--
[See, one word and already out of air. With effort, he gives it another go.]
...not at all.
[Like Mettaton, being at all contained like this wasn't something he'd want in his everyday life- but in this place, and more particularly with this person- it was hard for him to desire anything else. And in the brief meeting of gazes- another breath stolen by the look to Mettaton's eye- his own expression is similarly intense, wanting. Demanding, expectant, lonely.
This time it's the Ascian who bares his throat to him; swallowing hard against the sensation, a low groan vibrating through his neck as his eyes squeeze shut again.]
[This is dangerous. Even seeing Emet-Selch beneath him, panting and with his shoulders bare, the promise of skin flush to his metallic figure (which he feels, so much softer than he is, his body sinking into Emet-Selch's, but he can't feel it enough even still), intoxicates him, his once impassioned gaze unfocused and lustful.
He can tell that he's heavier than he expected. He laughs once, something more like a breath than an actual laugh, and speaks in close quarters, low and smooth — but there's an edge in his normally regulated tone, an impatience.]
Good. Because looking like this... I can't begin to... describe to you, what seeing you does to me.
[It would make him breathless in turn, if that were possible. No, instead, Mettaton thinks of it in terms of how hard Emet-Selch would make him, something to rival the Ascian. If that isn't a thought to make Mettaton shudder. Instead, he's restless and wanting- he goes for his neck.
Mettaton doesn't have a frame of reference for putting it into practice, but he's seen it plenty enough, where someone steals a love interest aside, slides kisses along their neck, only to mark them after a particularly long one. He hadn't figured out how that worked until he felt Emet-Selch doing something similar to his synthetic body. And he knows that sucking upon his skin is the right choice when he feels the other man groan beneath his lips, enough to make Mettaton dizzy with greed. Upon successful replication, he tenses, stares at the mark he's made upon Emet-Selch's skin, and leans forward to press his tongue into it with a gratified hum.
If he really wanted to make sure everyone knew he was his... Hungrily, Mettaton takes more of his neck between teeth, closer to his shoulder this time, and sucks until it's purple. Like this, Mettaton adjusts the placement of his lower body until he feels Emet-Selch's cock slide against his inner thigh — a disastrous move on his part. The very moment he has his length between his thighs, he's clearly craved enough by the idol to have him collapsing into Emet-Selch's neck with a shuddering moan.]
[It was strange how annoying Mettaton's voice could be sometimes (if due to his words rather than the actual sound), and yet hearing him talk like this now was incredibly arresting. He wouldn't have been surprised if the sound alone would've been enough to arouse him, to set his pulse speeding. Emet-Selch wondered distantly if these experiences would leave him with a more permanently positive impression of his voice, even in more mundane contexts. Hopefully that wouldn't become awkward, he thinks, as his hands stroke slowly over Mettaton's sides, with far more gentleness than the need in his body would seem to indicate.
The brush of a tongue against newly claimed skin sets off a smaller shiver. And when Mettaton's lips close over him again, feeling that tighter suction near his neck marring his skin, the Ascian can only gasp, feeling an immediate rush of warmth. These would be much better marks, even in their impermanence, much better than unwanted scars. Though he couldn't see them for himself, Emet-Selch can well imagine the shades his skin must have turned, even the thought having him moan, short and intense, between breaths. Would he be aroused at the sight of them later, he also wondered....
Pressed down as he is, his hips can do no more than twitch upwards against Mettaton's thighs, taking what small friction he could from it, even if it were against metal rather than skin. His cock seemed entirely undaunted by its less-than-organic surroundings. And not being able to do more than writhe and shudder was nearly exhilarating to the Ascian in how unusual it felt; what should've been alarm converted wholly into a desire for more of it. As though being so wonderfully and slowly crushed was an outcome to wish for.
To feel and especially hear Mettaton's own responses, to know he was not unaffected- has his breath hitch, his hands interrupting their exploration of his Bonded's sides to clutch at him, in reassurance or encouragement, he's not certain. Likely both. Clearly reveling in being so wanted, and wanting Mettaton ever more in return.]
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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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At least he's committed to his four Bonds, as dubiously inadvisable as that is. Just as Emet-Selch moves to kiss him, Mettaton dons a smile. His lips against his are by no means a shock, but his intent, soft as it is, earns a hum, part surprise and contentment. But... it's that feeling again, the one that fills Mettaton with nostalgia, grief. And he can only do so much to temper that.
But he returns the kiss lovingly. The arm he has around Emet-Selch's body tightens, and he runs his tongue along Emet-Selch's lower lip. As soon as the Ascian breaks free of him (which will usually always be his call, considering), Mettaton kisses the side of his mouth one last time before tucking Emet-Selch's head back under his chin with another one of his nuzzles. It's his approval.]
Good. [Mettaton settles against Emet-Selch, drawing him close and running his fingers appreciatively over bare skin. He's... inviting himself to stay.] Tell me, however. If something goes awry, with this four-pointed arrangement of yours. Will you, beautiful?
[He doesn't know what he'd do or what it would look like, but he doesn't want to not know.]
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Although, considering their first meeting had been in the midst of torture and captivity, it was hard to not improve on such circumstance. As memories went, he'd prefer to dwell on the more recent ones.
And now he had his face burrowed against the idol's neck, arms wrapped tight around one another, as though this were a comfortable thing to do. Which it was, at least in an emotional sense. Even physically, it was... fine. He could live with it; he very much intended to. Every touch over skin was an encouragement to that end; if Mettaton hadn't invited himself to stay, the Ascian would've been quite disappointed.
Lips moving against the other man's throat as he replies, Emet-Selch ends it with a more proper kiss to his neck.]
Mm... I suppose someone should be kept informed. Document our poor decisions. Leave a record behind as a warning to others.
[Because has he told any of his other Bonds about this? Of course not. Why would he do that? He hadn't told his prior three about one another either; the only reason they knew of each other at all was from speaking together.
It was his own business; why should it matter to anyone else what he did?]
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His voice suggests that he's smiling. He would like to know if Emet-Selch were in any trouble thanks to the arrangement, but talking about it like he has to leave behind evidence as though Emet-Selch wouldn't survive to tell the tale is amusing when he doesn't take it seriously. Which, he doesn't. He's not going to die from something like this.]
Yes... And I will gladly play that part. We can't afford to miss out on such a sensational opportunity for our fill of tragedy. Local man with calamitous association coveted by so many Bonding prospects, that it leads to his own ruin. ...Ha. Whatever that should entail.
[Rules can be broken... Surely if more than three Bonds was so bad, the Coven would do better to explain what might be expected for Monsters and Witches alike. To him, Emet-Selch seems fine. Maybe he has just the right balance of Witches and Monsters... Or, he really can tolerate more than the recommended maximum.
He really is a piece of work. Mettaton got the hint that none of Emet-Selch's Bondmates were kept in the loop about such matters that might even impact them. Surely if something were to happen to Emet-Selch, it would affect all four of them in its wake. He'll consider telling them himself, maybe... He traces his finger against his skin in aimless patterns, occasionally choosing instead to press his hand into his back for greater contact.]
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...well. I shall only hope that it will be an intriguing end. I'd hate to go to all this trouble only to expire in some mundane fashion.
[He'd hate to meet an end at all, but he doesn't say that; it was better to treat this as the light nonsense that it was. Emet-Selch still didn't know what dying in this world would entail for him. Was he fully mortal now? If so, what grand obscenity to perform to an entity such as himself.
That he could maintain to this degree a sense of unironic superiority was a testament to the effort of eons. Even if it had been damaged somewhat by the recent ministrations of harsh, uncaring reality- it was one of the only things he had holding himself together. If his confidence ever truly cracked- well. It wouldn't be a very good time for him or anyone in his vicinity. In any case, his arrogance meant his consideration for others was haphazard at best. Though he had a sense of fairness to some things, in others... he was quite selfish.
He can't press into the touch to his back without leaning away from Mettaton's front, so he doesn't, but the murmur, soft and low in his throat, is a pleased one. And he can't help the faint shiver at the near-ticklish sensation of a finger trailing unpredictably across skin, even when its soothed by the full press of his hand.]
...considering our natures. [Emet-Selch adds, after a moment, as he's reminded of the absurdity of how many Bonds he has, and yet Mettaton possessed only the one.] I'm surprised you don't have a veritable stable of Bonds to your name.
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Developing sensation, even if it's not as fine-tuned as an organic being's might be, means finding most everything worth fixation. Things Emet-Selch does is of particular interest to him. Mettaton's inclined both toward gestures of intimacy and that which overwhelms him.]
Being wanted to death. What a way to go... The ways I could spin that story. If an extra Bond would kill you, which it won't.
[Mettaton, perhaps one of the very few people who would unironically agree that a mundane end is something worth avoiding by virtue of it being insignificant or unworthy.
Enjoying the way that Emet-Selch responds to his touch, endearing to it even, it takes him slightly off-guard that he'd ask about his Bonds. Mettaton is great at talking about himself, and he could talk about himself for hours in relation to his company, his desirability, his achievements and his dreams, but sharing details about his lived experiences isn't something he does as often. Not that he can blame this line of curiosity. He expected it at some point.]
Yes... I do have plenty of prospects. [None have expressly asked, none he's asked in return, but he knows of plenty Witches and Monsters who are available, of who he imagines would be delighted at the opportunity to Bond with him.] They're all lovely people. But... What can I say? I'm choosy.
[Choosy enough to have gone months without a Bond, apparently. To his dizzying paranoia and long nights in the company of strangers, the crawl of time difficult to keep track of. All so he could continue to spend his days pretending nothing was wrong, from that to his void his magic left behind in his soul. He wouldn't recommend not having a Bond.]
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Still, Emet-Selch forces himself to focus (or at least, to share focuses), since this was something he'd become curious about. And definitely a better topic than his own (very assured) non-death from overbond.]
So choosy... that you placed a bet with a complete stranger over it...?
[...Perhaps discussion could be combined with affection(?). Tilting his head this time, he runs his tongue along the underside of Mettaton's jaw before continuing, voice soft.]
Not that I'm criticizing your choice, of course. [A trace smug; Emet-Selch held the contradictory conviction that he was the finest choice someone could make, as well as an absolutely terrible one.] And I admit to being a bit flattered... but why?
[Not just why him, but why no one else before him? How could he be choosy and seemingly arbitrary? The Ascian had seen a bit of what a lack of Bond does to people, at least to witches, and he can't imagine a monster having a better time of it. He wasn't sure how long Mettaton had been in the city, though- but judging from his rabbitine features, he estimated it was at least as long as himself, if not more. Long enough to feel the lack.]
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You... Trying to fluster me so soon?
[He taps his finger against Emet-Selch's back like an extension of his warning, not that there appears to be any repercussions.
For all others, Mettaton has a perfect number of reasons he Bonded with Emet-Selch: "He needs somebody positive and charming like me in his life!! Don't you agree??" "What's winning a bet if it has no consequence for the loser...? I'm perfectly suited to being dreamy, AND nightmarish." And, his favorite ridiculous line: "Simple. He has nice eyebrows." These kinds of superficial replies would be enough to satisfy others, or at least to shock them into acceptance. They're not... false, eccentric as Mettaton's tastes are, but they're not his reasons.
Two arrogant personalities in one bed.]
Winning my exclusive attentions... Feeling flattered is natural! But it's your own fault, beautiful. I can't Bond with somebody who can't figure me out on their own! Which you did, in one conversation. I like how sharp you are, in more than just your wit. [Good thing that Emet-Selch can't see the way he still looks around uncomfortably in the dark, even though he already knows.] I'd hate for some mechanic of a Bond to be the reason somebody knows I'm a ghost. I can't have others knowing, whether they're a human, artificial intelligence, or... a miqo'te. [That's what Irhya called herself.] That's my secret.
[One reason. There are many, but a lot of them have come up during their Bond; he'll focus on the motivating factors. He holds tight.]
Besides. Even I can be a little sentimental, and find comfort in the familiar. ...Your stubborn resignation and melancholy are... nostalgic. Don't get me wrong. You're not at all like anybody I've met. But I'm accustomed to such company. You're much my opposite, and I like that.
[Those are all true, and far more of the reasons he felt compelled to Bond with Emet-Selch over mere whim alone. Though that did play a part. Mettaton obeys his intuition many times, and he enjoys the result of it.]
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When he'd formed his other Bonds, Emet-Selch had asked them the why of it beforehand. Had wanted to satisfy any suggestion that it had involved anything like pity or desperation. Their reasons had been acceptable, so he agreed.
It was a bit backwards to hear Mettaton's explanation- both for why the Ascian had felt an appropriate choice, as well as why he'd avoided Bonding so deliberately- long after the fact, but even that felt natural somehow. Nothing else about their combination was conventional; why not go from torture, to the tying of souls together- and only then get into the tragic backstories and explanations for why?
But comfort in the familiar is something Emet-Selch could entirely understand. To find an echo of a similar dynamic in some foreign place....]
Hm... so you're used to attracting the despairing and dissatisfied? You do seem accustomed to dealing with us.
[And even though he'd had little say in choosing this Bond to start, the Ascian can also understand not wanting personal details to come out because of some sort of tether. Though he'd yet to experience it for himself even with his older Bonds, he'd heard that beyond the sharing of emotions, there was the sharing of memories. So Emet-Selch was a bit relieved to have found Mettaton to be more congenial for long-term associations than first impressions had provided. He would've despised someone learning of Amaurot or his name without having a choice in the matter.
So while he still didn't understand why Mettaton was so reticent about being a ghost, he could understand that it was something he wanted to hide. That it was a private detail, not information anyone deserved access to. Shifting a hand, the Ascian's fingers rub slowly at the back of the puca's neck as he considers this. To have guessed at something so personal... Mettaton hadn't seemed offended or upset when he'd figured it out. Was it because he was something of a ghost himself?]
Still, I suppose we balance one another to a degree... [A low sigh, warm against his neck.] You'll soon have me convinced this was a good idea.
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I fancy myself a pleasure for all personality types. But... Yes. Those I grew closest to trend gloomy, against all odds. I might even call it comfortable for me.
[Claiming that it was Emet-Selch's personality that drove him to want to pursue a Bond with him sounds awfully sentimental... Much more so than the practicality of not wanting people to see his memories, he realizes. But he's being candid.
He imagines many people would find having their memories shared to be uncomfortable, no matter how inconsequential. He couldn't tell when the possibility of memory-sharing might begin in a Bond, and it wasn't something he was about to risk with those he associated with, in case they caught a glimpse of something beyond his new robotic life and had their view of him altered. He didn't think they'd understand much of anything about it.
Though he got after him for amorous advances against his neck, the sigh isn't faulted. It's still a reminder of his closeness, and Mettaton closes his eye with a short, pleasant hum, bowing his head forward just a touch to express his appreciation for the Ascian's fingers against his neck. His long ears flatten again, though purely in relaxation. This seems to startle him for a moment, before relaxing again; he's still not used to the feeling of having long rabbit ears emote for him. Mettaton smiles, twirling his finger in Emet-Selch's hair to make short spirals between combing through it. His hand wanders just so that he's able to curl his fingers about Emet-Selch's waist, which he does with a slight pressure.]
I recall having suggested that this dynamic of ours would be part of the allure! I'm glad you've come to share my perspective. [He kisses the top of his head with a grin.] Opposites attract, and all. Haha.
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--I imagine we can be quite restful, if one can accept the more depressive aspects. ...Although, I'll say that I've experienced the same phenomena. In reverse, obviously- but those I knew best were the obnoxiously sociable type.
[He says it like it's a bad thing, even as his hand continues its exploration of Mettaton's neck. There's an alternation of pressures; the light drag of a nail, a firmer rubbing with the pads of his fingers, a gentle stroke with the whole of his hand, from the top of his neck down towards his shoulder. Even as he notes the puca's responses, Emet-Selch wondered about seeking this sort of dynamic, on either side of it. It was one thing to speak of balance, but it seemed as though it should bring nothing but frustration.
Not that frustration didn't exist, but it wasn't the whole of it.
Though possessing just a cheerful demeanor wasn't enough, Emet-Selch was certain of that much. Plenty of people were friendly with no substance. A superficial shell that covered far worse traits- or nothing at all. The Ascian had no patience for that. That there was something there besides a teasing chattiness- that was crucial, annoying, and appealing.
He still huffs a little on general principle at the kiss to his head; such an affectionate sort of gesture, and what were those for? Nevermind that they'd been cuddling for some time. Or the quietly pleased noise he finds himself making at the attention to his hair, the small grip to his waist.]
I wouldn't go so far as to call it allure... but you're occasionally more tolerable than I initially believed.
[High... praise?]
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He should have expected more action against his neck, but the redoubling of his efforts has Mettaton's grip tightening as he bites his lower lip, eye blowing wide in mind-numbing shock against the teeth then his mouth against his throat. Even though it surprises him and bears some resemblance to pain, he ends up exposing his neck all the same on reflex. It means Mettaton's reeling from it while Emet-Selch gives his reply, anyway.
...Restful, all right. The amount of sleeping/fake sleeping/lying around these types do... Emet-Selch is the perfect example of it. Trying to regain some of his composure with a clear of his throat, that effort's lost when he focuses on the experimental sensations of his fingers against his neck. Their variance feels like he's checking his reaction for each, but it all ends up feeling pleasant; he finds himself sinking into his Bonded with a contented note.
He tries to smooth himself over, both from Emet-Selch's mouth and his fingers against his neck. Mettaton does his very best to reply through that.]
It's almost part of some design, that you'd be stuck with people like me.
[Some more affection: he sighs, burying his nose into Emet-Selch's hair. ...Suddenly, something strikes him.]
Say, Hades. This body of yours... Did you take it like this, in all of its loveliness...? Or do you alter your host to your liking?
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And the sound of his name still carried with it a small pang of nostalgia each time the Ascian heard it, further reassuring him that it probably had been the right decision to share it with Mettaton. The question that follows surprises him somewhat, and the logistics of it have him pause for a few seconds. Technically, the original version of this host he'd kept until its natural mortal death in his late 80s. Then he'd slept, been woken up, and decided to use the same shape as before, though at its current apparent age. His grandson having used his mortal shell as a cloning project had been incentive; plenty of nice, empty hosts for the taking.
--But none of that felt technically relevant to what Mettaton was actually asking, so he decides to not complicate matters further.]
This current shape... 'tis mostly unaltered from its original version, though I may have- tweaked a few details. Nothing that would cause him to stand out among his people, but... well, I find it far easier to use a host that feels familiar.
[From Mettaton's neck, Emet-Selch's hand drifts to explore the robot's upper back, half-kneading for the sake of touching him, half-helping to keep him pressed close. The feeling of a sigh disturbing his hair was a little... endearing, almost; the Ascian wasn't certain, but he thought that was what that emotion was.]
...It's not advisable for us to change bodies on a frequent basis. While some of my brethren chose to ignore this to their ultimate detriment, I keep my hosts for as long as possible. Ensuring they're comfortable is essential.
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He has the task of trying to pay attention through this, now. Another swallow, and he goes back to burying his face into Emet-Selch's hair. Hearing of some change that might not be too intrusive, he wonders if it's the shock of white — whatever that implies for a familiar attribute. He guesses that having had so many bodies, this familiarity must have come gradually: commonalities between bodies that defined him, despite the difference in shape. Unless, of course, this familiarity was something that came from an original form.
The hand he has against his skin slides along his waist to his side, feeling for the curve of his body. The one in his hair rubs his scalp. He feels he's collected enough to speak, at least.]
... Is the white in his hair your doing? [His inquiry expresses that he'd like to know what's familiar to him. Whatever it is, it must be a commonality between his forms, something Emet-Selch liked to have as a feature that defined him.] Or maybe, whatever that is on your forehead...
[He doesn't know what a Garlean is, but even after he says it, he seems to doubt that; it would cause him to stand out, if it weren't a normal thing. Emet-Selch's fingers against his back are nice, and they encourage him to shift his body close. Closer.]
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...Having to continually pull himself back a little from his actions in order to speak was- an interesting experience, more than a bit testing. The Ascian remained bemused at how much temptation there could be just from remaining in Mettaton's presence, having to take the time to collect himself again as his lips release his neck and he thinks on his answer.]
The white... [Emet-Selch interrupts himself, not intentionally; the hand sliding to his side was distracting, pleasant. The muscles underneath Mettaton's hand tense faintly. He takes a breath. The touch to his hair helped him focus, somehow.] In the original world, my hair was entirely white. Garleans- that is, the group this host belongs to- do possess white hair as well, but 'tis not as commonplace.
[Combining the two did probably stand out more, but it was within acceptable limits, he felt.]
This third eye, [Because technically that thing is an eye, apparently, for all that he can see little more out of it than his ruined one.] is a strictly Garlean trait, so no, that was already there when I claimed this form. And there it must remain.
[A form that was contently melding itself to the puca's, in response to his shifting, fingers kept firm to the other's back.]
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So this level of contact and the sheer amount he feels from it causes his body to jerk and his legs to squirm. He cries out, and it fails to sound much like he's entirely in pain so much as in pleasure. He sees stars, the feeling of his neck being sucked on as a follow-up equally delightful, so much so that he fails to notice the moan that slips from his throat in response. The robot's neck slackens and his fingers press into Emet-Selch's side some more, while he pets the back of his head — all automatically, encouraging.
It'll take a moment for Mettaton to catch up with any talk after this as well, and he won't do it as effectively. Be patient, Emet-Selch: it's all he can do, and as if to demonstrate how it takes him, he hums gently in response to the sound of his Bonded's voice.
He gets the picture: his body's a Garlean, and it seems like there are so many kinds of creatures where he comes from. He wonders distantly if even Lalafell are from the same world, based on Tataru's manner of speaking... But he doesn't spare much thought for this, his attention distracted by the mere quality of Emet-Selch's voice, how even that's enough to give him a heady warmth of pleasure.
What he does come away with is that he had an original form, as he wondered. One with entirely white hair. He has to prioritize information after that, try to regain his composure meanwhile.]
White hair... I'd say I see it. But this— this isn't what you used to... appear as...
[And he has a feeling Emet-Selch prefers his original form, not this one. Feeling Emet-Selch shifting closer yet, as they always do to each other, has him shuddering.]
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The sound he made, the way Mettaton cried out was particularly arresting; even the memory of it sets him shivering, a feeling encouraged further by Mettaton's own hold on him. Leaving that bitten place on his neck with a kiss that contains more than a suggestion of teeth, Emet-Selch nuzzles roughly back up to the puca's jaw, scraping sharply along the edge of it with a soft, almost eager noise. Pressing the side of his face firmly against Mettaton's, his eyes are tightly closed.
And from there he tries to think. He swallows, ignoring the lifting of his pulse, the way his breath wanted to quicken with it. His voice, when he finally manages to use it on words, is soft and deep, rumbling against the side of Mettaton's face.]
...I was taller. At least- twice so. [Amaurotines were incredibly tall.] My eyes are the same. And something- something of the same build. Structure.
[With all of the squirming and shifting, as though if they kept trying, they could eliminate all space between them whatsoever, the Ascian is not remotely surprised to feel that he's gotten hard once more. Even the realization has him shudder faintly along Mettaton's body.]
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When Emet-Selch begins speaking, Mettaton leans into him. His ears roll forward with interest, for content but largely for sound. That he would find somebody else's voice so captivating is a welcome surprise, but perhaps not so shocking when he considers that these tones on Emet-Selch's voice are carried mostly in intimate proximity: with his familiarity with them, then, he's grown to find it attractive. Dreadfully so: speaking to him like this would be enough to change the very context of his surroundings, he feels. Mettaton gently rubs his cheek against his Bonded's. He hears his description, but is finding it so difficult not to just kiss him already.]
Your eyes...
[He's not entirely sure where he was going with that. Repeating it? Trying to express that he likes his eyes, maybe. (He was tall, very, white of hair, yellow eyes, humanoid in build... In a sensible part of Mettaton's mind, he wants to know why he lost this original form. He thinks he might already be able to piece that answer together, but he's a bit dazed.)
Arcing into Emet-Selch eagerly, Mettaton turns his head to kiss him, his manner suggesting his long-standing want. More shifting of his body leads to discovering his erect cock, this time with no need for him to remove any clothes to access him. His body jolts at the sensation, and he moans into the kiss.]
Ah— Hades...
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Finally, finally the kiss arrives, Emet-Selch feeling the force of Mettaton's want and responding in kind. Nor does he hesitate to slip his tongue past the other man's lips, to taste and take what he can for the moment, already feeling out of breath and knowing he would soon need to break it. How inconvenient, his body was at times....
Hearing his name uttered in that way provokes an answering moan, soft but sharp, and poorly smothered by the kiss. Brushing his lips repeatedly over Mettaton's, he feels a peculiar sort of neediness. He was aroused yes, the stiffness of the cock pressing to Mettaton's body attested to that, but there were other needs alongside it. To claim and possess, as much as to be claimed, held, reassured--
He couldn't stand how emotional he was sometimes. It was painful. But it was either this or indifference, all or nothing. How had it flipped over? Was this the result of the Bond? How meaningless this was, but yet....
Tangling a leg with Mettaton's, he shivers at the extra bit of friction against his erection, taking a breath and kissing him harder once more.]
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Emet-Selch's gentleness touches Mettaton, then. His ears are blazing hot, functioning well with the energy-expending needs of his body, and he hums, leaning into him with a smile. He likes this. There was hardly a doubt that he would, but he likes this vulnerability, soft and deliberate, but fervent and wanting, and he loves it on Emet-Selch. Even feeling it for himself is a rush, not having any experiences with its emotional opposites. For him, it's pure, pleasurable feeling, no pain.
The more frantic his Bondmate grows, the softer it makes Mettaton in turn. He holds tight, leaning his upper body into the Ascian, and kisses him back just as much and as hard as he kisses him. They're making a mess of it, Mettaton doing anything in his power to steal away Emet-Selch's chances at breathing beyond what's necessary. He even slides against his erection, hoping to make him pant.
With a soft moan into Emet-Selch's lips, Mettaton leans forward farther yet, placing his hand against his hip to guide him onto his back. Of the things he fantasized about earlier, it had been difficult to choose between his ardent attentions on his arousal or the desire to take more of his body, and this is an opportunity for the latter. It works well that his leg's already tangled with his, giving him leverage onto the other man... But he still has to see if he can tolerate his weight. All he can do is surrender some of the other man's breathing rights back, and the robot sighs.
Mettaton ends their deep kissing and glances at him for only a moment, his gaze fiery intense.]
Not too heavy, am I...?
[He's heavier than he looks, made of metal and flesh and parts enough for three forms. With that, he presses his lips to Emet-Selch's throat. He wants to claim him, all right, and if there's no protest, he'll kiss down his throat and end it by capturing him between his lips, sucking hard.]
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But in contrast to the touch to said ears, Emet-Selch returns Mettaton's kisses with more fervor than grace, snapping up what breath he can take between them, resenting even that much of a pause. The graze against his cock has him shudder again, panting, and even though he desperately needs the air, he wastes it on a noise of protest when Mettaton pulls back from the kiss.
But there's no reluctance to being encouraged onto his back, arms adjusting to wrap around Mettaton in turn. It was a heavier body than he was used to, and perhaps more than Emet-Selch was expecting, but it was within acceptable limits. The added weight felt only like a boon, the pressure of his body holding the Ascian in place, pushing him into the mattress a little- a comforting sensation. Perhaps it would occasionally make it that much harder to breathe, but it wasn't as though he was doing a very good job of breathing regularly anyway.]
Not--
[See, one word and already out of air. With effort, he gives it another go.]
...not at all.
[Like Mettaton, being at all contained like this wasn't something he'd want in his everyday life- but in this place, and more particularly with this person- it was hard for him to desire anything else. And in the brief meeting of gazes- another breath stolen by the look to Mettaton's eye- his own expression is similarly intense, wanting. Demanding, expectant, lonely.
This time it's the Ascian who bares his throat to him; swallowing hard against the sensation, a low groan vibrating through his neck as his eyes squeeze shut again.]
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He can tell that he's heavier than he expected. He laughs once, something more like a breath than an actual laugh, and speaks in close quarters, low and smooth — but there's an edge in his normally regulated tone, an impatience.]
Good. Because looking like this... I can't begin to... describe to you, what seeing you does to me.
[It would make him breathless in turn, if that were possible. No, instead, Mettaton thinks of it in terms of how hard Emet-Selch would make him, something to rival the Ascian. If that isn't a thought to make Mettaton shudder. Instead, he's restless and wanting- he goes for his neck.
Mettaton doesn't have a frame of reference for putting it into practice, but he's seen it plenty enough, where someone steals a love interest aside, slides kisses along their neck, only to mark them after a particularly long one. He hadn't figured out how that worked until he felt Emet-Selch doing something similar to his synthetic body. And he knows that sucking upon his skin is the right choice when he feels the other man groan beneath his lips, enough to make Mettaton dizzy with greed. Upon successful replication, he tenses, stares at the mark he's made upon Emet-Selch's skin, and leans forward to press his tongue into it with a gratified hum.
If he really wanted to make sure everyone knew he was his... Hungrily, Mettaton takes more of his neck between teeth, closer to his shoulder this time, and sucks until it's purple. Like this, Mettaton adjusts the placement of his lower body until he feels Emet-Selch's cock slide against his inner thigh — a disastrous move on his part. The very moment he has his length between his thighs, he's clearly craved enough by the idol to have him collapsing into Emet-Selch's neck with a shuddering moan.]
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The brush of a tongue against newly claimed skin sets off a smaller shiver. And when Mettaton's lips close over him again, feeling that tighter suction near his neck marring his skin, the Ascian can only gasp, feeling an immediate rush of warmth. These would be much better marks, even in their impermanence, much better than unwanted scars. Though he couldn't see them for himself, Emet-Selch can well imagine the shades his skin must have turned, even the thought having him moan, short and intense, between breaths. Would he be aroused at the sight of them later, he also wondered....
Pressed down as he is, his hips can do no more than twitch upwards against Mettaton's thighs, taking what small friction he could from it, even if it were against metal rather than skin. His cock seemed entirely undaunted by its less-than-organic surroundings. And not being able to do more than writhe and shudder was nearly exhilarating to the Ascian in how unusual it felt; what should've been alarm converted wholly into a desire for more of it. As though being so wonderfully and slowly crushed was an outcome to wish for.
To feel and especially hear Mettaton's own responses, to know he was not unaffected- has his breath hitch, his hands interrupting their exploration of his Bonded's sides to clutch at him, in reassurance or encouragement, he's not certain. Likely both. Clearly reveling in being so wanted, and wanting Mettaton ever more in return.]
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