[The Ascian's neck felt both damp and tender from all the attention it was receiving, and he looked forward to witnessing the results of that labor afterward, and in the days to come. Some physical memory of this experience, to know that it wasn't only an intensely bizarre erotic dream. This had happened. This was still happening, in fact.
The weight holding him in place, the stiffness of the erection between his legs, the softness of lips against his own. The sound of his name.
His eyes open, but struggle to focus on Mettaton, the Ascian's voice lost again to a choked-sounding moan, as the other man moves against his cock. But he needed to reply.]
I know...
[It's whispered almost harshly between kisses, between breaths.
This was... immensely frustrating, and not something any spell of his could really rectify. He wanted all of it; to bury himself so deeply within his body, to be taken by Mettaton in turn. To feel connected with him, as fully and completely as possible--
How comparatively dissatisfying, to merely be rubbed up against his thighs; Emet-Selch can only imagine what it must be like for Mettaton to not even have that much, but to still clearly be capable of this much desire for it. He presses into the kiss, lapping back at his tongue, the contact between mouths damp, breathless on his part.
Mettaton had three forms, yet none of them were anatomically complete; a terrible oversight on the part of his builder. It reminded Emet-Selch of their time in the kissing booth, only worse; to go this much further, and yet remain limited after all.
He still needed to reply, despite the kiss, despite everything.]
If you only could... I-- [Distracted in turn by the nearness of Mettaton's lips, pressing up into another kiss. A restless hand moves to grip the back of the puca's head, fingers tense along his scalp, his other arm tight around his lower back.] Gods, I'd want you to....
[He can't even finish that thought before delving into Mettaton's mouth again, yet feeling no less frustrated for the experience.]
[Mettaton takes that kiss like a lifeline, breath for something which doesn't breathe, Emet-Selch's energy contagious and mingling with his own insatiable appetite. Hearing his voice alone, deep and wanting, causes Mettaton to shiver.
His raw desires shared with Emet-Selch, the ones he can't possibly fulfill, Mettaton reminds himself that there's much else he could do to please and be pleased in turn. That Emet-Selch should want him with such fervor, reciprocating his need for more, it's dizzying. Whether that's having him inside of him or vice versa, it's all enough to make Mettaton forget how to kiss for a moment. As soon as he regains his wit, the Monster only deepens that kiss eagerly.
Mettaton wanted to drown in this experience, and he comes about as close as limitations allow, he supposes. Demonstrated his desperation for it, anyway. Isn't that why he'd hoped for something that could bypass the limitations of his body? It's clear that he'd benefit greatly from such adjustments, if only it were possible. He'd do it simply to gratify himself, to feel the Ascian sit atop his length and sink into him, to take him for himself... and more.
A lot of desire and imagining happening right here, as he runs through appealing mental images: Emet-Selch's lips closed around his arousal, pushed in deep enough to edge dangerously with the back of his throat. Another approach to seeing the Ascian rendered breathless, and he craves that in this moment, humming against Emet-Selch's lips. The Puca's made to withdraw his hand for a moment just to wipe away at errant drool at the corner of his lip, mid-kiss. He's a very covetous-sort; he lets his weight sink into his Bondmate. Any time he hears the other man's voice it's an invitation to give himself; it's becoming second nature to lean in when he hears him, to grow amorous and wanting just at the mere sound of it. A similar thought strikes him: how will that affect him in other situations?
The only fortune is the uptick in nerve sensitivity his inner thighs have. He presses his thighs gently into each other around Emet-Selch's cock, stuttering yet another gasp and finding it warm, thick, and firm against his touch. At the very least it provides him with a nice surprise, and he hums at what he feels, imagining the feeling of his cock deep in his throat again.
Mettaton kisses Emet-Selch religiously, making sure that he knows he's his. Where one kiss is deep and involves his tongue, another is a series of shorter ones; here and there, he kisses along his jaw, or finds fascination with the one earring he wears with his teeth.]
[Whenever Mettaton pressed down on him, Emet-Selch can't help but shudder in response, body trying and failing to writhe up against him, the position leaving him little opportunity but to accept however the robot chose to move. A comforting (if not always comfortable) thing. Did this mean he trusted the puca? To some degree, he supposed; a belated thing to realize.
And though it did little to ease his frustrations, the Ascian also found himself considering what it would be like, were Mettaton's body complete- the textures, the tastes. His mouth was unusual enough of a flavor- though it was quickly nearing familiarity- but what of his come? Would his body be somehow fully organic, or continue its mix of metal, artificial skin, unnatural fur and tissue? Would there be unexpected angles or curves, would his cock harden due to metal, blood, or something unidentifiable?
What a strange thing to find himself aching for. To hold the other man's erection in his mouth, as deeply as he could. To feel Mettaton over him like this, taking the full length of him within his body. To possess him completely in turn.... What sounds would he make then, how would he move? If everything was so intense now--
Why was literally everything the Ascian wanted- even something like this, indulging in acts completely unrelated to his eternal task- unattainable? It was probably the passion of the moment, the encouragement of the Bond to desiring this end, but- he didn't think that made it any less real.
The gentle squeeze of thighs around his cock brings some small relief, pulling a low, ragged moan from his throat, hips jerking to try and rub himself against the puca. Even if it wasn't the same as being buried inside him, it was still good, still sets him aching and shivering for more of it. He pants between kisses, returning them haphazardly, but with no less devotion, hand stroking intermittently at the puca's hair, his ears. Swiping his tongue against Mettaton's, nipping at his lip, his chin and jaw; the kisses were something of a mess, but Emet-Selch was beyond caring about that. He watches Mettaton occasionally, unfocused and too-close with his good eye, but mostly keeps them closed, listening to the sounds they both were making, the noises that came with the shifting of bodies against one another. Though he doesn't feel or hear breath against his ear when Mettaton toys with his earring, the sound of him there is loud anyway, a sensation that has him humming breathlessly in response.]
[Mettaton's own gaze appears unfocused at times, clouded over with his thirst for more that worsens with each passing minute, but he has the advantageous position where he can get a good view of the Ascian beneath him — an opportunity he could hardly pass up. He's positive he'll see him in such states in the future, undone and breathless and his, but this is right now, and he wants to savor it. So for all it's unfocused, Mettaton's stare is also appraising and and intense, taking in the result of their collective passion with an easy smile. He uses his weight to his advantage, pressing into his Bonded with obvious deliberation. His intention, his stake of claim on Emet-Selch, is clear.
He can't ignore the Ascian's response to his legs; in response to his moan, Mettaton takes to his neck again, hungrily pressing his lips to his throat so that he might feel even the sounds of his moans. He sucks, kisses, continuing to mark Emet-Selch up significantly. ...Being so obvious about his possession of his Bonded wasn't his intention, but now that it's panned out, his desire for closeness clearly won over any reason that might've told him to hold back. Now it's for all to see, and what a rush that is.
He has to give it to himself, really. It's impressive to behold, and he smirks at it through his broken composure.
Close to his ear, Mettaton plants a firm kiss against his neck, humming at the sensation of Emet-Selch taking advantage of his thighs. It's feels good, and for all things that feel so sensual, it impacts him harder and harder the longer they go on. It flavors his kissing, giving him the same urgency that Emet-Selch shows him: without fail, each time Emet-Selch bites at his lip, Mettaton overtakes him with a moan of his own and catches him in a kiss deeper than before, pressing into him and adding pressure to the squeeze of his thighs around his cock, bit by bit.
When Mettaton presses down against Emet-Selch's arousal with his thighs for variation in pressure, oddly enough, there's a feeling of genuine muscle beneath the synthetic skin that grows more obvious with increasing pressure: he presses with more firmness and as he's affected by the sensation, he twitches and tenses. His legs are firm and toned thanks to his transformation into a Puca, but muscle is far more forgiving than metal. It's the only place on his body that has developed such an attribute, save perhaps the ability for his ears to move organically.
He sighs; presses his fingers into Emet-Selch's skin; deliberately exerts his weight into his body; nips at his ear again. His voice is at a slow, low rhythm, intimate and broken where he can't help but hum in satisfaction.]
You are... a sight to behold, beautiful. It... It might be enough to drive me... crazy. Just looking at you, like this.
[How undignified it probably was, to let himself be so marked, as though his skin or himself was something that even could be claimed. It was incredibly presumptuous on Mettaton's part, but the Ascian could only find himself a bit charmed by it (and intensely aroused). But, one of the benefits of unhealthy self-assurance and a complete lack of shame was not being remotely bothered at the thought of anyone catching a glimpse of these... designations of possession. It was for them to enjoy; other people might as well not exist. If anything, Emet-Selch was likely to feel some small regret as they faded, in the days to come, as though the memory could slip away with it.
Of significantly more vulnerability was each display of response- every unrestrained moan, each twinge and shudder, the way the Ascian's body fought to arch up underneath him. To be so immediate, responding without thought, even wanting Mettaton to know, to feel every effect he was exerting on him. It was too raw of a thing to maintain for very long, too exposed- but oh, how it appealed....
...Was that muscle? Emet-Selch is almost certain he can feel a sensation of tensing around his cock, not only a flat increasing pressure. It was unexpected, but he wasn't about to question it, soft cries escaping with his breath as he feels his length progressively squeezed. His body shifts, twitches, struggles up underneath Mettaton, to stroke himself that bit more against his thighs, to feel more of that near-living tension, encouraged ever deeper by every sign of the other man's own pleasure.
The sound of Mettaton's voice, so low and close to his ear, feels as though it's being spoken directly into his head. It helped- bit by bit- to block out all else. To focus on this moment as if it were all that needed to exist. The sound is like a current, running through him, sets his breath shuddering in response, and he swallows hard. How could voice alone have such a profound effect on him?
It takes considerable effort to answer, his tone a low rumble, a moan lurking somewhere just behind it. The satisfaction of the pressure Mettaton was using, holding him down, made it that much more difficult.]
...Is that- so...? I can only imagine... what it must look like. What you've done to me....
[The Ascian interrupts himself, as even that much composure falters, a sharper pang of need running through him, setting him shivering anew.]
--ah, Mettaton....
[It was hard not to plead, feeling ever more desperate for more of him.]
[Hearing his own name on Emet-Selch's voice, especially with his break in composure, clearly affects Mettaton, who reflexively squirms with few other outlets for his delight, a soft whine in his throat. He presses, rubs his thighs together, startles himself with the sensation and twitches, before readjusting again. Everybody says his name, but it never stops him from the thrill of hearing it, especially on Emet-Selch's desperation.
His head lolls, dizzied, and he presses his forehead to Emet-Selch's temple to pull himself together.]
Ah—
[He thought he'd reached the ceiling for how overwhelmed he could be, and it disappointed him that his body would impose so many restrictions on his pleasure. He's thrilled that it could surpass that yet, and it's good enough to distract him from his earlier longing for a more conventional body. Now, he can't bring himself to focus on any one source of undeniable pleasure. It's his cock between his legs and the way that Emet-Selch tries to shift his hips to drag along his body; the sound of his Bonded's voice, low and familiar and betraying his dissolving composure; the way he looks because he really can't get enough of the Ascian; and above much else, the sound of him rapt with pleasure, moans and stutters and gasps.
The whole experience, then, is what he slips into, and Mettaton moans, loud and ended by the sound of him pressing his teeth together. As his entire body shudders, he unconsciously presses his thighs together as his muscle tenses significantly. Just as Mettaton feels he could find himself missing the feeling of having his throat full of Emet-Selch, he distinctly notes how badly he'll feel he's missing something more from between his legs, were he to pull away.
He doesn't want that; the idol gives Emet-Selch a number of deliberate squeezes between his thighs and while he has control over the pressure, he can't stop from tensing or trembling. He wants to feel Emet-Selch always; the robot presses a feverish kiss to Emet-Selch's jaw and lingers there, swallowing down another noise.
Opening his eye, seeing his Bonded's face, pulling back enough to appreciate him, and Mettaton can't help raising a hand to run his fingers through the shock of white hair. It reminds him of what he told of himself earlier, who he is beyond the body he sees, even while he appreciates its form. Drinking in his neck, his expression, and his unfocused gaze, Mettaton returns to his neck, his voice deep and playful.]
What you look like... Is only ahh— a reflection of wh-what you've done to me, Hades...
[So he deserves it. Eye for an eye. With another good squeeze of his cock between his thighs and the deliberate roll of his hips, Mettaton moves to press his lips to Emet-Selchs in one of their many impassioned kisses.]
[Hearing that moan on Mettaton's part has the Ascian silent for a few seconds, a bit enraptured by it, the feeling slowly settling into a deeper sort of longing. To hear more of him like that in future, to find what else he could provoke from the idol, to see that composure fail him. To bury himself in another's responses, for what brief refuge it brought him.
Each rub of his cock between the other man's thighs has Emet-Selch gasping, but never getting even remotely enough air. Even when his mouth wasn't being taken by Mettaton's, it felt as though he were slowly suffocating. From the weight of the other's body, from how every act or even word has him lose what little breath he manages to collect in some desperate noise.
The deliberate squeezing was good, but the uncontrolled twinges and shivers of muscle were better, the clear signs of Mettaton's own reactions to him- as though they weren't already obvious. The Ascian's pulse was so fast that it hurt, muscles taut and trembling from the strength of it, completely overwhelmed, as though battered by pure experience. Was their Bond bleeding together again...? Or had it ever stopped?
The touch to his hair has Emet-Selch struggling to focus on the look to the man over him, his expressions, just the sight of Mettaton, with very mixed success. His answer is softly uttered, nearly distraught, as his eyes close again.]
How could you, I... please, Mettaton, I don't--
[What he's asking for, he doesn't know.
When his climax finally comes, it almost startles him- breath ever more frantic until it stills entirely for a stretch of seconds, the sound he makes strangled and sharp and prolonged, and not fully swallowed up by their kiss. It's not as pained a sound as the first time, but that darker, near-stricken emotion still lurks in the shadows of it. Uncontrolled and no less needy- if only for company rather than relief- Emet-Selch clings to Mettaton's body even as the moment passes.]
[These last few moments are static, the feeling of his Bonded stronger than ever. Immediately he feels himself gripping onto him with his fingers wherever he can, desperate to... Keep him close. His own feelings shine through just as well, thoroughly overwhelmed with pleasure and affection and compassion. And, both: want, possession, and vulnerability. As he climaxes, Mettaton can only slacken somewhat, his lips touching Emet-Selch's as he exhales a soft moan, feeling sufficiently drowned by it all. Finally. His voice comes out as surprised, affected.]
Hades...!
[Needless to say, they're both inundated by each other's desire, on top of their own. That's enough to make Mettaton toss his head, squeezing his eye shut in raw pleasure and unchecked desire.
Just as Emet-Selch's response isn't so pained this time, Mettaton's not as taken aback by it, though he... feels it, intensely, more than before. Emet-Selch's need, a blur between carnal and deep desire for something he's been without. He lifts his head again from Emet-Selch's neck. It makes Mettaton hold tight still as he winds down, brings his golden eye to scan the Ascian's expression, and makes him feel so very soft. He rarely feels this way so strongly, reserved only for those so close to him that he'd die for them, so why...?
No, it's obvious, isn't it? Mettaton cares about him. Deeply. And with each moment longer they spend together, it only increases, despite their stark contrast. The idol doesn't move from atop him, but his thumb moves to trace Emet-Selch's jaw before moving to brush his fingertips against his hairline, biased toward the right.]
Hades... [His voice is soft, reemembering the quality of his Bonded's tone and what he'd said to him beforehand. He leans in to brush his lips against Emet-Selch's. He's not about to suffocate him this time — he's probably trying to breathe now.]
The feelings all remain, tangled and confused. The mingled want and feeling of possession and being possessed, the perpetual longing and grief, the security and even affection. The closeness that was never truly enough, but he'd claim what fragile measure of it that he could.
The Ascian's grip weakens a little as the tension in his body begins to fade, but he's not about to let go. Not even remotely. Emet-Selch wasn't at all sure if he'd ever be able to piece together who's desire was who's, which emotion was origin or reflected, and he's even less sure that it mattered. But to know that it was so enmeshed, that there was a mutual vulnerability and wanting... it was both concerning and comforting in one.
It hurt to feel so exposed, and he almost resented it. As though Mettaton would do this to him deliberately, reduce him to this mess of nerves and wanting. ...He probably cared for the idol in some small way. What a terrible realization. The Ascian was determined to not let him know; he'd be irreparably smug about it, he imagines.
But this time he stays quiet as he recovers, feeling hazy and raw and drained on several levels. Grateful for the touch of lips, as though they were something to anchor himself to, Emet-Selch returns the kiss with something approaching fondness. It's not really approaching coordinated, though, between the breathing he's still trying to catch up to, and being generally exhausted.
The sound of his name is another small anchor, latching onto both it and Mettaton with a degree of trembling. Shifting an arm slowly, his hand finds its way to the side of Mettaton's face, the touch almost clumsy in its gentleness.]
Vulnerability aches. Mettaton rides his own pleasure down — he has no point of climax, just a moment where he's beyond his senses, apparently, and everything from there would serve only to pull him deeper. It's the warmth of an open wound that he feels, distantly, but it is comforting. His weight will have to do in place of holding him. He knows he should pull off of him, but something keeps him there, pressed against Emet-Selch and reluctant to move.
It brings a smile to his lips at Emet-Selch's lack of control, fascinated by how wrecked he is, what such passion would do to the other man, but he makes no comment on it. Mettaton leans into his touch, raising a hand to press it gently atop Emet-Selch's like a reminder of how to be firm. Or maybe, just to show how much he appreciates the gesture, as difficult as it seems to have been for him to do it. Or maybe yet, just to be touched.
He kisses Emet-Selch again, tender and loving. In moments like these, Mettaton is transparent. How terrible, that he'd feel so strongly about Emet-Selch. But it's also delightful. Is it the lingering effects of their mingling Bond, or does he sincerely feel such ache? Or maybe this is just how it feels after having sex, or how a Bond should make one feel.
And yet, with that ache, Mettaton also feels light. Warm. Like nothing else. What a mess he's found himself in.
He gives Emet-Selch more moments yet, simply holding him and occasionally peppering his jaw, his cheek, or his neck with a kiss. Load up on that affection, because that's 100% what drives these amorous gestures.]
[If Mettaton felt light and warm, the Ascian felt heavy and warm. Strong emotion dragged him down as it ever did, but at least this time there was the warmth of companionship to accompany his sadness. Intense, yet calm and soft and slow. Though still gentle, his fingers stroke with a margin more firmness across Mettaton's face, encouraged by the cover of the puca's own hand. It brought another small sense of being held, enclosed.
What an absolute mess. All of the affection is a little overwhelming for Emet-Selch in itself, if not in the desperately aroused sense, but emotionally. His expression shows a trace of that- not quite so negative as unease, but a sense of being unsure. What was he meant to do with all of this...?
For the moment, what he does is return those gestures as best as he could, quietly dwelling on those he could not, as though recording every last detail, no matter how small. At the question, he doesn't answer immediately, instead finding Mettaton's lips for another kiss, light but lingering, and less interrupted by his need for air. It's only with reluctance that he breaks it enough to speak, though without actually moving far from the other man's lips.]
...not too bad. [Overwhelmed, aching, reassured.] And- yourself...?
[He didn't want Mettaton to move. Even if it ultimately wasn't very comfortable, and contained a slow sense of being crushed. Which was... how he felt about all of this, really. Despite the discomfort, he didn't want to pull back from it.]
[He doesn't sound like he needs him to get off. In fact, his reply makes him smile some. He'd asked the same when he first got here, and Emet-Selch radiated such an intensely exhausted and negative aura, claiming he was just tired, alive, the usual. He wonders what had happened, to land him in such a state? He managed to feel even worse off than that. For him to say "not too bad" now is a marked improvement. At least for now. If he's given him something of a reprieve, Mettaton's pleased.
The Puca returns his kiss with a hum of satisfaction. He won't comment on it. He runs his fingers across Emet-Selch's as he removes his hand to brush it through his Bonded's bangs, letting his hand remain there this time.]
I'm... [A word can't summarize it. Captivated, satisfied, and similarly overwhelmed. He sighs.] Wonderful. From repairs to ecstasy... My. You really know how to treat me.
[It's better than he imagined, even given his anatomy, and Mettaton will convey as much with his naturally flirtatious manner. Emet-Selch is to blame for his appetite, he decides. Would anybody else have compared to this, with its depth and its intensity? He doubts it. Mettaton doesn't think he could find that anywhere.
Playfully, he eases into Emet-Selch again, even moving to press his face against one of his favorite spots on Emet-Selch's neck — that spot just below his ear, nestled against his shoulder.]
And you haven't been thoroughly crushed by my hot and heavy metal figure yet...? I'm impressed.
[Emet-Selch would have to agree that Mettaton's presence had brought with it a form of respite, against all odds and good sense. The Ascian was still tired, but differently so (or at least, in a more pleasant way in addition to his usual way). Though alarming in its intensity, everything had served as a disruption, a scattering of thoughts, and considering the usual nature of his thoughts, that probably counted as an undisputed good.]
I could make a similar claim... as I believe I'll carry the marks of your ardor for some time. [Not that the Ascian could see his own neck, but the treatment of it had felt nicely extensive.] Well... I suppose I'll certainly need to keep you alive now.
[Not that he wouldn't have before, but he felt a particular investment in it by this point. His first project would have to be creating some Amaurotine-worthy glass to replace that slowly-shattering casing. Considering his specialties and foreknowledge, Emet-Selch didn't think it would take terribly long, but he did want to have the chance to test his creation properly before any installation. Then he could delve into the intricacies of finding a means to permit a machine body a physical climax. Survival over pleasure.
One of the more absurd projects he'd ever devoted his attention to, but it would keep him occupied.
Though it was reassuring to hear that Mettaton had enjoyed himself already nonetheless. Not that Emet-Selch hadn't thought as much, but... he hoped he'd been able to feel some version of satisfaction in all of this. And was becoming a trace concerned for what would happen if he did somehow attain for him more functional anatomy. If they were this taken by one another now....]
And I'm only partially crushed, I assure you.
[He even manages a bit of lightness, finally, and when Mettaton's face moves to his neck, the Ascian wraps both of his arms back around him, loosely, but certainly not trying to push him off anywhere. Tilting his head a little against his, he encourages the puca to remain close.]
[Well, that settles that, doesn't it? He's not moving off of him. He's trapped, under non-restrictive arms. How cute of him, to lean against his head like this... It doesn't escape Mettaton's notice, and he smiles against his skin, nuzzling closer.]
So by your actions, you must wish for me to remain... until we find you breathless in a completely different manner from earlier. Who am I to judge?
[This is comfortable, besides. Of course the machine would find a soft body comfortable, and of course he'd find one so when he admires their form. His ears fold back, close to his head in a demonstration of comfortable relaxation. Though he has his face against his neck, his arm still frames Emet-Selch's face so that his fingers can pet through his hair, which he does so idly, slowly, not with any particular intention.
Though he doesn't remark upon it, he's pleased to know how easily Emet-Selch takes the news of his lovebitten appearance. Somehow, it hardly surprises Mettaton. He clearly cares something of appearance, but perhaps not this... Or maybe he's just that confident. Either or is good. He knows that if it were him, he'd be proud.
He kisses his neck, far more chaste than anything else he's done this entire night. More chaste than what he's about to blurt out, anyway.]
Oh, yes. I've discovered a mood I have, where I'm not speaking, yet conscious.
I'd say 'tis fine to remain until I become mostly crushed.
[A good thing Garleans were relatively sturdy, the Ascian thought, for all that his body was a relatively average specimen of the type. At least it gave him the chance of withstanding Mettaton for a time (which is the best anyone can ever hope for, really).
But being petted was good, restful, a little soothing. It was still more kindness than Emet-Selch knew what to do with, but he'd just have to accept this fate that he'd been dealt. He makes a soft, contented-sounding hum in the back of his throat, barely audible, nestling his head that tiny bit more against Mettaton.
Confidence was the primary reason the Ascian was undaunted at being so demonstrably claimed, perhaps even appreciating it. While he wasn't the type of person to try and show off those marks, neither would he do anything to deliberately hide them. What was there to be shy about? His host was just a host, but even if it had been a truer self, Emet-Selch didn't think he would have minded any more.
The puca's last comment has his hum gain a note of questioning. While he could make a reasonable guess (considering that their recent activities had included a lot of consciousness and not a lot of conversation), he still gives in and asks.]
I'm so glad you asked, Hades-darling. Against my better judgement, finding myself enticed toward taking the sheer length of another man into my throat, effectively silencing myself... or, fellatious.
[... ... He should not deprive the world of his voice, and yet the draw he experiences toward such activities... Mettaton is bad. He's smirking against Emet-Selch's neck, the surface of his body having grown plenty warm over the span of their time together under the covers.
A twirl of his finger to affectionately curl a lock of his hair about his finger, he continues to massage at his scalp, small of an effort as it is. He's stopped his regular amount of movements, managing to have even a tiredness about him, against all odds. The power of relying on sleep to recharge, and the energy expended over the past hour, make for actual, real sleepiness.
But being atop Emet-Selch lures him into a feeling of security — even Mettaton has found himself terrified in the middle of the nights, much like how Emet-Selch responded to him so reflexively when he showed. Same reasons, too — but it's not so bad, now that he has a Bond to subdue his mood into normal for himself. He trusts him, and yet he would protect him in turn. A possessive nuzzle, another kiss against his neck.]
[The Ascian's first thought is mostly 'does that actually qualify as a mood?' It was more of an... action. Or consequence. He was pretty sure that didn't count.
(His second thought was relief that if Mettaton was going to continue to use that 'darling' suffix with him, that it did sound better attached to his actual name compared to all previous attempts with his title.)
But Emet-Selch just sighs, throwing the ceiling of his room a rather flat look before closing his eyes again. Even so, he can't manage more than the most mild of exasperations, not in his current state, and especially not with that rather restful treatment of his hair and scalp. It was quite easy to be lulled by it, by those small kisses, feeling somewhat taken care of.]
...'tis better than many of your other moods.
[Especially the chatty and teasing ones (which seemed to be the majority). And much better than the other types of silence.]
Well... I won't complain should you find yourself inclined towards self-silencing once again.
[Not right now, though, considering the Ascian's own deepening sense of exhaustion. With the dissatisfaction of the earlier part of the day, the intensity of the last of it, the weight of a lifetime underneath it- he was tired. Neverminding the 'carrying four Bonds' thing.
Still... it wasn't a wholly terrible exhaustion as it normally was, as it would've been if he'd been able to go right to sleep as he'd intended on arriving in his room. The menacing puca had improved things somehow, and that was perhaps the most surprising part of all.
It wouldn't last, and he was still miserable, but that echo of a feeling of not being entirely alone in the world was more than he'd had before.]
[Mettaton only laughs at his remark, nuzzling him further.]
How bold... Can I truly blame you for fancying my company during such... sensual circumstances? No wonder you've found a preference.
[Oh, he knows that's not at all what Emet-Selch's getting at, but he doesn't really believe that he prefers him quiet at all. He likes talking to him, even when it agitates him, Mettaton thinks.
It takes him significantly longer to wind down, still having been in a state where he could've been riled back up, but the longer time goes on the more he relaxes, sleepy and significantly warm. He's decided he'll remain exactly where he is, whether Emet-Selch likes it or not. (Fortunately, part-way through the night he'll end up shifting half of his weight off of the Ascian, sparing him from being sore.)
The matter of his anatomy strikes him again; it's something he doesn't want to walk Aefenglom's streets like, just in case, even if he has to muster something temporary. His voice betrays his mood, slow and intimate.]
The Ascian doesn't quite sigh again at that answer, though he does shake his head, just slightly. The puca had a real talent for taking any comment and making it into whatever he wanted.
And while he wouldn't at all share the same conviction of preferring Mettaton talkative over quiet, conversation with him was always interesting. Even when it annoyed. Even when they disagreed, which they did over... a lot of things, especially important things. And yet here they both were.
But what Emet-Selch could appreciate is that they both seemed to have just assumed that of course Mettaton would be staying the night. No discussion necessary (though the Ascian would be reluctantly relieved to find it somewhat easier to breathe halfway through the night). Reaching up, he quietly strokes at Mettaton's hair for a few seconds, before returning his arm to its place at his back.]
...I will.
[He hadn't forgotten, despite... distractions. Considerable distractions. But the Ascian's certain he could fashion something to an acceptable standard without trouble. To a perfectionist standard, he was less sure of, but it would be nonetheless good.]
[He hasn't even fulfilled the task to thank him, but Mettaton won't leave until he does. He doesn't take no for an answer, for most anything he really wants.
As another expression of 100% affection, he kisses him softly against his neck, eye closed and fingers lazy. Mettaton's never one to hold back on doling out affection and for Emet-Selch it follows that it should be no different. And it isn't, but there's something to it, knowing that he couldn't possibly be this candid with anybody else in Aefenglom, lying like this. He's his usual self, but he's also able to indulge in all facets of his being, not just the showy ones. Maybe that means something.
It doesn't mean anything bad, he decides. He trusts him, and would trust him to be true in all matters, especially the aspects Mettaton fundamentally disagrees with him on. It's a nice feeling. He could find himself here more often.]
[What was all this... affection? It was soothing, that's what it was, Emet-Selch had no choice but to accept that much.
In general terms, Emet-Selch could rest for a long time without actually managing to fall asleep. Being perpetually tired didn't mean perpetually sleepy, and though there was a lot of actual sleep as well, there was an equal amount of hazy, unwanted consciousness. Post-torture, this had only gotten worse, finding it that much harder to relax, as though capture would be waiting if he let his guard down. At least, when he was alone; having someone else present helped.
Not that anyone's presence would do, either, but it felt only expected at this point that Mettaton should be someone that he could find rest with.
Surrounded by warmth, feeling only moderately crushed, lacking both the desire and the ability to move- it doesn't take long at all for the Ascian to drift off into unconsciousness.]
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The weight holding him in place, the stiffness of the erection between his legs, the softness of lips against his own. The sound of his name.
His eyes open, but struggle to focus on Mettaton, the Ascian's voice lost again to a choked-sounding moan, as the other man moves against his cock. But he needed to reply.]
I know...
[It's whispered almost harshly between kisses, between breaths.
This was... immensely frustrating, and not something any spell of his could really rectify. He wanted all of it; to bury himself so deeply within his body, to be taken by Mettaton in turn. To feel connected with him, as fully and completely as possible--
How comparatively dissatisfying, to merely be rubbed up against his thighs; Emet-Selch can only imagine what it must be like for Mettaton to not even have that much, but to still clearly be capable of this much desire for it. He presses into the kiss, lapping back at his tongue, the contact between mouths damp, breathless on his part.
Mettaton had three forms, yet none of them were anatomically complete; a terrible oversight on the part of his builder. It reminded Emet-Selch of their time in the kissing booth, only worse; to go this much further, and yet remain limited after all.
He still needed to reply, despite the kiss, despite everything.]
If you only could... I-- [Distracted in turn by the nearness of Mettaton's lips, pressing up into another kiss. A restless hand moves to grip the back of the puca's head, fingers tense along his scalp, his other arm tight around his lower back.] Gods, I'd want you to....
[He can't even finish that thought before delving into Mettaton's mouth again, yet feeling no less frustrated for the experience.]
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His raw desires shared with Emet-Selch, the ones he can't possibly fulfill, Mettaton reminds himself that there's much else he could do to please and be pleased in turn. That Emet-Selch should want him with such fervor, reciprocating his need for more, it's dizzying. Whether that's having him inside of him or vice versa, it's all enough to make Mettaton forget how to kiss for a moment. As soon as he regains his wit, the Monster only deepens that kiss eagerly.
Mettaton wanted to drown in this experience, and he comes about as close as limitations allow, he supposes. Demonstrated his desperation for it, anyway. Isn't that why he'd hoped for something that could bypass the limitations of his body? It's clear that he'd benefit greatly from such adjustments, if only it were possible. He'd do it simply to gratify himself, to feel the Ascian sit atop his length and sink into him, to take him for himself... and more.
A lot of desire and imagining happening right here, as he runs through appealing mental images: Emet-Selch's lips closed around his arousal, pushed in deep enough to edge dangerously with the back of his throat. Another approach to seeing the Ascian rendered breathless, and he craves that in this moment, humming against Emet-Selch's lips. The Puca's made to withdraw his hand for a moment just to wipe away at errant drool at the corner of his lip, mid-kiss. He's a very covetous-sort; he lets his weight sink into his Bondmate. Any time he hears the other man's voice it's an invitation to give himself; it's becoming second nature to lean in when he hears him, to grow amorous and wanting just at the mere sound of it. A similar thought strikes him: how will that affect him in other situations?
The only fortune is the uptick in nerve sensitivity his inner thighs have. He presses his thighs gently into each other around Emet-Selch's cock, stuttering yet another gasp and finding it warm, thick, and firm against his touch. At the very least it provides him with a nice surprise, and he hums at what he feels, imagining the feeling of his cock deep in his throat again.
Mettaton kisses Emet-Selch religiously, making sure that he knows he's his. Where one kiss is deep and involves his tongue, another is a series of shorter ones; here and there, he kisses along his jaw, or finds fascination with the one earring he wears with his teeth.]
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And though it did little to ease his frustrations, the Ascian also found himself considering what it would be like, were Mettaton's body complete- the textures, the tastes. His mouth was unusual enough of a flavor- though it was quickly nearing familiarity- but what of his come? Would his body be somehow fully organic, or continue its mix of metal, artificial skin, unnatural fur and tissue? Would there be unexpected angles or curves, would his cock harden due to metal, blood, or something unidentifiable?
What a strange thing to find himself aching for. To hold the other man's erection in his mouth, as deeply as he could. To feel Mettaton over him like this, taking the full length of him within his body. To possess him completely in turn.... What sounds would he make then, how would he move? If everything was so intense now--
Why was literally everything the Ascian wanted- even something like this, indulging in acts completely unrelated to his eternal task- unattainable? It was probably the passion of the moment, the encouragement of the Bond to desiring this end, but- he didn't think that made it any less real.
The gentle squeeze of thighs around his cock brings some small relief, pulling a low, ragged moan from his throat, hips jerking to try and rub himself against the puca. Even if it wasn't the same as being buried inside him, it was still good, still sets him aching and shivering for more of it. He pants between kisses, returning them haphazardly, but with no less devotion, hand stroking intermittently at the puca's hair, his ears. Swiping his tongue against Mettaton's, nipping at his lip, his chin and jaw; the kisses were something of a mess, but Emet-Selch was beyond caring about that. He watches Mettaton occasionally, unfocused and too-close with his good eye, but mostly keeps them closed, listening to the sounds they both were making, the noises that came with the shifting of bodies against one another. Though he doesn't feel or hear breath against his ear when Mettaton toys with his earring, the sound of him there is loud anyway, a sensation that has him humming breathlessly in response.]
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He can't ignore the Ascian's response to his legs; in response to his moan, Mettaton takes to his neck again, hungrily pressing his lips to his throat so that he might feel even the sounds of his moans. He sucks, kisses, continuing to mark Emet-Selch up significantly. ...Being so obvious about his possession of his Bonded wasn't his intention, but now that it's panned out, his desire for closeness clearly won over any reason that might've told him to hold back. Now it's for all to see, and what a rush that is.
He has to give it to himself, really. It's impressive to behold, and he smirks at it through his broken composure.
Close to his ear, Mettaton plants a firm kiss against his neck, humming at the sensation of Emet-Selch taking advantage of his thighs. It's feels good, and for all things that feel so sensual, it impacts him harder and harder the longer they go on. It flavors his kissing, giving him the same urgency that Emet-Selch shows him: without fail, each time Emet-Selch bites at his lip, Mettaton overtakes him with a moan of his own and catches him in a kiss deeper than before, pressing into him and adding pressure to the squeeze of his thighs around his cock, bit by bit.
When Mettaton presses down against Emet-Selch's arousal with his thighs for variation in pressure, oddly enough, there's a feeling of genuine muscle beneath the synthetic skin that grows more obvious with increasing pressure: he presses with more firmness and as he's affected by the sensation, he twitches and tenses. His legs are firm and toned thanks to his transformation into a Puca, but muscle is far more forgiving than metal. It's the only place on his body that has developed such an attribute, save perhaps the ability for his ears to move organically.
He sighs; presses his fingers into Emet-Selch's skin; deliberately exerts his weight into his body; nips at his ear again. His voice is at a slow, low rhythm, intimate and broken where he can't help but hum in satisfaction.]
You are... a sight to behold, beautiful. It... It might be enough to drive me... crazy. Just looking at you, like this.
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Of significantly more vulnerability was each display of response- every unrestrained moan, each twinge and shudder, the way the Ascian's body fought to arch up underneath him. To be so immediate, responding without thought, even wanting Mettaton to know, to feel every effect he was exerting on him. It was too raw of a thing to maintain for very long, too exposed- but oh, how it appealed....
...Was that muscle? Emet-Selch is almost certain he can feel a sensation of tensing around his cock, not only a flat increasing pressure. It was unexpected, but he wasn't about to question it, soft cries escaping with his breath as he feels his length progressively squeezed. His body shifts, twitches, struggles up underneath Mettaton, to stroke himself that bit more against his thighs, to feel more of that near-living tension, encouraged ever deeper by every sign of the other man's own pleasure.
The sound of Mettaton's voice, so low and close to his ear, feels as though it's being spoken directly into his head. It helped- bit by bit- to block out all else. To focus on this moment as if it were all that needed to exist. The sound is like a current, running through him, sets his breath shuddering in response, and he swallows hard. How could voice alone have such a profound effect on him?
It takes considerable effort to answer, his tone a low rumble, a moan lurking somewhere just behind it. The satisfaction of the pressure Mettaton was using, holding him down, made it that much more difficult.]
...Is that- so...? I can only imagine... what it must look like. What you've done to me....
[The Ascian interrupts himself, as even that much composure falters, a sharper pang of need running through him, setting him shivering anew.]
--ah, Mettaton....
[It was hard not to plead, feeling ever more desperate for more of him.]
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His head lolls, dizzied, and he presses his forehead to Emet-Selch's temple to pull himself together.]
Ah—
[He thought he'd reached the ceiling for how overwhelmed he could be, and it disappointed him that his body would impose so many restrictions on his pleasure. He's thrilled that it could surpass that yet, and it's good enough to distract him from his earlier longing for a more conventional body. Now, he can't bring himself to focus on any one source of undeniable pleasure. It's his cock between his legs and the way that Emet-Selch tries to shift his hips to drag along his body; the sound of his Bonded's voice, low and familiar and betraying his dissolving composure; the way he looks because he really can't get enough of the Ascian; and above much else, the sound of him rapt with pleasure, moans and stutters and gasps.
The whole experience, then, is what he slips into, and Mettaton moans, loud and ended by the sound of him pressing his teeth together. As his entire body shudders, he unconsciously presses his thighs together as his muscle tenses significantly. Just as Mettaton feels he could find himself missing the feeling of having his throat full of Emet-Selch, he distinctly notes how badly he'll feel he's missing something more from between his legs, were he to pull away.
He doesn't want that; the idol gives Emet-Selch a number of deliberate squeezes between his thighs and while he has control over the pressure, he can't stop from tensing or trembling. He wants to feel Emet-Selch always; the robot presses a feverish kiss to Emet-Selch's jaw and lingers there, swallowing down another noise.
Opening his eye, seeing his Bonded's face, pulling back enough to appreciate him, and Mettaton can't help raising a hand to run his fingers through the shock of white hair. It reminds him of what he told of himself earlier, who he is beyond the body he sees, even while he appreciates its form. Drinking in his neck, his expression, and his unfocused gaze, Mettaton returns to his neck, his voice deep and playful.]
What you look like... Is only ahh— a reflection of wh-what you've done to me, Hades...
[So he deserves it. Eye for an eye. With another good squeeze of his cock between his thighs and the deliberate roll of his hips, Mettaton moves to press his lips to Emet-Selchs in one of their many impassioned kisses.]
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Each rub of his cock between the other man's thighs has Emet-Selch gasping, but never getting even remotely enough air. Even when his mouth wasn't being taken by Mettaton's, it felt as though he were slowly suffocating. From the weight of the other's body, from how every act or even word has him lose what little breath he manages to collect in some desperate noise.
The deliberate squeezing was good, but the uncontrolled twinges and shivers of muscle were better, the clear signs of Mettaton's own reactions to him- as though they weren't already obvious. The Ascian's pulse was so fast that it hurt, muscles taut and trembling from the strength of it, completely overwhelmed, as though battered by pure experience. Was their Bond bleeding together again...? Or had it ever stopped?
The touch to his hair has Emet-Selch struggling to focus on the look to the man over him, his expressions, just the sight of Mettaton, with very mixed success. His answer is softly uttered, nearly distraught, as his eyes close again.]
How could you, I... please, Mettaton, I don't--
[What he's asking for, he doesn't know.
When his climax finally comes, it almost startles him- breath ever more frantic until it stills entirely for a stretch of seconds, the sound he makes strangled and sharp and prolonged, and not fully swallowed up by their kiss. It's not as pained a sound as the first time, but that darker, near-stricken emotion still lurks in the shadows of it. Uncontrolled and no less needy- if only for company rather than relief- Emet-Selch clings to Mettaton's body even as the moment passes.]
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Hades...!
[Needless to say, they're both inundated by each other's desire, on top of their own. That's enough to make Mettaton toss his head, squeezing his eye shut in raw pleasure and unchecked desire.
Just as Emet-Selch's response isn't so pained this time, Mettaton's not as taken aback by it, though he... feels it, intensely, more than before. Emet-Selch's need, a blur between carnal and deep desire for something he's been without. He lifts his head again from Emet-Selch's neck. It makes Mettaton hold tight still as he winds down, brings his golden eye to scan the Ascian's expression, and makes him feel so very soft. He rarely feels this way so strongly, reserved only for those so close to him that he'd die for them, so why...?
No, it's obvious, isn't it? Mettaton cares about him. Deeply. And with each moment longer they spend together, it only increases, despite their stark contrast. The idol doesn't move from atop him, but his thumb moves to trace Emet-Selch's jaw before moving to brush his fingertips against his hairline, biased toward the right.]
Hades... [His voice is soft, reemembering the quality of his Bonded's tone and what he'd said to him beforehand. He leans in to brush his lips against Emet-Selch's. He's not about to suffocate him this time — he's probably trying to breathe now.]
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The feelings all remain, tangled and confused. The mingled want and feeling of possession and being possessed, the perpetual longing and grief, the security and even affection. The closeness that was never truly enough, but he'd claim what fragile measure of it that he could.
The Ascian's grip weakens a little as the tension in his body begins to fade, but he's not about to let go. Not even remotely. Emet-Selch wasn't at all sure if he'd ever be able to piece together who's desire was who's, which emotion was origin or reflected, and he's even less sure that it mattered. But to know that it was so enmeshed, that there was a mutual vulnerability and wanting... it was both concerning and comforting in one.
It hurt to feel so exposed, and he almost resented it. As though Mettaton would do this to him deliberately, reduce him to this mess of nerves and wanting. ...He probably cared for the idol in some small way. What a terrible realization. The Ascian was determined to not let him know; he'd be irreparably smug about it, he imagines.
But this time he stays quiet as he recovers, feeling hazy and raw and drained on several levels. Grateful for the touch of lips, as though they were something to anchor himself to, Emet-Selch returns the kiss with something approaching fondness. It's not really approaching coordinated, though, between the breathing he's still trying to catch up to, and being generally exhausted.
The sound of his name is another small anchor, latching onto both it and Mettaton with a degree of trembling. Shifting an arm slowly, his hand finds its way to the side of Mettaton's face, the touch almost clumsy in its gentleness.]
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Vulnerability aches. Mettaton rides his own pleasure down — he has no point of climax, just a moment where he's beyond his senses, apparently, and everything from there would serve only to pull him deeper. It's the warmth of an open wound that he feels, distantly, but it is comforting. His weight will have to do in place of holding him. He knows he should pull off of him, but something keeps him there, pressed against Emet-Selch and reluctant to move.
It brings a smile to his lips at Emet-Selch's lack of control, fascinated by how wrecked he is, what such passion would do to the other man, but he makes no comment on it. Mettaton leans into his touch, raising a hand to press it gently atop Emet-Selch's like a reminder of how to be firm. Or maybe, just to show how much he appreciates the gesture, as difficult as it seems to have been for him to do it. Or maybe yet, just to be touched.
He kisses Emet-Selch again, tender and loving. In moments like these, Mettaton is transparent. How terrible, that he'd feel so strongly about Emet-Selch. But it's also delightful. Is it the lingering effects of their mingling Bond, or does he sincerely feel such ache? Or maybe this is just how it feels after having sex, or how a Bond should make one feel.
And yet, with that ache, Mettaton also feels light. Warm. Like nothing else. What a mess he's found himself in.
He gives Emet-Selch more moments yet, simply holding him and occasionally peppering his jaw, his cheek, or his neck with a kiss. Load up on that affection, because that's 100% what drives these amorous gestures.]
How are you? [Does he need to get off now?]
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What an absolute mess. All of the affection is a little overwhelming for Emet-Selch in itself, if not in the desperately aroused sense, but emotionally. His expression shows a trace of that- not quite so negative as unease, but a sense of being unsure. What was he meant to do with all of this...?
For the moment, what he does is return those gestures as best as he could, quietly dwelling on those he could not, as though recording every last detail, no matter how small. At the question, he doesn't answer immediately, instead finding Mettaton's lips for another kiss, light but lingering, and less interrupted by his need for air. It's only with reluctance that he breaks it enough to speak, though without actually moving far from the other man's lips.]
...not too bad. [Overwhelmed, aching, reassured.] And- yourself...?
[He didn't want Mettaton to move. Even if it ultimately wasn't very comfortable, and contained a slow sense of being crushed. Which was... how he felt about all of this, really. Despite the discomfort, he didn't want to pull back from it.]
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The Puca returns his kiss with a hum of satisfaction. He won't comment on it. He runs his fingers across Emet-Selch's as he removes his hand to brush it through his Bonded's bangs, letting his hand remain there this time.]
I'm... [A word can't summarize it. Captivated, satisfied, and similarly overwhelmed. He sighs.] Wonderful. From repairs to ecstasy... My. You really know how to treat me.
[It's better than he imagined, even given his anatomy, and Mettaton will convey as much with his naturally flirtatious manner. Emet-Selch is to blame for his appetite, he decides. Would anybody else have compared to this, with its depth and its intensity? He doubts it. Mettaton doesn't think he could find that anywhere.
Playfully, he eases into Emet-Selch again, even moving to press his face against one of his favorite spots on Emet-Selch's neck — that spot just below his ear, nestled against his shoulder.]
And you haven't been thoroughly crushed by my hot and heavy metal figure yet...? I'm impressed.
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I could make a similar claim... as I believe I'll carry the marks of your ardor for some time. [Not that the Ascian could see his own neck, but the treatment of it had felt nicely extensive.] Well... I suppose I'll certainly need to keep you alive now.
[Not that he wouldn't have before, but he felt a particular investment in it by this point. His first project would have to be creating some Amaurotine-worthy glass to replace that slowly-shattering casing. Considering his specialties and foreknowledge, Emet-Selch didn't think it would take terribly long, but he did want to have the chance to test his creation properly before any installation. Then he could delve into the intricacies of finding a means to permit a machine body a physical climax. Survival over pleasure.
One of the more absurd projects he'd ever devoted his attention to, but it would keep him occupied.
Though it was reassuring to hear that Mettaton had enjoyed himself already nonetheless. Not that Emet-Selch hadn't thought as much, but... he hoped he'd been able to feel some version of satisfaction in all of this. And was becoming a trace concerned for what would happen if he did somehow attain for him more functional anatomy. If they were this taken by one another now....]
And I'm only partially crushed, I assure you.
[He even manages a bit of lightness, finally, and when Mettaton's face moves to his neck, the Ascian wraps both of his arms back around him, loosely, but certainly not trying to push him off anywhere. Tilting his head a little against his, he encourages the puca to remain close.]
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So by your actions, you must wish for me to remain... until we find you breathless in a completely different manner from earlier. Who am I to judge?
[This is comfortable, besides. Of course the machine would find a soft body comfortable, and of course he'd find one so when he admires their form. His ears fold back, close to his head in a demonstration of comfortable relaxation. Though he has his face against his neck, his arm still frames Emet-Selch's face so that his fingers can pet through his hair, which he does so idly, slowly, not with any particular intention.
Though he doesn't remark upon it, he's pleased to know how easily Emet-Selch takes the news of his lovebitten appearance. Somehow, it hardly surprises Mettaton. He clearly cares something of appearance, but perhaps not this... Or maybe he's just that confident. Either or is good. He knows that if it were him, he'd be proud.
He kisses his neck, far more chaste than anything else he's done this entire night. More chaste than what he's about to blurt out, anyway.]
Oh, yes. I've discovered a mood I have, where I'm not speaking, yet conscious.
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[A good thing Garleans were relatively sturdy, the Ascian thought, for all that his body was a relatively average specimen of the type. At least it gave him the chance of withstanding Mettaton for a time (which is the best anyone can ever hope for, really).
But being petted was good, restful, a little soothing. It was still more kindness than Emet-Selch knew what to do with, but he'd just have to accept this fate that he'd been dealt. He makes a soft, contented-sounding hum in the back of his throat, barely audible, nestling his head that tiny bit more against Mettaton.
Confidence was the primary reason the Ascian was undaunted at being so demonstrably claimed, perhaps even appreciating it. While he wasn't the type of person to try and show off those marks, neither would he do anything to deliberately hide them. What was there to be shy about? His host was just a host, but even if it had been a truer self, Emet-Selch didn't think he would have minded any more.
The puca's last comment has his hum gain a note of questioning. While he could make a reasonable guess (considering that their recent activities had included a lot of consciousness and not a lot of conversation), he still gives in and asks.]
And what mood would that be...?
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[... ... He should not deprive the world of his voice, and yet the draw he experiences toward such activities... Mettaton is bad. He's smirking against Emet-Selch's neck, the surface of his body having grown plenty warm over the span of their time together under the covers.
A twirl of his finger to affectionately curl a lock of his hair about his finger, he continues to massage at his scalp, small of an effort as it is. He's stopped his regular amount of movements, managing to have even a tiredness about him, against all odds. The power of relying on sleep to recharge, and the energy expended over the past hour, make for actual, real sleepiness.
But being atop Emet-Selch lures him into a feeling of security — even Mettaton has found himself terrified in the middle of the nights, much like how Emet-Selch responded to him so reflexively when he showed. Same reasons, too — but it's not so bad, now that he has a Bond to subdue his mood into normal for himself. He trusts him, and yet he would protect him in turn. A possessive nuzzle, another kiss against his neck.]
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(His second thought was relief that if Mettaton was going to continue to use that 'darling' suffix with him, that it did sound better attached to his actual name compared to all previous attempts with his title.)
But Emet-Selch just sighs, throwing the ceiling of his room a rather flat look before closing his eyes again. Even so, he can't manage more than the most mild of exasperations, not in his current state, and especially not with that rather restful treatment of his hair and scalp. It was quite easy to be lulled by it, by those small kisses, feeling somewhat taken care of.]
...'tis better than many of your other moods.
[Especially the chatty and teasing ones (which seemed to be the majority). And much better than the other types of silence.]
Well... I won't complain should you find yourself inclined towards self-silencing once again.
[Not right now, though, considering the Ascian's own deepening sense of exhaustion. With the dissatisfaction of the earlier part of the day, the intensity of the last of it, the weight of a lifetime underneath it- he was tired. Neverminding the 'carrying four Bonds' thing.
Still... it wasn't a wholly terrible exhaustion as it normally was, as it would've been if he'd been able to go right to sleep as he'd intended on arriving in his room. The menacing puca had improved things somehow, and that was perhaps the most surprising part of all.
It wouldn't last, and he was still miserable, but that echo of a feeling of not being entirely alone in the world was more than he'd had before.]
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How bold... Can I truly blame you for fancying my company during such... sensual circumstances? No wonder you've found a preference.
[Oh, he knows that's not at all what Emet-Selch's getting at, but he doesn't really believe that he prefers him quiet at all. He likes talking to him, even when it agitates him, Mettaton thinks.
It takes him significantly longer to wind down, still having been in a state where he could've been riled back up, but the longer time goes on the more he relaxes, sleepy and significantly warm. He's decided he'll remain exactly where he is, whether Emet-Selch likes it or not. (Fortunately, part-way through the night he'll end up shifting half of his weight off of the Ascian, sparing him from being sore.)
The matter of his anatomy strikes him again; it's something he doesn't want to walk Aefenglom's streets like, just in case, even if he has to muster something temporary. His voice betrays his mood, slow and intimate.]
...Help me in the morning?
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The Ascian doesn't quite sigh again at that answer, though he does shake his head, just slightly. The puca had a real talent for taking any comment and making it into whatever he wanted.
And while he wouldn't at all share the same conviction of preferring Mettaton talkative over quiet, conversation with him was always interesting. Even when it annoyed. Even when they disagreed, which they did over... a lot of things, especially important things. And yet here they both were.
But what Emet-Selch could appreciate is that they both seemed to have just assumed that of course Mettaton would be staying the night. No discussion necessary (though the Ascian would be reluctantly relieved to find it somewhat easier to breathe halfway through the night). Reaching up, he quietly strokes at Mettaton's hair for a few seconds, before returning his arm to its place at his back.]
...I will.
[He hadn't forgotten, despite... distractions. Considerable distractions. But the Ascian's certain he could fashion something to an acceptable standard without trouble. To a perfectionist standard, he was less sure of, but it would be nonetheless good.]
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[He hasn't even fulfilled the task to thank him, but Mettaton won't leave until he does. He doesn't take no for an answer, for most anything he really wants.
As another expression of 100% affection, he kisses him softly against his neck, eye closed and fingers lazy. Mettaton's never one to hold back on doling out affection and for Emet-Selch it follows that it should be no different. And it isn't, but there's something to it, knowing that he couldn't possibly be this candid with anybody else in Aefenglom, lying like this. He's his usual self, but he's also able to indulge in all facets of his being, not just the showy ones. Maybe that means something.
It doesn't mean anything bad, he decides. He trusts him, and would trust him to be true in all matters, especially the aspects Mettaton fundamentally disagrees with him on. It's a nice feeling. He could find himself here more often.]
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In general terms, Emet-Selch could rest for a long time without actually managing to fall asleep. Being perpetually tired didn't mean perpetually sleepy, and though there was a lot of actual sleep as well, there was an equal amount of hazy, unwanted consciousness. Post-torture, this had only gotten worse, finding it that much harder to relax, as though capture would be waiting if he let his guard down. At least, when he was alone; having someone else present helped.
Not that anyone's presence would do, either, but it felt only expected at this point that Mettaton should be someone that he could find rest with.
Surrounded by warmth, feeling only moderately crushed, lacking both the desire and the ability to move- it doesn't take long at all for the Ascian to drift off into unconsciousness.]