video; un: METTATON

[glitzandglamour]

Name: Mettaton
Date: 02/20
Format: video
Warnings: mention of death (he's better now!), talk of the recent event (Cwyld, kidnappings)

[Propped up against a plain pillow in the Coven's infirmary is Mettaton. His manner is languid, slow, and his rabbit ears are in such poor shape that they no longer stand anymore, sore-ridden and flopped over. Cradled against his shoulder and chest is a man's head, dark haired with a shock of white at his bangs, fast asleep.

Ears aside, his hair... is perfect. He flashes a photogenic smile otherwise interrupted by rabbit-like teeth.]

Hey there, beauties! It's Mettaton again, coming to you live from the... infirmary. [Not very glamorous, suggests his flat tone.] My sincerest apologies to those of you who've encountered me over the past few weeks. I haven't been in my right mind!! And not only that, but I was infected with the Cwyld. It was horrible. Terrible! Disturbing! To clear things up: I don't actually endorse contracting the Cwyld. In fact... Oh my. I died, thanks in part to it.

In the end, I was offed by one of you lovely darlings, before I... Before it got too bad. I was told it was a duo! [Mettaton tilts his head.] If that encounter sounds familiar, get in touch, gorgeous! I want to thank you personally. I promise I don't bite much... Haha.

[The idol pauses heavily, stuck with a smile. This is the more taxing part of his broadcast, and there's a flash of remorse in his gaze. Mettaton is a practiced face, however, so he's able to pull himself together with startling ease despite the overall tone.]

I'm sure many of you know Mikasa Ackerman. It seems... she's departed all too recently. I looked for her. Everywhere. Trust me. [Mettaton sighs; it's clear he's trying to remain composed enough for conversation, but he allows a measure of genuine sorrow to soften his expression.] She's... one of my best friends. She's a remarkable human who never fails to entrance me, no matter how quiet and stoic. She's powerful, protective, and fierce, and you'd know what I meant if you've met her. She's amazing enough to dazzle yours truly!!

...I tried to tell Eren about Mikasa, but I couldn't reach him, either. If anyone knows where... if he's still here, would you be a dear and let me know? He still owes me money!!

[Mettaton smirks playfully, but it fades as he continues.]

Well. Ahem. As some of you may have known, Mikasa and Eren live in a perilous world. It didn't sound... [Mettaton glances aside, disturbed.] I can't help but wonder if she... If they'll be all right.

[A surprisingly thoughtful silence follows, but Mettaton's quick to shake off his reverie with a quiet sigh and a hard blink. He puts his best face forward and continues, addressing more the rest of the Mirrorbound.]

Speaking of perilous... After a week of disappearances, sickness, and kidnapping alike, how are you all doing? Talk to me, darlings. You aren't going this alone!

Comments

[unsundered]

[Mettaton's reiteration of trust gets a low, bitter sort of noise from the Ascian's throat. Of course he wouldn't deliberately hurt him- that was true between them, that any application of pain or damage was towards an end that they both wished for. (Though his thoughts ever returned to those last words Mettaton had been able to give him, before language had been lost. That he would hurt him. That he loved him. ...But where was the strangeness in that, ultimately? The emotional pain love wrought- where did that fit in? In that sense, they would always be hurting one another.)

But he was trusted- to not deliberately fail to protect him, at least. But that he had failed- that much Emet-Selch couldn't forget. Claws were gentle against his hand, and he could feel Mettaton's face against his hair, but they couldn't change that. ...But that was fine. It was better to be scarred from this, so as to not forget it. (But how could he ever risk letting him go? Even to save himself, how could he? They would both do better, but if it was that straightforward, they wouldn't have died at all.)

There was a sense of relief when the core was safely out of his hand, and back within Mettaton's body. His gaze stays with it in place of his fingers, watching the outer glass shift back, listening to the clicks of metal as the soul container was secured. Only then does it feel as though he can breathe again, and his eyes close, fingers lingering against the glass at Mettaton's waist, as though he could protect it from there. The robot's statement gets a nod against his neck, as he settles closer to him again, flush to his body as if he could shield him this way too.]

Once it's repaired, I'll hold it as much as you like.

[It wasn't as though he didn't want to take that glass box. To stroke it, to keep it against his body, feeling like their souls were that little bit closer from the contact. Valuing as well the vulnerability Mettaton was showing him, by placing his life literally in his hands. The glow from it warmed, and it reached deeper than the heat it provided his body.

Beyond touching it again for the sake of repair, Emet-Selch wanted to keep it. His lover's soul was his, for all that it was permitted to remain in the robot's shell. But it unsettled to know it was damaged, and to know that Mettaton had been going about the city with a loose chip from it rattling around in there... he didn't want to think about it. The very first thing his transmutation would have to take care of was this damage. All else could wait; he trusted no one else with this access. This was his fiancé, his responsibility.

Though his arms couldn't wrap around him fully, they try. From pressing to glass, his right arm moves to drape across Mettaton, his hand- though it couldn't latch on to much of anything- clings near to his shoulder as best as it was able. It disturbed as well, how weak that grasp had gotten... but what did he expect, after having neglected it for so long? And yet he still disliked using it.

But what was there to do but try, in all of these things? It would be longer now, to settle this time, with all of this news compounded. The glass case he could repair, but there was nothing he could do about the durability of Mettaton's soul, especially not as it was upon another star entirely. All he could do was protect him here, in ways better than he had before. And to be protected, to work together towards this goal... they could do that, couldn't they? They had to.

First he had to recover physically, magically. If he could focus on that, that would- maybe that would be enough, for now. Mettaton was alive, he could be repaired. They both wanted to see the other well, and were dedicated to that outcome. A hand pets across his skin, and he could feel the tenderness of a kiss against his hair.

It still didn't soothe him, but it was a step towards it, as Emet-Selch reflexively burrows back into place, skin against familiar metal and silicone, a firm and normal place to rest.]

I'll recover. Even faster, if you don't move from this spot.

[No more fleeing the hospital until they were both ready to leave (or until Mettaton could carry him with, or the Ascian could teleport them both). If he'd known that Mettaton's very soul container had been damaged... he still wouldn't have been able to prevent him from running off in search of Mikasa, but he would have been significantly more displeased about it.]

[glitzandglamour]

[It all worked out in the end, and Mettaton had been given an actual chance to view his upright form properly. That's how he'd discovered at all that something was amiss, after all. Having been washed off, one of the Puca's first stops was to stare at his reflecting in a window pane, where he smoothed over his hair, winced at the state of his fur and ears, and gawked at his core. But it never alarmed him into stillness, no. He had things to do, and his body would only ever enable him to accomplish his every goal.

But Emet-Selch insists that he'll recover faster if Mettaton remains right where he is. He hums, and puts forth a greater effort to settle right into place. The Puca shuffles back against the mattress, sidling nearer to Emet-Selch and occupying any of that space that was originally reserved for his core. His arm presses the Ascian closer. With each of their arms making the valiant attempt at embracing each other, they may as well be forming an entire embrace with their powers combined. Mettaton swells with pride, feeling Emet-Selch's right hand attempt to cling to his shoulder. He even tilts his head to nuzzle his hand for a moment before returning to the top of Emet-Selch's head again.

His voice is at a soft volume, but it's full and intimate. It's intended for only the lucky who are close enough to be next to his lips—which meant it was especially for Emet-Selch.]

You've got it, beautiful. I already did what I must. I already... made sure she was gone.

[This wasn't a sorrow that would easily leave him. Even if the research into the condition of Mirrorbound bore fruit, even if he could somehow learn of Mikasa's current world and state... he didn't think he'd be entirely happy. She's gone; he couldn't meet her. He could barely fathom imagining not meeting her ever again; it brought him too much sorrow to consider. So he opts instead to at least keep this small hope alive: he might yet see her again someday.

Mettaton sighs. His limbs slacken for a moment. He closes his eye, and feels the pressure of Emet-Selch's body against his own. The sensation of fingers curled lightly around his shoulder. The presence of his head against his other shoulder, where the Puca can easily kiss his hair. His body aches, his soreness agitated from his recent outing, and it's nobody's fault but his own, a burden for him to bear atop all others. But he wouldn't have been able to rest had he not paid these visits, had he not taken some kind of action. It's the kind of person he is.

Equally is he also the kind of person who swings cheerful, even when things are grim. And Mettaton snorts, smiling against Emet-Selch's scalp as he squirms closer. He lifts his leg furthest from Emet-Selch's and tangles it around his Bonded's hip, drawing him in, trapping him close, and humming low and soft.]

However. Should you wish to take matters into your own hands, and trap me here... don't be shy, my dear. Ha-ha. [Mettaton playfully shifts his hips in the echo of a short tail flick, like he wants Emet-Selch to know of his puckish energy.] Oooh, a solid grip to hold me down, nice and tight... I'd have no choice but to remain under your watch!

[Not that they have any resources whatsoever to make bondage fantasies a reality. They're in the hospital. They're not in a BDSM dungeon, or their bedroom. Mettaton draws back from Emet-Selch's head just in case he wants to meet his heavy, sultry gaze and flashy, heated smile while his knee rubs against the very top of the back of Emet-Selch's thigh flirtatiously. He's terrible.

Instead of needing bondage, Mettaton seems content to set back and relax under half of Emet-Selch's weight. He still does what he usually does, which includes extraneous movement for the sake of it, twitches or shifting as though possessing of an inordinate amount of energy... but it's perhaps less than it would be, were he not within days of being resurrected. They were both exhausted, no matter how organic or mechanical. They would also tend to one another, no matter what they needed.]

[prettyrocks]

[ Sorry, Mettaton. That's just Tsutha being Tsutha. She's a very coarse individual. ]

A cult? That sounds serious. Is everybody okay?

[ Wait. ]

I mean... Obviously not everybody is okay, if the infirmary is so full, but like... people aren't still in trouble, are they?

[unsundered]

[While he could argue that there had been no need to look for Mikasa- that the feeling of the dissolution of their Bond had been enough of a sign (As he'd had no desire to sever their Bond, any deliberate breaking on her part would've been an abolishment of it. And why would Mikasa do that? They'd had no quarrel, and if she'd ever decided she'd rather end their Bond, she didn't strike him at all as the volatile sort to go ahead and break it on her own. She would have told him, and he would have acquiesced, tidy as anything. No, he'd felt that ache before, when K'rihnn had left. He knew exactly what it meant, once the sensation was allowed to register.) he doesn't. Even the fae's username on the network becoming unreachable wasn't enough. Of course Mettaton would have to check in more ways than that.

(If Mettaton had slipped away to his mirror during some moment while the Ascian was unconscious, drawn from him so quietly as not to rouse him until it was too late- would he not also be compelled to check? To look everywhere while already knowing that he was gone? Only then could he allow himself to collapse.

But it wasn't a fate worth dwelling on; his thoughts even brushing against it provoked an ache to hitch his breath and tighten his hold. How had he ever thought he'd recovered from that fear of him leaving?)

The sound of his voice instead was something worth drowning in, though even with the reduction in their yet-healing Bond, it would've been hard for Emet-Selch to miss the sorrow in his lover's heart. A feeling that there was little easing for- but the Ascian understood that, viewed grief as the sort of thing that didn't ever easily fade. Unless Mikasa returned- memories intact and some impossibly positive future in hand- there would be little solving of that feeling. And even then, the time apart would have still occurred.

Sighing quietly against his neck, he kisses it gently, while attempting to rub at his shoulder with a thumb. The most likely future was to not know anything of Mikasa's condition or that of her world, but to assume the worst of both. Even if there was discovered some way of finding out, that wasn't the same as meeting her again.

But the puca's mood drifts in a more positive direction, as it tended to. And paired with it, the drag of a leg about his hip, and more energy than anyone should rightly have under these circumstances (even if Emet-Selch could tell it was still reduced in comparison to what it could be, what it usually was). There's squirming, rubbing, and a voice no less enticing than the words they conveyed. It was certainly... appealing. The thought of pressing Mettaton down like this, keeping him right where he was, unable to escape- it distracted. It wasn't possible to not rub a bit back against his body, under the rationale of adjusting himself closer.

It wasn't much of a surprise, really. They were in bed, their bodies flush to one another, skin against metal. Mettaton may have been thoughtful enough to have brought him a set of clothes from home, but he had yet to avail of them. They could entice one another under circumstances less suggestive than this.

Mettaton leans his head back, and Emet-Selch raises his in order to look at him, to meet his eye with his own. It's a sultry gaze that's rewarded with a kiss, more heated than warm- as much as the Ascian could make of it. Tongue slipping along the puca's lower lip, he eventually takes it between his own to suck slowly at it, swallowing down a pleased noise, feeling far too aware of the rub of a knee to the back of his thigh.]

Tease.

[Releasing his lip only to mutter a word against it, it's a critical one, a statement exhaled with a huff, to be followed by a rumble against his mouth.]

Don't tempt me with the impossible.

[That they were in a hospital did not daunt. That they had a lack of equipment available didn't daunt (conjuration could solve all such needs). But the lack of magic or real energy between them- while it didn't daunt, exactly, it just made things not strictly plausible.]

[glitzandglamour]

[It would take time to accept that he might not see the friends he's made here ever again, knowing that they had some other destiny to fulfill or world to take by storm. But Mettaton knew that he'd manage, no matter how sore or aching it made him. Even should Emet-Selch leave.....

He didn't have the mental nor emotional energy to contemplate it far. In time with Emet-Selch's own pain, Mettaton feels his own, fed by Emet-Selch's misery. It's brilliant; there's something exhilarating about feeling his own sorrow capitalized upon by Emet-Selch's natural lean toward the despairing. Intense. It's hard to believe that their Bond had dared to hiccup at all when he coveted these lows and highs, something his lover could bring him. It's only with a mild tremble, then, that Mettaton can continue on his upswing in mood. Emet-Selch's despair had become so natural to him that he can readily emerge from its hold unscathed, though not unburdened: it weighs heavy in his heart. Would it ever someday break him down, too?

Mettaton didn't think so. Not ever, even while he enjoyed sharing in his Bondmate's heaviness. Conversely, he doubted that his own cheer would eliminate Emet-Selch's somber-trending mood. But he knew he had an impact on the Ascian. He had to.

And just like that, things are lit aflame. The weighty sorrow of his loss swaps over with the passion he feels for Emet-Selch, the desire for closeness—and Emet-Selch answers. He kisses his neck; he shifts closer, pressing his soft skin so flush to his metal, unforgiving body. The clothes are a formality, something he could return home in once they got better—who knew when else Mettaton would get the chance? He figured it would be handy to have.

(Of the clothes he grabbed, the coat... It's Mettaton's. He's taken a fancy toward imagining Emet-Selch in his own attire, kept secure by something that is his and smells like himself, too. Mettaton had been very picky about what he picked, avoiding things which smelled anything like Cwyld.)

But right now, Emet-Selch wasn't wearing clothes. They were better suited to their departure, though still comfortable. In this bed, pressed to Mettaton's body, the Puca wanted nothing more than to run his hands up and down his figure. While Emet-Selch steals a kiss and slicks his tongue against the Puca's lip, he sighs, low and soft and wanting. He wants to pull that pleased noise right back out from Emet-Selch's throat so badly, and his spare hand gropes along his hip, his waist, his side, his upper thigh, then settles with a gentle squeeze upon Emet-Selch's ass.

Tease, Emet-Selch calls Mettaton, and he smiles, closing his eye and shuddering with the sound of his voice. He loves it so.]

I'm only working on our Bond, darling... Surely, you understand.

[Mettaton's eyelid rises barely, the hint of gold a sliver from behind heavy, dark eyelids and long lashes. With another squeeze of Emet-Selch's ass, Mettaton gives him another more tender, full kiss, readjusting his overall hold of the Ascian against his arm—shifting him closer, pulling him near, trapping him against his hip. His tongue flirts just as plentifully with Emet-Selch's as his did, tongue lazily stroking his lower lip and entertaining the new detail of his latest scar-to-be with a gentleness.

In doing so, Mettaton naturally traps himself further by pulling Emet-Selch so close. He enjoys the sensation of having his fiancé against him, whether that was below him, beside him, or atop him. All of it was pleasant, so long as he was as close as they could get him. (It was never close enough.)

It was... something like an impossibility. Their bodies aren't up for a full indulgence of a libidinous persuasion, even when their hearts were willing. Mettaton huffs, and gives Emet-Selch a short nuzzle against his lips.]

Well. While I don't mind being thought of as a tease... I don't want to frustrate you. Or, me. I can be left aching too, you know.

[And that was... fast approaching. Was this what it meant to be forced to refrain from sex for... how long? Nearly three weeks, he's sure. (The day is... the 20^th? Mettaton's still having a hard time with dates. It felt like it was still Ieneuer. (Like Mikasa had just taken him out for curry. It felt like that was the last full interaction they had... She'd hinted toward something dark about herself, a history untold. Mettaton would never get to have the full of it, but he knew it was pivotal.)]

[unsundered]

[Pain was easy to share, something that Emet-Selch could feel settle in him so naturally, as though it belonged there. Even if he'd never drive Mettaton entirely towards despair, just as the idol couldn't influence him towards excessive positivity- there was a sort of reassurance in feeling the effect they did have on one another in regards to their moods. That the puca could not only withstand his despair, but not seem to resent it- Emet-Selch appreciated it, though he might have a harder time understanding the sort of appeal Mettaton took in it, that it was possible to want that sort of heaviness, to appreciate that manner of intensity without being broken by it.

But he knew Mettaton's own attitude had a similar effect on himself. Though there was little that Emet-Selch felt that could ever be considered light, that it was possible to enjoy some things at all without immediately countering it with something darker, that there were times when he could feel something other than abject misery- that was entirely due to the robotic puca's influence. Even if so much still hurt, it was a different, and often better hurt than before.

(Emet-Selch had noticed that the coat Mettaton had brought for him wasn't one of his own, but that of the puca's... which pleased him as well to recognize, in this case. The idea of being wrapped up in something of his lover's, it did appeal, though on a regular basis such appeal would depend more on what the item actually looked like, and whether it actually suited him at all.)

The defense that Mettaton was only trying to strengthen their Bond- it nearly gets a snort of mingled disbelief and amusement. Oh, they were definitely working on their Bond. They were doing that just by being so close, in constant contact, with their emotions completely open to each other. This... was indulgence. But the sound is distracted, lost to further kissing (though his feelings are tenderized somewhat by the care taken to his stitched lip, as though Mettaton were learning each stage of its healing process), to the awareness of how tightly they were pressed and where, and especially to the squeeze of his ass once the puca's hand creeps that far. His body echoes Mettaton's shudder, and his exhalation carries the whisper of a moan, as he strokes himself against the puca's hip. As his tongue seeks out his lover's, flirting with it, as well as with dips past it, into his mouth.

It was already a bit of a frustration, if primarily mentally, though he knew his body would follow, if they continued on this path. Between the healing they'd already endured, their deaths, and the weeks before which had been too disturbed- how long had it been since they'd last had sex? How much longer would it be before they could manage it? ('When would it be responsible to do', that wasn't relevant information, or a thought that even occurs to Emet-Selch, as they would certainly be drawn to that sort of intimacy the moment they were physically capable of it. At some point after that they would be fully healed and back to themselves, but that was more of a footnote.)

The robot's huff, along with his following nuzzle are both felt against his lips, which briefly quirk in something like a smile. If nothing else, they were in the same amorous boat. A boat that they were tempted to let founder, because they both wanted to drown.]

I know. And yet we lead one another right into wantings that can't be satisfied.

[Who could be left more aching, he wondered. The Ascian was the one capable of physical, obvious signs of it, but that didn't necessarily mean he had it worse, he thought. To have that ache, but not be able to demonstrate it at all, that would be its own sort of torture.

In the end, neither of them were in an enviable position. The returned nuzzle against his lips is slower, as he tries to still himself for both their sakes.]

--More reason to want to heal quickly.

[Another thing to blame Mettaton's influence on. The puca's capability for motivation was... considerable.]

[glitzandglamour]

[(It's fortunately a less glitzy choice, something weather-appropriate, black in color. A cowl-necked trenchcoat with a hood, a high-low cut with a flattering, tapered waist, one could almost track the way Mettaton was thinking when he got it. It offers some sort of disguising... but it catches the eye from its fit alone, defying its own intent for anonymity. It's daring; but it's not ostentatious in the glittering direction.)

On one hand, Emet-Selch could find himself coaxed toward greater frustration just with his anatomy properly played and enticed. He could be made to demonstrate his ache, and could also be given attention applied directly upon a sweet sport. Mettaton envied that outlet: even if it only served to entice, it was relief at the same time. But it was also a double-edged sword: greater, more direct relief could also mean more direct provocation. Mettaton, on the other hand, had no anatomy to directly provoke. It also meant he had absolutely no outlet for such sublime relief: nothing to treat, nothing sensitive that he could stroke, just as Emet-Selch does against his hip.

Mettaton sighs, pleased. He pets over the swell of Emet-Selch's ass appreciatively, flirting too low, too close to his inner thighs, starved for deepening contact... But as soon as Emet-Selch convinces himself to still, so too does the idol. His hand rests upon Emet-Selch's lower back, applying only a gentle, familiar pressure there.

Another sigh; another effort toward talking himself down from incitement. He thinks too vividly, too focus on his fiancé straddling his hip, legs spread around his own with so much of him so readily palpable. Mettaton knows he's too easy, but the amount of desire he feels is slightly ridiculous.

It's probably because of how long they've gone without, he thought. That, he could accept. He doesn't quite link it to the time of year, because it's Feoveuer... Valentine's Day lust, he supposes, and laughs softly to himself with an incredulous shake of his head. They didn't get to celebrate that, and would have to make up for it once they left. (Maybe, in the days to follow, they could take some of the dimness of the nighttime hours to go further than this... Mettaton's not distracted by sex, per se, but he is enticed beyond reason.)

But not now. Not now, he reminds himself over and again, in their mutual stillness. (He wants to rock his hips against Emet-Selch. He feels him, he wants him, he can't resist...)

He resists with a hard swallow and another softer laugh.]

Can't be satisfied. You're right about that. [When could they ever be satisfied, even when they were trying for it? Mettaton nuzzles in answer against Emet-Selch's lips.] We'll heal quickly, and earn back all of that limitless stamina you had. Or, I'll just have to test it soon.

[Emet-Selch's oodles of stamina that he's always had. And it's a facetious comment and an honest one together, isn't it? Emet-Selch had a wellspring of effort to pay to Mettaton when it was him demanding it, pulling it from somewhere sourced out of stubbornness or something of that ilk. Mettaton knew how to motivate Emet-Selch, and had rewards aplenty to provide.

For now, the Puca tries to settle. His body's increased dramatically in temperature, his ears doing a poor job at performing their regular duties. Against his better judgement he wants to move so badly, but he refrains with as much focus as he can muster. This is how it would be between them for the moment. They want it all, but they're healing, they're growing close all over again, and Mettaton leans his forehead into Emet-Selch's out of a hunger for all of the magic he's not using.

He would always be consuming his Witch, one way or another, it seemed. It was his fate, but it was his responsibility to keep him safe any time he did.]

I love you, Hades. [His voice is softer and lacking of the same heat from before, though it remains warm and smooth.] We'll be out of here in no time.

[And he knew their Bond would help them heal. Maybe not in any sort of physical capacity, but to hear their wounds unseen, it would do a great deal for them. It's shocking, how much of an important connection it had become to them both. They were hooked. But this world touted it as a good thing, and was there ever too much of a good thing like this? Mettaton gives Emet-Selch a small, slight peck to his lips, a nuzzle of their noses, and a comfortable settling of his body to indicate that he was more than ready to cozy back up with Emet-Selch under the covers like this. Bodies flush and temptation alive still, they could both resist for the sake of recovery.]

[glitzandglamour]

[And Mettaton can only meet it with a similar smile. Subdued, but there. It's not dissimilar, all in all.]

Yes... She's someone who knows how to survive. That, I believe in.

[She'd always said it: knowing she'd killed people, she knew it didn't define her. She was surviving the whole time. In a world like hers, it was the only way. Mettaton glaces down: Mikasa's mentioned Momo before in passing, so he readily assumes they must have been friends, too. She seemed like the sort who could do with upbeat personalities to heckle keep her company.

But he glances up again, readjusting his arm so he can rest his hand atop the head he has laid on his chest. (Mettaton is surely a very comfortable metal pillow.)]

Haha. Well. I didn't actually engage with them, after they began kidnapping people... In fact, they told me to stay home earlier this month because I was too sick! But for what they did to others...

[Mettaton shakes his head. But it's true: he has yet to hear about Yuki's story, and yet to connect any dots about Momo's lingering distress—well, save for anything pertaining to Mikasa. He knew he wouldn't be the only one upset about her.]

How are you doing, darling? It's been a rocky month for the lot of us!

[glitzandglamour]

Bailey... I'm afraid I haven't met them. That they were unprepared...

[He has; he just doesn't know them by name. He smiles nonetheless, bitterly.]

I'm glad they're all right. But I can't imagine it sat well with them. Even if I'm a pretty face... Well. I'm sure you know what I'm getting at.

[He scarred a perfectly good Faun by being a Cwyld-infected rabbit-robot. For shame...]

[yesdoubt]

[Momo nods quite certainly in response to the remark about Mikasa, because of all the horrific things he's heard about her world, one thing that had been clear was that someone would need to be a real standout to survive. Even dealt the relatively bad hand here of becoming fae, with all the shrinking and particular Cwyld weakness that entailed, she'd done a good job taking care of herself.

Momo actually looks a little surprised that even the cult had limits for how infected someone could be before they kicked them out - but then, most of the incredibly infected ones were trapped in that basement. Even the person who'd "employed" him during his brainwashing hadn't quite trusted enough in the experiment results yet to expose Momo when he was supposed to be protecting his "master". But he drags up a smile in answer to the question, almost too readily.]

I've been doing okay. Some people close to me got tangled up in it all, so I've been trying to check up on them as much as I can, and...well, I just wish I'd been able to protect them from what happened. But I think a lot of us think that right now, and it won't change the past, so I just want to support them as much as they can while they heal.

[The way he says it, it'd be easy to assume nothing actually happened to him. He tends not to be honest about his suffering if he can help it.]

The kidnappings and what they were doing were...pretty screwed up, so at least that's a tiny bit of extra trauma you got spared.

[Though it's obvious from his tone that he doesn't think it's much compared to having to be mercy killed.]

[omnicrafter]

Thanks.

[She hops up backwards onto the bed, careful not to jostle it too much while taking stock of the state of both of them. Are the injuries related to one another, perhaps...?]

A few days... Hades helped me escape, and I felt the bond become absent shortly afterward, but I've been stuck here ever since.

[Much to her chagrin, it sounds like. Her own injuries are subdued: upon closer inspection, he might spy a distinct lack of fur at the very tip of her tail, like it has either been burned away or literally cut off. Her ears appear to have been very slightly tipped as well, rounded off like by a knife, though they are oddly symmetrical for being torturous injuries...]

I just feel so stupid. I was the one spitting venom at them... it's no wonder they remembered it when they started taking people. But what happened to you two, if not related to the cult thing?

[unsundered]

[(And clothing choices like that would generally be acceptable. It's not as though the Ascian was drawn to the plainest of things (even if Amaurotine garb would always be the favorite of his heart, this wasn't Amaurot), and something dark-colored, seasonally appropriate, but with style to it- yes, that would probably be fine.)

A hand drifts lower, drifts inward, in a gesture that was more than a trace provocative. But when they both manage to still there was a frustration in that too, in having that deeper intimacy denied him, denied to both of them. And the noise Emet-Selch can't help but make is disapproving, for all that he gradually eases himself back into a more relaxed position with Mettaton, a place to rest. For a few more days, at least, they would have to be sensible. Terrible.

(He also thinks about what they might be able to manage in the days to follow.... Even with Mettaton's extra expenditure of energy today, they were still on a good track towards physical recovery. At least, in comparison to those first few days where changing from one side to another was a labor that took particular intent, where lifting a hand had to be carefully considered. They still couldn't move recklessly (well, the Ascian couldn't, and Mettaton probably shouldn't), but there was already a world of difference.

Who could tell where a couple days more might lead them? Sooner or later their fascination would outweigh sense, and it would likely be sooner.)

It wasn't easy. It went against all of their usual inclinations, where one point of slippage on either of their parts would cascade, and they would find themselves entwined. Emet-Selch may have been tired, but he wanted this, wanted his fiancé, wanted the normalcy and intimacy of it. But instead, they had to be still, had to control thought, had to not dwell overmuch on that expansive library of all they had done before.

Mettaton's laugh is soft, along with his nuzzle. The witch answers it with a slow nuzzle in return, and a careful breath that's nearly another sigh.

Limitless stamina, was it? Emet-Selch could tell it was a comment both teasing but not entirely inaccurate either. The Ascian wasn't the most energetic person, to put it mildly. He still napped excessively, even outside of recoveries from death, he still had little to nothing to spare on anything that didn't interest him. It was how he'd always been, even if the years had served to deepen that habit, worsen and darken it.

But Mettaton was good at catching his interest, in getting from him all the energy he did possess (even if it could never match someone of the puca's temperament and who had a literal battery).]

You always find some way to motivate me, don't you?

[It was his company that he wanted most of all, of course, and that was easier to appreciate when they both weren't so... damaged. When his need for sleep wasn't something like a necessity, rather than an inclination that Mettaton could rouse him from. Foreheads nudged together, he wondered if his magic would be especially slow to recover because he had to replenish his monster as well as himself. Dying had somewhat emptied them both, on top of what the cwyld had wrought. But that was fine; every part of himself was for his lover to consume.]

--I love you too.

[Sentiment could calm, could temper when little else could, and Emet-Selch presses his lips softly back to his, eyes closed, and a returned nudge of their noses. But from there he settles his head back down, in a more comfortable spot near his neck, to burrow and remain. Desire hadn't left, and it wouldn't, not when they were so warm and close, when they weren't the least bit sated- but they could hold back for now. Day by day, they would heal, their Bond would stitch back together, and their bodies with it. Mettaton's fur would regrow, and Emet-Selch's scars would become less fresh, less sore, and the magic he possessed would be passed between them until they were both full of it. Nothing... would be fixed. But some things would be better.]

[glitzandglamour]

[Indeed, in Mettaton's silence he observes her figure. The tipping of her ears are first (and he readily assumes that torture is just about the best sort of way to get them so uncomfortably symmetrical; his own ear has a large chunk taken out the side, and that was done by somebody's teeth), and there's something off about her tail... All things he's only able to notice more acutely because of the time he shapeshifted into a miqo'te, those moments he took toward detail-oriented observation.

He frowns small and tight. His brow knits in quiet anger.]

If I could just have a word with this cult. With Cillian Alder.

[Despite his anger, his voice is pleasant and level. Smooth, restrained. To complete his look, Mettaton tilts his head up with a plastic smile, imperious and composed. But his eye flashes. These people have hurt more than just himself and Emet-Selch so indirectly. They've put the entire city at risk, and more.

Before he can get too carried away with his anger, Mettaton's eye widens and his jaw slackens at Irhya's question. Regretfully, he glances down to Emet-Selch, whose bangs he brushes from his forehead. Whose stitched scar he traces with a gentle fingertip, from his lower lip down toward his chin.]

It wasn't... completely disconnected from the cult. We were both sick with the Cwyld. Very sick.

[He raises his eyes with Irhya's again.]

In fact... I was sick enough to lose my mind. I was... turning into a Cwyldtid...

[Mettaton swallows at the memories that hit him. So unwelcome, so disturbing. They make him salivate on reflex, which is perhaps the worst part of it all. (He was starving in these memory.)]

As I succumbed to infection, I took Emet-Selch for myself, afraid they'd kidnap him. But while he tried to heal me, I... [Mettaton keeps his gaze poised and level with Irhya for this, not letting his attention escape to somewhere easier to look at.] I killed him, Irhya.

[glitzandglamour]

[They'd already established before a general timeline. But this... Mettaton thinks, eye rolling to the ceiling as he hums.]

The barrier... the Surface... you...

[This didn't make sense, but he recalls that when Papyrus was here, things ended up quite different Underground. Could it be that Asriel somehow was from yet another timeline? Mettaton's nearly content to think this way—

But something clicks into place. He refocuses on the camera, lips parted and eye wide.]

Wait... Who doesn't know this story??? I— Even a robot like me has been duly schooled on monster history, you know. [He just exclaimed his own thoughts aloud. Mettaton blinks again. Of course monsterkind should know of the fall of the prince and the fallen human!] Asriel! I KNEW I recognized that name from somewhere! King Asgore... He's not very creative with his names, is he? Ahaha...

[As he talks, Mettaton's shock and surprise turns into a glowing smile. His ears would be emoting all over the place if they weren't so injured.]

So you're... You're the fallen prince, aren't you? I... Oh my god. [Once again, Mettaton's dynamic expressiveness is on full display. Shock returns, something more aghast this time.] You really did cross the barrier with a human soul, then.

[It's not like that could have been disputed, but... it's been so long ago that somehow, it felt that much more unbelievable. Fortunately for Asriel, Mettaton doesn't seem to connect his identity to anything else beyond his death, nor has he found it too strange that Asriel's claimed to be a fan. How could he be a fan when Mettaton was still a ghost when Asriel was alive? (Later, he might consider this contradiction.)]

[discarding]

Or so they might lead us to believe, [Midousuji mutters dryly aloud, narrowing his eyes in suspicion at the thought of the Coven. it's a goddamn army of Witches, for crying out loud. how's everyone's faith in their numbers so absolute?

Mettaton, is, of course, right. Midousuji is just a slave to his magical thinking, and doesn't know how to survive without that kind of thing. it's not quite denial, but it won't be long before it is, and Midousuji's forced to confront the fact that he's a fucking idiot, and he's doomed.

Midousuji's eyes hang vacantly on his screen, wide with his mildly shell-shocked expression, brows high and mouth slightly agape. soul corruption?

forgotten memories?

there's a part of him that thinks that might be appealing—but he quickly doubles down against himself, dashing that idea with violent resistance and anger towards himself. Midousuji slaps a gloved hand against his eye, gritting his teeth. his painful memories are there, even if he doesn't let himself dwell on them as much as he can help it—but altering memories isn't the same as changing what's happened. how disgraceful that would be. how disgraceful of him to even curiously wonder. those memories, his entire construction, are as a shrine to her passing.

it's probably like..... ten minutes before he responds. ]

Okay.

That's troubling.

Of course, you could lose some stupid memory, right? Like what you ate for breakfast two years and five months ago. But if you lose something important, I could see how someone would start to change.

I guess I won't experiment with that, then. It seemed too easy, anyway.

[as if you would have the balls to die, Midousuji. but he thinks he does.]

[glitzandglamour]

Which would have been my very next argument, beautiful.

[Mettaton levels a steely, easygoing gaze with the camera, an overall charismatic ease to his bearing.]

If it were that easy to return home... nobody would be complaining! They'd be dying instead!

[IGNORING THE FACT THAT DYING WAS HARD AND NOT FUN... Mettaton doesn't remember it too clearly, though. It's probably for the best.

Moreover, though... Mettaton's hand move from Emet-Selch's head to gently smooth over his flopped-over ears before returning to its spot in brunette locks. The person sleeping on him sleeps like the dead.]

Well. I'm glad that's set you straight. Avoid dying, and you won't experience this array of troubling circumstances! Now tell me, darling... I haven't seen your username before. Are you so determined to go home that you were going to really risk a little death to get there? Why for??

[It wouldn't surprise him. People be wildin all the time here...]

[justabaddream]

Yeah... that's me. I crossed the barrier with a human soul. My sibling's soul.

[Which... hurts to say. A lot.]

And as the story goes... I didn't quite make it back.

[glitzandglamour]

So that's what you meant by having died before... It was a tragedy felt by all of monsterkind. We... all monsters felt the pain of your loss, I hear.

[Not like a robot as young as him should have been alive. No siree.]

Say... darling. When you took their soul... and you went to the Surface. What did you go there for?

[The story goes that Asriel was only trying to honor Chara's wish to be with the flowers of their village. But monsters don't often know that the soul they take can influence their actions.]

[judgementor]

We were intending to do some training, but we didn't intend to run into... that situation.

[To run into a situation where Bailey would have to watch Red Wine fight for his life. Where they would have to see... everything that had happened that night. Red Wine hadn't enjoyed it either, but a lifetime fighting Fallen Angels had at least prepared him to not panic in the face of combat.]

You weren't exactly looking your best. [He comments wryly, one corner of his mouth tipping up in a small smirk. Sorry, Mettaton, but he's definitely seen you looking better.]

How are you feeling now?

[discarding]

[MIDOUSUJI DOENS'T LIKE THAT HE'S BEEN SET STRAIGHT!! HOW DID METTATON DO THAT!! THE NERVE. there is nothing more annoying than accidentally bumping into something humbling. Midousuji hisses through his teeth that bite around his tongue, straight and pointed, iris's flattening as he grinds a weird sound out of the back of his throat.

he wishes he could say he didn't get it, or pretend he didn't—but denial was for stupid babies and Midousuji definitely didn't partake in denial. nope

Mettaton's question is similarly abrasive. Midousuji debates getting up, dropping his phone on the ground, and just walking into the city. but he knows that the city would set his nerves on fire, too. there's no real peace.]

Of course I would. What a stupid question. Is that really so unusual????

[once again, more a verbal tic than anything else, Midousuji mutters a resentful little chorus of "gross," posture becoming increasingly tightened at the center, knees coming tighter together, socked feet crossing over one another, shoulders hiking as he sinks his head forward.]

I'm sure it's not everyone's experience, but a lot of people probably have their purpose back home. Most people back home had pointless little lives with little substantial meaning, putting their spirit's weight into small, stupid things because their paradigms had no meaning... No weight, no consequence. Ill-calibrated lesser purposes. But those like me, I don't think it's weird to want to do whatever it takes to realign with your goals.

[glitzandglamour]

[There's no peace between hot robots and grating cities. It's all irritating.

Still, Mettaton gives Midousuji's words a good read over. His lips tighten in something of a tense smile; thoughts flash behind the eyes of an actor, the evidence of machinations at play in the depths of his mind behind the theatrical curtain. Hopes, dreams; ambitions, goals.

He hums, and keeps his smile. Mettaton's gaze realigns with the lens. Despite being so wounded, he remains pleasant and naturally at ease.]

I see. Aren't you a negative sort.

[Not said with any particular heat, just an observation! Perhaps it's because Mettaton understands what Midousuji means if he translates it into his own thoughts on the world. He reasons it out with less of the disdain for humanity.]

Yes. There are lots of people with modest ambitions, and a drive to match. Normal people. I'd say they're being reasonable, not pointless! Even a lowly fast food worker plays his part. [Mettaton winks.] However. There are those of with the makings to seize the starring role... The hero. The villain. The unlikely protagonist! With so much at stake back home, there are some of us with purpose!

[That said, he shakes his head.] It's not weird to want to return, purpose or not. But, in the meantime... what are your goals, darling?

[discarding]

[Midousuji can’t argue with being deemed as negative, even if he doesn’t necessarily agree. as many cynical teenagers tend to spin it, Midousuji is simply pragmatic and realistic. data oriented. and the data, historically, points towards people being both simple and terrible. he understands the assessment, of course; people are always going to have those. he’d never have time for anything else if he ever bothered to argue with people on their takes about him.

still, though... something about that logic gives Midousuji a distant, nostalgic pang he doesn’t quite know how to quantify, besides being a little distracting, and maybe a little nauseating. that kind of boring, middle-ground logic is awfully reminiscent of the thorn with a lame, dated haircut he’s never been able to dislodge out of his side.

to Mettaton’s question, Midousuji squints, tilting his head as his lips pull in a repulsed scowl, tongue dragging back into his mouth from between his teeth.]

to go home ??? obviously

[well. yes. okay. that IS obvious. maybe Mettaton meant outside of that...]

other than that..... there is no purpose.

[Midousuji can’t find one, nor has he looked. his expression becomes vacant as he considers.]

I’ve never been in a situation where I’m held against my will to sustain existence without meaningful purpose

[nor is he sure he can endure that. so he simply elects to not believe in it.]

[glitzandglamour]

That was surely a doozy of a training session, then.

[Mettaton sighs, looking a bit put out. At the same time, he also smirks. His ears would be flattening if they weren't already weak and floppy from his recent death and injury. But then he snorts.]

So I wasn't looking my best. I feel like every time you rush to my side, it's for some ailment or another... Have I ever looked terribly presentable before you?

[First Red Wine came to him when he was still in the thick of being allergic to iron without remedy. Then he came to him while he needed to be killed. Mettaton wonders if Red Wine's ever seen Mettaton look his best save for incidental passing by or if he's broadcasting a video of himself.

It's possible. Mettaton smirks and shakes his head, smiling softly.]

I'll just have to work on recovering so that the next time you see me, I'm as radiant as ever. It'll be a while, I'm sure. [Which is to say that he's alright, but not spectacular. His smirk brightens.] Hopefully not too long. Haha.

oops gently retcons own tag

[freecshow]

[Gon blinks a little, then his posture becomes a little smaller—not that he isn’t dinky already, but his shoulders drop, his expression softening a little as he straightens up his posture, unclenching his fists. Mettaton is with someone... probably his bonded. who is resting. that’s right. Mettaton isn’t a bad person. and if he’d died, of course there’d be people who were worried about him—wanting to spend time with him, having almost lost him. Gon understands that feeling too deeply for someone his age, probably—having been on both sides of it, though his turn to endure it has only been just recently.

sure, because of Mettaton in part, but that’s not really part of the equation here.]

Of course I am. I’m basically better. I’m more worried about you.

Um, when you’re alone—I don’t wanna bother your friend—but, I’d like to come visit. But! If you have any questions, I’m willing to answer. I know that the Cwyld makes remembering stuff kinda hazy...

How are you feeling?

[glitzandglamour]

[All of the exciting Midousuji-isms Mettaton gets to miss out on... How theatrical, he'd remark, not at all put-off. He lives among a race of monsters, and always has.

Humans are just expressive like this, he'd claim.

But Mettaton hums again and shakes his head more fiercely.]

Not that, gorgeous. Of course there's little purpose to be found here!! As a TV star... [Mettaton's fingers drift from their nest of hair to rest upon his pink-plated chest, nails clicking upon metal;] do you think I have very much TV to appear on, in Aefenglom?? Come on. The best they have are these watches with sepia-toned cameras, and few people own them! I can become famous... But that's not enough for me. I wanted to be a global sensation. My ambition to reach for the stars can't possibly be made reality here, without TV, livestreams, or internet!

[These are not things he likes to say. At all. But he does, and he does it easily: it's a fact.]

What I meant, is... what is your goal at home, that you can't see to fruition here? What purpose have you lost, in being uprooted from your existence?