With a soft gaze, Mettaton drinks in this sight. Emet-Selch holds the glowing core to his bandaged chest, and Mettaton helps him keep his grip; his lover's right hand is weak, after all. This is an offering of himself for his lover to keep through strength and weakness both, something to protect, but something to protect him in return. Mettaton would safeguard him from anything he could; he'd also protect his heart from the ache of loneliness he knew bruised him over the years. Despite his injury, Mettaton thought he looked beautiful, lit by the soft ambiance of his own core in the dimming, warm light of the room.
He looked more beautiful than anything because he was precisely who he was, though. And even though this was a topic to unsettle, he looked lovely even then. Even without the sight for souls, it always felt he could see Emet-Selch's. Mettaton smiles gently.]
We will. So... let's see if we can race toward getting better. Right?
[A playful lilt decorates his tone. It's the same sort of challenging demeanor he might take to strike a bet, but subdued, sweet, laced together with the simple wish that Emet-Selch heal quickly. He tilts his head enough to return that kiss against the corner of his lips—only Mettaton captures Emet-Selch's lips in a full, amorous kiss.
The flare-up of want from his end is unfathomable. They'd been desiring this kiss before, even as they started discussing Mettaton's trip into Aefenglom, from Mikasa's house in the Haven, to Parliament, then back directly to the Coven. How could Mettaton do anything but make good on such deepening want? Tender but full, he kisses Emet-Selch; he tastes him, no longer the flavor of blood or anything that made the Puca think of things too dark, too unsettling. And he doesn't deepen it; he flirts with the taste of his mouth with a swipe of tongue and a low, relieved hum, pleasured at the sensation of Emet-Selch's stitched lip against his own silicone ones. That he was injured at all wouldn't stop either of them from their kisses, but the Puca's sure to be gentle with Emet-Selch.
When he draws back, he keeps his face close. Mettaton regards Emet-Selch with softness that doesn't diminish. From here, his very soul begins to relax, to covet more rest, and Mettaton leans back, guiding Emet-Selch with him.]
Relax with me, dear. You're so good at it, that you make it even easier for me to find rest. [A pause, as Mettaton searches for words with a smile. Really, he didn't think he'd be able to sleep if he didn't have Emet-Selch's soul tucked up against his own. They're... inseparable. Mettaton could almost laugh at how combined he is with his Bondmate already.] We'll just have to make the most of our recovery together.
[Their recovery wouldn't be settled after physical wounds recovered, that was true. In fact, Mettaton can already detect a change in himself: he's reluctant to lay atop Emet-Selch for fear that he'll be unable to get off of him. For fear that he'll be paralyzed by the memories of tearing morself after morsel of delicious tissue and swallowing it, the memory laced with the suggestion of kisses. Warm, liquid familiarity, the taste of magic on his tongue—of course he was kissing Emet-Selch, if a kiss could also be the ravenous devouring of his mate.
So for now, he quietly pulls Emet-Selch halfway atop him instead. They're not quite laying down completely horizontal, propped up as they are, but Mettaton still has the Ascian tucked under one of his arms. Between them they hold his core close to Emet-Selch's chest, and the Puca corrals Emet-Selch ever closer so that they could touch bodily.]
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With a soft gaze, Mettaton drinks in this sight. Emet-Selch holds the glowing core to his bandaged chest, and Mettaton helps him keep his grip; his lover's right hand is weak, after all. This is an offering of himself for his lover to keep through strength and weakness both, something to protect, but something to protect him in return. Mettaton would safeguard him from anything he could; he'd also protect his heart from the ache of loneliness he knew bruised him over the years. Despite his injury, Mettaton thought he looked beautiful, lit by the soft ambiance of his own core in the dimming, warm light of the room.
He looked more beautiful than anything because he was precisely who he was, though. And even though this was a topic to unsettle, he looked lovely even then. Even without the sight for souls, it always felt he could see Emet-Selch's. Mettaton smiles gently.]
We will. So... let's see if we can race toward getting better. Right?
[A playful lilt decorates his tone. It's the same sort of challenging demeanor he might take to strike a bet, but subdued, sweet, laced together with the simple wish that Emet-Selch heal quickly. He tilts his head enough to return that kiss against the corner of his lips—only Mettaton captures Emet-Selch's lips in a full, amorous kiss.
The flare-up of want from his end is unfathomable. They'd been desiring this kiss before, even as they started discussing Mettaton's trip into Aefenglom, from Mikasa's house in the Haven, to Parliament, then back directly to the Coven. How could Mettaton do anything but make good on such deepening want? Tender but full, he kisses Emet-Selch; he tastes him, no longer the flavor of blood or anything that made the Puca think of things too dark, too unsettling. And he doesn't deepen it; he flirts with the taste of his mouth with a swipe of tongue and a low, relieved hum, pleasured at the sensation of Emet-Selch's stitched lip against his own silicone ones. That he was injured at all wouldn't stop either of them from their kisses, but the Puca's sure to be gentle with Emet-Selch.
When he draws back, he keeps his face close. Mettaton regards Emet-Selch with softness that doesn't diminish. From here, his very soul begins to relax, to covet more rest, and Mettaton leans back, guiding Emet-Selch with him.]
Relax with me, dear. You're so good at it, that you make it even easier for me to find rest. [A pause, as Mettaton searches for words with a smile. Really, he didn't think he'd be able to sleep if he didn't have Emet-Selch's soul tucked up against his own. They're... inseparable. Mettaton could almost laugh at how combined he is with his Bondmate already.] We'll just have to make the most of our recovery together.
[Their recovery wouldn't be settled after physical wounds recovered, that was true. In fact, Mettaton can already detect a change in himself: he's reluctant to lay atop Emet-Selch for fear that he'll be unable to get off of him. For fear that he'll be paralyzed by the memories of tearing morself after morsel of delicious tissue and swallowing it, the memory laced with the suggestion of kisses. Warm, liquid familiarity, the taste of magic on his tongue—of course he was kissing Emet-Selch, if a kiss could also be the ravenous devouring of his mate.
But he knew he adored laying atop his Bonded. The fact that Mettaton recognizes his own fear is a good step, he thought. And if it felt more unsettling because he was having such a hard time moving... he'd have to get better. He'd have to wait until his reflexes were sharp, his body agile, so that he could pull off of Emet-Selch if he found himself hurting his fiancé. His body was a wreck, after all. Mettaton doesn't want to hurt him.
So for now, he quietly pulls Emet-Selch halfway atop him instead. They're not quite laying down completely horizontal, propped up as they are, but Mettaton still has the Ascian tucked under one of his arms. Between them they hold his core close to Emet-Selch's chest, and the Puca corrals Emet-Selch ever closer so that they could touch bodily.]