![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
October | Test Drive Meme
Jikan Test Drive MemeMinimize
You've seen this before. The thought strikes suddenly, during whatever it is you were doing. Having an important conversation? Running away from home? Dying in the midst of a fierce battle? Where ever you are, one things is true: you're certain this isn't the first time you've lived through this. But upon realizing this, that's when it happens. Like someone hitting rewind on the VCR, you're back where you were ten minutes ago. And it happens again. And again. And again--Until finally, something is different. A door stands in front of you. Will you go through it? Nothing else seems to be working, so this might be your only chance.
Upon opening the door and heading inside, a strange feeling overwhelms you. It's comforting and warm, like being enveloped in a soft, heavy blanket. You hear a voice murmuring in your ear, but it's unintelligible.
And in the next moment, you've appeared in front of a mysterious stone shrine in the middle of a forest, surrounded by the unfamiliar yet worried faces of fox-like humans in red and white robes, speaking in a foreign language that doesn't sound so foreign to you anymore.
Maryouku University
There isn't much time to process what's happening before characters are transported to the nearby Maryouku University. All injuries are completely healed, and those under mental duress will have a powerful soothing spell cast on them to calm them down. Their every need is met: food is offered, and questions are answered. "You've arrived in the Western Kingdom of Nippon, on a planet called Gaia," they explain. "When you became aware of the timeloop, we... well, let us explain."
Orientation Maryouku University, Kyoto
Everyone is brought to a large auditorium, where dozens of other people looking similarly out of place are seated around them. The Kitsune Yokai from before filter on stage, as well as a number of humans and other Yokai in labcoats. And after a brief introduction, they begin to explain. What they experienced back home was a timeloop. While the loops in their home worlds are smaller and likely to resolve on their own, the fact that such a small amount of time is being repeated is what makes them so dangerous for those who become aware of it. And they've been working around the clock, checking adjacent universes for others who've become aware. While the technical explanations may go over the heads of most, that's not the reason they were all brought together like this.
And they continue to explain: their own world was trapped in a year long loop for decades, if not longer. Through the use of an ancient form of bonding magic, they bound their world to the present flow of time, allowing it to progress past the timeloop. Or at least, that's how they thought it worked. In truth, Kizuna is very powerful reality-warping magic. And thanks to the powerful bond all refugees now share with the country of Nippon, the magic surrounding them will only continue to evolve.
Until a means of resuming the flow of time back in their home world is found, they'll just have to make due with this one. But not to worry, because Nippon is fully committed to taking care of the refugees!
A Brand New Home Kyoto, Kansai
Once orientation is over, characters will be allowed to choose housing in both Kyoto and Tokyo, enabling them the means of easily living between both cities if they please. These housing options will be fully paid for by the government of Nippon, with the NRL and MRU providing a stipend for food expenses in Tokyo and Kyoto respectively.
In lieu of providing transportation, all refugees will be granted an unlimited rail pass that they can use to travel all across Nippon! As of the beginning of May, express routes connecting Tokyo and Kyoto will be running at all times of day, allowing refugees to freely travel between the Eastern and Western Kingdoms.
At the Kiyomizu Temple in Higashiyama, preparations are underway for a festival coming at the end of the month. Refugees will hear talk of the locals trying to decide on what style mask they want to create, and at the Temple itself, they'll find craft booths offering free supplies for custom mask making. The masks must reflect what a person believes to be their inner self, and there's limitless supplies provided to bring their creation to light. It seems these are going to be really important later, so don't just half-ass it, okay?
Over at the dorms in Gion, a rather provocative game has broken out amongst the residents. Following a generous gift of prized sake from one of their patrons, the Geiko have decided to throw a party with the refugees, and somehow, this devolved into a competition of strip rock-paper-scissors. With just how many accessories the Geiko wear, they clearly have the advantage! But no one is talking it very seriously, and the night is filled with laughter and silliness. Join the fun? It's one hell of a way to make new friends!
In Uji, signs of autumn have taken over, as the famously rural neighborhood becomes filled with beautiful hues of red and yellow. At the Byodoin Temple, the monks have requested that all visitors bring offerings of colorful leaves for their resident Phoenix deity, who is known to drain the color from people who provide lackluster or incorrect offerings. However, it seems the phoenix is only interested in red leaves this season, and offering any other color will render the one making the offering temporarily colorblind. At least the effect only lasts about an hour? Such a picky bird.
NRL Time Refugee Support Network
Once they've received their housing assignment, all refugees will be given small handheld devices called magi-tech comms, or magi-comms for short. They're heavier than a conventional smartphone would be, but far sturdier, and powered by the ambient magic that flows through the city. They don't need to be charged, but they won't work outside of cities at all. Upon booting it up, they'll find a message linking them to a special channel for refugees.
#nrl_time_refugee_support - online
Use the following code for your top-level if you'd like! This is how network communication will look for characters in the game until more advanced magi-tech comms become available for characters.
A Tale of Two Festivals
As the leaves of autumn begin to change, so too are the refugees encouraged to change up their routine and pay a visit to the city of Nara. Located south of Kyoto, Nara is a city where Yokai and Ayakashi live in perfect equilibrium, with many aspects of life in the city adjusted to account for the Ayakashi's eccentric behavior. Likewise, the Ayakashi here are almost never known to curse anyone, and are generous in the blessings they offer both the people and the land in which they live.
Perhaps some are put off by the idea of a city where Ayakashi are allowed to flourish after past experiences with these strange creatures. But this month is special!
Starting on October 1st, the Tsukimi Festival is held every night after sundown for the next two weeks. Long ago, the gods gifted Gaia an enchanting string of pearls that entwined the planet, lighting up the night sky. However, the greed of mortals seeking power led them to fight over the pearls. As wars waged, the pearls would be shattered in the conflict, until only one remained. Seeing the way their gift was tarnished, the gods decided that those on Gaia would only be allowed to see the pearl in all its glory for part of the month, taking it away for the other half. This became the cycles of the moon, and the shattered remains of the other pearls formed the solid ring that is always visible in the night sky.
So what makes October so special? For this month only, the full moon will be completely visible for the first full two weeks of the month, never visibly waxing nor waning. But what happens after two weeks...? Well, you'll just have to be patient for that!
One With Nature Narashi, Nara
Nara is an interesting city. Buildings are seemingly hidden away by larger-than-life trees that tower overhead, with some even built into the trees themselves, and all of them brilliant shades of red, orange, and yellow for the fall season. Lower streets and areas are lit up by special bioluminescent flowers that bloom on the lower sections of the tree's trunk. And while magic-powered lifts exist, the sheer number of elevated walkways and stairs make it a bit of a workout to explore. And of course, no matter where one looks, wildlife is around every corner -- though by and far, most of them are ayakashi. But there are no higanbana death flowers or dangerous tsutsumi-bara vines here. Instead, the refugees will has a chance to see more tranquil varieties ordinarily only found in the depths of Nippon's forests.
One of the more common creatures found in the main district of Nara, Narashi, is the Arukibake, the ghost-walker ayakashi. Utterly harmless, these little leggy ghosts can be found strutting around the city at every corner, ranging from the size of an apple to waist-height. However, they're known to be naturally attracted to people who have recently experienced bouts of depression or loneliness. The exact reason for this is unknown, but anyone seen with a small procession of these fellas marching silently behind them is certain to get more than a few concerned passer-bys offering them a warm meal, a hug, or even a shoulder to cry on if they need it. Even for the Western Kingdom, it seems the people of Nara are especially compassionate.
And then, there's the likes of the fuwakafun, the puffball ayakashi. No larger than your average cotton ball, these little guys are known to spread not pollen, but color as they move from flower to flower. And Nara, with its unique species of bioluminescent flower that blooms all year round, has no shortage of flowers even during the fall season. Should the fuwakafun land on someone's hair or clothing, it'll fade to take on the color of whatever flower the fuwakafun was resting in before. Ordinarily this effect is meant to create rare flowers as a gift for those who allow the fuwakafun to live in their garden, but with more fuwakafun than flowers, they've got to make do with what they have.
But for all that the Ayakashi in Nara are peaceful, there are still more than a few troublemakers. One in particular to look out for is the gurakurage, the glass-jelly ayakashi. Appearing in an array of beautiful colors, these ayakashi are attracted by greed and feelings of lust. It's not uncommon to see them tethered by a string in shops, where their increased activity serves as a warning to look out for shoplifters. But when encountered in the wild, these strange jellyfish will latch onto the bodies of people experiencing sexual frustration. A minor annoyance to be sure, as they can simply be peeled off, but just don't break the glass dome atop their head. Doing so will greatly anger the ayakashi, causing them to grow in size before... well. I think we all know where the prompt with the tentacle creature is going.
Dear Deer Narashi, Nara
While Nara is known for its high population of Ayakashi, the most well-known is the Saiwaika, the good-fortune deer. Growing no more than two feet high, these miniature deer can be found in parks throughout Nara, where they've become so docile and used to the presence of Yokai that they'll walk right up and cutely beg for food. Thankfully, vendors selling special crackers for the saiwaika can be found everywhere.
Being around the saiwaika has an interesting effect. Those who look upon their tiny, dainty forms will find themselves strongly compelled to be generous and kind to every living creature they meet. Originally a defense mechanism against predators, the saiwaika instead offer this power as a blessing to the people of Nara, which is said to have the lowest crime rate of any city in the Western Kingdom. Even cruel or downright evil folks will find their hearts filled with warm feelings, offering to buy their worst enemy lunch, help a little old lady cross the street, or maybe even offer some more of those tasty crackers to the deer...
All right, so there's a little bit of an ulterior motive to their blessing. But you can't deny they're very cute. However, they really do have a certain craving for these crackers. And while they've learned not to steal them off the stall tables, once the wrapping comes off, it's a free-for-all. The tiny deer have been known to swarm, nibbling at the clothes of those bearing the treats. Some even attempt to jump and steal them, with the saiwaika being well-known for its ability to leap nearly ten feet into the air. Yes, this looks as silly as you can imagine.
Perhaps its because of this that a common prank played by children in Nara is to slip a few crackers into an unsuspecting friend's pocket, causing the deer to hungrily swarm without the target knowing why. Shouldn't their blessing counteract these pranks...? Well, if the saiwaika is getting fed, is it really such a bad thing?
Behold The Pearl Narashi, Nara
Given the name of the festival, it should come as no surprise that the chief activity performed during the festival is simply observing the moon with good company and plenty of food every night. Its radiance will only grow brighter as the festival continues, the light reflecting off the ring that surrounds Gaia and causing it, too, to glow every night, occasionally releasing rainbow-colored bursts of magical energy only visible during Tsukimi.
For the best views, Sarusawa Pond in Narashi is widely considered to be the optimal location for moon-viewing parties. Food and drink stalls can be found lining the pathways that circle the pond, and with the backdrop of a five-story pagoda lit up by moonlight, it's also known as one of the most romantic spots in Nara.
But while there are plenty of places to sit and gaze up at the moon on the shore, the real celebrations occur on small boats that sit silently upon the water. Only allowed to sail at a certain hour before sundown, those hoping for a proper moon-viewing best board early. And once the boat has parked on the pond, a Mizu spell is used to still the water, causing a mirror-like image of the moon and the stars above to reflect upon its pristine surface.
But aside from being very beautiful, there are a number of superstitions associated with this practice. It's said that one should never stare at their own reflection in the water, or else they may see their reflection begin to twist and mutate into a monster. While limited to just their reflection, the effects of this spell may cause erratic or animal-like behavior when standing in the moonlight, with some becoming prone to acting on their every impulse, no matter how rash. It's not uncommon for at least one party-goer to make the mistake of staring too long, before throwing themselves in the shallow pond and thrashing about wildly. Unfortunately, the effects of this will linger until the festival ends on the 14th. Better bring an umbrella for tomorrow's Tsukimi.
OOC Notes
Welcome to Jikan's October TDM! The TDM is considered game canon, and also serves as the intro log! That said, whether you choose to carry threads over to the game or not is up to you!
• Current players are more than welcome to top-level, or take prompts from the TDM and use for their own logs! This may change in the future depending on how busy TDMs become.
• CRAU characters may start regaining their CRAU memories one month after the TDM. However, vague feelings of familiarity are allowed between previous game CR! For more on this, please read the FAQ!
• You do not need to sign-up for housing! Choose whichever style you prefer, in both Kyoto and Tokyo. Roommates can be chosen by the characters or can be random. If you want to switch housing later, your character has the option of moving at the beginning of each month.
• While you do not need to thread the mask-making prompt if you don't want to, these masks will become important for the event later in the month, so choose your designs carefully!
• The full moon will be visible in the night sky from everywhere in Nippon for the first two weeks of October. While Tsukimi celebrations can be found everywhere, the sister festival to this one is unique to the Kansai region, and will be explained in more detail in the event later in the month.
• Characters who have their reflection mutated by the pond's spell will retain a monster-like appearance when they look into a mirror or reflective surface until the festival ends on the 14th. This effect is for their reflection only.
• Similarly, whether their reflection becomes monstrous in a frightening way, or monstrous in a sexy way, is completely up to you. The change can be subtle or dramatic, and those around them will be able to see the changes!
Please leave any questions about the TDM prompts in the thread below! General game questions can be directed to the FAQ!
Apps are always open!
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
jikan_rpg ⌛ jikan_network ⌛ jikan_oocRules ⌛ FAQ ⌛ Apply ⌛ Taken
Auxiliary ⌛ Hiatus/Drop ⌛ Activity Check ⌛ Bonus
Game Timeline ⌛ Code Directory ⌛ Contact
Setting ⌛ Housing ⌛ Businesses ⌛ Kizuna ⌛ Flora/Fauna ⌛ Magic
NPC Database ⌛ NPC Contact
no subject
Mettaton agreed with his recollection as he thought he would, in words that might have easily gone missing had he not been waiting for them, leaned towards the other man to catch sound that felt important for him to have. Emet-Selch was also reluctant to call these images, this information memory, but what else could they be? They had that sort of feeling, if with far less clarity than he was used to.
--Half blind. On reflex, he brings a hand to his eye- his right eye, and Emet-Selch knew immediately that this was the correct one, and that Mettaton wasn't wrong about it. For a moment he's surprised to not feel scarring around it, and his fingers twitch, before he removes them, gaze lowering, pensive. But this body, it had never taken that sort of injury, had it? It wasn't as though he'd never had hosts who'd ended up lamed in some way, permanent wounds he'd endured because the body overall was still both functional and useful. He'd lived with a damaged eye before, but not on this one....
And yet he had. He'd- they'd both been tortured. A recollection that felt additionally hazy, timeless, insane. For some reason he hadn't stopped any of it (he couldn't). Mettaton had looked to be in an especially poor shape, tortured, allergic, and... something else too. They'd bet on something. But with the robot's additional comment, gold eyes return to his face, feeling less surprise than he should have.
Mettaton knew he took hosts, but he had no reason to think there was any particular commonality behind them. Though he'd also caught him in his true body, the idol had never seen his eyes behind his mask. Yet this too didn't feel like a lucky guess, but something... remembered, a detail recalled when supplied with an appropriate trigger.
(They'd been close when he'd told him this aspect of his various forms, and how many times had he seen them together in mirrors, and he could see that one detail that the world had caused them to share? (Why was he often looking in mirrors with him? Why did the concept of mirrors have a melancholy feel to it?))]
Half blind. [A confirmation in a breath.] And yes. They've always been this color.
[A light wind stirs the trees overhead, but little of the breeze reaches this protected spot, the stirring of leaves providing only a gentle background rustling. The sun continues its slow descent, but the level of darkness in the world felt steady, the glowing flora providing a steady supply of mild light. Brightest of all was the robot's soul, something that felt familiar in one way, but that he couldn't remember seeing like this before. There had been the glow of his core, but nothing more.]
--I couldn't see your soul. [He couldn't see any souls, disturbingly enough. He'd been more than half blind.] Yet I knew it, somehow.
[In a way different from just seeing it. Which seemed impossible, but no more than any other part of this shared delusion (memory?).]
Do you know... why that might be?
no subject
As Emet-Selch touches his face, MTT's reminded of the scar that he remembers so clearly there. Of the scars that should've been... elsewhere on his body, though he can't recall those as clearly in the moment. (He still doesn't question why he should know of them, no matter how intimate or vulnerable showing them off would make Emet-Selch.) He only knows that there are (should be) others, many of which came from the torture they endured. Senseless torture.
And more distinctly, Mettaton recalls he could feel it. All of the pain, all of the madness—there was so much insanity, and for a moment, he feels a phantom sensation of something he doesn't have the vocabulary to describe. Mettaton's gaze unfixes from Emet-Selch and he wavers, the ghost of an experience and sensation prickling over his body, fooling him into believing that there was more to feel beyond his current experience.
But it was... intense. So intense that he only sees Emet-Selch confirm his query, watching his lips move, catching the word yes on his lips.
The madness he could remember begins to swallow up his Aefenglom experience. Why was he so lost, so insane?
Hearing Emet-Selch's voice draws him back to the moment, and Mettaton focuses, attention drawn to their souls again. To the purplish hue of Emet-Selch's in this moment, and the fact that it was so striking, so new... Had he been unable to see Emet-Selch's soul, too? (Then why did it feel so familiar to him now, even if its deep hue was novel?)]
Why you knew my soul... Why, I knew yours, without seeing it. I knew it, but...
[Mettaton lifts his finger and beckons in a come-hither curl, a gentle twist of his wrist all he needs to draw Emet-Selch's soul to the forefront. To really see it, in all of his hue and its mass. He stares at it, like it might prompt some onslaught of memory—but it doesn't.
All he can remember is this.]
I wasn't able to use my powers. In fact... my entire being was robbed of magic. I was left so empty, and you...
[There was something Emet-Selch gave him, somehow: clarity. He just can't figure out how, or why. (Was it kizuna? No, but it felt like he was onto something... Mettaton chews on his lip.)]
no subject
(There were other scars too, Emet-Selch was sure of it. Where they were, or what they consisted of, he wasn't sure. A result of that torture he could only hazily recall? That didn't seem entirely right, though....)
The robot looks at him without looking at him, and for a few seconds he's concerned- even if it didn't feel wholly unexpected. All of these memories(?), they were more than just an amusing puzzle, an odd quirk that could be brushed off or pushed aside, but something complicated. Difficult. Important? But the taller man speaks and Emet-Selch has to refocus himself on his words, hoping for something that would clarify his own thoughts.
Mettaton gestures towards him, and the Ascian's brow furrows in confusion, wondering why he needed to be any closer than this- before he feels it. Sees it himself, even, the violet of his soul flaring brighter as it was brought to the surface.
It should have felt threatening. Or at the very least alarming. And it was a surprise, to feel the absolute essence of himself drawn out, but not disconnected from the shell he was wearing. It wasn't an eviction, though it did feel as if he'd been made slightly more vulnerable somehow- and there was the unusual intimacy in having his soul manipulated at all.
This was new- or at least, it didn't reveal any memories of Mettaton doing this before. Despite that, despite everything, the Ascian didn't feel uneasy at this strange act, by the thought of the (once-puca?) robot interacting with his soul. Not only because he felt assured in his own strength, that such a fragile thing before him couldn't hope to do anything to harm him... but because he knew, somehow, that Mettaton would never hurt him.
The reason to trust him though, that much he struggles to identify. Looking down at his own soul, he regards it as he picks through words.]
--I was also bereft of my magic. I think. [He wasn't entirely sure. It may only be a reasonable guess, something reached to explain why he couldn't see souls (impressions of the night sky on a cold night; overlooking the city, there were no souls amongst the lights, but there was nothing unexpected about it).] But not in the same way....
[A different, lesser magic? And they knew each other's souls, despite having never really seen them.]
Monsters fed on magic. [Hesitantly, as though remembering it a word at a time, while not being sure of any of it.] And witches provided it to them. [That there was a benefit to this side he doesn't remember. As if the penalty for going without had never happened. Forcing his attention away from his soul (and ignoring that he wasn't questioning this ability on Mettaton's part, the presumption the robot had in interacting with his soul at all), he inspects his face for answers.] Were we connected, somehow?
[It wasn't the right term for it though....]
no subject
This moment under the trees, which sway gently under the light breeze, is spellbinding. Captivated by Emet-Selch and the mystery of their connection, Mettaton can hardly focus on the glow of violet when he's otherwise so taken by the contrasting gold of his eyes. His features felt so distinct and... familiar, he thought, even without the scars and bruises, even though he knows his hair is normally white. They were both beyond form, and knew each other blind. Were he to close his eyes, he wonders if he'd suddenly understand.
But he can't will himself to stop watching right now, not while he was so curious, so confused, and waiting for anything that could make clear the whole picture. Little details here and there of Aefenglom are coming to light between them, but it's all so... frustratingly indistinct. Monsters fed on magic; Witches provided it to them.
Mettaton licks at his lips. ...He can't taste a thing, but...
That thought's far too indistinct for the robot, who closes his eye again.]
Is that why we thought we were forming a Kizuna bond so soon? A...
[His eye flies open, his lips parting. Obviously, he'd just said the word. A fundamental aspect for the visitors who came from mirrors, for a crucial reason.]
—Emet-Selch! We were Bonded, darling! You and I, we Bonded after we met in the Rathmore's basement!
[In his eagerness, Mettaton reaches for Emet-Selch's hand with both of his own, taking them up in his. He leans for the other man, violet eye clear and expression open as the first clear understanding of how they maybe knew each other comes to be. He doesn't quite remember why or how they Bonded, but he's sure they did.
Mettaton grips harder.]
Do you remember? I had no Bonds. [And so madness visited him easily, implicitly. But he doesn't mention that; Emet-Selch could surely catch up with the meaning of being Bonded. More importantly...] We made a bet over something, and tied our souls together thereafter. Sullen and cheerful, a dazzling pair... I said something like that.
[He doesn't remember why they Bonded, but they did. They tied their souls together to stave off madness, Monster and Witch a pair to imbue with magic, and to drink from it. ...The full understanding of magical transference doesn't quite make sense to MT, but he knows one thing: mental clarity was one of the things he sought, and his soul felt so empty before. Stretches of time in pain, feeling deadened but putting on the bravest of faces... Mettaton sighs just thinking about it, gazing back down at the purple soul pulled from Emet-Selch's chest. ...How interesting, it appears. Totally inhuman; and so, so dense, brighter than he's ever seen.]
no subject
Emet-Selch could practically hear the capitalization. This wasn't just a description of two people empathizing over a shared experience, this was something specific, something technical.
Something that involved their souls, in a way that didn't require sight. If that was true, and if something of the recollection of that experience remained written in their souls, that would explain why they'd noticed each other from the start. Why they recognized each other now, and why- given the introduction on the idea of kizuna- had mistaken one connection for another. Suspicious of that influence, the Ascian had rejected it, but if this was something in his soul that had persisted, not caring that he could no longer remember it--
(He was uncomfortably reminded of the sundered peoples of his world. Despite being broken, despite a separation of thousands of years, and the decay of countless reincarnations, if they were shown a meteor shower, something reminiscent of the sky on fire... some would be moved to tears without understanding why. He could see it in their faces, a feeling of profound grief for something lost, something unfathomably precious to them that they... could never quite recall.
The soul remembered, even when all else was lost. It disquieted, that he might have somehow been similarly afflicted... but it led him to consider that these memories (they had to be memories) might not be false, somehow. Complete as his soul was, how could it lie to him?)
His hand was taken between Mettaton's own, and his eyes fall to it for a moment, before returning to his face, to his intensity, this sudden clarity, for all that it was just one impossible thing in a sea of foreign shapes and concepts. Bonded. Rathmore's. There had been a bet- Mettaton bringing it up made him sure of it, he hadn't just imagined that part.
He nods, unconsciously leaning closer himself, pressing into his hands with his caught one, as if there was some stability there. The then-puca's words, the Bond they'd made in the aftermath--]
It was survival, our bet. You thought we would live, I thought we would perish, with the penalty being to Bond were you right.
[And Mettaton had needed that Bond, he'd discovered, and re-discovered now. Monsters did poorly without one, and someone like Mettaton was even worse off, made of magic as he was.... But even a normal monster suffered. Ferality. Madness, a static; he'd been sparing his Bonded this.
It had been a less wise decision on his part, but he couldn't remember why. But remembering even this much felt important, even if it didn't explain anything in regards to why these memories were there in the first place.]
Obviously we survived. So we were Bonded, our souls, tied.
[Even if he couldn't remember the act itself, Emet-Selch could believe entirely that, were he to make such an unwise bet, that he would follow through with what he'd promised.]
That would explain why we recognized each other, and why we mistook it for kizuna, but why-- [A small, frustrated sound; the more they figured out, the more there was, and none of it made sense to be there in the first place.] If all this truly happened, how did we forget?
no subject
Instead of worrying, Mettaton thinks upon the marvel that their souls had these events written into them. That together, they could jog the memory of this strange existence that he hadn't recalled in his timeloop with Mew Mew, just before arriving here... When and how did this happen? (Why did it feel like he'd arrived on the Surface twice? Why did he marvel at the sun for the first time, two times?)
Mettaton nods earnestly at the notion that their bet was over survival. They survived their torture, against the odds... Even Mettaton survived it, somehow. He knew the fragility of his own soul, and he presses his knees together just thinking about it. He'd endured something no Monster probably could... And he didn't think it had anything to do with being a robot. The intensity of that pain had been bad enough to make his vision double, but as it stands, his body's so limited in its facilities for touch and sensation that he can hardly fathom what that intensity really felt like. ...But against all odds, they survived. And for it, they Bonded. The months that followed grow too hazy to make sense of save for impressions.....
There was sleep. Not just Emet-Selch's (though he remembers suddenly that Emet-Selch said that was what he enjoys doing, sleeping), but even himself...? His brow furrows again and he stares off, thinking about all of the experiences he'd never had before that occurred to him. He could barely wrap his limited perspective around it all... There were so many more intense feelings thereafter that he could barely examine, and he answers Emet-Selch's frustration with an incredulous shake of his head and another tight frown.]
I don't know. How did we end up... here? What happened to us, in Aefenglom?
[There were his first months. There was a power outage... for him, anyway. There was... a performance put on by rebellious Mirrorbound (that's the word for whatever they were called), there was the coming and passing of Modranicht (a holiday whose name he stumbles over, trying to remember). He remembers all of the pain involved with his gradual transformation into a Puca, the 'blood' and ooze and 'pus', a distortion of his legs—he flexes his ankles instinctively, reminding himself that no such thing's taken place. And then they were kidnapped, and he Bonded...
with Emet-Selch. The man who sits before him in this totally removed world, a pocket of the universe where people whose timelines go awry. The common thread that linked them together was somehow unknown to them until now, where they stumble over memories together that should be simple to recall.
...He can't help it when he breaks into a small smile.]
And... what are the chances? That we'd be... united again, like this. [A pause; Mettaton shakes his head.] I get the feeling that our Bond lasted. I recall... challenging you again. Vowing to remain Bonded, until one of us gave in. And do you think you gave in, darling? I don't.
[And neither would he.]
no subject
What a hassle. A complication he'd never asked for in his afterlife, to not only revive, but remember some strange chapter in it that didn't slot in anywhere, neatly or otherwise. But if their souls had been tied together, even if they weren't now, some record of that clearly remained; enough of an impression had been left, and what option was there but to struggle to understand it? Pretending it wasn't there hadn't worked, anyway.
But there was too much to go through, and it was difficult to know where to start, how anything was even ordered. And so many... so much of it invoked strong feelings that Emet-Selch didn't understand, didn't recognize, and that he couldn't find an explanation for, making the task not only harder but- uncomfortable. ...But much of it had to do with the robot at his side.
What did happen to them in Aefenglom?
Eyes casting lower, he gazes at their hands, at the glowing of Mettaton's core, and the brighter light of his soul. And from there, other parts of his lower body, which- assuming their recollection was correct and that the robot had been made into one of those rabbit(?) monsters- would explain why he didn't look entirely as he 'expected' (without knowing he'd been expecting anything). There was no silvery fur where he remembered it, and his hips themselves looked a bit less broad, for all that Mettaton still possessed some dramatic proportions.
Without the fur and underlying muscle, they would probably be less comfortable to rest on, he mused... before catching himself in a blink. It was an odd thought to start with, but worse was the feeling that he knew exactly what it had felt like. And why should he have ever known that Mettaton had muscle growing in his legs? Even if they were Bonded, what a bizarre detail to know....
It wasn't quite dread, but a heavy, dizzying feeling that doesn't so much hit him as seep into him, but that he turns away from acknowledging. Not directly; he couldn't. It was too impossible.
Focusing again on their hands, he rubs slowly at the edge of one of Mettaton's with his thumb (it's his right hand; it felt slightly more difficult to use, somehow). But the robot's words... despite the discomfort that's settling on him, an off-balance, uneasy feeling, his lips twitch in something like a brief smile.]
Were we so determined to not be the one to give in, that we chased each other to another star entirely?
[It sounded absurd. But not wrong, exactly.]
Even through a faulty memory, you deny me my escape. What a menace you are. But you're right. Neither of us are the sort to give up, are we?
[They had remained Bonded, no matter how different they were, no matter how different their views were.]
no subject
[...His thighs were more powerful in Aefenglom, and with his free hand he rubs his leg in something like self-consciousness. It's only after he speaks that Mettaton analyzes what he's said, and it felt... uncannily like something he's threatened before.
A look of fiery determination melts into something giddy with laughter, as he lifts that hand to daintily cover his lips. He laughs, shaking his head.]
...Why do I get the feeling I've said something in that vein before, to you? My goodness. You're a handful yourself, darling. And you call me a menace...
[A menace, which Mettaton knows he's heard before. And...
So affectionately, too. For a moment his brow furrows and his head tilts a degree, examining Emet-Selch's features under the shadows cast by thick foliage overhead, under the soft light of blue, bio-luminescent flora. Emet-Selch... just who is he, and who is he to Mettaton? A man who calls him a menace through a labored sigh, truly tired of the menacing he endures at Mettaton's hand... but there was genuine affection to be found there, in the haunts of his head.
With his fingers over his lips, he envisions Emet-Selch rising to his feet. He envisions him leading him on into a kiss; he recalls a petulant fury, and the sweet victory of pressing his lips against his.
Mettaton gasps, eye blowing wide.]
Oh! Oh my god.
[It's too late. Mettaton can't not examine this memory now that he's verbalized his... distress, but it's more like surprise. If he were a human, he'd be blushing, but instead, Mettaton heats up. His "heater" mode isn't flipped on, though, so all of that warmth remains inside of his body.
Mettaton keeps his fingers tight over his lips, trying to latch onto the sensation of Emet-Selch... kissing him. Was he making that up? He couldn't define it, couldn't figure out how the kiss played out, because the more he thought about them kissing, the more he started getting mixed up in... other kisses? A kiss that starts with a simple press of lips starts to get ever more amorous, ever more textured, with something that exists on the fringes of his awareness as impossible sensation and flavor and real, genuine smell- and Mettaton could nearly go cross-eyed, with all of the sensory input he's processing, but not actually experiencing, nor comprehending. He stares at Emet-Selch's lips, which look so... pouty, even in his smile. So soft. So... kissable.
That he knows they are is a disturbing fact. Not in a repulsive way, but disturbing nonetheless. Alarming is more like it.
Aware that he's gawking openly, Mettaton's face screws up as he forces a smile, dropping his hand. His lips part, and he takes a breath for speech, then freezes. After a good, long pause.....]
Ah, erm. Well. This... Bonding. Is that like... getting married, you think? In Aefenglom. Ahaha.
no subject
But then the robot stops, fingers at his lips, and Emet-Selch stops with him, at this unexpected halting, silence, staring. His own words forgotten, he gazes back, not wanting to interrupt whatever must be running through the other man's thoughts.
As with an exclamation, a reaction like that, Mettaton must have remembered something important, and something distinctly troubling. Emet-Selch tenses slightly, aware that he was still being stared at, and stared at thoroughly, and as the seconds pass, the robot's fingers frozen tight over his lips, he waits with something like nervousness, to learn what, exactly, was worth such disturb.
But the seconds pass, longer than normal ones, and in the end Mettaton just- tries to brush it off? Pretends like he hadn't just been stunned and staring, practically gaping at him, and attempts to move on without any sort of explanation- as though Emet-Selch would accept something like that from him, would be satisfied without an answer at all. His eyes narrow.
And he's about to protest, to demand Mettaton cough up whatever it was he'd remembered. This wasn't the time for reticence, and if he was going to learn everything about this impossible other life, then unfortunately he needed Mettaton to cooperate in shaking those memories loose.
Instead, Mettaton asks his own question, and the Ascian stops, caught short, distracted from his ire and disapproval.]
Is it- like....
[This time it was Emet-Selch's turn to stare, frozen, at Mettaton's face.
They'd gazed at each other underneath an arch of flowers, their hands taken in each other's. Mettaton looked as handsome as he'd ever seen him in his suit, crisp and black with a dash of red (and how daring they were, to tease each other with red). And there, they'd promised... they'd promised--
Something important. Possessiveness and joy and melancholy- each as powerful as the last, enough to take his breath, enough that he felt dizzy, sick and stricken. Their lips together, slightly damp; pain in his neck, the warm seeping of blood. (That wasn't the first time he'd felt his teeth. Instead of one memory there were more, more and more times of the puca dipping to his throat, and of him offering it, to lips and sharp incisors. Anticipatory, he'd press close. Mettaton hovering over him, concerned and relieved and tear-stricken while he felt so weak.)
That ceremony- he knew what it was. Unaware of how long he'd been staring, his hold on the robot's hand twitches. Where Mettaton might have flushed had he been capable of it, Emet-Selch was capable of it- but goes pale instead, lightheaded, as he finally wrests his gaze away, to the side. To gently-glowing plants, to ayakashi, to nothing.]
--No. No I believe it's. Something different from that.
[Not that he could entirely articulate why. Or articulate much of anything, really, even this much feeling as though it comes from a distance. It wasn't often that Emet-Selch felt completely at a loss, but a circumstance like this- realizing he'd been married to a man from another world, on another world, for sentimental reasons- was apparently enough to do it.]
no subject
If anything, Mettaton's question was one sourced from an angle of propriety. Of wondering why he'd recall himself kissing this man once, only to have that memory made muddled by numerous kisses he could almost imagine on his lips, a full array of sensation he lacks. But the pandora's box the idol inadvertently opens is one of wedlock, of the evening sky and magical instruments strung from trees, crystal against flowers.
Of holding Emet-Selch's bare hands in his own. Of gazing down at him, garbed in pristine white with splashes of violet and red. Of... that taste again that he could scarcely fathom, one that has him licking his lips again as if to catch it. Emet-Selch's neck, the bloom of scarlet that made such a striking impression on the breast of his suit, the sound of his voice and the heated knowledge of possession—
Mettaton's gawking right back, the memory too indistinct to latch onto. He grips onto his companion's hand, perhaps with a mechanical tightness he doesn't realize he's applying.
(They'd said something to each other that day. It was a promise. For some reason, a promise like that twists him up inside to forget. He recalls Emet-Selch's voice in his ears saying words he can't understand, in low, gravely tones; hoarse, soft, stricken, all of it.
Did... any of that happen? The idea is so fuzzy in his mind that he wonders if he'd just hallucinated it.)
Ascian and machine gaze at each other with their hands together, the palest imitation of their grips on a wedding day that they were both recalling together. Passersby are rare on this street, but those who spot them don't interfere: for all that the two have ayakashi swarming them, they are two together, so all should be well. Emet-Selch's desire to be left alone by natives is realized, Mettaton's strategy to ward them off effective.
At the cost of this. Mettaton swallows; he doesn't do that often, but it felt like he did? He has no saliva, and his mouth felt uncannily dry, despite having never had saliva. His body felt strange beyond the displaced memories he could only see the edges of.
His lips part for speech, but it takes him moments longer to speak.]
Ah. I just... recall, well. Kissing you. Often. And...
[Their Bonding ceremony. He remembers that, though he mostly remembers thinking about the fancy dress he could've worn to the mostly-impromptu event, this "shotgun wedding." He saw their souls tied together, but that was early on enough that it was far clearer than most other recollections.
So the memory of their silhouettes cut of fine fabric in dark and light, standing under the summer evening sky... That wasn't a Bonding ceremony. And it didn't feel like it either. There was far too much emotional charge to the scene, so much so that the robot feels it brimming over in his heart.]
Hades, I think we did...
[...get married. He hesitates to say; it was an absurd conclusion to reach, but the only one he could come to. And if Emet-Selch wasn't remembering already, the idol was presently too astonished, too unsteady to vocalize this truth.
That he said Emet-Selch's true name, he doesn't even catch.]
no subject
What a price this had become. Spared the interference from the locals, but having delved into memories so faint, and yet so sharp, in the way they cut straight through him. Left to his own devices, the occasional disordered image hadn't been something he'd been able to ignore, but with nothing to encourage it, no truth to be looking for, they hadn't left him with more than uncertainty. Perhaps more would've drifted to the surface of their own accord, slowly returned to him in some smoother way than this- but it was too late; the gates had opened.
Enough that there was no sense to make of it, no way to avoid drowning, as every time he risked looking into Mettaton's eye, chanced glancing at his face, at his body, he remembered some other moment when he did the same thing. How many times had they held hands, if not quite like this? How many times had they sat together, in places he knew but couldn't remember? Their hands locked, they had found in each other a regular company.
And much more than that, hadn't they? Mettaton swallows, and Emet-Selch unconsciously echoes him; words happen, and he nods, his reply strained.]
We did. We....
[They had kissed often. When Mettaton says it, the instances that try to come to mind- there were too many to sort through, a tangle of disconnected moments, and increasingly tangled bodies. But they kissed, so much that they often ended up tasting the same.
And they were- they had been- married. They had vowed something to each other (this too is confused, promises made in places, times other than this), he could see Mettaton's lips, he could hear his voice, but the words couldn't reach him. Mind skipping between images, he couldn't make out more than fragments of words, and it was maddening, as if he'd lost all ability to comprehend language.
But more than frustrate, it ached; he clutches tighter at Mettaton's hand, even if it hurt.]
...We forgot after all, didn't we.
[For some reason that hurt more than almost anything, a pain that steals his breath and unsteadies it when he attempts to restart it. But it didn't entirely surprise him; Emet-Selch knew how important memory was to him, and to begin to realize he'd lost something that was precious to him- how couldn't it hurt? But it had the feeling of a fear coming true, a dread completely justified.
As though he had to brace himself for it, Emet-Selch lifts his gaze slowly to the other man's face- his husband? The rabbit ears were gone, and his eye was its natural violet, but this was unmistakably the Mettaton that he knew.
Where the robot had missed what he'd said, the Ascian had not, but there's no surprise in his expression, only the faintest sort of smile. Something sad, yet... the smallest bit comforted all the same.]
--But you remembered my name.
[He'd made no suggestion to Mettaton here that Emet-Selch was only a title. That Mettaton knew it, and that it sounded so right coming from his lips- that was proof. They weren't imagining all of this.]
no subject
Mettaton perks up, eye wide and surprise written into his expression. He stands straight.]
Hades...?! Oh...
[They'd forgotten after all. (It felt rotten and wrong. They weren't supposed to forget... Somehow, he has the distinct feeling of having felt secure in remembering, not like the way every day in Aefenglom felt. But why?) But if he had ears, he was certain they'd be standing tall in alertness at his recollection, at the avalanche of them that kept on coming. From Bonding to kisses to marriage to Emet-Selch's identity, they were gut punches neither of them could ever recover from, not truly.
Prior to having this sit-down with Emet-Selch, it was hard for Mettaton to make much sense of his strange assortment of memories. They blurred with his current experience, feeling all too recent but strangely distant, worlds apart. Because it was worlds apart, and they were here now, in Nippon. Not Aefenglom, not... (Geardagas? He can't quite remember the word.) But if he didn't regard them directly, he couldn't fall into them; and even if he did try to examine them, he was aimless, incapable of focusing on one facet aside from shapes and colors and sensory input he'd never had before.
(He remembers a woman's voice over ice cream. He remembers the gravelly growl of a Dragon and damp, hot breath over his fur. He recalls the stench of something sickly and rotten, but can't quite grasp it fully...)
But he'd married. He'd Bonded. Memory upon memory of Emet-Selch at his side blur together in an incomprehensible mess, and Mettaton gazes into that man's eyes, neither of which are scarred. He looks different; he looks exactly the same. His soul remains tugged out between them, a brilliant purple there to join the glow of flowers and plants, and Mettaton glances down at that soul.
Staring at it directly, his smile finally brims, bright even with its edge of grief.]
I finally see your soul, my darling. And... together, aren't we remembering?
[They'd forgotten. But as they grip each other's hands, as Emet-Selch felt the phantom pain of a lame right hand, Mettaton reminisced over the sensation of his hand pressed to his lips, his body, feelings that should feel more vivid than what he's ever experienced.
There was a lot to his own anatomy that suddenly felt starkly lacking, and Mettaton spares a glance to his body. He looks at his un-furred hips, his groin, his legs and his arms, all which are perfectly normal and perfectly adored by himself... But without the sensory input he had before, he feels lost. But for now, he wrests his attention back to Emet-Selch's soul, transfixed by it settled before his eyes.
He looks up at him. Even though he rubs the side of his hand, Mettaton doesn't realize how firmly he's gripping his hand.]
It's so much to recall, that it all blurs together. I don't understand why... but I'm glad we're here together.
[Mettaton had exposed so much of himself to Emet-Selch that were he to wake here and not have him... He couldn't bear to think of it. He'd just made himself vulnerable to the fact that even he was someone who needed close company, and to lose that was a painful thing. (Perhaps it would have been karmic, too. But he tries not to think of that, either, because he feels very fortunate to find his Bondmate in this faraway place, where their souls were no longer Bonded the same way.)
With only a moment's hesitation, Mettaton lifts one of his hand to press it to Emet-Selch's cheek, the memory of having done so too many times before making it feel familiar.]
no subject
But it was a good thing they were seated for how unsteady Emet-Selch continued to feel otherwise, as if the world had disappeared out from under him, and that so many things that he'd taken for granted were no longer the case. Being on this foreign star, plucked from the Underworld, had already been enough to startle him, but to discover that he'd been on yet another world too, had... had been in love with someone there--
The Ascian still shied away from that thought, that word, even if he'd already acknowledged that he'd married the damned robot (and for reasons that weren't political or strategic). But it disturbed, and not because he found the other man unpleasant or the concept repulsive (much as when Mettaton had recalled all their makeouts), but that was an unsettling amount of vulnerability. That was risk, that was a lot of things that he'd apparently made himself open to, and which he could feel etched deep into his soul.
...But that was one thing that they hadn't had. In Aefenglom, their powers were somehow missing, provided instead with lesser magic or a rabbit's features. Though he'd known Mettaton's soul, he'd never really seen it, not like this. A shape so unusual and fragile... and his own, in all its density and size, capable of being brought forth with a single gesture on Mettaton's part. But it was no wonder then, that he'd not felt threatened by him doing something like that. He'd risked his heart already, had given Mettaton his name....
They had been... close. An understated way of thinking about it, as he tries to mull over only that specific aspect of their connection. Outside of the memories that were a nest of roots tangled together, there was this feeling to hold onto, to take comfort in knowing. No matter how much it hurt to realize he'd forgotten after all, it was true, what Mettaton had said. Those memories weren't entirely lost, were they? Despite themselves, they'd remembered each other, and with every instance they shared, more was rediscovered.
And like this, to see Mettaton gazing at his exposed soul, a smile on his face despite it all- that softened him too, despite how unsettled he remained. But looking at the robot's own soul, bright and delicate, strange in shape, yet intact... there was comfort in that. Being able to see it, being so close to it, even if he couldn't remember what it should feel like, to be connected to his.]
--It's a pleasure to finally see your soul. And you're right. I don't think- I don't think either of us would have chosen to stop, even if it took starting over. And we don't have to entirely, do we?
[They hadn't wanted to be parted, he was sure. And somehow, even if it hurt to think about what was currently lost, and what might remain lost... they were still together, somehow. They remembered some things, even if it was a mess. They remembered this.
Mettaton brings his hand to his cheek and Emet-Selch stills, startled slightly, eyes returning to his face. Somehow he hadn't expected it, the intimacy catching him off guard, the strangeness of the now mixing with everything that told him this was right.
Slowly, he brings his free hand up, to rest uncertain fingers gently over Mettaton's. Just as carefully, he presses his cheek into it, as if having to relearn what had once been routine, automatic. It wasn't as though he'd never performed affectionate gestures, but Emet-Selch was used to them being performance, while this was... very real. This wasn't going through the motions or playing a part, which made it new (and yet, not new at all).
But his hand felt familiar against his face, in that distant, aching sort of way.]
It blurs, with no obvious start nor end to it. It's hard to know where to begin.
[But there was one thing. One thing that he wanted, even if his pulse already felt too fast, even if everything was already too much to take in without being overwhelmed. Keeping Mettaton's hand against his face, it's hesitantly, haltingly that he leans in, eyes slipping shut. And it's very, very gently that he presses his lips to Mettaton's, in something little more than a brush of contact.]
no subject
The answer to the former, at least, is far. Further than Mettaton thought anyone could, and he feels touched by the sight of the man in front of him, as he compares his existence to that of all others he knew. He'd grown plenty close to humans and monsters alike, of all kinds... but he could never make himself so vulnerable to any of them. Mettaton is the celebrity breakthrough, a charming presence when he needed to be, and one larger than life during others. Even to Napstablook, he hasn't come clean... But this was knowledge on the level that Alphys possesses. No... he'd even exposed himself to him about her, it felt like.
He remembers: Emet-Selch is where he can be more than Mettaton. Emet-Selch is who he can be safe with, prone and vulnerable. He trusts him. He trusts him... even when he threatens to blackmail him, which just seems silly now. Mettaton smiles broader, shaking his head at the thought.
His cheek felt familiar under his fingertips, even though it felt a bizarrely intimate gesture for the idol to perform if it wasn't to flirt playfully with a fan (or "fan," as it is with Mettaton). The two of them find each other familiar, though he could tell Emet-Selch almost flinches at his touch. Mettaton doesn't blame him. He understands the tentative nature of this reunion, how odd it was to grope blindly through impressions of memories, knowing just the basics of their dynamic. Emet-Selch is both a stranger, and entirely not: he knew so much about him, but the small details (such as the Ascian's preference for sleep) lay beyond him, waiting to be relearned. But they were... terribly close. More than they had words for.
Which is why gestures felt natural. This touch to his cheek is accepted, Emet-Selch touching his hand, and Mettaton feels himself still, on tenterhooks. It was hard to know where to begin, that much is true.
Mettaton nods. And Emet-Selch takes his gaze and leans, and it felt... familiar in a way no kiss was. This isn't a performative kiss, but a private one, meant to be taken behind the curtain. And though he can't bring himself to close his eye all the way, his dark eyelid curtains low, and Mettaton meets Emet-Selch part-way, guiding him along with the gentle tug of his fingertips.
Their first kiss in Nippon is but a soft brush of lips, contrasting against their first kiss ever by virtue of being so fragile to start. Yes... Mettaton could remember then the heat and intensity of their relationship—and he instinctively takes Emet-Selch's lower lip between his own, sucking on it gently.
...Mettaton isn't very good at kissing, but it's about as good/bad as their first kiss in practice, as he pushes himself a little too firm against Emet-Selch's mouth like he's starved for pressure. And he has no saliva, so it's fortunate that he's not trying to get too frisky. But it's in his spirit that he tries to deepen it this far, feeling intrinsically that it was natural to be heated with the Ascian.
When he pulls back, Mettaton opens his eye and gazes into the one right in front of him. Emet-Selch could see like this, his eye no longer blind nor scarred... That's worth a smile, too.]
Well. I think this is a good start.
[His thumb strokes over Emet-Selch's cheek bone, and he imagines the sensation of his cheeks warmed and soft, as though he's felt it once before. (His face flushed—it strikes him then, the sorts of intimacies they may have engaged in, though he can't fathom it at all.)
For the moment he marvels at the sight of his soul and his body, the entirety of the man he knew. The man he... Bonded with, and married. He still reels from that thought, that he could remember marrying this man—and he gazes down at the sight of his soul, how dense, how large, how deep its color. Of course, compared to Mettaton's own, anything would be a deep color: his own is completely devoid of it, a bright light with little character to it, brittle like a bulb. And strangely inverted, unlike that of a human's completely.]
Look at how far we've come already. I could barely make sense of it all, before you helped me. Somehow I knew you could! I have excellent instincts... Haha.
no subject
Contact, though. An attempt to allow instinct to guide their hands- or faces- that didn't require active recollection. Though Emet-Selch hadn't expected to be, it was still a faint relief to not be rejected when he leans in- to even feel Mettaton pull him a little closer into it, as their lips meet.
Though he tries to remember, Emet-Selch just can't recall what their other first kiss had been like. How had that gone? What reason had they had? He knew they had been tortured, had evidently survived and Bonded afterward, and as a likely result of that had become close. It's less a memory and more a reasoned guess that they'd deliberately tried to overwhelm the other with themselves, to force their Bonded to give up. But of course they hadn't, with instead a result that Emet-Selch couldn't begin to feel the shape of. Only that what they'd developed had been considerable, with a depth that yet left him unsettled to consider.
It was also more assumption than memory that Mettaton must've been no less vulnerable with him- as the Ascian was certain that he would have never have been able to open himself up at all, had it not been reciprocated (That the robot had initiated it- that too would also not surprise him. On their meeting here, even if they'd both been influenced by their past... Mettaton had given up more details of himself.).
No clearer memories were inspired by this kiss, but that might've been too much to hope for. The touch itself felt unusual, in a way that he had a hard time defining. Drier, or something, more than he might've expected (but why would a robot have had saliva in the first place?). He was more conscious, certainly, of being pressed to silicone rather than skin, but it wasn't unpleasant.
Only somewhat awkward. Mettaton pressed too firmly to his mouth, and Emet-Selch's reciprocation remained halting, uncertain, familiarity warring with something that felt entirely new. They had been close, but he couldn't remember how it went. It wasn't as simple as letting instinct guide him, because even that couldn't tell him everything, and any attempt to think about it only interrupted impulse.
(That they'd been intimate in ways other than soul, with methods beyond kissing, is something he's not quite able to approach. Not directly. Even with the suck upon his lip, the suggestion of heat... that there was an instinct there to deepen things further seemed to be the case. How deep had they gone?)
But it hadn't been bad, and the ways that it felt right outweighed the uncertainties. Enough so that when it ends, his eyes opening to meet purple (that was one other thing they had here, he remembered; he wasn't blind at all now), it was tempting to press his lips right back into Mettaton's another time. If one kiss wasn't enough to stir his memories entirely, how many more would it take? (How often had they been able to stop at only one?)
But he leans back a little instead, without pulling away from the stroke of Mettaton's thumb at his cheek. Only enough to look at him more easily, aided further by having two working eyes to do so. A mess as it all was... this was a good start, wasn't it? If this was something that had existed between them, something they both clearly felt a desire to reclaim, a piece of their lives that had gone missing... progress had been made.
He still sighs, for the show of it.]
I can't say I expected my day to include learning I've been married yet one more time, and to a man from another world at that. I wonder if I lost another bet.
[A brief edge of a smile, before sobering. Looking down between their souls again, he wondered if this was something he'd frequently find himself doing now. Without the feeling of their Bond (whatever that had been), would gazing on it like this be the best he could do?]
I still can't make sense of it, myself... and there's ever more to make less sense of. Will it ever finish falling into place, I wonder.
no subject
Mettaton sighs, mirroring Emet-Selch's. There was... relief, but exhaustion all the same. But he snorts at Emet-Selch's summary of the day, cracking an eye open to regard him warmly.]
You think you have it dizzying. I guess I'm married at all... It's my first, and my only, you know.
[As Mettaton knows intrinsically that he'd made a promise. He'd made... a lot of promises. And some of them, he's defied. He feels deeply unsettled by this for some reason, in a way that felt nearly crippling to consider. ... He tries to ignore it all for now, given that he couldn't even remember them all. (Which was, in itself, part of the problem.)
Lightly patting his cheek, Mettaton allows for his fingers to drift some more, exploratory. Learning. Investigating. His eye follows his companion's jaw as his fingers do, feeling bone beneath flesh in a way he's never intimately experienced—and yet, he has experienced this. But he relearns him moment to moment, as though it's his first time.
It felt like it was, anyway. The memories he has of touching this man as his lover, his fiancé, his husband... They're indistinct. It felt brand new to touch him, and muffled, at that. He finds his eyes narrowing, a touch discouraged by the way things felt so unclear. But that was to be expected. They'd still discovered this, and he could feel in his heart that this mattered. This is important, that they'd discovered their close bond. (Though missing the Bond part of the bond... it hurt to realize, even if he could barely imagine what it felt like. He knew whatever it was, it was important to them.)
Would it ever finish falling into place without that piece? No. If anything, it might take a different shape... and it was hard to say what that might look like.]
... If something ever occurs to you about us, you'll be sure to share with me. Won't you, darling?
[Implicitly, Mettaton would. Even if it took a bit of explaining or dancing, as he had earlier out of embarrassment, these memories are Emet-Selch's that they shared together. But even some of the things they didn't share might be of help, so the robot tilts his head.]
Actually, I'm curious about anything you remember. What seems clearest to you right now, Hades?
[That this is Emet-Selch's name, a private attribute of himself... Mettaton doesn't hesitate to use it. This is how he refers to this man, as the memory of him blends together in impressions, and it's why he'd asked after what he called him. This is his true name, just like Mettaton is his own. (Though he gets the feeling that Emet-Selch has reasons for keeping it private; it meant keeping it to himself. He would respect that, even if it was a totally different way of thinking from his own.)]
no subject
But he strokes over black silicone towards Mettaton's neck, feeling the supple texture underneath his fingers. Supple in a way different from skin, but pleasing to the touch, and once again familiar.]
Your only. [He repeats, as if saying the words might further confirm them to himself. Slowly, he rubs with his thumb at the base of Mettaton's throat.] Don't bother trying to remember any others, hm?
[The flash of possessiveness was sharp enough to take him off-guard, and he blinks at it. It wasn't as though he cared about Mettaton's interpersonal relations (even physical ones (somehow)), but in this, he felt determined to be Mettaton's only. Someone he knew so well despite barely remembering at all....
But Mettaton referring to him by name goes over more smoothly than he would've ever expected. Something that Emet-Selch only notes for just how natural, how normal it felt. Even if they didn't have the details, they were deeply, personally involved; using anything else would've been wrong.
So the only thing that causes a frown is the question, and it's one of thoughtfulness, his eyes lowering.]
Anything I recall, I'll tell you, as it seems to encourage my own memory. Though 'tis hard to describe any of it as clear. Not events. Feelings, the certainty that I know you... that's clearest of all.
[...Mettaton must've been very dear to him. He still was, he supposed, even if the awareness of love felt like stretching a limb that had gone unused, that he'd somehow forgotten existed until this moment. But considering both how strong that feeling was, and how many fragments of interaction he could already recall (an alarming amount of time spent with their lips together), and how they related to his... lover's presence- it would be an understatement to say that he was important to him.
His lover. It wasn't exactly that startling to think, not after remembering they were married (and in love). It would be hard to believe anything could beat that when it came to surprises. But he finally turns to that aspect as well, for all that it was beset with the same problem as the rest of his memories, that he had a few vague impressions at best. Gut feelings. But with his eyes lowered, it wasn't difficult to take a glance at the robot's crotch.
It wasn't as if Mettaton was wearing clothes. And it wasn't as though particular equipment was required for that sort of intimate relationship, even if aspects of it would be somewhat one-sided. But that wasn't what instinct was telling him. Yet in many of his memories of a rabbit-aspected Mettaton, he looked to be as... unequipped as now. Something didn't make sense (a lot of things).
Blinking quickly, Emet-Selch looks back up at him. Thinking about Mettaton's thighs, how he'd rested on them before had been a start, but there was something else, some other part of that night--]
--There's one memory. [Of all things. He feels slightly put out at having a few whole minutes seem to click into place, and to have it be something like this.] We were on a couch together, you were-- [Demanding that he suck his cock, which he had. The Ascian hesitates at this, less out of shyness, but certainly finding it an awkward thing to recall.] well. One of your arms was missing. Torn off somehow. You set the couch on fire.
[A deeper, exasperated frown, as though blaming Mettaton for all this in rediscovered retrospect.]
And electrocuted me when I tried to drag you from your pyre.
no subject
There's... something positively delightful in that, to the monster. A quirk of a giddy smile pulls his lips, quietly pleased to himself. And there, a bloom of... love for this man, for the instinctive understanding that he could have ever made himself so vulnerable to his robot's touch.
He didn't think he was imagining it, especially as Emet-Selch's possessiveness rises off the charts. His fingers drift over the soft silicone of his chest and run over his throat, a spot of vulnerability on most creatures, Mettaton knew. But the Puca croons at it, a gentle "Oooooh," his only reply. His smile is heated, and he takes no offense to this man and his claim over his marriages.
Why bother trying to remember others? There's a thrill in being married to only him, after all. Especially if he was going to react like that, Mettaton thought.
And following that feeling comes a few descriptors in the robot's head used to summarize their relationship with each other. Intense, he scarcely recalls; passionate, deep, trusting. His eye softens at the sight of Emet-Selch, knowing intrinsically that the man before him surely made himself completely known to Mettaton in that time... and that somehow, he'd been able to make known himself. Mettaton knows he'd expected to some day get married, if it ever came up: he envisioned a human who he'd have to keep hidden the undesired parts of himself to. But this felt different from that.
So he asks for memories, and Emet-Selch volunteers after a bit of hesitation in places, which piques Mettaton's interest. (What was I doing there, on that couch...?) With his arm missing, the couch ablaze, this man electrocuted.
Mettaton's eye rolls up to the treetops above in thought.]
It's not too strange for me to lose an arm here or there. I am a robot... You run the risk of electrocution when getting too close to my exposed wires! But my. How reckless of me.
[To sit luxuriously on a couch even while missing an arm... He knows better than to do that, but it wasn't to say he wouldn't gallivant around and do whatever he liked, whenever he liked. Missing an arm wouldn't keep Mettaton from plopping himself on a sofa. Not now, and not in Aefenglom. He snorts, totally oblivious to any of his own cock-sucking requests from Emet-Selch's scattered memory of their time together.
However, the robot does close his eye in thought. There were a lot of sounds he remembers from this memory, for some reason... But it's such a messy haze of stimuli that he can hardly piece it together at this point in time. With a gentle smile and shut eyes, he nods shortly.]
Yes... I do remember some of it. But I felt so strange that day. It makes it hard to... sort it neatly. [Though he doesn't know it, it being the full moon makes it especially difficult to recall clearly. That piece, the idol can't recall.] Something bad happened... A horrible beast of some kind. A... dragon?
[He frowns tightly. For some reason, the word dragon begets even more of an uneasy reaction from Mettaton, and he knows they posed plenty of danger to him in this faraway place. His dark-painted lid remains closed in reflection, as his fingers flirt over Emet-Selch's skin, traveling along the underside of his jaw, then down the side of his supple neck. ...With his other hand, the two they have still bound together, he squeezes unconsciously harder.
He can hardly remember anything about the dangerous encounter that preceded his time with Emet-Selch. But a small smile graces his features, replacing the tension that etched itself there.]
...You slept with me that night, on the floor. You didn't go to bed.
[And that felt like the most important thing. Something to make Mettaton's heart swell. Is this what falling in love felt like? So swiftly, too, but he feels flattered, and he cracks open his eye to regard Emet-Selch again.]
no subject
Common or not, I'd expect you to take better care of a body so prized. And by that I mean mine. [A flash of haughty offense.] I couldn't change hosts so readily there. You're lucky it survived.
[Yet... yet it felt as though that hadn't stopped them at all when it came to taking risks. Being shocked though, had been an accident. And he'd been far more concerned overall with whatever had happened to his lover's arm.
But the other details of the night were vague. That it was night at all, so late that it was near dawn- it was only a feeling. How Mettaton had lost his arm he can't remember, but at the mention of a dragon, he slowly nods. That sounded right, even if it didn't cause anything else about the night to come back. How had a dragon gotten to Mettaton in the first place, why had one decided to tear a limb off? Where was the limb, and where had Mettaton even been, and why....
The detail of the full moon also escapes the Ascian (but had Mettaton's fur been darker...?), as he watches the signs of Mettaton's own discomfiture, the robot's eye closed. But the night itself felt full of disturbance, from the missing limb, Mettaton's other wounds, his own electrocution, the couch fire, on top of some instability rendered by the night itself, somehow. A mess, but even if it wasn't as clear as he would've liked, there was some sequence of events, at least.
But the last part... that was the most important piece of it, he thought, and he squeezes back at Mettaton's hand when he seemed to remember it too. (Even if it still hurt, somehow.) And the fingers of the robot's other hand that continued exploring his neck, his jaw- they kept being both familiar and new, something to re-accustom himself to, and something reassuring.]
You couldn't exactly use a bed, could you? Not without setting ever more of our things ablaze.
[Which had nothing to do with why the Ascian had remained with him, and he sighs more softly, his thumb running slowly along the robot's jaw. His lover hadn't been an object, to rest alone and malfunctioning on the floor; he remembered that feeling. So Emet-Selch had stayed, his head resting on softly furred thighs.
It hadn't been the easiest night. But that part... it had been terribly romantic, hadn't it? The rush of concern, of attachment- they're enough to nearly take his breath, especially when Mettaton's eye reopens, and their gazes meet again. Love was an uncomfortable thing.]
--Resting the night on your legs, and something of the foregoing. That would be what I remember best. [Which was all very sentimental in the end, and he shakes his head at it; none of any of this was easy.] But what of your memories? What's clearest in your mind?
[Any detail of them, any detail of the world... what a puzzle it was, to put together in the dark.]
no subject
For some reason, the robotic idol found himself remembering audio more often, with stills of the accompanying memory. There was something spoken soft in a gloomy voice; his own met it, stern and commanding. (An argument?) He could remember Emet-Selch thanking him, taken aback; he remembers himself warm despite the cold, fully in love, with just the scarcest impression of gold and amethyst. (The winter; jewelry?) But these are all so indistinct that they felt difficult to describe, so fresh and new that he could barely catch up with them.
Emet-Selch's griping has Mettaton remembering something a little more clearly. A vow... to better understand his body. Fear, intense and maddening. But before he could latch onto the thought, Mettaton refocuses on an answer, smiling.]
And... I do treasure this body of yours. In fact, I feel certain I...
[So back to that memory he descends, closing his eye. It's... terribly indistinct. There are voices, his own and Emet-Selch's—along with someone else's, calm and collected. If only he could have something to latch onto...
(What were they doing? What led them down, what made them go from a kiss to downed? What was on his tongue? What was he seeing in the dark...?)
Whatever was on the fringes of his awareness, it wasn't an easy memory. He frowns tightly, though his expression neutralizes as he tunes into Emet-Selch's voice. Opening his eye, he catches his golden gaze with his own, his head a tender, vulnerable place right now.
Their fingers trace each other's throats, and Mettaton makes a soft sound at this scant bit of sensation he was hooked on. To have a lover meant being inundated with sensation, didn't it...? Just how dimensional did it become? How much of a dazzling experience did Emet-Selch bring him? It excited to consider, and Mettaton shivers slightly, his metal parts rattling with the movement.]
Most of what I remember... When we met. And... when we Bonded. I can tell you all about what I recall then, if you'd like. [He offers Emet-Selch a smile. His memories return to him mostly in sequential order, with blurry hints here and there of moments beyond. But before Emet-Selch can ask him for elaboration, Mettaton hesitates, making it clear that he has another thought by averting his eye...
to stare at Emet-Selch's neck. His fingers follow his artery, gently pressing into the area beside it that felt so tender.] But Hades... I feel certain I must have made... plenty of mistakes.
[Especially when it came to caring for this body. It didn't mean that he didn't treasure it, though, and he felt convinced that he did. But there was fabric stained a crimson so bright, pillows soaked and Emet-Selch pale... He couldn't stray from that, as he shakes his head.]
I'm just... Sorry, darling. I think I hurt you once. I... hurt your neck?? [How did he do that? He didn't think he cut him.] And you stopped responding. How did I...
[Mettaton's voice drifts off. He could barely recall it all... but it was a new memory, a new moment. Mettaton shakes his head with a touch of frustration.]
I just remember calling for help, and... holding your blood inside. I knew I needed to take better care of you after that.
[There always felt like something important to take away from a thought or a feeling, and from this memory came the desire to watch out for Emet-Selch where neither of them previously looked out for him. That his condition was somehow left in jeopardy under their mutual watch. They were both fairly risky with him, weren't they?
Mettaton wraps his palm around the side of Emet-Selch's neck in an echo of the touch he'd applied when Emet-Selch lost consciousness to blood loss. He remembers the vague stickiness, the insanity of fear that drove him to stay still for hours there, as though holding his Bonded together. But he can barely remember how it ended, save for Emet-Selch's pitiful disorientation.]
no subject
It was a softer thing to dwell on, when it all was overwhelming, something that would take more than a few conversations to sink in, more than a few days to settle. Even if everything suddenly became clear, it would take time to adjust. It was already an exhausting prospect, but at least he wasn't alone in having to go through it. (He wasn't alone?)
Something had struck the robot, and Emet-Selch waits quietly to hear of it, still stroking his neck, encouraged by the small sound, even the rattling. So Mettaton had more of their earliest memories together.... It made him wish for something similar, to be recalling things in some kind of order that he could discern, rather than a jumbled collection of pieces sorted by nothing. Not by importance or time or danger... only a mess of experiences. He could sigh at that too, and though he's about to affirm that he'd like to hear about those first memories, Mettaton seemed to be caught on something slightly later.
Something more uncomfortable, some sort of danger that existed between them. The robot looks away from him, presses into a sensitive spot on his neck, a place soft and vulnerable. A place that felt natural for him to expose, the Ascian tilting his head a bit more, in silent offering. An action that he questions moments later, but doesn't undo (it still felt right, even as Mettaton explains).
Mistakes. Problems when it came to ensuring the well-being of this body, one far more fragile than Mettaton's robotic shell. His pulse, underneath his fingers beats that bit harder- or was he just more aware of it? His gaze lowers to a matching spot under his own fingers, as if he could palpate himself by proxy.]
--You bit me. [There's nothing accusatory in it, though his brow furrows, trying to grasp at his own recollection.] Your teeth were sharper than a human's... but this wasn't the first time you drew blood.
[This time it had been more serious, but they'd been playing with this possibility for longer than that. Plenty of mistakes. Mettaton hadn't been alone in them, he was suddenly sure. With the puca's presumable lack of experience with the ways a human body could break, and his own self-assurance (and self-destructiveness, if he was being honest), how much damage had his host endured?]
You came home... we were both upset about something. [Wordless, intense emotion was what he remembered the most in these memories, with sound and picture filtering in later. Spite, distress, longing, a bitter stubbornness; it was hard to make much sense of it.] I let you drive your teeth in.
[The pain had been so sharp. Blinding, clarifying. It called to mind one of those fragments he'd found earlier, a tear-stricken Mettaton over him, relieved and worried still. But there had been blood on him too, and blood all around, and he'd felt so weak....
This had to be more of that memory, and more from Mettaton's perspective.]
I don't think I'll ever recall the part I was unconscious for. [A brief, wry sort of smile.] But I remember waking up to you being there. I could hear you in the dark, I think....
[Though he couldn't remember the words. Just the disorientation, the nausea, the comfort in having someone with him... how cold he'd felt, despite the contact, and he shivers. Pressing into the cup of Mettaton's hand, as if there was yet blood to hold back, his own hand retreats from the robot's throat in order to cover his hand again, more firmly. To keep the blood in; to keep his touch there.]
Do you think we did any better, after that?
no subject
He'd bitten him. And he'd... tasted him? Mettaton still thinks of the echoes of something resembling sensation on his tongue, closing his eyes and running it over his teeth like he might be able to taste it again if he just thought hard enough. What did blood taste like? He longed to know, even though the thought itself was so barbaric. Had he been nibbling on his Bondmate? Why ever for? That this was a common occurrence, Mettaton doesn't question: he can believe it readily, due to the familiarity of the flavor he feels incapable of parsing.
And with his eye closed again, Mettaton can envision the particular senses activated by biting into his partner's throat. Often, he'd feel relief; he'd feel alight, activated, the echoes of pain from the other man's soul... and something else entirely. Something that felt like being shocked, that filled his body with sensation beyond his wildest fantasy.
It reminded him of the notion that they were somehow intimate with one another.
A thought that has Mettaton's expression screwing up, as he recalls with so much lucidness the feeling of something firm nudged into his thigh as he chomped down on Emet-Selch's neck. A distracting thought, but not distracting enough to keep him from paying mind to Emet-Selch's continued recollection of this moment. Nor from his question.
Cracking open his eye again, Mettaton gazes steadily at the Ascian's pristine neck. There were no bruises there, bruises he felt certain he'd applied... through anything other than violence. Even this memory was for love. Yet it had this sort of result...
Mettaton doesn't quite nod, nor does he quite shake his head. But he smiles mildly, stroking his hand with his thumb.]
I think so. Not perfect. But... better.
[It's all a hunch. It felt like, even though he bit him here and there, it was done with the avoidance of temperamental upset... Though not always. And MTT is even on the fringes of feeling like something bad yet came of his bloodlust... Closing his eye again, he skirts along the edges of his lover in panicked fear—but he can't quite place it.
And yet he recalls more clearly their wedding day. He smiles, opening his eye again to watch Emet-Selch. (They stood face-to-face like this at the altar, and it filled MTT with a heated giddiness to consider.)]
I bit you on our wedding day, you know. Your suit... we stained it together. [They stained a suit. Unthinkable... savage! But it left MTT imbued with some carnal sense of pride, of ownership, of possession. His fingers twine with Emet-Selch's against his neck.] So I'm sure we found ourselves doing better.
[Somehow, that's what that meant. They were still indulging in that vice of theirs, and somehow, MTT knew it was a vice. But the fact that they didn't stop—that must mean that they knew how to do it without risking that same result, he thought.
Visiting again the memory of that night, the Puca recalls the intensity of their feelings and passions clashing like a tempest, where the pressure relieved was found in his incisors slipping through skin like a hot knife to butter. There was a lot in the moments following that were carnal and carnage, and though Mettaton unhands Emet-Selch's hand that they held between them, he keeps their fingers against his throat.
But his newly freed hand presses against the Ascian's upper thigh, flirting with a peculiar feeling in his heart that he'd... touched these legs of his frequently. His thumb presses close to the smaller man's inner thigh, still decent while mildly provocative.]
There are so many senses in my head that I can't piece together, darling. [With an eager, attentive gaze, MTT leans forward.] For example: it's strange, but I can still almost taste your blood on my lips. Though I don't know how that's possible. I don't know if you know this. But a robot like me... I can't taste. Yet I loved the flavor of your blood...
[Even if Emet-Selch didn't know, he suspects it would click with him, given their involvement. A touch embarrassed at the feeling of wanton indulgence that fills him with these recollections, Mettaton's smile is a touch woozy.]
no subject
Not perfect but better... that sounded plausible. They knew to be more careful after that, the damage that they both needed to work to avoid (And yet uncertainty lingered; had they gotten it wrong again? Emet-Selch couldn't remember anything other than fear and pain, when he tried to think of anything related to that instance.). Mettaton continued to bite him, but if that was something they both liked, why would they give it up, rather than manage it?
But to do it on their wedding day (which existed)- Mettaton's reminder of it draws a soft hum. That hadn't been an accidental or impulsive bite, something that demonstrated any lack of control. That must mean that they'd improved.]
The red so striking against white... you would think we'd planned it out like that.
[His fingers twine willingly with Mettaton's at his throat, feeling so natural there, as he murmurs a response. Natural too was the strange pleasure at the thought of something so... untoward, hedonistic, even. At the very altar, Mettaton had taken to his neck, slipped his teeth in him, while he'd pressed himself tight to his body, moaned--
(Gods, he'd been aroused by it, he was certain. And not only a little, but with an intensity and rigidity that made it feel as though it had been building for some time, but that he'd finally given into. From being bitten.)
It's a detail that he has to take a careful breath with, still finding the emotional (and apparently, the physical) parts of memories the most vivid. Even though he could accept they'd been lovers, as well as in love- it suggested something about the intensity of their affair that he wasn't sure how to approach. That he hadn't known he was capable of.]
But 'tis a fair point. I clearly survived long enough to see myself wedded... we must've gotten something right.
[That was a little comforting. And though it was hard to get a sense of time from things, their wedding, he thought... it was closer to the present day than anything else they'd discussed. Risks and all, they'd persisted.
With one hand released, Emet-Selch glances down as Mettaton settles it instead upon his thigh, with a placement teasingly intimate. But it wasn't too shameless either, something that skirted with, but remained entirely within acceptable public limits. Yet it sends the faintest shiver through him, an echo of responsiveness that suggested to him that these sort of touches were far from uncommon between them.
But the robot's words convince him to drag his attention upward. That Mettaton couldn't taste anything as a robot- Emet-Selch blinks in surprise, before turning contemplative, wondering if that was something he'd known before. It sounded vaguely familiar, though much clearer was the memory of his lover drinking his blood, and with evident pleasure, and with nothing in their kisses suggesting that any flavor was one-sided.]
The monster you became... somehow you grew fur, ears. [On a chassis of materials that weren't exactly meant to include life. How had that even worked? What had the inside of his body been made into, to match the unusual outside? With his now free hand, he gestures at the robot's body.] Could a sense of taste been included...?
[Along with a taste for blood, somehow. The idea was strange, to put it mildly. Why would rabbit-based monsters desire blood? And why in Zodiark's name was he comfortable with Mettaton feeding on him like that anyway? It hadn't just been the occasional too-hard nip (in the memory of passions that still felt too immense to casually explain), or the result of a bit of excitable scratching, but something deliberate, something with the intention of lapping up his blood. And yet he'd done more than tolerate it.
And with the way Mettaton was looking... Emet-Selch wondered if more than taste had been enhanced in his puca-ized body.]
no subject
But that. That detail, the bloom of red on white—that had been intentional. Had they done it before a crowd? He finds himself pondering this, fantasizing about their shock, the sensationalism of it, even while he's still trying to grasp for more personal details of... everything.
Such as the actual wedding. At the sight of bared skin, bruised, which felt familiar to Mettaton. He blinks at Emet-Selch widely again in shock, his smile screwing up as he recalls that they must have been terribly involved, involved in a deeply twined and physical sense. There was... possessiveness coursing through his body, and something so lively that he finds his leg twitching.
There were a lot of sensations beyond him, more than just taste, he's figuring. It leaves him with a sense of... loss, for something he'd never had.
Still, their biting habits seemed to do well enough if they enjoyed it at the altar. It didn't daunt them, not for the reason of that one incident... And maybe they'd done better at making it deliberate, not an answer to every moment of intensity. Yes, that felt like the issue at hand: they had a lot of passion and intensity between them, and sometimes, a release of that pressure felt the only option, as Mettaton resorted to biting and Emet-Selch resorted to bleeding. But in some cases, it seemed to get out of hand.
The neck beneath his fingertips had endured a lot of bites, a lot of... kisses, heated and passionate, Mettaton thought, as he thumbs over his throat and settles their fingers into a bind. So much so that he smiles, gazing squarely into Emet-Selch's eyes.]
I must have spent a lot of time at your throat. It's one of those memories... The kind that feels so infinite that it blurs together.
[And somehow, he manages to put the feeling into words. And somehow some more, he felt Emet-Selch might understand what he means by that.
They were intimate, and the hand on Emet-Selch's thigh is the conscious echo of that realization. His response is pleasant; the idol could almost taste how much he affected this man, and it was a rush to experience. But... not as intense as he felt it was. More intense than anything he recalls, but it was... so much more?
The mention of him being a Puca is what has his gaze skirting to the treetops in thought, lips parting. Being a Puca... granted him quite a bit, in the ways of traits. He nods.]
Yes... I think it must have. For some reason. It seems to me that being a Puca... granted me quite a bit of sensation that I can hardly fathom. [Taste was called to the forefront... but even his touch felt enhanced in these memories. (Unless that was just the pleasure of having someone this close to him. Mettaton is willing to entertain that notion.)] You and I...
[Flipping through a few ways to deliver this message, the robot considers carefully. He could be as blunt and cool about is as he could, a delivery like it didn't affect him now, or that he wasn't interested. But fronting for dramatic effect didn't feel right. If anything, the idea that this man had elicited so much drive in him inspires, and he didn't want to express anything other than his true feelings on the matter. (That this was how he and Emet-Selch interacted—that feeling also clicks, though not in any conscious way.)
So his smile goes from woozy and lost in thought to broad, heated, dark lashes curtaining his gaze that bit more. He even scoots a touch closer to Emet-Selch, keeping his hands right where they are, stroking over neck and thigh rhythmically.]
We were passionate, involved lovers, weren't we? Ohh my.
[And though neither of them could remember much in the ways of entire events, he felt confident that his former-Bondmate would be able to remember plenty about that. Even if the robot couldn't figure out just how they reached to such heights, or even what that kaleidoscopic experience was like... he knew it happened.]
no subject
(But there was still something melancholy about their wedding, for reasons he's not certain of. They were clearly committed to each other, and in good health- but there was something intrinsically sad about their vows that he couldn't place, especially because he couldn't remember them. Yet one more thing to have to be patient with, to wait and see what did and didn't return to him.)
But they had been completely willing, had possibly even planned, to make such a statement at their very own wedding. A reflection of other habits, of an involvement that veered passionate even when it wasn't bloody. Mettaton twitches, his expression affected; the Ascian ignores a raised pulse, a shiver of tension. There was a lot about these memories that was provocative, wasn't there?]
So often that it becomes difficult to tell one instance from the next. [A low concurrence, as he mulls it over. It was no wonder the individual memories were hard to pick apart, there were so many. If his hand weren't taken by Mettaton's, he would probably have traced over his throat himself.] Nor were you shy about leaving your mark behind.
[Something else that he'd apparently done more than tolerate, but had encouraged, even wanted. His neck had been more than bitten, it had been bruised, kissed, sucked on, scented, with much time spent with Mettaton's face otherwise pressed to it. Somehow thinking about that made the truth of their intimacy feel that much more solid, that much more real. It wasn't that he'd considered that the sexual aspect of their involvement (gods, what a history to realize he even had with this robot) to be at all impersonal but to imagine Mettaton buried at his throat....
Emet-Selch's eyes are unable to stray from Mettaton as he imagines it. He felt especially aware of him, of the way the robot looked when he was thinking about something, to the part of his lips when he gazes skyward. Achingly familiar and new both, but it would be hard for him to pretend that he wasn't attracted to him. Or thinking about what it had been like to kiss him. Both today and... before, so many times before.
Another current of heat runs through him from the fingers against his neck, even though it had already been a touch that he'd been enjoying. But it seemed particularly pleasurable, now that he was thinking about it in those terms, and when paired with the continued stroke of his thigh. These weren't touches between those casually acquainted, that was certain.
Nor were these the way acquaintances would look on one another, with this heat, this... intent. Mettaton shifts closer, and the Ascian follows suit, barely keeping from twining a leg with the robot's.
Whether the intensity of their experience had been puca-enhanced, or a result of their becoming close (or both, he considers), Mettaton's words strike a particular note. While it would've been possible to play it off, or pretend to be less affected than he was- that too didn't strike him as how they'd been with one another. There had been openness, there had been honesty... that was just how they were together.]
We were. [A soft, yet heavy exhalation.] We were very... very prone to each other.
[They hadn't been able to keep their hands off each other, if the images he had to sort through were any indication. His thigh tenses pleasantly underneath Mettaton's hand, his breath pausing a moment before he continues.]
It feels like... [How had it gone, again?] we had much to catch up on.
[Whether it had been from a lifetime without sensation at all, or one without close companionship (or both, to one degree or another), they had discovered so much of what they had been missing out on with one another.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)