[K'rihnn's given it some thought, as he said he would. Now that he's settled in, for the most part, he decides it's time to speak with Emet-Selch about... most of what happens between their time points.
Since the Miqo'te has no idea where Emet-Selch currently is, he decides to finally use the pocket watch.]
I'm ready to speak with you about what happened after you left us to finish getting the elevator running. Is there a place you would like for me to meet you?
[He might as well extend a measure of trust to the Ascian.]
Since the Miqo'te has no idea where Emet-Selch currently is, he decides to finally use the pocket watch.]
I'm ready to speak with you about what happened after you left us to finish getting the elevator running. Is there a place you would like for me to meet you?
[He might as well extend a measure of trust to the Ascian.]
[Emet-Selch can't really complain about K'rihnn's timeliness; he'd half-expected the tia to draw things out for much longer.]
...Hm, not here, at any rate. Where are you?
[As solitary as he is, he's found a small, shitty shack to stay in for the time being. Anything larger might require (ugh) roommates. Who might interrupt his naps and try to speak to him when he doesn't want to be spoken to.
It wasn't really the place to have guests, anyway.]
...Hm, not here, at any rate. Where are you?
[As solitary as he is, he's found a small, shitty shack to stay in for the time being. Anything larger might require (ugh) roommates. Who might interrupt his naps and try to speak to him when he doesn't want to be spoken to.
It wasn't really the place to have guests, anyway.]
Emet-Selch.
[It's strange for him to reach out like this, maybe, but things in the city have been absolutely crazy and he has something like... a conscience. Unlike some people around here. And so he reaches out, to see if damage control needs to be done. To make sure at the very base level that the Ascian haunting his goddamn house is still alive after the full moon.]
With the recent events in the city, I thought it pertinent to make sure you have not ended up in an unpleasant situation. The Warriors of Light would be disappointed if you were to be hurt.
[It's strange for him to reach out like this, maybe, but things in the city have been absolutely crazy and he has something like... a conscience. Unlike some people around here. And so he reaches out, to see if damage control needs to be done. To make sure at the very base level that the Ascian haunting his goddamn house is still alive after the full moon.]
With the recent events in the city, I thought it pertinent to make sure you have not ended up in an unpleasant situation. The Warriors of Light would be disappointed if you were to be hurt.
I survived.
[It felt a strange thing to say, all things considered.
Almost as strange as the Exarch checking up on him. Well, it was wise to keep an eye on potential threats, after all. The Ascian assumed it was something like that. And it's some minutes before he sends anything else, on some whim he can't entirely explain.]
But disappointed, really? A bit late for them to be concerned for my welfare now, isn't it?
[Some of the things the Exarch had said in their last conversation.... Emet-Selch is almost certain the man knows everything that happened in what remained of his future. Either from experience or from K'rihnn filling him in as well, he can't be sure. But the essence remained that he knew.]
[It felt a strange thing to say, all things considered.
Almost as strange as the Exarch checking up on him. Well, it was wise to keep an eye on potential threats, after all. The Ascian assumed it was something like that. And it's some minutes before he sends anything else, on some whim he can't entirely explain.]
But disappointed, really? A bit late for them to be concerned for my welfare now, isn't it?
[Some of the things the Exarch had said in their last conversation.... Emet-Selch is almost certain the man knows everything that happened in what remained of his future. Either from experience or from K'rihnn filling him in as well, he can't be sure. But the essence remained that he knew.]
[It's been a couple days since she spoke with K'rihnn about it and he's right: finding a Bond partner needs to be a priority. Asking someone for help in a personal sense is still a new thing and just doing it makes little sense to her.
But she did have a thing in mind. Bonding involves people that are trustworthy...and that means the people she lives with. Which is why she is standing at Emet-Selch's bedroom door, knocking on it to make herself known.
Was he even inside? Maybe he's having a deep napping session? She is hoping that he doesn't do anything like surprise teleport behind her. Like that can be a thing, right?]
But she did have a thing in mind. Bonding involves people that are trustworthy...and that means the people she lives with. Which is why she is standing at Emet-Selch's bedroom door, knocking on it to make herself known.
Was he even inside? Maybe he's having a deep napping session? She is hoping that he doesn't do anything like surprise teleport behind her. Like that can be a thing, right?]
[While Emet-Selch was no doubt fond of the occasional surprise teleport, Mira is spared that, at least.
He does seem to be inside, anyway, judging by the vague rustling in response to the knock. And when he opens the door, the Ascian certainly looks rather tired. It's entirely possible he had been asleep. Regardless of the time of day, there's always that possibility. And though he seems grumpy, it's no more so than usual; it's probably a pretty common sight in the household.]
Yes?
[This counted as a greeting, right.]
He does seem to be inside, anyway, judging by the vague rustling in response to the knock. And when he opens the door, the Ascian certainly looks rather tired. It's entirely possible he had been asleep. Regardless of the time of day, there's always that possibility. And though he seems grumpy, it's no more so than usual; it's probably a pretty common sight in the household.]
Yes?
[This counted as a greeting, right.]
wow i messed up that html in the previous tag whoops XD;
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inlikethebrume
- 2019-11-16 18:40 (UTC) - Expand[When he'd heard that items had started appearing from mirrors, Emet-Selch didn't expect to receive much of anything. There was nothing, in a physical sense, that he missed, and unless his mirror decided to spit out a portion of Zodiark, there was nothing that he hoped to receive.
So when a small, fist-sized lump was pressed into his hands, assurances made that it belongs to him, the Ascian was considerably dubious. It didn't look to be much of anything- a shard of crystal, rough at its edges, clearly broken off from some much larger piece. It was a deep violet in color, likely dark-aspected. And at first he'd wanted to turn it down, because he didn't recognize it at all, but on a closer inspection- there was something vaguely familiar about it. He could agree that it had something to do with him, but what?
From what he'd been able to gather, the items appearing tended to have some personal connection to their owner. It wasn't universal, but emotional value was a common thread among many. Which, naturally, led Emet-Selch to consider Amaurot as this object's source, but... he had few personal items, even then. And a piece of dark crystal had never been among them. Nor did it match any part of the city that he knew of- and his memory was quite complete.
So it was a bit of a mystery.
Rather than sequestering himself in his room as he often did, the Ascian sprawls out over one of the couches in the common area of the house that he shared with two dark knights. Idly, he turns the crystal over in his hand, as though inspiration would strike if he held it at the right angle. Perhaps he'd ask one of his housemates if they had any ideas, if he saw them; not that he really believed they would, he knew his own history better than anyone.]
So when a small, fist-sized lump was pressed into his hands, assurances made that it belongs to him, the Ascian was considerably dubious. It didn't look to be much of anything- a shard of crystal, rough at its edges, clearly broken off from some much larger piece. It was a deep violet in color, likely dark-aspected. And at first he'd wanted to turn it down, because he didn't recognize it at all, but on a closer inspection- there was something vaguely familiar about it. He could agree that it had something to do with him, but what?
From what he'd been able to gather, the items appearing tended to have some personal connection to their owner. It wasn't universal, but emotional value was a common thread among many. Which, naturally, led Emet-Selch to consider Amaurot as this object's source, but... he had few personal items, even then. And a piece of dark crystal had never been among them. Nor did it match any part of the city that he knew of- and his memory was quite complete.
So it was a bit of a mystery.
Rather than sequestering himself in his room as he often did, the Ascian sprawls out over one of the couches in the common area of the house that he shared with two dark knights. Idly, he turns the crystal over in his hand, as though inspiration would strike if he held it at the right angle. Perhaps he'd ask one of his housemates if they had any ideas, if he saw them; not that he really believed they would, he knew his own history better than anyone.]
[Even things such as small shopping trips tend to drain Irhya these days. It's not an encouraging sign, but with what little energy she has, she manages to drag herself out and pick up some yarn to occupy herself with, intending to drop the bag down and play around with it in the common room where she could get some sun, in the hopes it might help her wake up a bit.
So she sets the bag on one side of a different couch and plops down next to it, taking a moment to actually acknowledge his presence.]
Bored again? Maybe you should take up a hobby.
[When her eyes finally land on him, she notices what he's holding, and the look on her face changes within seconds. She straightens up, gaze locked on the shard of auracite, and she's pallid all of a sudden. A quick but powerful surge of cold horror washes down the tether between them; her stomach pulls tight inside her gut.]
...Where did you get that?
So she sets the bag on one side of a different couch and plops down next to it, taking a moment to actually acknowledge his presence.]
Bored again? Maybe you should take up a hobby.
[When her eyes finally land on him, she notices what he's holding, and the look on her face changes within seconds. She straightens up, gaze locked on the shard of auracite, and she's pallid all of a sudden. A quick but powerful surge of cold horror washes down the tether between them; her stomach pulls tight inside her gut.]
...Where did you get that?
[The house has been silent as the grave ever since the argument.
Sure, Mira and Irhya talk in the kitchen often, but there's been a lingering unease over the entire residence, a dull sadness fed through the links that seems to be coming from all directions, so much so that she can't identify who it belongs to at any given moment. In the evenings, Irhya almost wants to scream just to fill the void with something, though it'd be as futile as anything.
Finally, she decides enough is enough. He can't hole himself up forever, right? Or maybe he can if no one ever tries to break the barrier of upset down. It'd just be proving him right to leave him alone for too long, right? So she spends some time in the kitchen that night putting together hot chocolate, something she'd picked up with him in mind despite waffling back and forth about whether she should do it or not.
When she knocks on his door softly, she has two mugs in hand, balanced carefully on a tray.]
Hey... are you awake? I brought you something...
Sure, Mira and Irhya talk in the kitchen often, but there's been a lingering unease over the entire residence, a dull sadness fed through the links that seems to be coming from all directions, so much so that she can't identify who it belongs to at any given moment. In the evenings, Irhya almost wants to scream just to fill the void with something, though it'd be as futile as anything.
Finally, she decides enough is enough. He can't hole himself up forever, right? Or maybe he can if no one ever tries to break the barrier of upset down. It'd just be proving him right to leave him alone for too long, right? So she spends some time in the kitchen that night putting together hot chocolate, something she'd picked up with him in mind despite waffling back and forth about whether she should do it or not.
When she knocks on his door softly, she has two mugs in hand, balanced carefully on a tray.]
Hey... are you awake? I brought you something...
[Though the fury had faded relatively quickly, the grief that had settled in afterward had refused to depart.
Not that Emet-Selch had made much of an attempt to crawl out of it. Talking with K'rihnn had helped, a little. It didn't solve anything with Mira or Irhya, but he'd felt the smallest bit less alone.
But it hadn't kept him from isolating himself otherwise. He didn't want to live in that house at all- how could he? Under the same roof as two people who were more determined to see him dead than he'd anticipated. Not that it should've come as a surprise; what better could an Ascian expect from Her champions? But he was equally as loathe to abandon the house entirely, to be chased off.
So he used his ability to teleport to avoid them entirely. Occasionally, he would hear sounds from them, and they could probably tell when he was around at other times, but no attempt was made to bridge that divide. And so it likely would've continued, as Emet-Selch was both spiteful and extremely stubborn. So long as everyone continued to hurt, that was an acceptable status quo.
But then there was a knock on his door, a voice. And though he immediately scowls in its direction, tempted to just ignore her- it had been just long enough that the Ascian thought he could probably deal with Irhya without being too obviously distraught. He didn't want to give her the satisfaction.
So he answers the door, gaze flicking between her face, and the tray she carried.]
...Oh? Reached the point where everything is back to normal now, have we?
[Not the nicest thing to say, and his expression is no more welcoming- but he did open the door. Not that he makes any move to either accept the offering or allow her inside, but absolute basic acknowledgement is still more than Irhya would've gotten only a few days prior.]
Not that Emet-Selch had made much of an attempt to crawl out of it. Talking with K'rihnn had helped, a little. It didn't solve anything with Mira or Irhya, but he'd felt the smallest bit less alone.
But it hadn't kept him from isolating himself otherwise. He didn't want to live in that house at all- how could he? Under the same roof as two people who were more determined to see him dead than he'd anticipated. Not that it should've come as a surprise; what better could an Ascian expect from Her champions? But he was equally as loathe to abandon the house entirely, to be chased off.
So he used his ability to teleport to avoid them entirely. Occasionally, he would hear sounds from them, and they could probably tell when he was around at other times, but no attempt was made to bridge that divide. And so it likely would've continued, as Emet-Selch was both spiteful and extremely stubborn. So long as everyone continued to hurt, that was an acceptable status quo.
But then there was a knock on his door, a voice. And though he immediately scowls in its direction, tempted to just ignore her- it had been just long enough that the Ascian thought he could probably deal with Irhya without being too obviously distraught. He didn't want to give her the satisfaction.
So he answers the door, gaze flicking between her face, and the tray she carried.]
...Oh? Reached the point where everything is back to normal now, have we?
[Not the nicest thing to say, and his expression is no more welcoming- but he did open the door. Not that he makes any move to either accept the offering or allow her inside, but absolute basic acknowledgement is still more than Irhya would've gotten only a few days prior.]
[It's been long enough. The quiet is unsettling and the emotions through the bonds quite frankly needs to be addressed. But Mira couldn't just barge in and be her usual blunt self, hells, that's what got her into this situation. Even with K'rihnn's advice, she needed to figure out how to use her words carefully. But it took her some time and a realization that needs to be said.
And so she finds herself at Emet's bedroom door again. Last time she was here, they Bonded in a sense but this time, it's her wanting to try and repair what is possible. If it can be. She takes a breath and then knocks on the door.]
It's me. Are you in there?
[She hopes so. If she somehow woke him up again, she's going to have to wonder about timing. No going back now, this needs to happen. Mira needs to tell him.]
And so she finds herself at Emet's bedroom door again. Last time she was here, they Bonded in a sense but this time, it's her wanting to try and repair what is possible. If it can be. She takes a breath and then knocks on the door.]
It's me. Are you in there?
[She hopes so. If she somehow woke him up again, she's going to have to wonder about timing. No going back now, this needs to happen. Mira needs to tell him.]
[It had been some time.
The Ascian wasn't in... as quite as poor a state as he had been to start. K'rihnn had helped a little, his presence soothing; Irhya explaining herself had helped a bit more, had provided some... alternate answer to what he'd taken as truth. But that had just been her, and even then, the pain had remained; even with the wound cleaned, it would take time to heal entirely.
And there was still Mira. Emet-Selch didn't know her reasons- and even then, this hurt had been... different. He'd risked more with her, so there was more to damage, more to scar over. More that he couldn't forget.
Though he's slow to answer the door, the Ascian hadn't been asleep this time, at least. But considering how tired he looks, it wouldn't be hard to make that assumption anyway.
He'd been putting off facing Mira for some time- and now that she's finally there, and he's looking down at her- he finds he can't say anything at all, not even a simple 'What?'. His fingers dig slightly into the door, as he just--
Stares at her. As unwelcoming as possible.]
The Ascian wasn't in... as quite as poor a state as he had been to start. K'rihnn had helped a little, his presence soothing; Irhya explaining herself had helped a bit more, had provided some... alternate answer to what he'd taken as truth. But that had just been her, and even then, the pain had remained; even with the wound cleaned, it would take time to heal entirely.
And there was still Mira. Emet-Selch didn't know her reasons- and even then, this hurt had been... different. He'd risked more with her, so there was more to damage, more to scar over. More that he couldn't forget.
Though he's slow to answer the door, the Ascian hadn't been asleep this time, at least. But considering how tired he looks, it wouldn't be hard to make that assumption anyway.
He'd been putting off facing Mira for some time- and now that she's finally there, and he's looking down at her- he finds he can't say anything at all, not even a simple 'What?'. His fingers dig slightly into the door, as he just--
Stares at her. As unwelcoming as possible.]
[A few small bags of rather fancy as far as Aefenglom standards go coffee and tea tied together with a red ribbon have been delivered to Emet’s doorstep!
“I could not tell if you are more of a coffee or tea kind of man, so I got you both. Happy Modranicht!” the attached note reads]
“I could not tell if you are more of a coffee or tea kind of man, so I got you both. Happy Modranicht!” the attached note reads]
[Irhya seems unusually chipper when she knocks on Hades' door, the smell of... something fishy pervading the immediate area around her.]
Heeeeey, I brought you dinner! You awake?
[If he's not, he's going to be. The timidity she'd had before about waking him before seems to have vanished, even if he does need his sleep.]
Heeeeey, I brought you dinner! You awake?
[If he's not, he's going to be. The timidity she'd had before about waking him before seems to have vanished, even if he does need his sleep.]
[And if he hadn't been entirely asleep, he had been in a half-doze-like-state, which is abruptly broken by the voice and the knock.]
...apparently.
[Is the response through the door, barely audible; it's not like he's going to get up and open it or anything. Nor does he even sit up either, too busy being bundled up in bed.]
...apparently.
[Is the response through the door, barely audible; it's not like he's going to get up and open it or anything. Nor does he even sit up either, too busy being bundled up in bed.]
[A small package is left for the recipient wrapped in tissue paper with a little red bow tied around it. Inside is a simple box with a portion of homemade chocolate fudge inside. There's a little note attached!]
happy valentines day!
everyone deserves a little sweet to eat now and then, right?
-sora
happy valentines day!
everyone deserves a little sweet to eat now and then, right?
-sora
[Somehow she manages to sneak these things while he is sleeping. But on Hades's nightstand will be a small box with nine handcrafted truffles. If he bites into one, he can definitely taste dark chocolate and coffee.
Took some trial and error but managed it. While there is no note, the fact that the treats have a bit of a bitter and sharp flavor to them, one is not needed to tell. That and every note Mira tried to write sounded really weird and off. Enjoy your chocolate!]
Took some trial and error but managed it. While there is no note, the fact that the treats have a bit of a bitter and sharp flavor to them, one is not needed to tell. That and every note Mira tried to write sounded really weird and off. Enjoy your chocolate!]
[One of Mettaton's lesser known developments as a Puca is his luck magic. Luck isn't terribly helpful when he might need it most, as in the case of avoiding kidnap and torture, no, but it manifests in the more mundane of ways. As it happens, this application is for when he wishes to perform a home invasion. (Is it even in play? Questionable.) So normal people lock their doors? Keep their houses well-guarded? That doesn't stop one robotic Puca! There are no buildings he's not allowed to enter, as long as he doesn't think too hard about it. He's welcome everywhere.
(But who is the actual luck for? Is it for Mettaton's entry? Or is it for the homeowner, who won't have his wall forcibly busted down? Fate works in mysterious ways.)
In this case, Emet-Selch will find that the next time he chooses to relocate rooms, Mettaton's decided to make himself at home on a window sill. How did he even get inside? Who knows! Something must have been unlocked. How lucky. He's sprawled across its length with incredible poise, legs bent just right so as to fit while looking unusually comfortable on a surface that shouldn't be so. (It's impressive that he manages at all, in fact.) Behind him, the sun sets, casting his figure in a silhouette. He has his head propped up on a fist and, as soon as Emet-Selch comes into view, he already has his eye trained on him, catching gold in the dimming light. Really, it's impressively choreographed.
Almost like this whole scene is deliberate. It is.]
Oh. Yes. There you are, Emmy-darling. What a surprise to see you, this lovely evening...
[a surprise... to see him in his own house... wow]
We have something to follow up on. Don't we?
(But who is the actual luck for? Is it for Mettaton's entry? Or is it for the homeowner, who won't have his wall forcibly busted down? Fate works in mysterious ways.)
In this case, Emet-Selch will find that the next time he chooses to relocate rooms, Mettaton's decided to make himself at home on a window sill. How did he even get inside? Who knows! Something must have been unlocked. How lucky. He's sprawled across its length with incredible poise, legs bent just right so as to fit while looking unusually comfortable on a surface that shouldn't be so. (It's impressive that he manages at all, in fact.) Behind him, the sun sets, casting his figure in a silhouette. He has his head propped up on a fist and, as soon as Emet-Selch comes into view, he already has his eye trained on him, catching gold in the dimming light. Really, it's impressively choreographed.
Almost like this whole scene is deliberate. It is.]
Oh. Yes. There you are, Emmy-darling. What a surprise to see you, this lovely evening...
[a surprise... to see him in his own house... wow]
We have something to follow up on. Don't we?
[It had been a wearying- lifetime, actually, but in this case, his mental fatigue is the result of more recent events. Mira's illness, due to her own carelessness, a rather depressingly hopeless conversation with Vanitas.
It had been a struggle to leave his room in the first place, and from there the house entirely- and the Ascian hadn't been gone for that long before giving up on the whole thing as a bad idea. For Mettaton to have snuck in unnoticed during that brief window of opportunity, to display himself against a rather more literal window- is exceptionally lucky.
It probably wasn't hard to deduce which room had been claimed by Emet-Selch, if only by process of elimination. There were no personal touches, no decorations; the only thing to denote the personality of the room's owner, is perhaps, this specific lack. Notes for one project or another, a few books, practical things- that's all that's really around apart from the furniture, which is equally as plain. Almost institutional. That's not to say the room was tidy; it wasn't, the only thing keeping it from being a mess was the lack of materials around. He just- didn't care to organize it more than that. He knew where everything was.
If he'd been paying more attention to his Bonds, he might've had that as some sort of warning- but the Ascian tended to shut them out most of the time. And, wrapped up in a cloud of his own disordered thoughts, finding his room so artfully occupied startles him rather badly.
There's a flash of panic, veering closely into outright terror, not immediately recognizing Mettaton, nor his voice. There was only an intruder, and he couldn't allow himself to be captured again, he couldn't go through all of that, the delusions and pain and helplessness, not again--
...Fortunately for everyone, the absurdity of Mettaton's presence finally registers, before more than the impression of a veritable wall of darkness-clad spearheads manifests behind the Ascian, quickly fading back into nothing. Not a threat. It was safe.
Safe-ish, anyway, and as Emet-Selch gradually lets go of that impulse towards defense, he looks across at him with a mixture of relief (not about to be tortured again), and utter exasperation (Mettaton, why). Closing the door behind him pretty much on autopilot, he slumps heavily against it, the other's words finally starting to register (including that atrocious rendition of his title, again). In a distant sort of way, he does notice the attention to detail, the amount of things that must've aligned to get the idol's presentation just so, at that precise moment. It just adds to the sense of surrealism.]
...I would suggest. In future. Some manner of warning.
[It's so politely and mildly spoken, as though he hadn't been on the verge of attacking Mettaton and everything around him in a fit of panic some handful of seconds prior.]
It had been a struggle to leave his room in the first place, and from there the house entirely- and the Ascian hadn't been gone for that long before giving up on the whole thing as a bad idea. For Mettaton to have snuck in unnoticed during that brief window of opportunity, to display himself against a rather more literal window- is exceptionally lucky.
It probably wasn't hard to deduce which room had been claimed by Emet-Selch, if only by process of elimination. There were no personal touches, no decorations; the only thing to denote the personality of the room's owner, is perhaps, this specific lack. Notes for one project or another, a few books, practical things- that's all that's really around apart from the furniture, which is equally as plain. Almost institutional. That's not to say the room was tidy; it wasn't, the only thing keeping it from being a mess was the lack of materials around. He just- didn't care to organize it more than that. He knew where everything was.
If he'd been paying more attention to his Bonds, he might've had that as some sort of warning- but the Ascian tended to shut them out most of the time. And, wrapped up in a cloud of his own disordered thoughts, finding his room so artfully occupied startles him rather badly.
There's a flash of panic, veering closely into outright terror, not immediately recognizing Mettaton, nor his voice. There was only an intruder, and he couldn't allow himself to be captured again, he couldn't go through all of that, the delusions and pain and helplessness, not again--
...Fortunately for everyone, the absurdity of Mettaton's presence finally registers, before more than the impression of a veritable wall of darkness-clad spearheads manifests behind the Ascian, quickly fading back into nothing. Not a threat. It was safe.
Safe-ish, anyway, and as Emet-Selch gradually lets go of that impulse towards defense, he looks across at him with a mixture of relief (not about to be tortured again), and utter exasperation (Mettaton, why). Closing the door behind him pretty much on autopilot, he slumps heavily against it, the other's words finally starting to register (including that atrocious rendition of his title, again). In a distant sort of way, he does notice the attention to detail, the amount of things that must've aligned to get the idol's presentation just so, at that precise moment. It just adds to the sense of surrealism.]
...I would suggest. In future. Some manner of warning.
[It's so politely and mildly spoken, as though he hadn't been on the verge of attacking Mettaton and everything around him in a fit of panic some handful of seconds prior.]
[There's one person she forgot to check in on, before and after, all the adventuring that had happened, and while she doubts Mr. Naptime went off into the unknown she feels she might as well send a message his way. After all, they still have a magic date they need to go on and he still has a commission he needs to send her way.]
Hullo, Emet-Selch! How are you fairing this crisp, winter morning? You don't strike me as the adventuring sort, so I assume you didn't go off up North with the others...but how have you been keeping?
Hullo, Emet-Selch! How are you fairing this crisp, winter morning? You don't strike me as the adventuring sort, so I assume you didn't go off up North with the others...but how have you been keeping?
[Was this the start of Tataru's realm-renowned fussing, he wondered. Hearing from the lalafell came as a mild surprise, though he did remember that he had promised to assist her in magic. Perhaps she was just after that.
With Mira ill and Vanitas sulking, and just... everything of the past- week? Month? Lifetime? The answer to her question was: terrible. Then again, there is no point where that wouldn't be the answer to that question.]
You would be quite right in that regard. Where possible, I prefer to leave the adventuring to the experts... of which we have several.
I've been keeping as well as ever, thankfully. And how have you settled...? Has it all started to sink in yet?
[Has everyone stopped throwing masses of information at you.]
With Mira ill and Vanitas sulking, and just... everything of the past- week? Month? Lifetime? The answer to her question was: terrible. Then again, there is no point where that wouldn't be the answer to that question.]
You would be quite right in that regard. Where possible, I prefer to leave the adventuring to the experts... of which we have several.
I've been keeping as well as ever, thankfully. And how have you settled...? Has it all started to sink in yet?
[Has everyone stopped throwing masses of information at you.]
One or two.
[Yeah no he has plenty of spare time.]
What happened?
[Yeah no he has plenty of spare time.]
What happened?
[Being Bonded to someone who feels so passionately about something, and so full of despair, sometimes brings a person to think about that thing with a bit more focus. It probably doesn't help matters when Mettaton accidentally swings into a mode of thinking where he views the offer to think about a "compromise" as a promise, which are impossible for a Puca to defy.
He doesn't always think that way. But when he gets ahead of himself, sometimes he does. Mettaton isn't the greatest at compromise, finding that he's far better at definite solutions and decisive action.
In the vaguest terms, Mettaton feels he requires a complete picture so as to understand the nature of this tragedy. The original reason for summoning forth a god, because what would be the point of fixing ("fixing") anything if the original problem went unnoticed? Whatever it was, it required a god's intervention. That says something.]
Hey there, darling! I've been doing some thinking, about that compromise. The one where your beloved people are saved... While keeping the fascinating life resulting of your broken star alive. But I feel I'm lacking some details that would truly make an effective, lasting solution... If it could even come about.
Will you indulge me, gorgeous?
He doesn't always think that way. But when he gets ahead of himself, sometimes he does. Mettaton isn't the greatest at compromise, finding that he's far better at definite solutions and decisive action.
In the vaguest terms, Mettaton feels he requires a complete picture so as to understand the nature of this tragedy. The original reason for summoning forth a god, because what would be the point of fixing ("fixing") anything if the original problem went unnoticed? Whatever it was, it required a god's intervention. That says something.]
Hey there, darling! I've been doing some thinking, about that compromise. The one where your beloved people are saved... While keeping the fascinating life resulting of your broken star alive. But I feel I'm lacking some details that would truly make an effective, lasting solution... If it could even come about.
Will you indulge me, gorgeous?
[It wasn't the sort of question Emet-Selch had expected to wake up to, blearily staring at it, thoughts unerringly returning to the events of the Final Days, even as he struggled to wake up (which was becoming harder to do, lately).
So Mettaton hadn't forgotten about that offer. And while at one point that might've surprised him, it- didn't, really. As whimsical as he seemed, the idol didn't actually strike the Ascian as being particularly unreliable. At least with things like this.
Though it... did feel a bit sad that someone from a wholly unrelated star would have more interest in saving his people than those from his own world, who directly benefited from their sacrifice.]
I suppose there's no reason to hide anything. Not that I expect the information will do you much good....
I've told you an overview of events, but, well, what exactly do you want to know?
So Mettaton hadn't forgotten about that offer. And while at one point that might've surprised him, it- didn't, really. As whimsical as he seemed, the idol didn't actually strike the Ascian as being particularly unreliable. At least with things like this.
Though it... did feel a bit sad that someone from a wholly unrelated star would have more interest in saving his people than those from his own world, who directly benefited from their sacrifice.]
I suppose there's no reason to hide anything. Not that I expect the information will do you much good....
I've told you an overview of events, but, well, what exactly do you want to know?
[Sooooo...it's been a week or so since the two of them had That Conversation with one another. In all honesty it's left Tataru...bothered. Not enough to actually go and seek Emet out to bitch at him but enough that she's found herself thinking about the man more often than she would. Can she stop herself from meddling or reaching out? Not really. In all honesty she's worried for him, even if he had been extremely dismissive of her.
Perhaps she should've expected it though. She hadn't wanted to judge him on the people he belonged to, but it's par for the course for a Garlean to see a Lalafell as so inconsequential and meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Does it hurt? A bit, but it's nothing she hasn't heard before.]
Hullo Emet-Selch! I hope you've been keeping well. I've made you a batch of dangerously dark chocolate muffins, you see. You're sure to enjoy them.
[Because they're dangerously dark, like your soul. Or something to that degree.]
Perhaps she should've expected it though. She hadn't wanted to judge him on the people he belonged to, but it's par for the course for a Garlean to see a Lalafell as so inconsequential and meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Does it hurt? A bit, but it's nothing she hasn't heard before.]
Hullo Emet-Selch! I hope you've been keeping well. I've made you a batch of dangerously dark chocolate muffins, you see. You're sure to enjoy them.
[Because they're dangerously dark, like your soul. Or something to that degree.]
[Despite his claims to the contrary, Emet-Selch had actually thought about both her and her words since that day. And he favored them no more than before. The Ascian needed a lot more than one optimistic lalafell to convince him to remain in the present, or that life was something other than a series of miserable circumstances.
But this was... not the sort of message he expected to receive from her.]
If you're trying to bake yourself into my good favors, it's unnecessary.
[Because he'd forgiven her (as though there was something to forgive her for), or because he would never forgive her, he doesn't specify.
Though at another thought, he adds a moment later:]
If you're attempting to poison me, emphasizing the danger involved is not the best way of going about it.
But this was... not the sort of message he expected to receive from her.]
If you're trying to bake yourself into my good favors, it's unnecessary.
[Because he'd forgiven her (as though there was something to forgive her for), or because he would never forgive her, he doesn't specify.
Though at another thought, he adds a moment later:]
If you're attempting to poison me, emphasizing the danger involved is not the best way of going about it.
[As soon as Irhya hears him moving around upstairs, more actively than he has been the past several days since falling asleep, her feet start moving without her even realizing at first.
...It's probably just as well she checks on him now, she thinks. If he's still not completely well after that, someone ought to do something about it. Though what else he'll have to say to her, she isn't sure, even if she is certain it won't be good. Perhaps not having the bond to scope out his emotional state (and be influenced by it in turn) is for the better now, anyway.
She moves up the stairs with plodding steps and knocks on his door, bracing herself internally.]
Are you awake now?
...It's probably just as well she checks on him now, she thinks. If he's still not completely well after that, someone ought to do something about it. Though what else he'll have to say to her, she isn't sure, even if she is certain it won't be good. Perhaps not having the bond to scope out his emotional state (and be influenced by it in turn) is for the better now, anyway.
She moves up the stairs with plodding steps and knocks on his door, bracing herself internally.]
Are you awake now?
[How long did it take to recover from a couple months worth of sleep deprivation and a perpetual drain on his magical stores? More than a few days, though he was already feeling much improved for it. But there were more things to deal with that couldn't be solved with the application of more sleep. He would still need to speak to Irhya at some point, but hadn't crossed paths with her yet. Perhaps he should approach her? He's not sure why. To get it out of the way, he supposed.
So it was convenient to hear her voice outside his door, and though Emet-Selch hesitates, does stand to open it.
Unlike with Mira, Irhya he could better believe had come to the decision to annul the Bond of her own initiative. Which was a minor point in her favor.]
No, I'm quite unconscious.
[His tone is neutral, if not particularly cold. He didn't know what sort of state Irhya would be in, or what she'd decided his motivations were, and until he knew better- well, this household was becoming less safe for him by the day. Stubbornness was the main thing keeping him there (and apathy) (and having been unconscious for the better part of the week after everything went down).
Which was a pity, considering how decorated his room was by now (though through no effort of his own, gods). It has nice furniture and curtains and things, so even though his manner is stiff, cautious, the room is quite welcoming as he moves out of the doorway. Irhya could come inside if she wanted.]
So it was convenient to hear her voice outside his door, and though Emet-Selch hesitates, does stand to open it.
Unlike with Mira, Irhya he could better believe had come to the decision to annul the Bond of her own initiative. Which was a minor point in her favor.]
No, I'm quite unconscious.
[His tone is neutral, if not particularly cold. He didn't know what sort of state Irhya would be in, or what she'd decided his motivations were, and until he knew better- well, this household was becoming less safe for him by the day. Stubbornness was the main thing keeping him there (and apathy) (and having been unconscious for the better part of the week after everything went down).
Which was a pity, considering how decorated his room was by now (though through no effort of his own, gods). It has nice furniture and curtains and things, so even though his manner is stiff, cautious, the room is quite welcoming as he moves out of the doorway. Irhya could come inside if she wanted.]
[Where did the time go?
After his kaleidoscopic invasion of mirror memories (the majority of which turned out to be Emet-Selch's, in the end), he remembers waking and having the hardest time sensing his very own Bonded. It wasn't until days later when he felt that distinct soul of his flicker and burn to life that he realized his Bonded had awoken from a multiple-day long session of unconsciousness. And at that point, wouldn't it be considered a coma?
At that time, he texted him. Ascertained that this would likely be the end of that, somehow, but Mettaton didn't think to gather any details on that front. He doesn't even remember where he was or what he was doing when he realized Emet-Selch had roused, just that he needed to check in on him. Days later, Mira got in touch, and he learned the reason behind his consistent consciousness. The reason he was recovering. He'd made a note to talk to Emet-Selch about it, not understanding what precisely had changed between them to cause an annulment. Mettaton is invested in Mira's care for Emet-Selch, at least, even if it was this nosiness into his character that led him down the path of discovering his own attachment to the Ascian.
But the days thereafter turned into... a week, at least. He'd grown so accustomed to actual sleep that abstaining from it turned into trouble when he realized he'd misplaced his magitech charger (read: Left It In Emet-Selch's Room), forcing him to conk out from battery depletion. It's fortunate that sleeping replenishes his charge at all. This, along with a general sense of disorientation and the willingness to keep busy with relaxing theater laws, contributed to Mettaton's loss of time.
The calendar changes to Maiuril. There are still matters that try to command his attention, but he decides he's reached his limit. Mettaton scarcely thinks to warn the Ascian of his arrival, but remembers his request. A request Mettaton miraculously took seriously, perhaps given the weight of their experience with the Rathmores. So at least he gives him a... heads-up.]
I'm about two minutes from your exact location. Assuming you're in the same place you usually are. That is, your extravagantly decorated room.
Which, you are. I know. I could hunt you down anywhere in this city... Even if you tried to hide.
Be there before you know it!!
[His visit is coming after the sun's already setting, because what is the distinction of night and day when one's been avoiding sleep?? It doesn't make any difference. Besides, for all that Mettaton lacks nighttime vision, he finds himself most energetic in evenings into early morning hours.
...And somehow, the Puca has leapt up onto the roof. It's fine. Emet-Selch will likely hear the THUD of his weight against the ceiling. Two silvery ears pop down from above, followed by Mettaton himself as he raps against the window. How kind of him, to not break the window. How stupid of him, to not use the door.
Front doors are for break-ins, not whatever this is in his weird mind.]
After his kaleidoscopic invasion of mirror memories (the majority of which turned out to be Emet-Selch's, in the end), he remembers waking and having the hardest time sensing his very own Bonded. It wasn't until days later when he felt that distinct soul of his flicker and burn to life that he realized his Bonded had awoken from a multiple-day long session of unconsciousness. And at that point, wouldn't it be considered a coma?
At that time, he texted him. Ascertained that this would likely be the end of that, somehow, but Mettaton didn't think to gather any details on that front. He doesn't even remember where he was or what he was doing when he realized Emet-Selch had roused, just that he needed to check in on him. Days later, Mira got in touch, and he learned the reason behind his consistent consciousness. The reason he was recovering. He'd made a note to talk to Emet-Selch about it, not understanding what precisely had changed between them to cause an annulment. Mettaton is invested in Mira's care for Emet-Selch, at least, even if it was this nosiness into his character that led him down the path of discovering his own attachment to the Ascian.
But the days thereafter turned into... a week, at least. He'd grown so accustomed to actual sleep that abstaining from it turned into trouble when he realized he'd misplaced his magitech charger (read: Left It In Emet-Selch's Room), forcing him to conk out from battery depletion. It's fortunate that sleeping replenishes his charge at all. This, along with a general sense of disorientation and the willingness to keep busy with relaxing theater laws, contributed to Mettaton's loss of time.
The calendar changes to Maiuril. There are still matters that try to command his attention, but he decides he's reached his limit. Mettaton scarcely thinks to warn the Ascian of his arrival, but remembers his request. A request Mettaton miraculously took seriously, perhaps given the weight of their experience with the Rathmores. So at least he gives him a... heads-up.]
I'm about two minutes from your exact location. Assuming you're in the same place you usually are. That is, your extravagantly decorated room.
Which, you are. I know. I could hunt you down anywhere in this city... Even if you tried to hide.
Be there before you know it!!
[His visit is coming after the sun's already setting, because what is the distinction of night and day when one's been avoiding sleep?? It doesn't make any difference. Besides, for all that Mettaton lacks nighttime vision, he finds himself most energetic in evenings into early morning hours.
...And somehow, the Puca has leapt up onto the roof. It's fine. Emet-Selch will likely hear the THUD of his weight against the ceiling. Two silvery ears pop down from above, followed by Mettaton himself as he raps against the window. How kind of him, to not break the window. How stupid of him, to not use the door.
Front doors are for break-ins, not whatever this is in his weird mind.]
[Where did the time go?
In Emet-Selch's case, several days of it had been spent in a coma. From dreams of history to no dreams at all; the tempestuous result of that memory-walking experience had been enough to push him under permanently, to slowly die in the same way that he lived: completely alone. If he'd been awake, he would've appreciated the symmetry.
But he did not die, and on waking to feel the absence of two Bonds, the Ascian's initial reaction was one of simple, exhausted relief- before falling immediately back into a more genuine sleep. A process that he repeated for upwards of a week, rousing only for brief periods, before stumbling back into bed for further rest. At some point, Mettaton had contacted him; Emet-Selch only remembered this very vaguely, had been in little shape to do more than agree that he was still alive, and would be improving shortly.
There was a lot of sleep to catch up on. And with it, a recovery from the more magical drain on his stamina, that had further aided in hollowing him out, reducing him so steadily. But several weeks had passed since that time, and he was feeling better than he had since... since being captured and tortured, actually. Something that felt like it had been years past now, but was only months. Time gets- strange, when you lose the ability to keep track of it very well. When each day feels not wholly real.
But awake he is, and in his room, as he so often was. The intrusion of a message gets a frown, though he had to give Mettaton the smallest credit for remembering to warn him. But was there time to go downstairs and unlock the door, Emet-Selch wondered. Did he even care if he kicked it down, really? Unlocking his own door was all he he could bother to do....
A consideration that is interrupted by a very distinctive and loud thunk of something quite heavy and likely robot-shaped impacting the roof. Emet-Selch looks reflexively overhead, though it's not as though he's developed the ability to gaze through the ceiling. And then there's rapping. Against his very own window.
Pushing the curtains aside, feeling more incredulous by the moment, Emet-Selch just... stares, as long ears give way to revealing the tall man who wore them.
(Was this a puca thing, he'd wonder later. Vanitas was also Bonded to a puca who apparently liked coming in through his window. But why would a rabbit-oriented monster have those sorts of inclinations...?)
And Emet-Selch continues to stare for some good, long moments, having to restrain the impulse to close his curtains back up and return to bed. It wouldn't work anyway: Mettaton would just break the window, he assumed. Or circle around and break several doors. So instead the Ascian sighs, a deeply-felt exhalation, as he unlatches the window and pushes it up, the frame of it stiff and creaking and reluctant to move. The evening air wasn't as cool these days; perhaps he should just consider leaving it open....
Stepping out of the way, he waits for Mettaton to finish making his absurd and unnecessarily complicated entrance.]
Why?
[Why to a lot of things, probably. The one of most relevance being why, through the window?]
Did the door do something to offend?
In Emet-Selch's case, several days of it had been spent in a coma. From dreams of history to no dreams at all; the tempestuous result of that memory-walking experience had been enough to push him under permanently, to slowly die in the same way that he lived: completely alone. If he'd been awake, he would've appreciated the symmetry.
But he did not die, and on waking to feel the absence of two Bonds, the Ascian's initial reaction was one of simple, exhausted relief- before falling immediately back into a more genuine sleep. A process that he repeated for upwards of a week, rousing only for brief periods, before stumbling back into bed for further rest. At some point, Mettaton had contacted him; Emet-Selch only remembered this very vaguely, had been in little shape to do more than agree that he was still alive, and would be improving shortly.
There was a lot of sleep to catch up on. And with it, a recovery from the more magical drain on his stamina, that had further aided in hollowing him out, reducing him so steadily. But several weeks had passed since that time, and he was feeling better than he had since... since being captured and tortured, actually. Something that felt like it had been years past now, but was only months. Time gets- strange, when you lose the ability to keep track of it very well. When each day feels not wholly real.
But awake he is, and in his room, as he so often was. The intrusion of a message gets a frown, though he had to give Mettaton the smallest credit for remembering to warn him. But was there time to go downstairs and unlock the door, Emet-Selch wondered. Did he even care if he kicked it down, really? Unlocking his own door was all he he could bother to do....
A consideration that is interrupted by a very distinctive and loud thunk of something quite heavy and likely robot-shaped impacting the roof. Emet-Selch looks reflexively overhead, though it's not as though he's developed the ability to gaze through the ceiling. And then there's rapping. Against his very own window.
Pushing the curtains aside, feeling more incredulous by the moment, Emet-Selch just... stares, as long ears give way to revealing the tall man who wore them.
(Was this a puca thing, he'd wonder later. Vanitas was also Bonded to a puca who apparently liked coming in through his window. But why would a rabbit-oriented monster have those sorts of inclinations...?)
And Emet-Selch continues to stare for some good, long moments, having to restrain the impulse to close his curtains back up and return to bed. It wouldn't work anyway: Mettaton would just break the window, he assumed. Or circle around and break several doors. So instead the Ascian sighs, a deeply-felt exhalation, as he unlatches the window and pushes it up, the frame of it stiff and creaking and reluctant to move. The evening air wasn't as cool these days; perhaps he should just consider leaving it open....
Stepping out of the way, he waits for Mettaton to finish making his absurd and unnecessarily complicated entrance.]
Why?
[Why to a lot of things, probably. The one of most relevance being why, through the window?]
Did the door do something to offend?
[Within a couple days of Mettaton's invasion and invitation, there's a gift basket waiting in the monsters' house in the room Emet-Selch was encouraged to use - with a handwritten card.]
DEAR NEW HOUSEGUEST,
PLEASE ENJOY THIS CARE PACKAGE!
A BASKET OF WELCOME, BECAUSE WE CARE.
- YOUR MAYBE TEMPORARY NEIGHBOR,
PAPYRUS
[Yes, even his handwriting is loud. There's the slightest impression of a faintly inked skull on the other side of the note, in case there was any question who wrote it.
The basket's large, with... an eclectic basket of things, reflecting the limited information Papyrus was able to glean about Emet-Selch's interests.
Some home baked goods, of decent quality, wrapped to keep any crumbs from spreading through the rest of it. A chunk of flowery soap, literal flowers in it to add to the scent. A blank book, with a quill but no ink. A wooden figure, carved to look considerably like Mettaton's rectangular form - though sadly without ears. Underneath it all, a pillow. It doesn't look like anyone's slept on it yet.]
DEAR NEW HOUSEGUEST,
PLEASE ENJOY THIS CARE PACKAGE!
A BASKET OF WELCOME, BECAUSE WE CARE.
- YOUR MAYBE TEMPORARY NEIGHBOR,
PAPYRUS
[Yes, even his handwriting is loud. There's the slightest impression of a faintly inked skull on the other side of the note, in case there was any question who wrote it.
The basket's large, with... an eclectic basket of things, reflecting the limited information Papyrus was able to glean about Emet-Selch's interests.
Some home baked goods, of decent quality, wrapped to keep any crumbs from spreading through the rest of it. A chunk of flowery soap, literal flowers in it to add to the scent. A blank book, with a quill but no ink. A wooden figure, carved to look considerably like Mettaton's rectangular form - though sadly without ears. Underneath it all, a pillow. It doesn't look like anyone's slept on it yet.]
[There really is no mistaking the origin of this basket of welcoming, even were it not signed. The loudness-through-writing, the particular cadence, the suggestion of a skull, the friendliness and desire to welcome, the fact that Papyrus lived in the same damned house that this Ascian was now haunting... the clues all added up!!
(Though considering the inclusion of a Mettaton-shaped figure, he wouldn't have been surprised to hear that the idol had a hand in offering suggestions.)
It all goes over... oddly. His reaction is surprise and considerable skepticism. But, it was mostly useful things, and it was a thoughtful gesture towards someone who just kind-of-moved-in-on-a-partial-basis. And free food was free food. He'll even display that... figurine all alone on one of the shelves because he doesn't have enough possessions to fill much of anything.
Emet-Selch's ability to manifest manners was, to put it mildly, haphazard. But, a day or two later, Papyrus might find a letter written on simple stationery left in what the Ascian assumes to be his room. It reads, in scrawly-but-legible handwriting as follows:]
Unnecessary.
But thank you.
[That's it. It's not signed or anything either.]
(Though considering the inclusion of a Mettaton-shaped figure, he wouldn't have been surprised to hear that the idol had a hand in offering suggestions.)
It all goes over... oddly. His reaction is surprise and considerable skepticism. But, it was mostly useful things, and it was a thoughtful gesture towards someone who just kind-of-moved-in-on-a-partial-basis. And free food was free food. He'll even display that... figurine all alone on one of the shelves because he doesn't have enough possessions to fill much of anything.
Emet-Selch's ability to manifest manners was, to put it mildly, haphazard. But, a day or two later, Papyrus might find a letter written on simple stationery left in what the Ascian assumes to be his room. It reads, in scrawly-but-legible handwriting as follows:]
Unnecessary.
But thank you.
[That's it. It's not signed or anything either.]
[It was inevitable. Moreso than any other loss, really: Hythlodaeus had arrived without being tied to any mirror. Apparently that meant vanishing much sooner, a claim made which seems to have been the truth.
Emet-Selch is not particularly surprised that Irhya had run into him. He'd wondered if any of the Warriors had- the man was rather easy to spot. It was a meeting he viewed with mixed feelings, but that was applied to most aspects of Hythlodaeus being here.]
I see.
[But though there's a pause, he knows he can't leave it at that. What he's less sure of is what he wants to say about it- or what his feelings are at all.]
So you encountered him. I suppose it was inevitable.
[A friendship separated by so many things. Years, memories, the splintering of souls- but inevitable nonetheless that they would bridge those things and meet.]
Emet-Selch is not particularly surprised that Irhya had run into him. He'd wondered if any of the Warriors had- the man was rather easy to spot. It was a meeting he viewed with mixed feelings, but that was applied to most aspects of Hythlodaeus being here.]
I see.
[But though there's a pause, he knows he can't leave it at that. What he's less sure of is what he wants to say about it- or what his feelings are at all.]
So you encountered him. I suppose it was inevitable.
[A friendship separated by so many things. Years, memories, the splintering of souls- but inevitable nonetheless that they would bridge those things and meet.]
[The trip to the Underground has come and gone, and Litha with it. For better or for worse. The final few days leading to Litha, Mettaton's been in something of a mood. Lost to thought, more inclined toward dramatic shifts in mood, easily bored or distracted or irritable. It's not so much that he would ever tell lie Emet-Selch should he have inquired, nor would he have necessarily blocked inquiry — but his pace ends up so haphazard that there's scarcely a chance to ask. He's unable to concretely process the form of his worries for himself, much less share it, leading to his busy, erratic manner.
So he brilliantly distracted himself from the thought, and diverted every chance for acknowledging any problems. He needed the chance to regain his composure, he thought, but it's a feeling that grows increasingly worse.
With Litha passed, there's nothing left to distract himself with. Nothing save for some preoccupation found on the stage, and even that's managing to fail the star. He finds himself between acts during some performance when he sends Emet-Selch a message, evening shifting into night. What else is he to do if he's finding himself sitting backstage and getting increasingly distracted from his role, bad enough to blunder before an audience? Unacceptable. That's when he acknowledges that this is getting out of hand.]
Hades, somebody else saw my memories.
[And distressed as he is, he doesn't know where to begin beyond that.]
So he brilliantly distracted himself from the thought, and diverted every chance for acknowledging any problems. He needed the chance to regain his composure, he thought, but it's a feeling that grows increasingly worse.
With Litha passed, there's nothing left to distract himself with. Nothing save for some preoccupation found on the stage, and even that's managing to fail the star. He finds himself between acts during some performance when he sends Emet-Selch a message, evening shifting into night. What else is he to do if he's finding himself sitting backstage and getting increasingly distracted from his role, bad enough to blunder before an audience? Unacceptable. That's when he acknowledges that this is getting out of hand.]
Hades, somebody else saw my memories.
[And distressed as he is, he doesn't know where to begin beyond that.]
[Emet-Selch had certainly noticed that something more had been off regarding Mettaton's mood and behavior. Even without the Bond it would've been a difficult thing to miss, and with it, nigh inescapable.
Not that this had led the Ascian to actually ask about it. At first, he waited to see whether it would either smooth itself out on its own, or for Mettaton to tell him what the problem was- but then neither of those things occurred. And he was quite hard to pin down to inquire (sure, he could've just messaged him as Mettaton had, and if too many more days had gone by without a word, he would've gotten around to it, but still--).
When the message finally comes there's no question as to this being the thing that's been bothering him. It's also entirely clear what part of his history he's referring to.]
Who?
[And equally as important:]
Do you think they've told anyone?
[Not, 'do you think they will'. Which, while still a relevant question, doesn't cover the core of the issue: someone else knowing in the first place.]
Not that this had led the Ascian to actually ask about it. At first, he waited to see whether it would either smooth itself out on its own, or for Mettaton to tell him what the problem was- but then neither of those things occurred. And he was quite hard to pin down to inquire (sure, he could've just messaged him as Mettaton had, and if too many more days had gone by without a word, he would've gotten around to it, but still--).
When the message finally comes there's no question as to this being the thing that's been bothering him. It's also entirely clear what part of his history he's referring to.]
Who?
[And equally as important:]
Do you think they've told anyone?
[Not, 'do you think they will'. Which, while still a relevant question, doesn't cover the core of the issue: someone else knowing in the first place.]
[A week after the full moons. That's how long it took for her to realise something was wrong and put it all together. The ravenous, insatiable hunger had eased and in its place was a dull ache. Almost like growing pains running through her body again. At first she'd dismissed it. Just a side effect of a good workout, unusual for her but nothing to be worried about.
Then the headaches that persisted, like she'd spent too much insatiable hunger in the sun.
It was only when she tried to sew. The small enchantment she tried to weave into her needlework made her so nauseous... The trickle of magic from Tendou's bond simply wasn't enough anymore. So she took a breath, braced herself and sent the message. ]
Your offer from last month, about the bond. Does that still stand?
Then the headaches that persisted, like she'd spent too much insatiable hunger in the sun.
It was only when she tried to sew. The small enchantment she tried to weave into her needlework made her so nauseous... The trickle of magic from Tendou's bond simply wasn't enough anymore. So she took a breath, braced herself and sent the message. ]
Your offer from last month, about the bond. Does that still stand?
[The message, when it comes, is of a small surprise. That Mikasa was turning to him now... probably meant that she had hit some sort of wall, with no other appropriate witches in sight. Considering how particularly magical fae seemed to be, Emet-Selch wondered if they required witches more than the average monster- at least, if they intended to make use of any of their abilities.
Though he hums to himself in thought before he replies, it's not too long before he answers, tone mild, casual.]
There was no time limit upon my offer... so yes, you may assume my willingness remains. I take it that your approach of me now means that your lone monstrous Bond is no longer sufficient to sustain you?
Though he hums to himself in thought before he replies, it's not too long before he answers, tone mild, casual.]
There was no time limit upon my offer... so yes, you may assume my willingness remains. I take it that your approach of me now means that your lone monstrous Bond is no longer sufficient to sustain you?
(continued from here)
[And again, in all their differences, they were matched. Devotion demanded and exceeded, and demanded again; between them there was no such thing as excess. Everything they wanted they deserved, they should have, every part of Mettaton's wicked desires for his soul left him shuddering in longing for it. Every stolen breath, every beat from his frantic pulse was an encouragement, an inciting, a demand again to take it, to claim all of him for all that he already had him. But there was always more. Mettaton deserved him, and Emet-Selch wanted him. What were constraints?
The only salvation that existed was in their arms.
But their location dissatisfied Emet-Selch.
No one deserved to see Mettaton like this. Even if all watched at an appropriately reverent distance, with the appropriate levels of respect, this darkness was for him to claim. This violence, this love was for him alone. Though their audience would be attempting to memorize every aspect of the perfection demonstrated before them, they would surely feel abject despair at knowing that they could never emulate them. What other response could there be, when looking upon divinity? If they weren't struck blind by the sight, their lives would be forever rendered meaningless, because what hope remained for them, after bearing witness to their union? How could they ever be content, knowing that they'll never achieve even a second's worth of this ecstasy?
But it's not kindness that motivates Emet-Selch to finally act, forcing a glimmer of specific focus amidst dizziness and need, amongst aggression and exhilaration. He has no desire to spare anyone anything. Mettaton may want an audience, but the Ascian was selfish. He refused to allow his eye to stray from him for even an instant, even were it only to drive off anyone who would dare and try and get them to stop.
So he takes the breath he's permitted, loathing his body's requirement for it, tasting blood on his lover's lips, and feeling it at his own throat. It would take barely a thought for the man to tear it open entirely, or to squeeze it shut, and either option would do. Either option seemed wholly plausible should he delay in answer, or were his answer insufficient.
And yet his body acts first, thrusting against the roll of Mettaton's hips, dragging his hardened cock against his thigh, hissing blood against his lover's mouth. His body was trapped and his erection was trapped, and one of those things was far more frustrating than the other. Mettaton needed more hands, he thought, snapping at his lips in his own irritation. It would be unthinkable to let their tied hands be freed, or for his throat to go unthreatened, but he wanted to rub his length all over him as well. And his own freer hand was busy groping over his hip to his thigh, dragging him ever tighter against him.
He bites back a groan by biting Mettaton instead; already, the idol's kissing was threatening to pull him back under, and his body only wanted to be dragged down with him, torn apart and merged with him, staining every surface of them both with every part of their shared essence--]
My love....
[Breathless, his eyes close for a moment; the rare endearment, still affectionate, even tender, yet darker than all else in that instant. Blackened, depthless, insane, gentle. His lips brush against Mettaton's as he speaks; they were all that deserved to exist in this world.]
More than anyone else. No one else will love you like this. No one, no one will see you the way I do.
[And Emet-Selch takes the first, and quite possibly last and only reasonable action: teleporting them from all chance of Mettaton having witnesses to having reached this pinnacle of grace and terror, placing them instead in the middle of his Bonded's finely-appointed room.
Whether he approved or not was beyond him, shoving at his lover with more force now that he was no longer trapped against precarious shelving. If Mettaton's lips were made of anything other than silicone, he would've ripped them open by now, but the way he sinks into them seems to indicate a ruthless attempt to do so regardless. His balance, though, remains in Mettaton's grasp, determined only to not be parted from him.]
[And again, in all their differences, they were matched. Devotion demanded and exceeded, and demanded again; between them there was no such thing as excess. Everything they wanted they deserved, they should have, every part of Mettaton's wicked desires for his soul left him shuddering in longing for it. Every stolen breath, every beat from his frantic pulse was an encouragement, an inciting, a demand again to take it, to claim all of him for all that he already had him. But there was always more. Mettaton deserved him, and Emet-Selch wanted him. What were constraints?
The only salvation that existed was in their arms.
But their location dissatisfied Emet-Selch.
No one deserved to see Mettaton like this. Even if all watched at an appropriately reverent distance, with the appropriate levels of respect, this darkness was for him to claim. This violence, this love was for him alone. Though their audience would be attempting to memorize every aspect of the perfection demonstrated before them, they would surely feel abject despair at knowing that they could never emulate them. What other response could there be, when looking upon divinity? If they weren't struck blind by the sight, their lives would be forever rendered meaningless, because what hope remained for them, after bearing witness to their union? How could they ever be content, knowing that they'll never achieve even a second's worth of this ecstasy?
But it's not kindness that motivates Emet-Selch to finally act, forcing a glimmer of specific focus amidst dizziness and need, amongst aggression and exhilaration. He has no desire to spare anyone anything. Mettaton may want an audience, but the Ascian was selfish. He refused to allow his eye to stray from him for even an instant, even were it only to drive off anyone who would dare and try and get them to stop.
So he takes the breath he's permitted, loathing his body's requirement for it, tasting blood on his lover's lips, and feeling it at his own throat. It would take barely a thought for the man to tear it open entirely, or to squeeze it shut, and either option would do. Either option seemed wholly plausible should he delay in answer, or were his answer insufficient.
And yet his body acts first, thrusting against the roll of Mettaton's hips, dragging his hardened cock against his thigh, hissing blood against his lover's mouth. His body was trapped and his erection was trapped, and one of those things was far more frustrating than the other. Mettaton needed more hands, he thought, snapping at his lips in his own irritation. It would be unthinkable to let their tied hands be freed, or for his throat to go unthreatened, but he wanted to rub his length all over him as well. And his own freer hand was busy groping over his hip to his thigh, dragging him ever tighter against him.
He bites back a groan by biting Mettaton instead; already, the idol's kissing was threatening to pull him back under, and his body only wanted to be dragged down with him, torn apart and merged with him, staining every surface of them both with every part of their shared essence--]
My love....
[Breathless, his eyes close for a moment; the rare endearment, still affectionate, even tender, yet darker than all else in that instant. Blackened, depthless, insane, gentle. His lips brush against Mettaton's as he speaks; they were all that deserved to exist in this world.]
More than anyone else. No one else will love you like this. No one, no one will see you the way I do.
[And Emet-Selch takes the first, and quite possibly last and only reasonable action: teleporting them from all chance of Mettaton having witnesses to having reached this pinnacle of grace and terror, placing them instead in the middle of his Bonded's finely-appointed room.
Whether he approved or not was beyond him, shoving at his lover with more force now that he was no longer trapped against precarious shelving. If Mettaton's lips were made of anything other than silicone, he would've ripped them open by now, but the way he sinks into them seems to indicate a ruthless attempt to do so regardless. His balance, though, remains in Mettaton's grasp, determined only to not be parted from him.]
[His body works like an instrument of Mettaton's design, his pulse high and pushing blood past his claws and through the flush of his swollen lip — and to reward him, Mettaton spares a moment toward sucking that lower lip of his that bleeds, the intent to tear it some more, for more blood to seep between them. The notion of staining him in any way he can grips him like they share not only moods but thoughts, and Mettaton wants not only to dye Emet-Selch's body in red, but his own. Only with his lover's blood would this suffice.
And the longer he's silent, the longer Emet-Selch struggles for breath, the more voracious Mettaton grows, the anger native to himself and belonging to a Puca pulled taut and ready to snap. He tears his lip, forces it to bleed some more as he licks and sucks at it, fingers gripping down onto Emet-Selch's hand so hard that it could cut circulation to his fingers. Emet-Selch shifts his hips, thrusting against the slight give of his thigh, and Mettaton makes a sound that's a cross between a deep-seated moan and a cry of delight.
He wants to tell him how hard he is, how he welcomes his cock upon his body. He wants to feel him worship his entire figure with words, eyes, tongue, lips, cock, palms, and fingers, to take him in and show him how much he craved him filling his senses. Mettaton shudders then, nearly cutting off his air completely.
But Emet-Selch manages such endearment, the only kind of words that weren't directed completely to his radiance that could soften him in his descent to a unique hybrid of feral madness. He's spared air; invited to speak as though a loyal subject asking for audience through prayer; and Mettaton gives him his attention with an imperious eye, watching down the bridge of his nose.
Emet-Selch doesn't even speak next, breathless as Mettaton perceives him in the darkness of the basement that somehow veers all the darker just by the tune of his beautiful, deep voice, strangled past his fingers; and he offers him his lips to speak against out of a mutual desire. To be desired, and to mark Emet-Selch with himself. To... to temper him. To make sure that his soul is his own, to fill him with what their Bond offers, and more. To infuse Emet-Selch with the dark, crushing reverie of his pure, delightful animosity.
'No one will see you the way I do.' The words of a devout admirer of Mettaton. He exhales air he doesn't keep, as though he's been taking it all from the Ascian and keeping it for his own use in these moments, breath at hot as his fury; it's almost symbolic, in how Emet-Selch manages to expel some of the heat in him so that he may wield this darkness with more aptitude, with less blindness. Mettaton adjusts his sights to the dark in this way, the edge sharper but more refined. Emet-Selch's words are a relief from this unnatural radiance of his.
And when the robot opens his eye, they're not in the basement. Not that he can care: they're in his room, and Emet-Selch is his, a beautiful offering to tide over a tyrant of a Puca. He could fascinate himself in his Bonded's company forever, he thought; if he reminded him in moments of passion of his beauty, he would always feel worshiped. He could do anything. If Emet-Selch felt the world was undeserving of him... Mettaton would have to agree in this moment. None of them could intensify his feelings in this particular direction without him tiring of them and casting them off after they brought him to blinding rage.
Here, with Emet-Selch in his own room... He's exhilarated.
Emet-Selch pushes against him with fury, no longer caught between shelves and his body. He has so much freedom suddenly! And Mettaton laughs unrestrained, pleased and invigorated by his devotion to stealing his attention for himself.]
Yes... A worthy love of me. Then let me... see you the way only I can. The way just for me. The way only I do.
[It's said proudly. Emet-Selch deserves his undivided gaze, deserves to be seen prone before him, deserves to be vulnerable and wanting and filled with his own essence. Mettaton receives his savage love, sinking his claws more deeply into Emet-Selch's neck as a claim to taking him, feeling them slide into muscle. More blood dribbles down his skin, marring him; and he realizes that his clothes are soaking it up.
That's wrong. It should cascade down his skin and mark him that way, shouldn't it? He should be streaked in crimson, sucked in purples and rose, clawed in scarlet, made flushed and hard and slick with saliva and come.
So he battles back: Mettaton snaps at Emet-Selch's lip in turn, shoving him forward, forward, pressing with neck and body and gripping white hot onto his fingers until the Ascian is slammed against the wall. The Puca rubs a thigh against his hard cock, moaning past their kiss, and he pulls back for a moment. Blood runs down his chin, and his eye catches what light filters in through windows as he follows lines of blood down to Emet-Selch's clothes.
And here, Mettaton lunges with teeth for the juncture between shoulder and neck, sinking razor sharp incisors and canines into his flesh like it was made for him. Only then do his claws relinquish their hold upon his neck, only so he can tear at his clothes, can rip them apart if he has to — he needs to be disrobed with immediacy, made bare so that blood can appropriately stain his body, so that Mettaton can thoroughly mark him and make him his own.]
And the longer he's silent, the longer Emet-Selch struggles for breath, the more voracious Mettaton grows, the anger native to himself and belonging to a Puca pulled taut and ready to snap. He tears his lip, forces it to bleed some more as he licks and sucks at it, fingers gripping down onto Emet-Selch's hand so hard that it could cut circulation to his fingers. Emet-Selch shifts his hips, thrusting against the slight give of his thigh, and Mettaton makes a sound that's a cross between a deep-seated moan and a cry of delight.
He wants to tell him how hard he is, how he welcomes his cock upon his body. He wants to feel him worship his entire figure with words, eyes, tongue, lips, cock, palms, and fingers, to take him in and show him how much he craved him filling his senses. Mettaton shudders then, nearly cutting off his air completely.
But Emet-Selch manages such endearment, the only kind of words that weren't directed completely to his radiance that could soften him in his descent to a unique hybrid of feral madness. He's spared air; invited to speak as though a loyal subject asking for audience through prayer; and Mettaton gives him his attention with an imperious eye, watching down the bridge of his nose.
Emet-Selch doesn't even speak next, breathless as Mettaton perceives him in the darkness of the basement that somehow veers all the darker just by the tune of his beautiful, deep voice, strangled past his fingers; and he offers him his lips to speak against out of a mutual desire. To be desired, and to mark Emet-Selch with himself. To... to temper him. To make sure that his soul is his own, to fill him with what their Bond offers, and more. To infuse Emet-Selch with the dark, crushing reverie of his pure, delightful animosity.
'No one will see you the way I do.' The words of a devout admirer of Mettaton. He exhales air he doesn't keep, as though he's been taking it all from the Ascian and keeping it for his own use in these moments, breath at hot as his fury; it's almost symbolic, in how Emet-Selch manages to expel some of the heat in him so that he may wield this darkness with more aptitude, with less blindness. Mettaton adjusts his sights to the dark in this way, the edge sharper but more refined. Emet-Selch's words are a relief from this unnatural radiance of his.
And when the robot opens his eye, they're not in the basement. Not that he can care: they're in his room, and Emet-Selch is his, a beautiful offering to tide over a tyrant of a Puca. He could fascinate himself in his Bonded's company forever, he thought; if he reminded him in moments of passion of his beauty, he would always feel worshiped. He could do anything. If Emet-Selch felt the world was undeserving of him... Mettaton would have to agree in this moment. None of them could intensify his feelings in this particular direction without him tiring of them and casting them off after they brought him to blinding rage.
Here, with Emet-Selch in his own room... He's exhilarated.
Emet-Selch pushes against him with fury, no longer caught between shelves and his body. He has so much freedom suddenly! And Mettaton laughs unrestrained, pleased and invigorated by his devotion to stealing his attention for himself.]
Yes... A worthy love of me. Then let me... see you the way only I can. The way just for me. The way only I do.
[It's said proudly. Emet-Selch deserves his undivided gaze, deserves to be seen prone before him, deserves to be vulnerable and wanting and filled with his own essence. Mettaton receives his savage love, sinking his claws more deeply into Emet-Selch's neck as a claim to taking him, feeling them slide into muscle. More blood dribbles down his skin, marring him; and he realizes that his clothes are soaking it up.
That's wrong. It should cascade down his skin and mark him that way, shouldn't it? He should be streaked in crimson, sucked in purples and rose, clawed in scarlet, made flushed and hard and slick with saliva and come.
So he battles back: Mettaton snaps at Emet-Selch's lip in turn, shoving him forward, forward, pressing with neck and body and gripping white hot onto his fingers until the Ascian is slammed against the wall. The Puca rubs a thigh against his hard cock, moaning past their kiss, and he pulls back for a moment. Blood runs down his chin, and his eye catches what light filters in through windows as he follows lines of blood down to Emet-Selch's clothes.
And here, Mettaton lunges with teeth for the juncture between shoulder and neck, sinking razor sharp incisors and canines into his flesh like it was made for him. Only then do his claws relinquish their hold upon his neck, only so he can tear at his clothes, can rip them apart if he has to — he needs to be disrobed with immediacy, made bare so that blood can appropriately stain his body, so that Mettaton can thoroughly mark him and make him his own.]
[As far as bonds went, theirs' was weak but stable. Not big ups or downs, strange emotions running rampant and making it jump all over the place. But it was working. It was slow and she couldn't do much with her newfound magic, but she also didn't feel like she was about to pass out at any moment. Boring, but completely practical.
Which after some of the horror stories she'd heard, the fae was 100% okay with that.
And as much as she liked Tendou. She could only put up with one person sending her the occasional bouts of madness. Enough that she'd gave the chimera a warning about her being busy for the day. Emet-Selch didn't...But what were the chances of Emet messaging for ice cream?
...Exactly.
So he also didn't get the warning not to worry if he sensed anything. Partly because Mikasa didn't think he'd be worried to begin with.
The fae settled. Sinking into the chair, eyebrows furrowing at the person's description of what they were going to do to put the piercing in. Right, they'd numb her ear and then- AROJGADGJNDAKFODSGREEDGKV
Emet-Selch. Your new bonded was having two whole feelings.]
Which after some of the horror stories she'd heard, the fae was 100% okay with that.
And as much as she liked Tendou. She could only put up with one person sending her the occasional bouts of madness. Enough that she'd gave the chimera a warning about her being busy for the day. Emet-Selch didn't...But what were the chances of Emet messaging for ice cream?
...Exactly.
So he also didn't get the warning not to worry if he sensed anything. Partly because Mikasa didn't think he'd be worried to begin with.
The fae settled. Sinking into the chair, eyebrows furrowing at the person's description of what they were going to do to put the piercing in. Right, they'd numb her ear and then- AROJGADGJNDAKFODSGREEDGKV
Emet-Selch. Your new bonded was having two whole feelings.]
[A perfectly stable, if low-leveled Bond. Humming along quietly in the background, inoffensive as one could please, it's pretty much exactly what he expected out of it. A modest boost to his general spellcasting, with no particular downsides. Mikasa had struck him as stable, pragmatic- precisely the sort of person he'd want in any other Bondmate. Mettaton was all he required when it came to both sentiment and emotional intensity.
A mutually-beneficial exchange like this though, with each of them knowing and getting what they wanted from it, could make use of it while otherwise ignoring it... yes, he could live with this just fine.
And what a completely normal day this was being. Emet-Selch was even awake at this time (which was hardly a guarantee, no matter the time of day), and he's even making himself a cup of tea. How cozy, and one of the few things the man regularly provided himself (most meals he obtained elsewhere, but he couldn't go out every time he wanted a drink). Boiling water is involved. This is probably not the best time to be around boiling anything.
--Wordless, mindless intensity fills his mind and blocks out all other considerations. It's not even that it hurt him terribly badly to receive. But oh, it was startling. It was startling and sudden and gives him with a moment's worth of panic, having no idea what was wrong or why or where. It's inevitable: he drops the cup he'd happened to be holding, which had just as inevitably shattered. And then Emet-Selch was surrounded by broken shards of pottery and had scalded himself on boiling water (the pain from that further disorienting him, having to work backwards to realize that it was pain elsewhere that caused this to happen) and everything was mysterious and uncomfortable.
But he collects himself. Realizes that it was a sensation experienced via-Bond, and via-Mikasa, in particular. He also grudgingly cleans up the mess he'd made, with a lot of mumbled cursing towards it and his sore foot which had gotten splashed.
Some time later, Mikasa will receive a message via watch. Since nothing that intense had continued, he figured she was probably fine... not being tortured or something, which meant there was nothing he needed to do other than complain (if she were captured, well... he'd probably have to do something about that, if just to stop the background of pain it would presumably leave him in).]
If you were dead I think it would feel different than this, so I'll assume you haven't been murdered.
If you're not presently being tortured I would appreciate an explanation.
A mutually-beneficial exchange like this though, with each of them knowing and getting what they wanted from it, could make use of it while otherwise ignoring it... yes, he could live with this just fine.
And what a completely normal day this was being. Emet-Selch was even awake at this time (which was hardly a guarantee, no matter the time of day), and he's even making himself a cup of tea. How cozy, and one of the few things the man regularly provided himself (most meals he obtained elsewhere, but he couldn't go out every time he wanted a drink). Boiling water is involved. This is probably not the best time to be around boiling anything.
--Wordless, mindless intensity fills his mind and blocks out all other considerations. It's not even that it hurt him terribly badly to receive. But oh, it was startling. It was startling and sudden and gives him with a moment's worth of panic, having no idea what was wrong or why or where. It's inevitable: he drops the cup he'd happened to be holding, which had just as inevitably shattered. And then Emet-Selch was surrounded by broken shards of pottery and had scalded himself on boiling water (the pain from that further disorienting him, having to work backwards to realize that it was pain elsewhere that caused this to happen) and everything was mysterious and uncomfortable.
But he collects himself. Realizes that it was a sensation experienced via-Bond, and via-Mikasa, in particular. He also grudgingly cleans up the mess he'd made, with a lot of mumbled cursing towards it and his sore foot which had gotten splashed.
Some time later, Mikasa will receive a message via watch. Since nothing that intense had continued, he figured she was probably fine... not being tortured or something, which meant there was nothing he needed to do other than complain (if she were captured, well... he'd probably have to do something about that, if just to stop the background of pain it would presumably leave him in).]
If you were dead I think it would feel different than this, so I'll assume you haven't been murdered.
If you're not presently being tortured I would appreciate an explanation.
I've a surprise for you!
(continued from here)
[It's a backing up of steps that Emet-Selch is thoroughly willing to comply with, his balance kept and movement steady, though it certainly felt as though Irhya would not be denied- which was a pleasing enough feeling, really. He had no doubt towards her strength nor persistence.
Reaching the edge of the bed, he sits down, his height (or rather, the difference between their heights) an issue addressed. And between the teeth sunk into him and the accompanying pull of blood, and the fingers wrapped around his stiffened cock, the Ascian would have a hard time telling which he outright preferred, but the combination was certainly effective. Letting out a shuddered breath and a pleased sound all at once, his hands drag across her sides, encouraging her closer, to take more, to keep touching him like this.]
[It's a backing up of steps that Emet-Selch is thoroughly willing to comply with, his balance kept and movement steady, though it certainly felt as though Irhya would not be denied- which was a pleasing enough feeling, really. He had no doubt towards her strength nor persistence.
Reaching the edge of the bed, he sits down, his height (or rather, the difference between their heights) an issue addressed. And between the teeth sunk into him and the accompanying pull of blood, and the fingers wrapped around his stiffened cock, the Ascian would have a hard time telling which he outright preferred, but the combination was certainly effective. Letting out a shuddered breath and a pleased sound all at once, his hands drag across her sides, encouraging her closer, to take more, to keep touching him like this.]
[Her tongue laps eagerly at the wound she's made, taking her fill, while her hand down below continues with brisk strokes, energized by that lovely noise he makes. The first few times, he wasn't nearly as reactive as she would've liked, but perhaps this time will be different. Or she could always try and goad those reactions out of him instead once her feeding is done...
The bleeding slows at around the same time she deems herself satisfied on that front. It doesn't take very long anymore, having practiced this enough now to know what's too much or too little, too fast or too slow, but instead of backing off, she stays at the crook of his shoulder, painting leisurely stripes up the side of his neck until she reaches the joint of his jaw. Then, she whispers into his ear:]
Can I blow you?
[He's entirely within his rights to say no, knowing the potential risk. But she's also quite interested in trying, and so she figures the worst that'll happen is he'll decline and she'll just use her hands instead. The excitement and the sense of danger, though... isn't that what brought them here in the first place?
(Other than the blasted pendant amping her up unnecessarily, that is.)]
The bleeding slows at around the same time she deems herself satisfied on that front. It doesn't take very long anymore, having practiced this enough now to know what's too much or too little, too fast or too slow, but instead of backing off, she stays at the crook of his shoulder, painting leisurely stripes up the side of his neck until she reaches the joint of his jaw. Then, she whispers into his ear:]
Can I blow you?
[He's entirely within his rights to say no, knowing the potential risk. But she's also quite interested in trying, and so she figures the worst that'll happen is he'll decline and she'll just use her hands instead. The excitement and the sense of danger, though... isn't that what brought them here in the first place?
(Other than the blasted pendant amping her up unnecessarily, that is.)]
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