[That confidence was appealing, even when it annoyed. And that specific sort of emotional forthrightness- he could respect that and respond to it, even when it overwhelmed. That openness about what he desired was something Emet-Selch almost envied. The ability to live in the present, as though that were something worth doing....
As a single scratch could invite infection, so too did affection fester. Why should a simple touch to his face, feeling the path Mettaton's fingers walked with unnatural clarity, mean anything at all? Once the shell of indifference and apathy was gone, he had a weakness to attention like that. The Ascian was a sentimental sort.
The curse of the Bond was knowing it was genuine; this wasn't some trick or ploy; even if it were meaningless, everything Mettaton was offering was real. And Emet-Selch is unnerved anew at how much he did want that, to claim those feelings as though he had any right to them.
The kiss comes as something of an inevitability, but no worse for being anticipated. As he leans into it with the smallest of sighs, he feels his lip caught, the sense of deliberation and care in the other man's gestures. And that it took no effort at all for Emet-Selch to affix his attention on him, to respond in kind. To trail his tongue along Mettaton's lower lip before he replies.]
...I suppose you have, at that.
[He couldn't have been so open with him, before or now, without losing something in the process. Without being taken from. Because that's what it was, wasn't it- inviting loss, and hurt, to be carved up that little bit more for the sake of some temporary solace. Even the idea of being remembered sends a pang through him, a whisper of unhappy tension. How cruel, to offer something so impossible, yet so wanted....
His leg was improving by degrees, but even had it been completely well, Emet-Selch wouldn't have reacted otherwise to that squeeze to his hip, its suggested direction. Without letting himself be pulled from Mettaton's lips, he edges backward until he feels the back of his legs hit the side of his bed. Even then he hesitates to move from him, sitting down and half-trying to pull him with, somehow. Hands skimming along Mettaton's arms, his murmur has a harsher note to it.]
If so, you had better take everything, then. I despise half-measures.
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As a single scratch could invite infection, so too did affection fester. Why should a simple touch to his face, feeling the path Mettaton's fingers walked with unnatural clarity, mean anything at all? Once the shell of indifference and apathy was gone, he had a weakness to attention like that. The Ascian was a sentimental sort.
The curse of the Bond was knowing it was genuine; this wasn't some trick or ploy; even if it were meaningless, everything Mettaton was offering was real. And Emet-Selch is unnerved anew at how much he did want that, to claim those feelings as though he had any right to them.
The kiss comes as something of an inevitability, but no worse for being anticipated. As he leans into it with the smallest of sighs, he feels his lip caught, the sense of deliberation and care in the other man's gestures. And that it took no effort at all for Emet-Selch to affix his attention on him, to respond in kind. To trail his tongue along Mettaton's lower lip before he replies.]
...I suppose you have, at that.
[He couldn't have been so open with him, before or now, without losing something in the process. Without being taken from. Because that's what it was, wasn't it- inviting loss, and hurt, to be carved up that little bit more for the sake of some temporary solace. Even the idea of being remembered sends a pang through him, a whisper of unhappy tension. How cruel, to offer something so impossible, yet so wanted....
His leg was improving by degrees, but even had it been completely well, Emet-Selch wouldn't have reacted otherwise to that squeeze to his hip, its suggested direction. Without letting himself be pulled from Mettaton's lips, he edges backward until he feels the back of his legs hit the side of his bed. Even then he hesitates to move from him, sitting down and half-trying to pull him with, somehow. Hands skimming along Mettaton's arms, his murmur has a harsher note to it.]
If so, you had better take everything, then. I despise half-measures.