[Genuine and soft, and genuine and frantic: both varieties had their appeal. Both expressed the same thing in different ways, and Emet-Selch was a little surprised at how easy it was to slip between them.
Though he still felt as though he were settling back down from his release, their continued closeness, the way Mettaton shuddered and held onto him- it kept him from settling down entirely. Languid, yet interested, and unsettlingly affectionate (that was the only part he had trouble with). But he enjoys that quiet hum he can only just make out from Mettaton, more pleased by it than he thinks he probably should be, and his hand strokes slowly at the idol's upper back. Attention drifting towards the top of his throat, he focuses underneath his chin, even giving it a small lick, before trailing along the underside of his jaw, softly humming in reply. His leg tightens for a few moments, appreciating how much of Mettaton's body he could feel stretched out and pressed against his own.
It was possible there really was some kind of balance in operation here. As by contrast, Mettaton's ability to remain in the present was- if not something Emet-Selch envied, it was something he wanted to understand. Or at least witness. Even if the idol wasn't as ancient as himself, he wasn't mortal, and Emet-Selch assumed Mettaton's perspective to be entirely different from those of transient humanity. And yet he seemed to revel in the opportunities of his existence, could live in a changing world as though its unreliable nature held value. That the present was worth staying in.
It wasn't as though the idea was wholly foreign to the Ascian. Amaurot had been a very peaceful, steady present. He hadn't been happy, but he hadn't been bored either, even if one day had been much like the next, a stretch of time that had felt like forever. Any problems he'd had had come from himself, not through any fault of the world. But after the sundering, once everything and everyone had changed, Emet-Selch hadn't been able to change with it. Not in any positive way, at least; his past was now his ever-present, a weight to crush him underneath.
Even if he'd never understand it... being in the presence of someone with similar-yet-dissimilar aspects was... comfortable. It echoed the past without being the same as it; this wasn't something he could find with anyone else.
At the mention of his Bonds, Emet-Selch pauses mid-kiss, mid-thought, his hand on him stilling. Though there was the impulse to say that everything was fine- after all, he had no proof that anything was wrong, only suspicions- he had agreed to keep Mettaton informed. And while he wasn't bound to it in the same way as a puca was to their promises, Emet-Selch did always speak the truth (as he saw it; and not necessarily the entirety of it).]
No regrets. [That was the most important part, so he says it first.] However... I have noticed a certain increased fatigue. I don't believe it to be illness, and I'm too far recovered from my injuries for it to be the result of that.
[Though he falls silent for a few moments more, it's clear that he's not entirely finished, and the Ascian ends up interrupting his ministrations further by pressing the side of his face against Mettaton's neck and keeping it there.] I've started falling unconscious outside of my control.
no subject
Though he still felt as though he were settling back down from his release, their continued closeness, the way Mettaton shuddered and held onto him- it kept him from settling down entirely. Languid, yet interested, and unsettlingly affectionate (that was the only part he had trouble with). But he enjoys that quiet hum he can only just make out from Mettaton, more pleased by it than he thinks he probably should be, and his hand strokes slowly at the idol's upper back. Attention drifting towards the top of his throat, he focuses underneath his chin, even giving it a small lick, before trailing along the underside of his jaw, softly humming in reply. His leg tightens for a few moments, appreciating how much of Mettaton's body he could feel stretched out and pressed against his own.
It was possible there really was some kind of balance in operation here. As by contrast, Mettaton's ability to remain in the present was- if not something Emet-Selch envied, it was something he wanted to understand. Or at least witness. Even if the idol wasn't as ancient as himself, he wasn't mortal, and Emet-Selch assumed Mettaton's perspective to be entirely different from those of transient humanity. And yet he seemed to revel in the opportunities of his existence, could live in a changing world as though its unreliable nature held value. That the present was worth staying in.
It wasn't as though the idea was wholly foreign to the Ascian. Amaurot had been a very peaceful, steady present. He hadn't been happy, but he hadn't been bored either, even if one day had been much like the next, a stretch of time that had felt like forever. Any problems he'd had had come from himself, not through any fault of the world. But after the sundering, once everything and everyone had changed, Emet-Selch hadn't been able to change with it. Not in any positive way, at least; his past was now his ever-present, a weight to crush him underneath.
Even if he'd never understand it... being in the presence of someone with similar-yet-dissimilar aspects was... comfortable. It echoed the past without being the same as it; this wasn't something he could find with anyone else.
At the mention of his Bonds, Emet-Selch pauses mid-kiss, mid-thought, his hand on him stilling. Though there was the impulse to say that everything was fine- after all, he had no proof that anything was wrong, only suspicions- he had agreed to keep Mettaton informed. And while he wasn't bound to it in the same way as a puca was to their promises, Emet-Selch did always speak the truth (as he saw it; and not necessarily the entirety of it).]
No regrets. [That was the most important part, so he says it first.] However... I have noticed a certain increased fatigue. I don't believe it to be illness, and I'm too far recovered from my injuries for it to be the result of that.
[Though he falls silent for a few moments more, it's clear that he's not entirely finished, and the Ascian ends up interrupting his ministrations further by pressing the side of his face against Mettaton's neck and keeping it there.] I've started falling unconscious outside of my control.