[His feelings remained heavy, as they ever were, but the lighter sort of emotion he could notice from Mettaton... helped, a little, kept him from sinking entirely, when allowed himself to focus on it. Even if he'd never be able to possess it for himself, Emet-Selch wondered what it was like, to live with such intensity in the present. He's a little amused, but mostly pleased at the rubbing against his hand, returning the encouragement with a firmer touch, fingers stroking over the contours of his face. A firmness echoed in their kiss, even as he interrupts it by tugging at Mettaton's lower lip with his teeth, before letting go of it and running his tongue along it instead. And then interrupts it again through speech.]
Is that so...? How fortunate, then... that we've aligned so well.
[In wanting each other in all ways, at least, if not in... attitudes or viewpoints. Those sorts of details.]
And between our mutual persistence- it hardly seems fair to anything that would rise in opposition.
[Or reality would crush them, either or.
But now that he was moving past the clutches of near-panic and despair, disordered thoughts closer to their usual levels- Emet-Selch found himself dwelling on Mettaton's response. An unusual thing for him to do, but these were unusual times. Even if the puca was overwhelming with unnecessary fondness and affection- states that remained alarming in their unfamiliarity- it felt conscious, a deliberate expression. The response of someone who knew what they wanted, and was able to express it. Completely undaunted, open, shameless and passionate- it was frustrating, but Emet-Selch could appreciate it. That brashness and directness of emotion.... Even the oft-irritating smugness was likely a necessary part of him.
The Ascian wasn't sure if there was anyone else who could witness his despair, without cracking underneath it, goading him to anger, or disappointing him with false platitudes. To convince him to at least accept what was going on, rather than leave it unaddressed.
Not that he felt at all at ease with it, but there was a measure of catharsis too, in being forced to deal with it. And there's no indecision in the way he meets the shifting of Mettaton's body with his own, melding against him with a muffled sigh against his lips. The strangeness of his body- that mix of metal and fur- was starting to become normal, or at least, no longer unfamiliar. His hand drifts to the back of Mettaton's head as well, matching the need to keep him close.]
no subject
Is that so...? How fortunate, then... that we've aligned so well.
[In wanting each other in all ways, at least, if not in... attitudes or viewpoints. Those sorts of details.]
And between our mutual persistence- it hardly seems fair to anything that would rise in opposition.
[Or reality would crush them, either or.
But now that he was moving past the clutches of near-panic and despair, disordered thoughts closer to their usual levels- Emet-Selch found himself dwelling on Mettaton's response. An unusual thing for him to do, but these were unusual times. Even if the puca was overwhelming with unnecessary fondness and affection- states that remained alarming in their unfamiliarity- it felt conscious, a deliberate expression. The response of someone who knew what they wanted, and was able to express it. Completely undaunted, open, shameless and passionate- it was frustrating, but Emet-Selch could appreciate it. That brashness and directness of emotion.... Even the oft-irritating smugness was likely a necessary part of him.
The Ascian wasn't sure if there was anyone else who could witness his despair, without cracking underneath it, goading him to anger, or disappointing him with false platitudes. To convince him to at least accept what was going on, rather than leave it unaddressed.
Not that he felt at all at ease with it, but there was a measure of catharsis too, in being forced to deal with it. And there's no indecision in the way he meets the shifting of Mettaton's body with his own, melding against him with a muffled sigh against his lips. The strangeness of his body- that mix of metal and fur- was starting to become normal, or at least, no longer unfamiliar. His hand drifts to the back of Mettaton's head as well, matching the need to keep him close.]