[There was nothing that was entirely straightforward. Did Emet-Selch want to remain in this world? No. But what future did he have waiting for him at home, a fate he most likely could not shift? He was useless here, and soon dead there; what sort of choice was that?
He doesn't want to think on it. Sensation was better, sensation was more important right now. And sound; Mettaton's voice was almost... pleasant to listen to like this, low and close.]
Only beginning to...?
[His own tone is similarly soft, escaping on an exhalation. It didn't feel like being embraced by a machine, exactly- not in the cold and inanimate sense, at least. For all that his hands explored metal rather than skin, that there was no sign of breath or what would normally qualify as signs of 'life'... he was lively all the same. Emet-Selch wasn't- quite sure how this exactly worked for Mettaton, but he seemed to be getting something out of it, which he supposed is what mattered.
The movement of Mettaton's leg gets a low noise of approval, deep in his throat, more vibration than a sound. Shifting his one of his own legs, he hooks it around the puca's; his injurious limb was not appreciating any of this, but the Ascian didn't care for what it wanted. There was a warm sense of anticipation, a mix of feeling both languid and very alert. The awareness that they were unlikely to be interrupted, there was no one to interfere, observe, or distract. A very agreeable thing, he thinks, as he feels Mettaton's hand find its way beneath layers of fabric, muscles tensing pleasantly at this contact.
Exhaustion and misery lurked underneath it all, as it ever did- but his gaze is awake, attention focused entirely on Mettaton's face and form, meeting his eye with a shared intensity, and no small amount of heat. But his eyes close as he tilts his head forward, bringing their lips together for a kiss that conveys only the edge of his desire for the other man's touch.]
no subject
He doesn't want to think on it. Sensation was better, sensation was more important right now. And sound; Mettaton's voice was almost... pleasant to listen to like this, low and close.]
Only beginning to...?
[His own tone is similarly soft, escaping on an exhalation. It didn't feel like being embraced by a machine, exactly- not in the cold and inanimate sense, at least. For all that his hands explored metal rather than skin, that there was no sign of breath or what would normally qualify as signs of 'life'... he was lively all the same. Emet-Selch wasn't- quite sure how this exactly worked for Mettaton, but he seemed to be getting something out of it, which he supposed is what mattered.
The movement of Mettaton's leg gets a low noise of approval, deep in his throat, more vibration than a sound. Shifting his one of his own legs, he hooks it around the puca's; his injurious limb was not appreciating any of this, but the Ascian didn't care for what it wanted. There was a warm sense of anticipation, a mix of feeling both languid and very alert. The awareness that they were unlikely to be interrupted, there was no one to interfere, observe, or distract. A very agreeable thing, he thinks, as he feels Mettaton's hand find its way beneath layers of fabric, muscles tensing pleasantly at this contact.
Exhaustion and misery lurked underneath it all, as it ever did- but his gaze is awake, attention focused entirely on Mettaton's face and form, meeting his eye with a shared intensity, and no small amount of heat. But his eyes close as he tilts his head forward, bringing their lips together for a kiss that conveys only the edge of his desire for the other man's touch.]