[There remained a sense of being raw, mentally, and despite being no longer in the hold of desperation and want, Emet-Selch found himself reluctant to close himself off again. Why was that? It was an uneasy feeling, and there was nothing to gain from it apart from... whatever all of this was.
The Ascian had been deeply annoyed after their Bonding ceremony, insulted at the idea of pretense- because it wasn't as though he'd ever give one whit of remotely genuine consideration towards the idol. He'd felt quite cold towards him.
Even if that was clearly no longer the case, Emet-Selch was not entirely sure what he thought of the puca now. He was still annoying (frequently). He disagreed with the Ascian when it came to small matters like 'are mortals really alive'. Their approach to existence was wildly different, despite both being generally-immortal ghosts. Was it the fault of the Bond developing itself, the sharing of histories, or something else? Did it even matter?
They were friends, he supposed.
The continued nuzzling gets a soft, approving hum from him. Surely smelling like Mettaton is only a good thing? One way of staking a claim on someone. He presses a kiss to his throat in response.]
Stealing your breath... when you don't have any to start with sounds destined to failure. Still- 'tis not as though I'm unaccustomed to taking on impossible tasks.
[Not that he was at all sure how he'd go about it; it was somewhat outside his realm of experience. Though Mettaton had seemed capable of attraction and pleasure, in some fashion, at least. He could tell that much; Emet-Selch knew he wouldn't have been able to react so strongly, to let down his own defenses, if he hadn't felt the other man's own wanting in reply. Why they'd started having this effect on one another he didn't know, but... it wasn't the worst of developments. His fingers stroke idly across Mettaton's upper back as he thinks; the Ascian still didn't see this as affection.]
no subject
The Ascian had been deeply annoyed after their Bonding ceremony, insulted at the idea of pretense- because it wasn't as though he'd ever give one whit of remotely genuine consideration towards the idol. He'd felt quite cold towards him.
Even if that was clearly no longer the case, Emet-Selch was not entirely sure what he thought of the puca now. He was still annoying (frequently). He disagreed with the Ascian when it came to small matters like 'are mortals really alive'. Their approach to existence was wildly different, despite both being generally-immortal ghosts. Was it the fault of the Bond developing itself, the sharing of histories, or something else? Did it even matter?
They were friends, he supposed.
The continued nuzzling gets a soft, approving hum from him. Surely smelling like Mettaton is only a good thing? One way of staking a claim on someone. He presses a kiss to his throat in response.]
Stealing your breath... when you don't have any to start with sounds destined to failure. Still- 'tis not as though I'm unaccustomed to taking on impossible tasks.
[Not that he was at all sure how he'd go about it; it was somewhat outside his realm of experience. Though Mettaton had seemed capable of attraction and pleasure, in some fashion, at least. He could tell that much; Emet-Selch knew he wouldn't have been able to react so strongly, to let down his own defenses, if he hadn't felt the other man's own wanting in reply. Why they'd started having this effect on one another he didn't know, but... it wasn't the worst of developments. His fingers stroke idly across Mettaton's upper back as he thinks; the Ascian still didn't see this as affection.]