[Words like those had never been his strongest suit, and that remained the case. So he held Mettaton tight; wrapped him up as much as his arms could manage, and it still didn't feel like enough. It never would, but he held him all the same. Lips pressed to his throat, he kisses him again, softly.
There was no hint of fur in his lover's scent, nothing of whatever attribute being a puca had once added to him. But Mettaton was still recognizably himself, just as his form was familiar, even though it was also no longer distorted by a rabbit's features. (Emet-Selch tried not to think about how Mettaton wouldn't be able to smell him, nor scent him as he once had. Nor would he be able to taste him... or anything else.
Why would something so base and primitive matter? And yet he missed it, selfishly.)
He still didn't see what exactly he'd done to be worthy of gratitude, considering that all he'd done is ask the big rock for help, because he couldn't do anything himself. His magic and knowledge had been useless, non-existent. So he shakes his head at Mettaton's insistence on thanking him- and sighs more heavily at the idea of not being suspicious over their "good" "fortune".]
You can put any distrust wherever you'd like. I'll keep mine right where it is. Nor do I plan on going into debt, cosmic or otherwise, no matter how well-oiled you feel.
[Because all that just sounded like an excuse for Mettaton to indulge in whatever sort of extravagant living he could wish or buy on credit. And he didn't want to be dragged into the afterlife of financial ruin with him.
But he can't manage to look too dubious when Mettaton leans his head back, and their eyes meet. Sentiment was still too strong, and he felt it keenly. Gaze lowering, eyes nearly closing again when their foreheads brush together, his voice lowers again to match the intimacy.]
Though 'twas far briefer of a time, I... [Did much the same. Longed for, dreamed. Waited. Longed more. Swallowing back a low, unhappy noise, he shakes his head, just a little.] I've managed, one way or another.
no subject
There was no hint of fur in his lover's scent, nothing of whatever attribute being a puca had once added to him. But Mettaton was still recognizably himself, just as his form was familiar, even though it was also no longer distorted by a rabbit's features. (Emet-Selch tried not to think about how Mettaton wouldn't be able to smell him, nor scent him as he once had. Nor would he be able to taste him... or anything else.
Why would something so base and primitive matter? And yet he missed it, selfishly.)
He still didn't see what exactly he'd done to be worthy of gratitude, considering that all he'd done is ask the big rock for help, because he couldn't do anything himself. His magic and knowledge had been useless, non-existent. So he shakes his head at Mettaton's insistence on thanking him- and sighs more heavily at the idea of not being suspicious over their "good" "fortune".]
You can put any distrust wherever you'd like. I'll keep mine right where it is. Nor do I plan on going into debt, cosmic or otherwise, no matter how well-oiled you feel.
[Because all that just sounded like an excuse for Mettaton to indulge in whatever sort of extravagant living he could wish or buy on credit. And he didn't want to be dragged into the afterlife of financial ruin with him.
But he can't manage to look too dubious when Mettaton leans his head back, and their eyes meet. Sentiment was still too strong, and he felt it keenly. Gaze lowering, eyes nearly closing again when their foreheads brush together, his voice lowers again to match the intimacy.]
Though 'twas far briefer of a time, I... [Did much the same. Longed for, dreamed. Waited. Longed more. Swallowing back a low, unhappy noise, he shakes his head, just a little.] I've managed, one way or another.
[So not terribly well.]