[It was true Emet-Selch had a sense of vague disapproval when he feels Mettaton's weight shift, to have less of him bearing down on him. But it was also true that there wasn't much he could do about it other than wait, both physically and in terms of general coherence.
But the reward of blankets around them was a good one; even better was the feeling of arms around him, and his face pressed to Mettaton's throat. Though his eyes had briefly opened to watch him as he moved, still feeling so overwhelmed as to be blank, they close again as he burrows against his Bonded's neck, as though hiding himself there. As though he could retreat from the rest of the world, shut himself away from it entirely.
And he remains attached to Mettaton in turn, with less desperation, but with no less insistence, as though he could hold him to his statement of not leaving. The Ascian's arm is heavy but loose around him, with irregular twitches of firmness, as though needing to occasionally reassess or reassure that Mettaton was still there, that he hadn't moved from him.
It was harder to detangle emotionally. Everything physical was still more than he could handle, from the comforting weight of Mettaton's presence, the nuzzling of his hair, the mess he'd left against the other man's thighs. His breathing, still elevated, still shaky, repeated exhalations against Mettaton's throat. All of that was more than enough to occupy him, when thought- ever unwanted- began creeping back.
Anything positive, any sort of tenderness or compassion he assumed was from Mettaton. But it wasn't as though he didn't harbor his own affections for him, didn't care for him in turn; how could he not, in the wake of shared experiences like these? And that complicated things. It was difficult enough to sort through all that he felt through the other man- painful in its unfamiliarity and warmth- too drained to do much other than let it settle, uncomfortably on him.
It was a feeling not forgotten- Emet-Selch rarely forgot things, to his continual misfortune- but so buried and neglected, that it was barely recognizable.
There was a lot, and so quickly. Was that why it hit so hard, that it gave him no opportunity for defense? With conscious deliberation, he presses his lips to Mettaton's neck, strangely tentative. Unable to speak, all he had left was some small gesture of affection, appreciation.]
no subject
But the reward of blankets around them was a good one; even better was the feeling of arms around him, and his face pressed to Mettaton's throat. Though his eyes had briefly opened to watch him as he moved, still feeling so overwhelmed as to be blank, they close again as he burrows against his Bonded's neck, as though hiding himself there. As though he could retreat from the rest of the world, shut himself away from it entirely.
And he remains attached to Mettaton in turn, with less desperation, but with no less insistence, as though he could hold him to his statement of not leaving. The Ascian's arm is heavy but loose around him, with irregular twitches of firmness, as though needing to occasionally reassess or reassure that Mettaton was still there, that he hadn't moved from him.
It was harder to detangle emotionally. Everything physical was still more than he could handle, from the comforting weight of Mettaton's presence, the nuzzling of his hair, the mess he'd left against the other man's thighs. His breathing, still elevated, still shaky, repeated exhalations against Mettaton's throat. All of that was more than enough to occupy him, when thought- ever unwanted- began creeping back.
Anything positive, any sort of tenderness or compassion he assumed was from Mettaton. But it wasn't as though he didn't harbor his own affections for him, didn't care for him in turn; how could he not, in the wake of shared experiences like these? And that complicated things. It was difficult enough to sort through all that he felt through the other man- painful in its unfamiliarity and warmth- too drained to do much other than let it settle, uncomfortably on him.
It was a feeling not forgotten- Emet-Selch rarely forgot things, to his continual misfortune- but so buried and neglected, that it was barely recognizable.
There was a lot, and so quickly. Was that why it hit so hard, that it gave him no opportunity for defense? With conscious deliberation, he presses his lips to Mettaton's neck, strangely tentative. Unable to speak, all he had left was some small gesture of affection, appreciation.]