[Though Mettaton's neck is distinctly wetter than before, it's not too many tears, at least. Not through any particular display of control on the Ascian's part (emotional control was just... becoming not an option, in Mettaton's presence, under these circumstances), but being all he could manage. All he had energy for. His breathing remains shaky, from the weight of everything. And though he's not dismayed or ashamed of his own response, he is surprised by it. Every time he thought he was getting used to the intensity between them, it surprised him- or perhaps it was the sort of thing he couldn't truly get too accustomed to.
Despair remained, his timeless companion. There was no fighting it; it was an almost peaceful feeling, in its way. Mingled with all that Emet-Selch received from Mettaton in turn... there was no conflict. It could all coexist, as tied together as their souls were, as their bodies attempted to be.
There was a sort of relaxation in it, though it teetered on resignation.
It would be a bizarre introduction to intimacy, to be sure. It was intense and genuine, but poorly constrained and overwhelming when invoked. And possessing a misery intrinsic to the care, as though Emet-Selch no longer knew how to discern the two.
But there was a lot of care, and ever more so as he feels the slow stroke of his hair, the continued company of Mettaton's spirit, as though his soul itself was burrowing against him. Being held brought more comfort than it probably should, and he slowly rubs his cheek against the side of Mettaton's neck, still both damp, in some small expression of gratitude. How could he have expected to be balanced so thoroughly? He'd never thought to find this at all, and doubted he could ever do so again.
And how easily he could've missed out on any of this, if things had happened even a little differently. Bonding so quickly had been essential, he thinks, before they'd known the breadth of each other's views. And even so, to have stumbled so thoroughly in this direction... it defied reason.]
I would hope so. It will... be quite difficult to detach.
[He was dreading it already, as he shifts slightly, nestling more against him. It should've been less comfortable than it was- or at least, the comfort it did provide outweighed details like 'primarily metal.' That, and Emet-Selch was too exhausted to care, drained on every level he could think of, and probably a few he couldn't. Both satisfied and aware that it wouldn't last.
...Which was a fascinating feeling in itself, to want more from someone, and expect to receive it. Was this what it was like to 'look forward to' something...? How strange, and a mildly bewildering experience for the Ascian, in his tiredness and contented despair.]
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Despair remained, his timeless companion. There was no fighting it; it was an almost peaceful feeling, in its way. Mingled with all that Emet-Selch received from Mettaton in turn... there was no conflict. It could all coexist, as tied together as their souls were, as their bodies attempted to be.
There was a sort of relaxation in it, though it teetered on resignation.
It would be a bizarre introduction to intimacy, to be sure. It was intense and genuine, but poorly constrained and overwhelming when invoked. And possessing a misery intrinsic to the care, as though Emet-Selch no longer knew how to discern the two.
But there was a lot of care, and ever more so as he feels the slow stroke of his hair, the continued company of Mettaton's spirit, as though his soul itself was burrowing against him. Being held brought more comfort than it probably should, and he slowly rubs his cheek against the side of Mettaton's neck, still both damp, in some small expression of gratitude. How could he have expected to be balanced so thoroughly? He'd never thought to find this at all, and doubted he could ever do so again.
And how easily he could've missed out on any of this, if things had happened even a little differently. Bonding so quickly had been essential, he thinks, before they'd known the breadth of each other's views. And even so, to have stumbled so thoroughly in this direction... it defied reason.]
I would hope so. It will... be quite difficult to detach.
[He was dreading it already, as he shifts slightly, nestling more against him. It should've been less comfortable than it was- or at least, the comfort it did provide outweighed details like 'primarily metal.' That, and Emet-Selch was too exhausted to care, drained on every level he could think of, and probably a few he couldn't. Both satisfied and aware that it wouldn't last.
...Which was a fascinating feeling in itself, to want more from someone, and expect to receive it. Was this what it was like to 'look forward to' something...? How strange, and a mildly bewildering experience for the Ascian, in his tiredness and contented despair.]