[Every sound Mettaton made felt etched into not only his memory, but his very aether, the Ascian's soul shuddering from their combined pleasure. The thought of the experience burning itself into him keeps him conscious, if only just. The warmth and tightness of arms also served to keep the creeping darkness at bay, almost fearing the concept of sleep. As though if he lost track of it, this surreal, impossible moment would disappear. Either he'd forget, or Mettaton would, or none of it would have existed in the first place. It wasn't something he could've put into words, but he was afraid of it all the same.
Being held so close keeps the Ascian trembling- or was it just a sign of continued exhaustion? Reassurance and comfort and care were all things that settled on him heavily, unnaturally, and he wondered if the experience would ever stop feeling so raw, and unbelievable.
Slowly, Emet-Selch slides partially off of Mettaton's body to his side, purely to make it easier to wrap an arm around him in turn, needing to hold him nearly as much as he needed to be held. Pulling him back against his chest, he was unwilling to give up any amount of contact between them.
It didn't feel- normal, to be this exposed, as if every emotion was available to be experienced by the both of them, without filter. It surely wasn't normal, and probably not recommended. But the immediacy and intensity of it all was addictive: it was hard to imagine managing without. As though he'd given up so much of himself that, once parted, there wouldn't be enough to sustain what was left.
But he wasn't worried. The Ascian wasn't thinking about it either. His perpetual loss and sorrow had settled in, but that was only natural for something so strong. His own grip around Mettaton's tightens- insofar as he can manage, and with no less need than he'd possessed at the height of passion. His lips repeatedly press to his throat, echoing the kisses Mettaton was leaving at the top of his head. An overpouring of affection that he didn't know what to do with, or how else to express.
...It hadn't been that long ago that Emet-Selch wouldn't have recognized it as affection at all. But at this point, with something so evident- it seemed pointless to try and deny it. Even if he didn't have the words for it; any that tried to form in response became caught in his throat, swallowed back.
But the idol's neck wasn't enough; shifting his head up, Emet-Selch lets his lips stumble their way towards Mettaton's, pressing into his with a small, relieved sort of sound.]
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Being held so close keeps the Ascian trembling- or was it just a sign of continued exhaustion? Reassurance and comfort and care were all things that settled on him heavily, unnaturally, and he wondered if the experience would ever stop feeling so raw, and unbelievable.
Slowly, Emet-Selch slides partially off of Mettaton's body to his side, purely to make it easier to wrap an arm around him in turn, needing to hold him nearly as much as he needed to be held. Pulling him back against his chest, he was unwilling to give up any amount of contact between them.
It didn't feel- normal, to be this exposed, as if every emotion was available to be experienced by the both of them, without filter. It surely wasn't normal, and probably not recommended. But the immediacy and intensity of it all was addictive: it was hard to imagine managing without. As though he'd given up so much of himself that, once parted, there wouldn't be enough to sustain what was left.
But he wasn't worried. The Ascian wasn't thinking about it either. His perpetual loss and sorrow had settled in, but that was only natural for something so strong. His own grip around Mettaton's tightens- insofar as he can manage, and with no less need than he'd possessed at the height of passion. His lips repeatedly press to his throat, echoing the kisses Mettaton was leaving at the top of his head. An overpouring of affection that he didn't know what to do with, or how else to express.
...It hadn't been that long ago that Emet-Selch wouldn't have recognized it as affection at all. But at this point, with something so evident- it seemed pointless to try and deny it. Even if he didn't have the words for it; any that tried to form in response became caught in his throat, swallowed back.
But the idol's neck wasn't enough; shifting his head up, Emet-Selch lets his lips stumble their way towards Mettaton's, pressing into his with a small, relieved sort of sound.]