[Every feeling on Mettaton's part served to burn, scald him for the strength of it. Was it a fuller expression of love and care, or was he only made more sensitive to it, his nerves raw and exposed, unwilling to mount even the most token of shields? Both, he thought, and it was a thought that hurt in itself.
But alongside it, reassurance. Mettaton giving off a steadiness of self that Emet-Selch wanted to wrap himself in; a presence bright enough to blot out all else. Relying on him in a way unknown to the Ascian, feeling that lightness of Mettaton's remaining, despite being repeatedly exposed to ever more of the core of him. That Mettaton could stand him without giving up or becoming damaged or demanding him to be someone else. A feeling that has his touch gentle, fingers trailing through strands of hair, a thorough and repetitive petting. Feeling both guilty and grateful to him, as he nuzzles back with a soft noise and an unsteady breath.
Focuses on the comfort, the fingers through his own hair, and the softness of Mettaton's lips on his face. Each sensation coupled intrinsically with the matching emotion. Hurt remained, and it probably always would- but Emet-Selch tries not to focus on that part of it. To not hide or restrict it, as it was an unfortunate part of who he was- but to not try to drown Mettaton in it. He could do that much for him, couldn't he? With all that Mettaton was providing for him, it would only be faint recompense. But it helped knowing that even if he did fail, that Mettaton wouldn't be lost to it....
But instead, there were the good parts of affection. The way his pulse leapt at each roll of hips, the security of his lover's body shifting over his, and the solidity of it pressing him into the bed. A warmth that was already piercing him. That they could match each other like this, that they wanted to; each squirm on Mettaton's part invited a similar sort of restlessness. To press closer, to feel more, even if they could never express everything they wanted to.
Which was reassurance again, to want something so endlessly.
And how quickly they veered between aggressive necessity and aching vulnerability, but Emet-Selch didn't think they were fundamentally too far apart. Each could feed into the other, were both variations on a theme of intensity, a way of demonstrating the same feeling. The words, the tone of Mettaton's voice has his breath hitch, then shudder. Kisses back while his lips are still close, feeling that small moan as much as he could hear it. Kisses him again, with more than an edge of need. His hand slips from Mettaton's hair forward to his face, touching and stroking it with the same sort of soft urgency.]
I love you too.
[A low tone, barely a murmur that escapes his lips, whispered directly against Mettaton's. It never got any easier to say, despite it being no secret, no surprise. It would never be a casual thing, to him.]
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But alongside it, reassurance. Mettaton giving off a steadiness of self that Emet-Selch wanted to wrap himself in; a presence bright enough to blot out all else. Relying on him in a way unknown to the Ascian, feeling that lightness of Mettaton's remaining, despite being repeatedly exposed to ever more of the core of him. That Mettaton could stand him without giving up or becoming damaged or demanding him to be someone else. A feeling that has his touch gentle, fingers trailing through strands of hair, a thorough and repetitive petting. Feeling both guilty and grateful to him, as he nuzzles back with a soft noise and an unsteady breath.
Focuses on the comfort, the fingers through his own hair, and the softness of Mettaton's lips on his face. Each sensation coupled intrinsically with the matching emotion. Hurt remained, and it probably always would- but Emet-Selch tries not to focus on that part of it. To not hide or restrict it, as it was an unfortunate part of who he was- but to not try to drown Mettaton in it. He could do that much for him, couldn't he? With all that Mettaton was providing for him, it would only be faint recompense. But it helped knowing that even if he did fail, that Mettaton wouldn't be lost to it....
But instead, there were the good parts of affection. The way his pulse leapt at each roll of hips, the security of his lover's body shifting over his, and the solidity of it pressing him into the bed. A warmth that was already piercing him. That they could match each other like this, that they wanted to; each squirm on Mettaton's part invited a similar sort of restlessness. To press closer, to feel more, even if they could never express everything they wanted to.
Which was reassurance again, to want something so endlessly.
And how quickly they veered between aggressive necessity and aching vulnerability, but Emet-Selch didn't think they were fundamentally too far apart. Each could feed into the other, were both variations on a theme of intensity, a way of demonstrating the same feeling. The words, the tone of Mettaton's voice has his breath hitch, then shudder. Kisses back while his lips are still close, feeling that small moan as much as he could hear it. Kisses him again, with more than an edge of need. His hand slips from Mettaton's hair forward to his face, touching and stroking it with the same sort of soft urgency.]
I love you too.
[A low tone, barely a murmur that escapes his lips, whispered directly against Mettaton's. It never got any easier to say, despite it being no secret, no surprise. It would never be a casual thing, to him.]