[His form is nearly slack when he feels Mettaton- so casually, it seemed- detangle him and pick him up from the ground. Yet careful as it is, any movement at all has the Ascian feeling queasy again, and strangely sweaty despite the odd chill. Unable to cling, he's forced to remain as still as possible instead; the mix of signals his body was sending him were actually quite unpleasant in that moment. There was the security of being carried and the warm throb of arousal, the disorientation of being moved at all, the dizziness, fatigue, and cold, his body reacting as though something were wrong with it, which he refused to acknowledge. Once he could lie still for a time, he'd feel better.
And once he feels himself flat on his back- deposited there so safely that he's touched all over again- Emet-Selch risks letting his eyes flicker open, dazedly attempting to focus up on Mettaton above him. There was blood on his Bonded's face- a warm, red trail that only complemented his features, he thought. Reassured anew at the sight of him, his eyes drift shut as he feels a hand brush his hair, and he settles for listening and feeling for Mettaton instead. The sound of the covers and bed being pressed on, the friction of the idol's thigh against the fabric of his pants. That, of course, was sensation too, his erection stubbornly maintaining itself despite where the rest of his blood was going, even continuing to harden because his body knew where his priorities should be.
And he did feel a bit better, he thought, to be on his back, with Mettaton's lips returned to his neck; the problem (that didn't exist) would certainly solve itself now that his blood was going where it needed to. The feeling of him trying to clean the wound was sweet, even if it amounted to smearing around a steady flow, and Emet-Selch even manages to hum very softly this time at the way damp lips traveled over the rest of his neglected neck, his jaw, even reaching close to his ear. The way his hand touched and supported his head, providing him that bit more steadiness. It was affection that warmed him when blood no longer could, tilting his head into the touches, in both encouragement and appreciation.
Could he be any more secure, with Mettaton's weight pressing in on him, surely locking in what heat that remained; it didn't matter that he was taking it from him when he was providing it right back with his most fascinating body. Emet-Selch manages to loop one arm loosely about his waist, while the other moves to the back of the idol's head. His fingers shakily stroke from the back of his neck and upwards, petting him while the robot continued to feed from him.
His hips even try to press up against his thigh, though the motion is weaker than it should be, and much movement at all sets everything spinning and off-kilter in his head again. How troublesome. Nearly as bad was how cold he still felt, which didn't make any sense; Mettaton provided plenty of heat, and he was aroused, which provided its own sort of warmth. But when he shivered, it had more to do with chill than anything else.
Emet-Selch couldn't clutch to him very hard, but he tries to; this would help somehow, eventually. He just needed more time to adjust, that was all....]
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And once he feels himself flat on his back- deposited there so safely that he's touched all over again- Emet-Selch risks letting his eyes flicker open, dazedly attempting to focus up on Mettaton above him. There was blood on his Bonded's face- a warm, red trail that only complemented his features, he thought. Reassured anew at the sight of him, his eyes drift shut as he feels a hand brush his hair, and he settles for listening and feeling for Mettaton instead. The sound of the covers and bed being pressed on, the friction of the idol's thigh against the fabric of his pants. That, of course, was sensation too, his erection stubbornly maintaining itself despite where the rest of his blood was going, even continuing to harden because his body knew where his priorities should be.
And he did feel a bit better, he thought, to be on his back, with Mettaton's lips returned to his neck; the problem (that didn't exist) would certainly solve itself now that his blood was going where it needed to. The feeling of him trying to clean the wound was sweet, even if it amounted to smearing around a steady flow, and Emet-Selch even manages to hum very softly this time at the way damp lips traveled over the rest of his neglected neck, his jaw, even reaching close to his ear. The way his hand touched and supported his head, providing him that bit more steadiness. It was affection that warmed him when blood no longer could, tilting his head into the touches, in both encouragement and appreciation.
Could he be any more secure, with Mettaton's weight pressing in on him, surely locking in what heat that remained; it didn't matter that he was taking it from him when he was providing it right back with his most fascinating body. Emet-Selch manages to loop one arm loosely about his waist, while the other moves to the back of the idol's head. His fingers shakily stroke from the back of his neck and upwards, petting him while the robot continued to feed from him.
His hips even try to press up against his thigh, though the motion is weaker than it should be, and much movement at all sets everything spinning and off-kilter in his head again. How troublesome. Nearly as bad was how cold he still felt, which didn't make any sense; Mettaton provided plenty of heat, and he was aroused, which provided its own sort of warmth. But when he shivered, it had more to do with chill than anything else.
Emet-Selch couldn't clutch to him very hard, but he tries to; this would help somehow, eventually. He just needed more time to adjust, that was all....]