But why was that? The Ascian was no longer overbonded, and he always got plenty of sleep. Too much. Had he been overdoing it again? It's a thought that sidetracks him, distracts him, not noticing any words at first, or even sound. He was always tired; that was nothing strange. There were sensations happening, and that was nice. Some sort of pressure against his face, against his cock. That was good, because he was having trouble moving.
A voice. How had he missed it? He can't recall the words, even the memory of the sound is distant, like it's coming from underwater. Or was he the one drowning?]
Mettaton?
[A question in a soft voice, bewildered. He can barely hear that either, and questions whether he spoke at all. He thinks to ask him to repeat what he said, but loses track of the thought before he can completely think of it. Only uncertainty remained.
But he was better for lying down, that much was still true, and yet it was hard, so hard to concentrate. Fewer things were making sense, and he couldn't stop trembling. His skin felt damp all over and he couldn't remember why; only his neck was bleeding, that was the only place that should be wet. His neck was bleeding somehow? He ached and his lover was here. That was right. His breath remained shallow and fast, and he still couldn't get enough oxygen. Why else would he remain so dizzy, even while holding still, even while prone and the world made dark?
Where was he, again?
He was so cold. The last time he'd been so cold, he'd been carved open completely, and he couldn't move then either. This wasn't nearly so bad; he only had one point of injury, never mind all the healing nibbles he'd acquired over the weeks. He was still safe, he knew that much, somehow; this was Mettaton, and he loved him. Which just made the association that much more confusing. Which just made him more confused in general. Had he imagined everything after all, was this it--]
You're- you're here, aren't you....?
[The disorientation was getting worse, and he was losing any ability to track it. His fingers dig in as hard as they can to- something, he can't tell, he can't even feel it (it's not a hard grip at all, only a spasming brush). His tone reflects pure confusion, unsettled by his own uncertainty. He was so tired, but when wasn't he? But what would happen if he rested, if he lost track of Mettaton entirely?
He wants to tell him not to leave, but the words don't form. He grasps harder, but he can't feel a thing. It was like being tempered again, but without any god waiting to catch him; there was only the darkness itself, and he could only succumb to it. Losing consciousness, his body slackens completely.]
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But why was that? The Ascian was no longer overbonded, and he always got plenty of sleep. Too much. Had he been overdoing it again? It's a thought that sidetracks him, distracts him, not noticing any words at first, or even sound. He was always tired; that was nothing strange. There were sensations happening, and that was nice. Some sort of pressure against his face, against his cock. That was good, because he was having trouble moving.
A voice. How had he missed it? He can't recall the words, even the memory of the sound is distant, like it's coming from underwater. Or was he the one drowning?]
Mettaton?
[A question in a soft voice, bewildered. He can barely hear that either, and questions whether he spoke at all. He thinks to ask him to repeat what he said, but loses track of the thought before he can completely think of it. Only uncertainty remained.
But he was better for lying down, that much was still true, and yet it was hard, so hard to concentrate. Fewer things were making sense, and he couldn't stop trembling. His skin felt damp all over and he couldn't remember why; only his neck was bleeding, that was the only place that should be wet. His neck was bleeding somehow? He ached and his lover was here. That was right. His breath remained shallow and fast, and he still couldn't get enough oxygen. Why else would he remain so dizzy, even while holding still, even while prone and the world made dark?
Where was he, again?
He was so cold. The last time he'd been so cold, he'd been carved open completely, and he couldn't move then either. This wasn't nearly so bad; he only had one point of injury, never mind all the healing nibbles he'd acquired over the weeks. He was still safe, he knew that much, somehow; this was Mettaton, and he loved him. Which just made the association that much more confusing. Which just made him more confused in general. Had he imagined everything after all, was this it--]
You're- you're here, aren't you....?
[The disorientation was getting worse, and he was losing any ability to track it. His fingers dig in as hard as they can to- something, he can't tell, he can't even feel it (it's not a hard grip at all, only a spasming brush). His tone reflects pure confusion, unsettled by his own uncertainty. He was so tired, but when wasn't he? But what would happen if he rested, if he lost track of Mettaton entirely?
He wants to tell him not to leave, but the words don't form. He grasps harder, but he can't feel a thing. It was like being tempered again, but without any god waiting to catch him; there was only the darkness itself, and he could only succumb to it. Losing consciousness, his body slackens completely.]