The feelings all remain, tangled and confused. The mingled want and feeling of possession and being possessed, the perpetual longing and grief, the security and even affection. The closeness that was never truly enough, but he'd claim what fragile measure of it that he could.
The Ascian's grip weakens a little as the tension in his body begins to fade, but he's not about to let go. Not even remotely. Emet-Selch wasn't at all sure if he'd ever be able to piece together who's desire was who's, which emotion was origin or reflected, and he's even less sure that it mattered. But to know that it was so enmeshed, that there was a mutual vulnerability and wanting... it was both concerning and comforting in one.
It hurt to feel so exposed, and he almost resented it. As though Mettaton would do this to him deliberately, reduce him to this mess of nerves and wanting. ...He probably cared for the idol in some small way. What a terrible realization. The Ascian was determined to not let him know; he'd be irreparably smug about it, he imagines.
But this time he stays quiet as he recovers, feeling hazy and raw and drained on several levels. Grateful for the touch of lips, as though they were something to anchor himself to, Emet-Selch returns the kiss with something approaching fondness. It's not really approaching coordinated, though, between the breathing he's still trying to catch up to, and being generally exhausted.
The sound of his name is another small anchor, latching onto both it and Mettaton with a degree of trembling. Shifting an arm slowly, his hand finds its way to the side of Mettaton's face, the touch almost clumsy in its gentleness.]
no subject
The feelings all remain, tangled and confused. The mingled want and feeling of possession and being possessed, the perpetual longing and grief, the security and even affection. The closeness that was never truly enough, but he'd claim what fragile measure of it that he could.
The Ascian's grip weakens a little as the tension in his body begins to fade, but he's not about to let go. Not even remotely. Emet-Selch wasn't at all sure if he'd ever be able to piece together who's desire was who's, which emotion was origin or reflected, and he's even less sure that it mattered. But to know that it was so enmeshed, that there was a mutual vulnerability and wanting... it was both concerning and comforting in one.
It hurt to feel so exposed, and he almost resented it. As though Mettaton would do this to him deliberately, reduce him to this mess of nerves and wanting. ...He probably cared for the idol in some small way. What a terrible realization. The Ascian was determined to not let him know; he'd be irreparably smug about it, he imagines.
But this time he stays quiet as he recovers, feeling hazy and raw and drained on several levels. Grateful for the touch of lips, as though they were something to anchor himself to, Emet-Selch returns the kiss with something approaching fondness. It's not really approaching coordinated, though, between the breathing he's still trying to catch up to, and being generally exhausted.
The sound of his name is another small anchor, latching onto both it and Mettaton with a degree of trembling. Shifting an arm slowly, his hand finds its way to the side of Mettaton's face, the touch almost clumsy in its gentleness.]