Work Text:
you have determined this much: cuddling is very important.
and the important thing about holding on to each other is that he is solid, in your arms. you do not trust your eyes alone; images are not real, not visceral enough for you to be satisfied of his existence. it takes the smell of his skin and the physical reality of his body lying curled up on you, it takes the soft noises he makes breathing, takes the taste of his mouth; it takes all of these things together.
(you think maybe you would like to hold him close and listen to his body in a perfectly soundproof room. they say you can hear the circulatory system. they say you can hear the soft buzz of neurons firing. you think you might want to listen to his blood rush, listen to him think. you wonder if those noises would change, when you touched him.)
for you to feel soothed it takes whatever whimsical little mechanoreceptors are involved in knowing how not to break eggs when you hold them; they wake up, confirming for your brain the equal and opposite force his body provides to your palms. he is mumbling sleepy nonsense; he is wiggling a little, adjusting his position, and you relax your arms for him until he settles again.
you can’t help wanting to hold him tightly, as tightly as you can.
“clingy,” eridan mumbles into your neck.
you squeeze his waist a little harder, quietly measuring the way his body both yields and resists being squished. equal and opposite force.
“owwwww,” he whines, not really meaning it, and mock-bites you. it doesn’t even hurt a little; it’s just an excuse to kiss it better, and keep kissing. he’s very interested in making sure your neck is absolutely covered in tiny, shy kisses. his hands are curled up on your chest, pressed flat, up near his shoulders; he is unconsciously kneading at your torso. you are content.
he can mouth at you all he wants, you are content to hold him.
well.
maybe not completely content.
you run your hand up and down his back, tugging a little at his shirt (coefficient of friction for eridan’s pajamas: endearing) and warming the skin. you know precisely what is happening in the touch-related sensory organs that are buried at various layers in his skin; they are sending small ripples of chemicals to his nervous system as you jostle them, wave after wave. the nerves send electrical impulses up his spine to his brain. he experiences the feeling of you touching him. this takes approximately one nanosecond.
and because he can feel you touching him (because it is you who touches him, like this) his brain responds by nudging a little at his endocrine system, allowing hormones to be released into his blood, his brain collates all the things you are doing to him into one large package that says sollux and drenches him in a neurotransmitter bubble bath of good feelings. warmth. feelings of pleasure, safety, wellbeing. oxytocin, dopamine. it takes maybe as long as a full second, for that to sink in.
he sighs, soft and low, and squirms, and you think success and you feel a flood of answering warmth. you feel his eyelashes flutter; you’re propped up a little on your pillow, you can see his toes curl, just like his fingers that cling to your shoulders.
the soft shiver of a pair-bonding response slides down your skin. he is warm. warmth is what happens when particles move quickly.
your heart is beating quickly.
you think, maybe you love him a little gentler than you thought.
you keep one hand on his lower back and slide one over his ass, and you hoist him up an inch or so, pull him a bit further up your chest. he makes a soft little noise you wish you could hold. his hips are twisted to the side, at a right angle with his shoulders, so his legs rest between yours, knees slightly bent. you can’t feel the physical proof of his arousal, but you can tell from the way he breathes different. you know. and you know he doesn’t want you to know, and for some stupid reason you find it endearing.
you think you wouldn’t mind if his whole body was sensitive. you are having some success quietly mapping out eridan’s erogenous zones, you think, but you wouldn’t mind if that was his whole skin. you wonder if maybe you could coax the areas of his hypersensitivity to increase. if you touched him enough. if you encouraged the nerves to grow. if you were delicate with your fingertips. if he let you.
“quit thinking so loud,” he yawns, and you think his face feels noticeably warmer where it’s touching your skin, and, oh, you guess he doesn’t want you to see him blushing. you want to watch, though.
you turn your head, you press your mouth against the thin crest of his ear. “kisses?” you ask.
his shoulders shake a little. his fingers dig in a little harder. it takes him approximately two (excruciatingly slow) minutes; you mentally count to one hundred fifteen. eventually he summons his courage and turns his head - it’s like his face has been stained red. ahhh. he always looks so perplexed, when you coax blushes out of him. when you tease shivers from him. when you want to watch him feeling things. perplexed, and perhaps a little wary.
you reassure him with kisses.
his brows arc and then arch into a helpless little curve, he clings to your shoulders for dear life, he makes a low instinctive noise in the back of his throat. his eyes are squeezed shut, like watching you kiss him is too much. you don’t intend to be mean, but you enjoy this. you enjoy being able to overwhelm someone; you are dizzy with the knowledge that you can make him feel good.
you wonder what it’s like, to let go the way he does with you. you sometimes manage it during sex; not like this, though. not so easily. you think maybe you envy him a little for that.
someday, you think, you may be able to respond as easily as he does. for today you kiss him and hold him in your arms, as gently as you can, until he manages to fall asleep on you.
you watch his REM cycles happen beneath his thin and delicate eyelids, feel the way his limbs twitch slightly as his brain changes pace, observe his ribcage expand and contract. it’s soothing.
eventually, in the soft light of your room, you nod off yourself, not really caring that the arm he passed out on will have pins and needles in the morning.