[Were this anyone else, the Ascian's irritation would override all else. The presumption of deciding what was there or not (even if he agreed entirely, that every bruise healed, that every bite vanished due to dream, to transformation, all of it remained), the greater presumption that Mettaton could just decide how his time would be occupied- it would've been intolerable. Mettaton could track him through Bond and monster-given senses, but the Ascian was a witch who could teleport. He could escape for a while if he chose; until his own energy ran out he could abscond as much as he desired.
And for a moment he's tempted. Not out of any actual want to escape, but because he could. Out of spite, or a similarly petty demand to be chased. His pulse lifts, and it's almost as if he can feel the way his blood ran quicker through his veins, as though it knew what was coming for it should he choose to remain, should Mettaton catch up with him. Because there was no question of what would happen: the sinking of teeth, the tearing of flesh, the slickness and heat of blood escaping the insufficient confines of his body. A feeling he could hardly get enough of, to capture Mettaton's attention completely, to feel that focus writ messily onto his skin and beneath it. A connection he longed for, a proof he needed endlessly applied, that they belonged to one another--
And yet the impulse remained to flee. To spite himself, to prove some point he's not even sure of. It's enough to have him stand- even pace in a terse arc around the tastefully appointed confines of his room- the room he held at Mettaton's house, specifically, one of those times he was in his own, rather than his lover's.
He can tell the puca's closing in, even if he can't tell precisely how far off he is, how much time he has remaining. It's an anticipation that only adds to his agitation. But in his indecision, he's distracted by answering.]
It's here, for as long as we are. What then, what afterward? If we both forget if there's nothing left
[A statement he can't even complete, making an annoyed sound as he unintentionally sends it in his rush. It's followed almost immediately by another.]
You should hurry, then. Before I decide to spend this night elsewhere.
no subject
And for a moment he's tempted. Not out of any actual want to escape, but because he could. Out of spite, or a similarly petty demand to be chased. His pulse lifts, and it's almost as if he can feel the way his blood ran quicker through his veins, as though it knew what was coming for it should he choose to remain, should Mettaton catch up with him. Because there was no question of what would happen: the sinking of teeth, the tearing of flesh, the slickness and heat of blood escaping the insufficient confines of his body. A feeling he could hardly get enough of, to capture Mettaton's attention completely, to feel that focus writ messily onto his skin and beneath it. A connection he longed for, a proof he needed endlessly applied, that they belonged to one another--
And yet the impulse remained to flee. To spite himself, to prove some point he's not even sure of. It's enough to have him stand- even pace in a terse arc around the tastefully appointed confines of his room- the room he held at Mettaton's house, specifically, one of those times he was in his own, rather than his lover's.
He can tell the puca's closing in, even if he can't tell precisely how far off he is, how much time he has remaining. It's an anticipation that only adds to his agitation. But in his indecision, he's distracted by answering.]
It's here, for as long as we are. What then, what afterward? If we both forget if there's nothing left
[A statement he can't even complete, making an annoyed sound as he unintentionally sends it in his rush. It's followed almost immediately by another.]
You should hurry, then. Before I decide to spend this night elsewhere.