[As far as Emet-Selch was concerned, that was the only concern (insofar as there were any): that Mettaton would miss out on too much of him. How much blood would it take to sooth him properly, to sustain him through the time it would take to solve the problem of someone knowing things they shouldn't? How much removal would it take to ease his own fears of loss? The answer involved more blood than he possessed, but they would just have to make do with what he had. They would just have to make the best use of it.
He thought he was fine; he was sure of it, if Mettaton had hit something too important, he would've bled out by now. Arteries were quick like that. This was just a lesser tier of Plentiful Vessel that the robot had struck upon, which meant that there was no problem at all (problems were not a gradient, they either existed or they did not; he wasn't dying, therefore anything less than that might as well not exist).
So when Mettaton returns to his neck, the Ascian tries for a hum of approval. He makes a sound anyway, something pleased in tone. If there was an issue at all, it was in where all that mess was ending up. He did miss kissing him though, even if it tasted only of blood, so he settles for nuzzling instead at one of his ears. Or at least, letting his face press against it, the absent brush of lips, of breath. There's fur occasionally in his face, anyway, so he makes what he can of it. Yet even with his eyes closed, the dizziness wasn't receding. If anything, it was getting worse, and that was troubling. Not because he had any concept of danger, but because he worried he might faint, and that would be a hassle.]
Mettaton.
[He was used to speech becoming difficult around him, but not usually quite so quickly. Also it felt a bit different this time, somehow. Bodies weren't meant to lose this much blood so rapidly, he supposed, in an extremely distant way, still completely unalarmed. It was speed, not amount that was the problem (not that there were any).]
--Bed. Please.
[It would've been hard to pull back from him under less-excessively-bleeding circumstances, to drag him in the direction of his bed, and it was a complete impossibility now. But Mettaton could get them there, so it was fine in the end. Once he could collapse back, he'd be alright, he assumed, it would be easier to adjust. Then he could relax, to better appreciate the sensation of his lover's lips over his neck. The way his vitality was flowing to someone who needed it more than himself. Mettaton was so gentle to him, he thought, as his arms attempt to rub at his back. From the softness of his tongue, to the security of his hold, to the steady drag of a thigh against his cock. The prickling of arousal was such a warm undercurrent, and warmth was what he wanted. The puca always seemed to provide what he needed....
Mettaton wouldn't let him fall; he was safe. It didn't matter what his pulse or breath was doing, Emet-Selch knew this, with a passion he was at a loss as to how to express. But it was a thought that sustained him through the haze of dizziness, as he tries to nuzzle at his head again with a small sound. He was so fond of him.]
no subject
He thought he was fine; he was sure of it, if Mettaton had hit something too important, he would've bled out by now. Arteries were quick like that. This was just a lesser tier of Plentiful Vessel that the robot had struck upon, which meant that there was no problem at all (problems were not a gradient, they either existed or they did not; he wasn't dying, therefore anything less than that might as well not exist).
So when Mettaton returns to his neck, the Ascian tries for a hum of approval. He makes a sound anyway, something pleased in tone. If there was an issue at all, it was in where all that mess was ending up. He did miss kissing him though, even if it tasted only of blood, so he settles for nuzzling instead at one of his ears. Or at least, letting his face press against it, the absent brush of lips, of breath. There's fur occasionally in his face, anyway, so he makes what he can of it. Yet even with his eyes closed, the dizziness wasn't receding. If anything, it was getting worse, and that was troubling. Not because he had any concept of danger, but because he worried he might faint, and that would be a hassle.]
Mettaton.
[He was used to speech becoming difficult around him, but not usually quite so quickly. Also it felt a bit different this time, somehow. Bodies weren't meant to lose this much blood so rapidly, he supposed, in an extremely distant way, still completely unalarmed. It was speed, not amount that was the problem (not that there were any).]
--Bed. Please.
[It would've been hard to pull back from him under less-excessively-bleeding circumstances, to drag him in the direction of his bed, and it was a complete impossibility now. But Mettaton could get them there, so it was fine in the end. Once he could collapse back, he'd be alright, he assumed, it would be easier to adjust. Then he could relax, to better appreciate the sensation of his lover's lips over his neck. The way his vitality was flowing to someone who needed it more than himself. Mettaton was so gentle to him, he thought, as his arms attempt to rub at his back. From the softness of his tongue, to the security of his hold, to the steady drag of a thigh against his cock. The prickling of arousal was such a warm undercurrent, and warmth was what he wanted. The puca always seemed to provide what he needed....
Mettaton wouldn't let him fall; he was safe. It didn't matter what his pulse or breath was doing, Emet-Selch knew this, with a passion he was at a loss as to how to express. But it was a thought that sustained him through the haze of dizziness, as he tries to nuzzle at his head again with a small sound. He was so fond of him.]