[As soon as he hears the feebleness of Emet-Selch's voice, Mettaton realizes something's wrong. He doesn't immediately pull from his neck, remaining there with a sturdy pressure and a rigid posture, and he feels such delicate, slow stirring from their Bond. It's pitiful, and he pulls away to ask him what he wants.
But then he asks him if he's here at all. Mettaton freezes, ears bolt upright, blood dripping from parted lips. What's he saying? He suddenly realizes what that lukewarm temperature of his skin is all about. His signature feels weak, and Mettaton fears for the worst.]
Hades? Hades?! I'm here!
[Mettaton shifts his entire body, jolting to his knees, straddling his hips, gripping onto his cheeks. He can't feel how cold he is, but there's a slight stickiness that he can detect. He swallows.]
Wait! I'm...
[Emet-Selch is out like a light, as is his Bond. Mettaton despairs. He exhales a pained whimper. Just like when he'd overloaded him with a fourth Bond, Emet-Selch this time has given too much away. Futilely, the idol kisses his cheeks feverishly, thumbs pressing into paling skin, but the other man's gone slack.
He's passed out, just like before. Just like when he took on one too many Bonds. He's the cause then, and now. But this time, Mettaton worries that his physical condition will only worsen.
Mettaton pulls back, diverting his attention with a hazy, stupefied slowness to his manner made sluggish by so much intoxicating indulgence. He feels frozen. It's difficult to move when he needs to, petrified by a slow, creeping dread... which he wrenches himself out of with a sharp glare to Emet-Selch's neck. All of that blood he's lost, and still losing. His clamminess is another point of notice, something he can only sympathize with from his failed attempts at shapeshifting — a surefire way to fall unconscious. The dizzied room, the eventual blackout, and a resolution coming only from... undoing his transformation. Emet-Selch has no transformation to undo, and Mettaton realizes then just how ill-equipped he is at handling his Bondmate's body. He's totally inept, and never bothered to learn properly what to do. What does he do? He can't return his blood to him; he's already taken so much from him, leaving his heart empty and struggling to replenish it all. Mettaton grips onto his own chest, wishing he could empty it back into Emet-Selch as easily as he took it.
But that wound remains. It pours, as it ever does. Mettaton leaps forward and into action: he wads the sheet from beneath his lover's shoulder, bunching them in his fist and pressing it firmly against the deep bite mark on his neck. The idol's first impulse is to make that wound stop bleeding, at any cost. He's had enough of his blood: the cost for his greed is too steep. In his overabundance, his overindulgence, was he blinded to his lover's failing condition? Was he so pacified that he saw no warning signs of his deterioration? He was so blissed out; it was no wonder he couldn't see past it all. His need to go to bed, his softening voice, his woozy manner and unsteadiness felt through their Bond were all the tips he needed, but he ignored them all in favor of pressing ever forward, ignoring all of their problems as though it could be soothed with pleasure and their voracious tearing into each other. Emet-Selch was in agreement with him the entire time despite it. Their approval matched: his blood belongs to him. Yet he harmed his Bonded with his carelessness.
The more seconds pass without the Ascian's stirring, the more frantic Mettaton becomes. He presses flush, leaning in to kiss Emet-Selch's eyelids, smearing blood along his temple in the process. He doesn't know what to do. What if he dies like this? Mettaton stares down upon his lover's body, pale and sticky and shirt collar bloodied from his reckless adoration. From all Emet-Selch wants to give him. Mettaton feels that same sickly feeling he gets when his organs drop, a phantom sensation he couldn't possibly be having.
No, this wasn't innocent adoration: it was fervor, wrath, terror, craving, loneliness, desperation, helplessness. Uncertainty. This was their feelings unmanageable, combined.
His ears flatten. He panics, watching his pallid features helplessly. It's agonizing seconds, agonizing minutes as he keeps leaning forward to listen for his heartbeat with sensitive ears. How soft it is, he thinks, reassured only that it's there. But it's weak: against his lips, this heartbeat is a delightful thing. Mettaton chokes on air. He needs to do something, but what does he do?
Mikasa. Unable to maintain his nigh-impenetrable composure, unable to think straight, Mettaton reaches for his device. The latest message is from Emet-Selch, a thought incomplete, and he panics some more even as he brings up ma and calls her for help, knowing she's probably still displeased with him about all he's been hiding from her... But this was more important, and she knows what it's like to deal with injured people, he assumes.
As soon as his call concludes, Mettaton finds himself trembling, almost ready to burst in his stress. Like he might overheat, and that wouldn't help anybody.]
Legs... [With some purpose, Mettaton can go into action.] Okay.
[Mettaton stacks pillows. He quickly unhands his wad of blankets and lifts his Bonded's legs to shove them underfoot. Another quick diversion: Mettaton hops off the bed and rummages for a spare blanket, of which he's sure to stock around in all manners of textures he's found enchanting. A thick, deep purple one is carelessly attained, and Mettaton crawls on the bed before he unfolds it in his inefficiency, draping it over his lover's body, raised legs included. He's quick to return to applying pressure to his neck, this time with a pillowcase he grabbed in the wake of his blanket-fetching, hoping to warm his Bonded's poor, chilled body with the blanket upon his person. He shifts close, tucking his chin possessively atop his head, pressing his free hand to his clavicle — feeling for a pulse and finding one yet, faint as it is.
None of this was how this was supposed to go. How readily they fell into each other's arms, Emet-Selch into his teeth. He'd given him such trust, such little resistance...
After some time like this, Mettaton checks his heart again. It's beating. He does this over and over. Beating. Breathing. He gets frustrated once and feels inclined to bite him; he can't. He's irritated, mostly with himself. For this inclination that proves too dangerous, after all.
Even after a time, Mettaton's still pressing firm against his neck, afraid that if he lets go, it'll all come apart. The pillowcase is part-way soaked, but not at all soaked through. At some point, he's snuggled in with his Bonded and tucked his chin atop his shoulder so that he can watch his neck, his profile. When he's still, he can watch the rise and fall of his chest, gentle as it is. Mettaton wills himself to ignore the alluring smell of blood, finding it both addictive and worth wariness at once.
Regardless, Mettaton doesn't leave or sleep. He watches. He drapes his free arm across his chest. Should it take long, he begins to talk to Emet-Selch once he confirms that he's breathing still. He tells him about the first movie he'd ever seen and how much he adored the humans he saw. He talks about the first time he saw the plans for his body. He tells him about the show he was just in that evening. He tells him about Mikasa, and how he met her rescuing a human child. He talks about Alphys a little, how he'd grown away from her — and how he's not sure how to bridge that gap, even still. (He's not very good at that, is he?) He confesses that he nearly bit Mira recently, stopped only by a quick-thinking attack on her part. He says really, it didn't scare him to think of Emet-Selch working on his body, it's quite different from being a human and wide open, and he trusts him. He fantasizes aloud that, were he to have it his way, he'd love to relax and watch movies with him — a perfect activity given his disinclination toward moving, and Mettaton's love for such entertainment. He reminds him he loves him.
He talks even when he doesn't reply, because it makes him feel better, and he can't help but remember the tone of Emet-Selch's voice. Lost and confused, imploring for his presence, and he wants to somehow convey to him that he's not alone still. A vain hope that his voice will reach him somehow, as if he could throw it into his head. But he also lapses into silence between, listening to his breathing, tilting his head every once in a while to let the shell of a sensitive ear land upon the Ascian's chest to confirm that his heart's still beating.
Around the time Emet-Selch might come to, he might very well be talking about his idea of a date: a line or so that goes, "I don't just act in the feature, you know. I like to watch things too. I think you'd like it, relaxing in our own space and watching something with me... Even if you disliked the movie. Haha." His fingers trace his profile, such shameless care and observation as he absorbs the sight of his face: terrified about the thought of how pale and sickly he looked, but trying to prescribe his appearance to his memory so strongly that he couldn't forget it, just like Emet-Selch suggested he should when he was the one bleeding out.
His hand remains fisted around a wad of pillowcase, pressed firmly to his neck as though scared to lift it. Mettaton doesn't know what to do with this body of his, except to be patient with it. He thinks that's what he needs, even when they know they both don't care for patience. Sometimes it's necessary.]
no subject
But then he asks him if he's here at all. Mettaton freezes, ears bolt upright, blood dripping from parted lips. What's he saying? He suddenly realizes what that lukewarm temperature of his skin is all about. His signature feels weak, and Mettaton fears for the worst.]
Hades? Hades?! I'm here!
[Mettaton shifts his entire body, jolting to his knees, straddling his hips, gripping onto his cheeks. He can't feel how cold he is, but there's a slight stickiness that he can detect. He swallows.]
Wait! I'm...
[Emet-Selch is out like a light, as is his Bond. Mettaton despairs. He exhales a pained whimper. Just like when he'd overloaded him with a fourth Bond, Emet-Selch this time has given too much away. Futilely, the idol kisses his cheeks feverishly, thumbs pressing into paling skin, but the other man's gone slack.
He's passed out, just like before. Just like when he took on one too many Bonds. He's the cause then, and now. But this time, Mettaton worries that his physical condition will only worsen.
Mettaton pulls back, diverting his attention with a hazy, stupefied slowness to his manner made sluggish by so much intoxicating indulgence. He feels frozen. It's difficult to move when he needs to, petrified by a slow, creeping dread... which he wrenches himself out of with a sharp glare to Emet-Selch's neck. All of that blood he's lost, and still losing. His clamminess is another point of notice, something he can only sympathize with from his failed attempts at shapeshifting — a surefire way to fall unconscious. The dizzied room, the eventual blackout, and a resolution coming only from... undoing his transformation. Emet-Selch has no transformation to undo, and Mettaton realizes then just how ill-equipped he is at handling his Bondmate's body. He's totally inept, and never bothered to learn properly what to do. What does he do? He can't return his blood to him; he's already taken so much from him, leaving his heart empty and struggling to replenish it all. Mettaton grips onto his own chest, wishing he could empty it back into Emet-Selch as easily as he took it.
But that wound remains. It pours, as it ever does. Mettaton leaps forward and into action: he wads the sheet from beneath his lover's shoulder, bunching them in his fist and pressing it firmly against the deep bite mark on his neck. The idol's first impulse is to make that wound stop bleeding, at any cost. He's had enough of his blood: the cost for his greed is too steep. In his overabundance, his overindulgence, was he blinded to his lover's failing condition? Was he so pacified that he saw no warning signs of his deterioration? He was so blissed out; it was no wonder he couldn't see past it all. His need to go to bed, his softening voice, his woozy manner and unsteadiness felt through their Bond were all the tips he needed, but he ignored them all in favor of pressing ever forward, ignoring all of their problems as though it could be soothed with pleasure and their voracious tearing into each other. Emet-Selch was in agreement with him the entire time despite it. Their approval matched: his blood belongs to him. Yet he harmed his Bonded with his carelessness.
The more seconds pass without the Ascian's stirring, the more frantic Mettaton becomes. He presses flush, leaning in to kiss Emet-Selch's eyelids, smearing blood along his temple in the process. He doesn't know what to do. What if he dies like this? Mettaton stares down upon his lover's body, pale and sticky and shirt collar bloodied from his reckless adoration. From all Emet-Selch wants to give him. Mettaton feels that same sickly feeling he gets when his organs drop, a phantom sensation he couldn't possibly be having.
No, this wasn't innocent adoration: it was fervor, wrath, terror, craving, loneliness, desperation, helplessness. Uncertainty. This was their feelings unmanageable, combined.
His ears flatten. He panics, watching his pallid features helplessly. It's agonizing seconds, agonizing minutes as he keeps leaning forward to listen for his heartbeat with sensitive ears. How soft it is, he thinks, reassured only that it's there. But it's weak: against his lips, this heartbeat is a delightful thing. Mettaton chokes on air. He needs to do something, but what does he do?
Mikasa. Unable to maintain his nigh-impenetrable composure, unable to think straight, Mettaton reaches for his device. The latest message is from Emet-Selch, a thought incomplete, and he panics some more even as he brings up ma and calls her for help, knowing she's probably still displeased with him about all he's been hiding from her... But this was more important, and she knows what it's like to deal with injured people, he assumes.
As soon as his call concludes, Mettaton finds himself trembling, almost ready to burst in his stress. Like he might overheat, and that wouldn't help anybody.]
Legs... [With some purpose, Mettaton can go into action.] Okay.
[Mettaton stacks pillows. He quickly unhands his wad of blankets and lifts his Bonded's legs to shove them underfoot. Another quick diversion: Mettaton hops off the bed and rummages for a spare blanket, of which he's sure to stock around in all manners of textures he's found enchanting. A thick, deep purple one is carelessly attained, and Mettaton crawls on the bed before he unfolds it in his inefficiency, draping it over his lover's body, raised legs included. He's quick to return to applying pressure to his neck, this time with a pillowcase he grabbed in the wake of his blanket-fetching, hoping to warm his Bonded's poor, chilled body with the blanket upon his person. He shifts close, tucking his chin possessively atop his head, pressing his free hand to his clavicle — feeling for a pulse and finding one yet, faint as it is.
None of this was how this was supposed to go. How readily they fell into each other's arms, Emet-Selch into his teeth. He'd given him such trust, such little resistance...
After some time like this, Mettaton checks his heart again. It's beating. He does this over and over. Beating. Breathing. He gets frustrated once and feels inclined to bite him; he can't. He's irritated, mostly with himself. For this inclination that proves too dangerous, after all.
Even after a time, Mettaton's still pressing firm against his neck, afraid that if he lets go, it'll all come apart. The pillowcase is part-way soaked, but not at all soaked through. At some point, he's snuggled in with his Bonded and tucked his chin atop his shoulder so that he can watch his neck, his profile. When he's still, he can watch the rise and fall of his chest, gentle as it is. Mettaton wills himself to ignore the alluring smell of blood, finding it both addictive and worth wariness at once.
Regardless, Mettaton doesn't leave or sleep. He watches. He drapes his free arm across his chest. Should it take long, he begins to talk to Emet-Selch once he confirms that he's breathing still. He tells him about the first movie he'd ever seen and how much he adored the humans he saw. He talks about the first time he saw the plans for his body. He tells him about the show he was just in that evening. He tells him about Mikasa, and how he met her rescuing a human child. He talks about Alphys a little, how he'd grown away from her — and how he's not sure how to bridge that gap, even still. (He's not very good at that, is he?) He confesses that he nearly bit Mira recently, stopped only by a quick-thinking attack on her part. He says really, it didn't scare him to think of Emet-Selch working on his body, it's quite different from being a human and wide open, and he trusts him. He fantasizes aloud that, were he to have it his way, he'd love to relax and watch movies with him — a perfect activity given his disinclination toward moving, and Mettaton's love for such entertainment. He reminds him he loves him.
He talks even when he doesn't reply, because it makes him feel better, and he can't help but remember the tone of Emet-Selch's voice. Lost and confused, imploring for his presence, and he wants to somehow convey to him that he's not alone still. A vain hope that his voice will reach him somehow, as if he could throw it into his head. But he also lapses into silence between, listening to his breathing, tilting his head every once in a while to let the shell of a sensitive ear land upon the Ascian's chest to confirm that his heart's still beating.
Around the time Emet-Selch might come to, he might very well be talking about his idea of a date: a line or so that goes, "I don't just act in the feature, you know. I like to watch things too. I think you'd like it, relaxing in our own space and watching something with me... Even if you disliked the movie. Haha." His fingers trace his profile, such shameless care and observation as he absorbs the sight of his face: terrified about the thought of how pale and sickly he looked, but trying to prescribe his appearance to his memory so strongly that he couldn't forget it, just like Emet-Selch suggested he should when he was the one bleeding out.
His hand remains fisted around a wad of pillowcase, pressed firmly to his neck as though scared to lift it. Mettaton doesn't know what to do with this body of his, except to be patient with it. He thinks that's what he needs, even when they know they both don't care for patience. Sometimes it's necessary.]