[Mettaton doesn't have to move from his place to set the glass on a bedside table (perks to being a robot), but he easily takes on the task of nuzzling against Emet-Selch as he sets against his body. He bends his neck, pressing his nose into Emet-Selch's hair as he twists his head, rubbing his cheek against him next in a possessive nuzzle. With his other hand now free to wander, he rests his palm against the Ascian's chest as he lets him lean against his body to the best of his ability, shifting close to make it all the more possible. Doing his best to carefully make real their mutual desire for closeness and affection.
It brings the idol satisfaction to see his Bondmate reach some level of stability, even though he can hear in his voice a stilted manner of speech, slow and mildly labored. Getting better with time. Making sense, no longer so disconnected as though only vaguely grasping what's going on around him... And what a difference, compared to how lost he was before losing consciousness, and just after waking. He wants to drag Emet-Selch close and hold him, but he's better off not being manhandled, he thinks. He's close, and he's doing better: that's what matters.
(Just after waking, however... It was preferable to just before he went under. It meant he was on the upswing, never mind how defenseless and honest he was with his thoughts and feelings. With what he liked. With his attempt to express pleasure for being in his company despite his circumstance, and it makes Mettaton feel even more affection for him as he presses his cheek into him, making sure he's thoroughly his. Making sure Emet-Selch could feel his fondness. He hums.)
Mettaton nods at the notion of thanking Mikasa. He wants to thank her, too, and she's not just a useful human, but a good-hearted one, he thinks. Assuming it's about her contribution rather than any company or reassurance she provided, because that's what Mettaton's most glad for: the practical advice that he feels made a difference. Knowing that pressure was the right thing, and that there was more he could do. (He still plans on making sure it's clean, just as she advised, but he hasn't had the heart to pull that cloth from his neck.)
Voice low, the hand Mettaton has against his chest rubs softly with his thumb.]
Agreed. You should meet her. [A pause.] And... We'll have to find additional avenues to get carried away with. Ones that don't end like this.
[Mettaton's version of an apology: the suggestion that alternative routes exist to distribute his feelings, and that he'd be willing to find them rather than resorting to carving into him so strongly with teeth. Something that satisfies the both of them, but something tenable, not something that results in this, especially when Emet-Selch starts to lose consciousness and finds himself overcome by nausea. He'll take some action. He doesn't want Emet-Selch anywhere near death.
As he sits here and grapples with the cravings he had while the other man was unconscious, smelling his blood and worried sick while wondering when he could have more of his blood again... Mettaton still doesn't think of that as a problem, just something he needs more avenues to expend. Different thrills, all manner of indulgences that could bring them both equal satisfaction without putting his Bonded at risk of bleeding out. Therefore, it doesn't make him panic to feel like he won't ever taste his blood again: he will, but not so wildly, not a gush of it that he can swallow with wild abandon. And while the thought brings him a sick delight, it also settles wrong with him to think about. If he ever felt that particular pressure and volume again, Mettaton feels sure in this moment that he'd know something was wrong.
Mettaton kisses the top of his head.]
Did you want anything else, darling? I'm thinking otherwise... you must want rest.
[Another test of his prophetic abilities (that don't work like this) — or, at least, his ability to grasp these more organic needs. Emet-Selch isn't the best he could be, and rest helps.]
no subject
It brings the idol satisfaction to see his Bondmate reach some level of stability, even though he can hear in his voice a stilted manner of speech, slow and mildly labored. Getting better with time. Making sense, no longer so disconnected as though only vaguely grasping what's going on around him... And what a difference, compared to how lost he was before losing consciousness, and just after waking. He wants to drag Emet-Selch close and hold him, but he's better off not being manhandled, he thinks. He's close, and he's doing better: that's what matters.
(Just after waking, however... It was preferable to just before he went under. It meant he was on the upswing, never mind how defenseless and honest he was with his thoughts and feelings. With what he liked. With his attempt to express pleasure for being in his company despite his circumstance, and it makes Mettaton feel even more affection for him as he presses his cheek into him, making sure he's thoroughly his. Making sure Emet-Selch could feel his fondness. He hums.)
Mettaton nods at the notion of thanking Mikasa. He wants to thank her, too, and she's not just a useful human, but a good-hearted one, he thinks. Assuming it's about her contribution rather than any company or reassurance she provided, because that's what Mettaton's most glad for: the practical advice that he feels made a difference. Knowing that pressure was the right thing, and that there was more he could do. (He still plans on making sure it's clean, just as she advised, but he hasn't had the heart to pull that cloth from his neck.)
Voice low, the hand Mettaton has against his chest rubs softly with his thumb.]
Agreed. You should meet her. [A pause.] And... We'll have to find additional avenues to get carried away with. Ones that don't end like this.
[Mettaton's version of an apology: the suggestion that alternative routes exist to distribute his feelings, and that he'd be willing to find them rather than resorting to carving into him so strongly with teeth. Something that satisfies the both of them, but something tenable, not something that results in this, especially when Emet-Selch starts to lose consciousness and finds himself overcome by nausea. He'll take some action. He doesn't want Emet-Selch anywhere near death.
As he sits here and grapples with the cravings he had while the other man was unconscious, smelling his blood and worried sick while wondering when he could have more of his blood again... Mettaton still doesn't think of that as a problem, just something he needs more avenues to expend. Different thrills, all manner of indulgences that could bring them both equal satisfaction without putting his Bonded at risk of bleeding out. Therefore, it doesn't make him panic to feel like he won't ever taste his blood again: he will, but not so wildly, not a gush of it that he can swallow with wild abandon. And while the thought brings him a sick delight, it also settles wrong with him to think about. If he ever felt that particular pressure and volume again, Mettaton feels sure in this moment that he'd know something was wrong.
Mettaton kisses the top of his head.]
Did you want anything else, darling? I'm thinking otherwise... you must want rest.
[Another test of his prophetic abilities (that don't work like this) — or, at least, his ability to grasp these more organic needs. Emet-Selch isn't the best he could be, and rest helps.]