[There is only one thing that has managed to take the edge off of Mettaton's feral-spiraling mindset, and that's his Witch's blood. All else can't be helped save for with the praise he seeks, strictly verbal and in the most blatant terms possible. Nothing else would satisfy him, not even body language, not even his own deliberate interpretations of events intended to flatter himself.
And even here, as he lays atop his lover and feels Emet-Selch's mood pitch into a stormy, uncertain haze, Mettaton's raging temper continues. His body lays prone, still and unbending in these moments of recovery while his anger stews dangerously, nonsensical and crazed. But there's blood he has to rely on, more blood — more of that could sate this anger, he hoped, could release him from the torrent of passionate fury.
Mettaton isn't a stranger to being righteously mad, but never like this, and it aches not unlike the pressure of arousal — only far less pleasant. A mood unchanging and without his lover to do his duty, to perform the simple act of worship because his voice was thrown out, he guessed, but it wasn't mattering very much, the why of it all. He was letting him down. He was furious. Boiling. He could hardly see straight, he was so ticked.
And he tries once more to snap down on his lover's delicious skin, but his body's still disagreeable. He heads right back for that (bad, deep, injurious, healthily bleeding) bite on Emet-Selch's shoulder and tries to sink his teeth into it again, only managing by virtue of hitting some of the already broken flesh. His jaw isn't cooperating with him yet, however, making it weaker overall — but Mettaton still gets his blood, and he still emits a low, throaty sound into his flesh. It was the only thing Emet-Selch could give him anymore when he needed him.
(He's going mad all over again, and if Emet-Selch weren't here — he needs him still. He can't take this anger at the rate it grows. He needs him to... be violent toward? To take his teeth and exchange it with the soothing magic from his blood, the only reason the pendants and his vainglory haven't compounded into a full, feral swing. But his fury takes on the edge of spite and resentment, growing more monstrous alongside his gradual depth of lunacy. He tries to pull blood for his placation.
(He remembers Emet-Selch, reclining on a bed of cold sweat and blood, lifeless for hours, the sight of him diminished and weak. Resting at his side, helping him drink, watching over him as he lay pale and clammy, and — he'd done that to him. He'd do it all over again, and he loved him too much to succumb to that desire. Thinking was hard, but he knew this was true.))
All at once, Mettaton pulls off of Emet-Selch. He loses his shift — a sudden, jarring loss that ached, for the cock he'd relished using on his Bonded to be gone (and surely a strange sensation to have it just... disappear), leaving him feeling off-kilter, distracted. But no more off-kilter than did the fury that brewed as ever, even while he battled with conflicting desires. He didn't want Emet-Selch to end up like that, and the instinct to protect him kicks in.
(What is he protecting him from?)
Kneeling in a strange sort of crouch atop the bed, Mettaton leans in to try... cleaning his neck, he thought, but then he smells blood. He bares his teeth. He loses sense again. Emet-Selch had done him wrong and his temper flares to life with a vengeance, and he knows he ought to take from him what he was owed: his voice, for keeps. All for himself. His senses demanded Emet-Selch's throat, the sight of red decorating them both—
It makes him apprehensive, too. He pulls back all over again, but not at all in disgust, even when he covers his mouth with a hand. (There's his lover's saliva on his fingers... his blood on his nails, and he smells it all.) In fact, he longed to drown himself in the blood of his Bonded... He wanted to drink his lover dry. Emet-Selch is face down, but unease flashes in Mettaton's bright, golden eye. His voice is stuttering; his fur is so dark, his ears are flat, and...]
Tell me... [His voice is low, spoken from between fingers, and he can't keep his stern, reprimanding tone out of there. Serious and severe, but it trembles with rage, and with his own conflict.] Praise me—
[A memory slaps him in the face when the sound of Emet-Selch's pitiful cry resounds in his head. He can't tell him he desires him above all. He can't tell him anything. That doesn't make this any better — it's offensive and disappointing, but Mettaton can't make sense of why he can't just... make sounds anyway for his sake. To help him tone down this anger so he could feel something other than it, and he begins to growl again, lowering himself to the bed.
...Emet-Selch is in such sorry shape. Pity hits him again: Emet-Selch can barely walk, can hardly move, is bleeding and bruised and sore and despairing, and Mettaton can feel that as fury parts for just a moment. He loves him. He trusts him.
But he can't see straight, he's so mad. Mettaton wants to grab him and tear him apart with his teeth, and it dominates his sights, his claws sharp and needing to sink into his flesh, to tear away... his sadness, his ache, his soreness, everything that was making Emet-Selch in pain, too pained to tell him he's beautiful. It makes perfect sense now! Mettaton reaches for Emet-Selch again. He snags him with claws: one against his furthest shoulder, the other against his waist. Manhandling him, the feral Puca pulls him closer, righting him somewhat no matter how in pain he obviously is — glaring at him, hungry for something Emet-Selch isn't providing, baring his teeth.
But he holds him steady, forcing Emet-Selch to be half-upright on his side, making him face Mettaton. He stares at him. He closes in, his gaze fixed on Emet-Selch's throat, longing and livid.]
I need you to tell me... How much you...
[But Emet-Selch can't talk. All at once, Mettaton drops the Ascian and withdraws his hands, kicking himself off of the bed in a fluid swipe of legs and stomping out of the room, subsumed by fury. His heels click and he's a mess of come and sweat and blood, but if he stayed — he'd surely tear into Emet-Selch in moments. His body moves for him, his head racing and his claws so sharp that they could almost pierce his own palms, balled up as they are. ...Putting some distance between himself and the pendants will probably help him come down from madness, at least, given a moment of time away.]
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And even here, as he lays atop his lover and feels Emet-Selch's mood pitch into a stormy, uncertain haze, Mettaton's raging temper continues. His body lays prone, still and unbending in these moments of recovery while his anger stews dangerously, nonsensical and crazed. But there's blood he has to rely on, more blood — more of that could sate this anger, he hoped, could release him from the torrent of passionate fury.
Mettaton isn't a stranger to being righteously mad, but never like this, and it aches not unlike the pressure of arousal — only far less pleasant. A mood unchanging and without his lover to do his duty, to perform the simple act of worship because his voice was thrown out, he guessed, but it wasn't mattering very much, the why of it all. He was letting him down. He was furious. Boiling. He could hardly see straight, he was so ticked.
And he tries once more to snap down on his lover's delicious skin, but his body's still disagreeable. He heads right back for that (bad, deep, injurious, healthily bleeding) bite on Emet-Selch's shoulder and tries to sink his teeth into it again, only managing by virtue of hitting some of the already broken flesh. His jaw isn't cooperating with him yet, however, making it weaker overall — but Mettaton still gets his blood, and he still emits a low, throaty sound into his flesh. It was the only thing Emet-Selch could give him anymore when he needed him.
(He's going mad all over again, and if Emet-Selch weren't here — he needs him still. He can't take this anger at the rate it grows. He needs him to... be violent toward? To take his teeth and exchange it with the soothing magic from his blood, the only reason the pendants and his vainglory haven't compounded into a full, feral swing. But his fury takes on the edge of spite and resentment, growing more monstrous alongside his gradual depth of lunacy. He tries to pull blood for his placation.
(He remembers Emet-Selch, reclining on a bed of cold sweat and blood, lifeless for hours, the sight of him diminished and weak. Resting at his side, helping him drink, watching over him as he lay pale and clammy, and — he'd done that to him. He'd do it all over again, and he loved him too much to succumb to that desire. Thinking was hard, but he knew this was true.))
All at once, Mettaton pulls off of Emet-Selch. He loses his shift — a sudden, jarring loss that ached, for the cock he'd relished using on his Bonded to be gone (and surely a strange sensation to have it just... disappear), leaving him feeling off-kilter, distracted. But no more off-kilter than did the fury that brewed as ever, even while he battled with conflicting desires. He didn't want Emet-Selch to end up like that, and the instinct to protect him kicks in.
(What is he protecting him from?)
Kneeling in a strange sort of crouch atop the bed, Mettaton leans in to try... cleaning his neck, he thought, but then he smells blood. He bares his teeth. He loses sense again. Emet-Selch had done him wrong and his temper flares to life with a vengeance, and he knows he ought to take from him what he was owed: his voice, for keeps. All for himself. His senses demanded Emet-Selch's throat, the sight of red decorating them both—
It makes him apprehensive, too. He pulls back all over again, but not at all in disgust, even when he covers his mouth with a hand. (There's his lover's saliva on his fingers... his blood on his nails, and he smells it all.) In fact, he longed to drown himself in the blood of his Bonded... He wanted to drink his lover dry. Emet-Selch is face down, but unease flashes in Mettaton's bright, golden eye. His voice is stuttering; his fur is so dark, his ears are flat, and...]
Tell me... [His voice is low, spoken from between fingers, and he can't keep his stern, reprimanding tone out of there. Serious and severe, but it trembles with rage, and with his own conflict.] Praise me—
[A memory slaps him in the face when the sound of Emet-Selch's pitiful cry resounds in his head. He can't tell him he desires him above all. He can't tell him anything. That doesn't make this any better — it's offensive and disappointing, but Mettaton can't make sense of why he can't just... make sounds anyway for his sake. To help him tone down this anger so he could feel something other than it, and he begins to growl again, lowering himself to the bed.
...Emet-Selch is in such sorry shape. Pity hits him again: Emet-Selch can barely walk, can hardly move, is bleeding and bruised and sore and despairing, and Mettaton can feel that as fury parts for just a moment. He loves him. He trusts him.
But he can't see straight, he's so mad. Mettaton wants to grab him and tear him apart with his teeth, and it dominates his sights, his claws sharp and needing to sink into his flesh, to tear away... his sadness, his ache, his soreness, everything that was making Emet-Selch in pain, too pained to tell him he's beautiful. It makes perfect sense now! Mettaton reaches for Emet-Selch again. He snags him with claws: one against his furthest shoulder, the other against his waist. Manhandling him, the feral Puca pulls him closer, righting him somewhat no matter how in pain he obviously is — glaring at him, hungry for something Emet-Selch isn't providing, baring his teeth.
But he holds him steady, forcing Emet-Selch to be half-upright on his side, making him face Mettaton. He stares at him. He closes in, his gaze fixed on Emet-Selch's throat, longing and livid.]
I need you to tell me... How much you...
[But Emet-Selch can't talk. All at once, Mettaton drops the Ascian and withdraws his hands, kicking himself off of the bed in a fluid swipe of legs and stomping out of the room, subsumed by fury. His heels click and he's a mess of come and sweat and blood, but if he stayed — he'd surely tear into Emet-Selch in moments. His body moves for him, his head racing and his claws so sharp that they could almost pierce his own palms, balled up as they are. ...Putting some distance between himself and the pendants will probably help him come down from madness, at least, given a moment of time away.]