[There was nothing in these actions that struck Emet-Selch as insane or unreasonable; in this moment, it all made perfect sense. Mettaton was clear in his instructions, in his needs, and he'd neglected him. Why wouldn't that spark rage, to be failed by someone who was there to love and adore you, to fulfill every stated desire?
(He couldn't even apologize.)
Though his lips part, little sound emerges when Mettaton scrapes his jaws along his skin, sinking teeth back into the deep wound he'd just inflicted, though the pain was no less raw, no less severe. But there was no noise to spare for it. Even his body barely reacts with more than a harder shudder as Mettaton pulls a few more mouthfuls of blood from torn flesh, an injury deepened, made that bit more acceptable to the monster. All Emet-Selch could do was bleed for him, and even that required more of his lover's work to provide enough.
But it wasn't enough. Fury still rolled off of the robotic puca, and this amount of his witch's magic alone could barely stem the tide. Other than willing himself to bleed faster, the Ascian knew not what to do, staring down a helplessness that was nearly as terrible as the guilt.
A guilt compounded when Mettaton pulls free from him, and Emet-Selch can't feel his cock at all, something that was additionally alarming in itself, considering how much time he'd just spent in constant contact with it. A whine wants to escape his throat, but nothing can get through, he can only feel increasingly unsettled at every sign of his deficiency, as though his lover had no further interest in fucking him, could get no more pleasure out of him, now that it had been proven that he couldn't live up to his expectations. Mettaton closes in to his neck but- doesn't bite; the Ascian shivers underneath him, feeling the mixture of impulses that his lover was inundated with, completely unable to make any sense of them. Not the hesitations caught between tempests, nor the protectiveness slipped between abject wrath.
Mettaton's voice comes from behind him, and Emet-Selch goes still, trapped by the sound of it, growing colder, more distraught with every syllable. Every note of his lover's continued rage. A maelstrom he had no means of soothing, if even his blood or his body weren't doing the trick, if he couldn't please him with his essence or being a place to shove his cock.
But of course he couldn't answer, couldn't croak out a single word to exalt him as he should. And suddenly, Mettaton drags him over and pulls him partially up- acts that leave Emet-Selch shuddering in pain, his breath hitching as he's made to look up. Startled, stricken yellow eyes meet Mettaton's own- and he feels himself break that bit more at the sight of him. Beautiful, furious, starved for him, yearning for him to fulfill this one request- this one thing that he was helpless to give him.
--And Mettaton leaves him.
In retrospect, Emet-Selch would understand, he would realize why Mettaton had leapt from the bed as he had. That it was the only sane option left to them, an act that likely saved his life- or at least prevented him from experiencing another bout of dangerously extreme blood loss. And even in this moment he knew two things: that if it would spare Mettaton this furious madness, he would give him every drop of blood he possessed; and he never wanted to see him as upset as he'd been when he'd drained him so severely. These were mutually exclusive truths.
But right now it didn't matter, and he can't think of safety or what Mettaton's retreat meant- all he knew was that his lover was abandoning him. The one thing he feared above all else. Panic freezes his heart, but not his body; even as Mettaton unhands him, leaving him to collapse against the bed, storming off in a righteous fury, the Ascian struggles to push himself back up, to reach out to him, to--
--But he can't call out to him.
A hand touches his throat- scratched and bruised, so bruised, though he couldn't see it. He felt sick. His fingers shake that much more than the rest of him, compensating by digging into wounded skin instead, as though inclined to tear it open himself in a moment of despair-fueled spite. Mettaton had left him, and he didn't even have the voice to plead with him to stay- and why should he be convinced to stay, when his lover didn't have the voice to praise him?
Unfortunately Emet-Selch lacks the sharpened nails to rip apart his own neck. But even that dismay was little distraction when compared to the awareness of being abandoned, cast aside due to his failures. It didn't matter that his legs weren't working, that every twist of hips or back or neck sent stabs of agony rocking through him, the sort of pain that stole both breath and thought- it was nothing to the panic of being alone. Emet-Selch crawled and clawed his way out of bed, desperate to follow after wherever Mettaton had gone, to convince him somehow to return--
Unfortunately it does matter that his legs weren't working. Emet-Selch crumples immediately with a sharp, pained sound (that he immediately resents), onto a splay of knees, leaning bodily against the foot of the bed. Breathing quickly, he huddles partly inward, shivering, trying to will himself back onto his feet. But what would even happen if he caught up to Mettaton? In the state he was in, he was useless to him, if not even his blood was sufficient enough of a draw to keep him at his side. He was just a wreck- covered in blood and bruises, saliva and sweat, collapsed on the floor at the foot of his lover's bed, naked and shaking. Upright like this, he can feel Mettaton's ejaculate dripping from him again, a wetness slowly spreading between his legs- though for once it's not an arousing prospect (and not that he was aroused at all, at this point), only something to provoke another pang of loss, that he wasn't allowed to hold even this.
--No, it would be pointless to catch up to Mettaton, even if he could. It's only at this thought, this realization, this version of clarity that he begins to cry. Slumped against the bed, blood runs in a rivulet down his back, come pools between his legs, and he closes in on himself. Disconsolate; his grief is quiet, as all his sounds are, now.]
no subject
(He couldn't even apologize.)
Though his lips part, little sound emerges when Mettaton scrapes his jaws along his skin, sinking teeth back into the deep wound he'd just inflicted, though the pain was no less raw, no less severe. But there was no noise to spare for it. Even his body barely reacts with more than a harder shudder as Mettaton pulls a few more mouthfuls of blood from torn flesh, an injury deepened, made that bit more acceptable to the monster. All Emet-Selch could do was bleed for him, and even that required more of his lover's work to provide enough.
But it wasn't enough. Fury still rolled off of the robotic puca, and this amount of his witch's magic alone could barely stem the tide. Other than willing himself to bleed faster, the Ascian knew not what to do, staring down a helplessness that was nearly as terrible as the guilt.
A guilt compounded when Mettaton pulls free from him, and Emet-Selch can't feel his cock at all, something that was additionally alarming in itself, considering how much time he'd just spent in constant contact with it. A whine wants to escape his throat, but nothing can get through, he can only feel increasingly unsettled at every sign of his deficiency, as though his lover had no further interest in fucking him, could get no more pleasure out of him, now that it had been proven that he couldn't live up to his expectations. Mettaton closes in to his neck but- doesn't bite; the Ascian shivers underneath him, feeling the mixture of impulses that his lover was inundated with, completely unable to make any sense of them. Not the hesitations caught between tempests, nor the protectiveness slipped between abject wrath.
Mettaton's voice comes from behind him, and Emet-Selch goes still, trapped by the sound of it, growing colder, more distraught with every syllable. Every note of his lover's continued rage. A maelstrom he had no means of soothing, if even his blood or his body weren't doing the trick, if he couldn't please him with his essence or being a place to shove his cock.
But of course he couldn't answer, couldn't croak out a single word to exalt him as he should. And suddenly, Mettaton drags him over and pulls him partially up- acts that leave Emet-Selch shuddering in pain, his breath hitching as he's made to look up. Startled, stricken yellow eyes meet Mettaton's own- and he feels himself break that bit more at the sight of him. Beautiful, furious, starved for him, yearning for him to fulfill this one request- this one thing that he was helpless to give him.
--And Mettaton leaves him.
In retrospect, Emet-Selch would understand, he would realize why Mettaton had leapt from the bed as he had. That it was the only sane option left to them, an act that likely saved his life- or at least prevented him from experiencing another bout of dangerously extreme blood loss. And even in this moment he knew two things: that if it would spare Mettaton this furious madness, he would give him every drop of blood he possessed; and he never wanted to see him as upset as he'd been when he'd drained him so severely. These were mutually exclusive truths.
But right now it didn't matter, and he can't think of safety or what Mettaton's retreat meant- all he knew was that his lover was abandoning him. The one thing he feared above all else. Panic freezes his heart, but not his body; even as Mettaton unhands him, leaving him to collapse against the bed, storming off in a righteous fury, the Ascian struggles to push himself back up, to reach out to him, to--
--But he can't call out to him.
A hand touches his throat- scratched and bruised, so bruised, though he couldn't see it. He felt sick. His fingers shake that much more than the rest of him, compensating by digging into wounded skin instead, as though inclined to tear it open himself in a moment of despair-fueled spite. Mettaton had left him, and he didn't even have the voice to plead with him to stay- and why should he be convinced to stay, when his lover didn't have the voice to praise him?
Unfortunately Emet-Selch lacks the sharpened nails to rip apart his own neck. But even that dismay was little distraction when compared to the awareness of being abandoned, cast aside due to his failures. It didn't matter that his legs weren't working, that every twist of hips or back or neck sent stabs of agony rocking through him, the sort of pain that stole both breath and thought- it was nothing to the panic of being alone. Emet-Selch crawled and clawed his way out of bed, desperate to follow after wherever Mettaton had gone, to convince him somehow to return--
Unfortunately it does matter that his legs weren't working. Emet-Selch crumples immediately with a sharp, pained sound (that he immediately resents), onto a splay of knees, leaning bodily against the foot of the bed. Breathing quickly, he huddles partly inward, shivering, trying to will himself back onto his feet. But what would even happen if he caught up to Mettaton? In the state he was in, he was useless to him, if not even his blood was sufficient enough of a draw to keep him at his side. He was just a wreck- covered in blood and bruises, saliva and sweat, collapsed on the floor at the foot of his lover's bed, naked and shaking. Upright like this, he can feel Mettaton's ejaculate dripping from him again, a wetness slowly spreading between his legs- though for once it's not an arousing prospect (and not that he was aroused at all, at this point), only something to provoke another pang of loss, that he wasn't allowed to hold even this.
--No, it would be pointless to catch up to Mettaton, even if he could. It's only at this thought, this realization, this version of clarity that he begins to cry. Slumped against the bed, blood runs in a rivulet down his back, come pools between his legs, and he closes in on himself. Disconsolate; his grief is quiet, as all his sounds are, now.]