[The embrace continued, but no violence with it. It's something that Emet-Selch at first isn't sure what to make of, why Mettaton would touch his throat so tenderly but not drive himself into it with incisors bared. Why he would stroke his hair or hold him close, pull him against the comforting stability of his body. Against all odds, he'd not only returned but had decided to show him mercy, and in his current state, the Ascian doesn't know which part confuses him more. His own disorientation lingered; everything had happened so quickly, with his lover's cascading anger and his own inability to quell it, to do anything for him--
That line of thinking only led to more tears welling up, even as he was slowly accepting that for whatever reason Mettaton hadn't given up on him. That his mood was- while still intense, still bearing emotions strong enough to unsteady the Ascian- not overrun with a god's vengefulness and capacity for wrath. That he'd lost his shoulder jewelry goes unnoticed; his lover was a capricious god, and who was he to question his decisions? With a weakened nudge, he buries his face against Mettaton's neck as he's tucked there, breathing him in- the familiar scent of him, and his blood, and their sex, all layered together, as it should be.
Slowly, he calms by degrees, as Mettaton holds him and shows no sign of leaving him again. With effort, Emet-Selch manages to wrap an arm around him in turn, and from tension, his body gradually just- gives up. Not relaxing, but only losing the ability to hold himself steady, collapsing against him. Curling against him as though he were the only thing in the world, as though he could protect him from- the both of them, he likewise realizes.
They had been doing so well, he had thought. Mettaton still bit him, because they both enjoyed that, the giving of blood and the taking of it. It had been manageable, and while their passions were always high, they'd avoided ever veering again into dangerous territory. Bleeding out as far as he had was a... complicated memory, but an important lesson in maintaining some degree of moderation in their aggressions, their desires, their fears. Mettaton didn't want to hurt him, and Emet-Selch didn't want to upset him. They both knew this.
But had they really improved? Or was it through chance alone that they had managed to avoid any particular catalyst in the interim? What if there hadn't been any particular deliberation on their part; would inevitability itself always drag them back to this place? To a state of high emotions requiring a payment made in blood and sacrifice.
--But this had had the potential of being more than that. It wasn't only recklessly strong emotion leading to a bite made too deep by incidentally poor luck, drunk from too heavily, with neither of them knowing concern until it was nearly too late. Emet-Selch could feel this pitching darker than that, that Mettaton could've easily and deliberately snapped his jaws through his throat, and neither of them would've done a thing to prevent it. Even now in this immediate aftermath, when everything was at its most raw and he lay shivering in his lover's arms, Emet-Selch knows he wouldn't try to stop him. Should Mettaton's mood turn dark again (and something about him seemed darker once more, if only monstrous rather than feral) it wouldn't take any convincing. He would offer himself to claws, to teeth, to spite. Because he loved him.
Mettaton lines his face with presses of lips before nudging him back, meeting his eyes. Emet-Selch blinks repeatedly to try and clear his, to focus on his lover's countenance through a blurry haze. Even distorted by his vision, Mettaton was still strikingly beautiful to him. The blood was no detriment, nor was the suggestion of sharpened teeth. His own look remains somewhat lost, uncertain, as watchful as he can manage, as though if he weren't careful, Mettaton would vanish on him again. Mettaton traces around his eye, and he holds still, and nor does he flinch when those fingers trail over his throat, over scratch and bruise. Whether his lover decided to tear into him or not was--
--probably not something that he should view with such ambivalence.
Tugged closer again, he feels himself stroked, petted, kept firmly and safely against his body (he would always be safe there, except when he wasn't), and his eyes close for a moment at the kiss to his forehead. Mettaton thanking him for staying even when he'd wanted to reach him fills him with another sort of unease, knowing that if he had been able to more easily move, he would've gone to him. He would've found him, and Mettaton would've either killed him, or been forced to retreat even further.
(He didn't want to see him upset. That was his only hesitation. His only regret now was disappointing him.)
Emet-Selch still couldn't speak. But he listens, moving a hand up to gently touch the side of Mettaton's face, the side with his working eye. He feels for familiar details with his eyes closed, with unsteady fingers. At the last of his words, he pauses, then nods. Even knowing better, they'd done this to each other. It hadn't ended up with him unconscious and fading from a lack of blood, but he wouldn't at all have called this version an improvement. He didn't know how to stop it; there was no reason to believe it wouldn't happen again, considering how intensely they felt everything.]
no subject
That line of thinking only led to more tears welling up, even as he was slowly accepting that for whatever reason Mettaton hadn't given up on him. That his mood was- while still intense, still bearing emotions strong enough to unsteady the Ascian- not overrun with a god's vengefulness and capacity for wrath. That he'd lost his shoulder jewelry goes unnoticed; his lover was a capricious god, and who was he to question his decisions? With a weakened nudge, he buries his face against Mettaton's neck as he's tucked there, breathing him in- the familiar scent of him, and his blood, and their sex, all layered together, as it should be.
Slowly, he calms by degrees, as Mettaton holds him and shows no sign of leaving him again. With effort, Emet-Selch manages to wrap an arm around him in turn, and from tension, his body gradually just- gives up. Not relaxing, but only losing the ability to hold himself steady, collapsing against him. Curling against him as though he were the only thing in the world, as though he could protect him from- the both of them, he likewise realizes.
They had been doing so well, he had thought. Mettaton still bit him, because they both enjoyed that, the giving of blood and the taking of it. It had been manageable, and while their passions were always high, they'd avoided ever veering again into dangerous territory. Bleeding out as far as he had was a... complicated memory, but an important lesson in maintaining some degree of moderation in their aggressions, their desires, their fears. Mettaton didn't want to hurt him, and Emet-Selch didn't want to upset him. They both knew this.
But had they really improved? Or was it through chance alone that they had managed to avoid any particular catalyst in the interim? What if there hadn't been any particular deliberation on their part; would inevitability itself always drag them back to this place? To a state of high emotions requiring a payment made in blood and sacrifice.
--But this had had the potential of being more than that. It wasn't only recklessly strong emotion leading to a bite made too deep by incidentally poor luck, drunk from too heavily, with neither of them knowing concern until it was nearly too late. Emet-Selch could feel this pitching darker than that, that Mettaton could've easily and deliberately snapped his jaws through his throat, and neither of them would've done a thing to prevent it. Even now in this immediate aftermath, when everything was at its most raw and he lay shivering in his lover's arms, Emet-Selch knows he wouldn't try to stop him. Should Mettaton's mood turn dark again (and something about him seemed darker once more, if only monstrous rather than feral) it wouldn't take any convincing. He would offer himself to claws, to teeth, to spite. Because he loved him.
Mettaton lines his face with presses of lips before nudging him back, meeting his eyes. Emet-Selch blinks repeatedly to try and clear his, to focus on his lover's countenance through a blurry haze. Even distorted by his vision, Mettaton was still strikingly beautiful to him. The blood was no detriment, nor was the suggestion of sharpened teeth. His own look remains somewhat lost, uncertain, as watchful as he can manage, as though if he weren't careful, Mettaton would vanish on him again. Mettaton traces around his eye, and he holds still, and nor does he flinch when those fingers trail over his throat, over scratch and bruise. Whether his lover decided to tear into him or not was--
--probably not something that he should view with such ambivalence.
Tugged closer again, he feels himself stroked, petted, kept firmly and safely against his body (he would always be safe there, except when he wasn't), and his eyes close for a moment at the kiss to his forehead. Mettaton thanking him for staying even when he'd wanted to reach him fills him with another sort of unease, knowing that if he had been able to more easily move, he would've gone to him. He would've found him, and Mettaton would've either killed him, or been forced to retreat even further.
(He didn't want to see him upset. That was his only hesitation. His only regret now was disappointing him.)
Emet-Selch still couldn't speak. But he listens, moving a hand up to gently touch the side of Mettaton's face, the side with his working eye. He feels for familiar details with his eyes closed, with unsteady fingers. At the last of his words, he pauses, then nods. Even knowing better, they'd done this to each other. It hadn't ended up with him unconscious and fading from a lack of blood, but he wouldn't at all have called this version an improvement. He didn't know how to stop it; there was no reason to believe it wouldn't happen again, considering how intensely they felt everything.]