[Fingers roam the panels of his cheek, seams, the corner of his eye — though smooth, there are a lot of details to take in, slight lines and changes in material that make up the composite of his features. Naturally as anything, Mettaton leans into his touch. Naturally as anything, he strokes reassuringly over Emet-Selch's back, noting that his lover's distress scarred... deeply. Tapping into feelings rooted in love and attachment, but how else could these feelings manifest on a man who has lost so much, who loved so hard, who made himself so vulnerable to the idol?
When Mettaton examines his own actions, he does so from a more creative, poetic lens, and dislikes the thought of his extricating himself from Them to be some kind of poetic foreshadowing. As though the only way for them both to remain well in hand should be that they separate themselves... As if! He holds Emet-Selch tighter, not at all fearing the analysis he'd have to put into their combination that made it so threatening to Emet-Selch's well-being. It all came down to Mettaton's carelessness, his lack of forethought or examining the consequences of his actions; as well as Emet-Selch's self-destructive, similarly consequences-what-consequences attitude. He was so loyal, so good to him, so dedicated, so giving and willing that he'd give his life over to Mettaton because the Puca had the whim to take it.
It pulls a sigh from Mettaton in this moment, and he shakes his head, but... he smiles, bittersweet. He wanted to see Mettaton happy and well, sated and sane, so of course he'd offer his body where his voice failed... It was a matter of trying to check himself, but how could he do that if he were going feral? ...Emet-Selch had told him he wouldn't have to veer feral while they were Bonded, but Mettaton knows there isn't anything about this world that wouldn't try to see him that way. Whether it was a curse or some amplification of the moons, he could go feral in a more sudden, more unrelenting context... This was during a play of passion, and probably more dangerous because their bodies were so entwined and blood was so plentiful...
Mettaton examines Emet-Selch's body like this, claws lightly grazing over his back. Nails sharp and curved, he doesn't allow them to do anything more than glide along the surface of his lover's skin while he can't keep them duller and controlled. If he can't keep himself controlled, if controlling at all is no option, what would Emet-Selch do for him? There was still something that helped in this equation, even if it had the potential to be dangerous, and that was his blood. Mettaton knows for a fact that it steadied his mind... He would have slipped quite a few minutes beforehand, had he not had that. His emotions were rampant and vicious, and blood is a vice of his. Mollifying and clarifying, Emet-Selch's blood would keep him from pitching feral. But what if he was already inevitably headed there, or already there...?
It's an answer he doesn't have at the moment, and he leans in to kiss Emet-Selch's eyes. To ease his tears, to reassure him that he's here and he loves him, no matter what. They could figure out how to manage themselves along the way. Mistakes were inevitable... But it was a matter of keeping them in check, to prevent lethal failures like this one could have been.
But it wasn't, because one of them eventually showed restraint. Mettaton made that conscious decision with his fraying mind, relying on the blood of the Ascian to make the call to leave, to stop fantasizing about his trachea in his teeth and scarlet on their bodies, to stop himself from devouring his Bonded's body from the inside out because he loved him that much, his beautiful, soulbound lover who could make bruises and tears and sweat look like a signature of fervent adoration on his skin. ...But Mettaton could hardly call this an improvement either. It had been too close. And his own judgement aside (which was capricious indeed, and conceptualized too late), Emet-Selch's was... lacking in self-preservation.
That there was a cursed necklace involved didn't matter to Mettaton, either, even while he begins to piece that bit together on his own. That was a basement full of cursed objects. That he thought it natural on him meant two things: one, he could be cursed and not know it. Two, that kind of behavior... was an integral part of his personality drawn to the surface, the desire to be revered in darkness and lust and deified, worshiped. Though he may not be like that all the time didn't mean he couldn't find himself behaving that way again, couldn't see himself slipping into ferality if he lacked the proper admiration... And really, when he thinks about it, he's the kind of person he could see justifying the exchange of someone's life for their lack of ardent support. It was within him, and the jewelry just brought that to the surface. He wouldn't place any accountability on a curse: this was about Emet-Selch's life, and he'd have to overcome a curse to see to his well-being. The problem here was rooted in a lack of reason: if he'd had any to begin with, he'd know that Emet-Selch could no longer speak, and if Emet-Selch had any, he'd try to express this, would try to preserve himself.
But they were both inclined toward being unreasonable at times. Mettaton knew that. They were volatile and ferocious, passionate and extreme. They just had to recognize when that was happening and try to heal from the wounds they inflicted, like this one.
Mettaton leans in to perform an act of extreme intimacy considering this moment, stooping down to kiss and mouth Emet-Selch's throat. There's no teeth, only gentle sucking and licking, the soft press of silicone lips and the betrayal of heat that has mounted so extremely that it was unmistakable. They would both have to figure out what was dangerous, and what was not — like this. His ears are folded back, comfortable and inviting and sure of his place here, holding Emet-Selch and being held, being collapsed upon; Mettaton is deserving of love and willing to dole it out plentifully. Emet-Selch deserved him, too. And by Bond, his emotions are strongly felt, passionate, stabilized and sure. Sure that they would overcome this together.
Close to his neck, Mettaton kisses up his jaw and to Emet-Selch's cheek, licking up any tears that found their way down his cheek in the process, even those which mingled with blood. He rises enough to press their noses together, to press a kiss to his lips... but he can never have just one, so he gets a couple of those.]
... We'll do better, then. [Even if they continued to make this mistake... They'd surely have successes peppered between. And they'd have to do better: Mettaton wanted Emet-Selch safe, and Emet-Selch didn't want Mettaton upset. They went hand-in-hand, this goal.] Won't we?
[There wasn't any option. The failure would be Emet-Selch's ruination at Mettaton's hands, and the terror that would follow. It would be excess to the highest degree, but so transient, so fatal. If they were both ever-wanting, it would make sense that they'd see to their continued ability to want each other. Mettaton's sure of this, and he offers Emet-Selch a smile against his lips.]
You must be so sore. [Soreness is okay to inflict. Bleeding is okay to inflict. Fatal injuries... not okay.] I don't imagine you fare much better than before, walking... How about standing?
[Aftercare could be performed when he's cleaning his Bonded up, but how well could they do even that, with Emet-Selch like this? He still had the intent to take him to the shower. He was... quite the mess, and Mettaton would gladly look out for him, care for him, see to it that the injury he had inflicted could be cleaned and soothed. Everything including the heartache he could feel so starkly, the one that drowned in misery and fear: abandonment.]
no subject
When Mettaton examines his own actions, he does so from a more creative, poetic lens, and dislikes the thought of his extricating himself from Them to be some kind of poetic foreshadowing. As though the only way for them both to remain well in hand should be that they separate themselves... As if! He holds Emet-Selch tighter, not at all fearing the analysis he'd have to put into their combination that made it so threatening to Emet-Selch's well-being. It all came down to Mettaton's carelessness, his lack of forethought or examining the consequences of his actions; as well as Emet-Selch's self-destructive, similarly consequences-what-consequences attitude. He was so loyal, so good to him, so dedicated, so giving and willing that he'd give his life over to Mettaton because the Puca had the whim to take it.
It pulls a sigh from Mettaton in this moment, and he shakes his head, but... he smiles, bittersweet. He wanted to see Mettaton happy and well, sated and sane, so of course he'd offer his body where his voice failed... It was a matter of trying to check himself, but how could he do that if he were going feral? ...Emet-Selch had told him he wouldn't have to veer feral while they were Bonded, but Mettaton knows there isn't anything about this world that wouldn't try to see him that way. Whether it was a curse or some amplification of the moons, he could go feral in a more sudden, more unrelenting context... This was during a play of passion, and probably more dangerous because their bodies were so entwined and blood was so plentiful...
Mettaton examines Emet-Selch's body like this, claws lightly grazing over his back. Nails sharp and curved, he doesn't allow them to do anything more than glide along the surface of his lover's skin while he can't keep them duller and controlled. If he can't keep himself controlled, if controlling at all is no option, what would Emet-Selch do for him? There was still something that helped in this equation, even if it had the potential to be dangerous, and that was his blood. Mettaton knows for a fact that it steadied his mind... He would have slipped quite a few minutes beforehand, had he not had that. His emotions were rampant and vicious, and blood is a vice of his. Mollifying and clarifying, Emet-Selch's blood would keep him from pitching feral. But what if he was already inevitably headed there, or already there...?
It's an answer he doesn't have at the moment, and he leans in to kiss Emet-Selch's eyes. To ease his tears, to reassure him that he's here and he loves him, no matter what. They could figure out how to manage themselves along the way. Mistakes were inevitable... But it was a matter of keeping them in check, to prevent lethal failures like this one could have been.
But it wasn't, because one of them eventually showed restraint. Mettaton made that conscious decision with his fraying mind, relying on the blood of the Ascian to make the call to leave, to stop fantasizing about his trachea in his teeth and scarlet on their bodies, to stop himself from devouring his Bonded's body from the inside out because he loved him that much, his beautiful, soulbound lover who could make bruises and tears and sweat look like a signature of fervent adoration on his skin. ...But Mettaton could hardly call this an improvement either. It had been too close. And his own judgement aside (which was capricious indeed, and conceptualized too late), Emet-Selch's was... lacking in self-preservation.
That there was a cursed necklace involved didn't matter to Mettaton, either, even while he begins to piece that bit together on his own. That was a basement full of cursed objects. That he thought it natural on him meant two things: one, he could be cursed and not know it. Two, that kind of behavior... was an integral part of his personality drawn to the surface, the desire to be revered in darkness and lust and deified, worshiped. Though he may not be like that all the time didn't mean he couldn't find himself behaving that way again, couldn't see himself slipping into ferality if he lacked the proper admiration... And really, when he thinks about it, he's the kind of person he could see justifying the exchange of someone's life for their lack of ardent support. It was within him, and the jewelry just brought that to the surface. He wouldn't place any accountability on a curse: this was about Emet-Selch's life, and he'd have to overcome a curse to see to his well-being. The problem here was rooted in a lack of reason: if he'd had any to begin with, he'd know that Emet-Selch could no longer speak, and if Emet-Selch had any, he'd try to express this, would try to preserve himself.
But they were both inclined toward being unreasonable at times. Mettaton knew that. They were volatile and ferocious, passionate and extreme. They just had to recognize when that was happening and try to heal from the wounds they inflicted, like this one.
Mettaton leans in to perform an act of extreme intimacy considering this moment, stooping down to kiss and mouth Emet-Selch's throat. There's no teeth, only gentle sucking and licking, the soft press of silicone lips and the betrayal of heat that has mounted so extremely that it was unmistakable. They would both have to figure out what was dangerous, and what was not — like this. His ears are folded back, comfortable and inviting and sure of his place here, holding Emet-Selch and being held, being collapsed upon; Mettaton is deserving of love and willing to dole it out plentifully. Emet-Selch deserved him, too. And by Bond, his emotions are strongly felt, passionate, stabilized and sure. Sure that they would overcome this together.
Close to his neck, Mettaton kisses up his jaw and to Emet-Selch's cheek, licking up any tears that found their way down his cheek in the process, even those which mingled with blood. He rises enough to press their noses together, to press a kiss to his lips... but he can never have just one, so he gets a couple of those.]
... We'll do better, then. [Even if they continued to make this mistake... They'd surely have successes peppered between. And they'd have to do better: Mettaton wanted Emet-Selch safe, and Emet-Selch didn't want Mettaton upset. They went hand-in-hand, this goal.] Won't we?
[There wasn't any option. The failure would be Emet-Selch's ruination at Mettaton's hands, and the terror that would follow. It would be excess to the highest degree, but so transient, so fatal. If they were both ever-wanting, it would make sense that they'd see to their continued ability to want each other. Mettaton's sure of this, and he offers Emet-Selch a smile against his lips.]
You must be so sore. [Soreness is okay to inflict. Bleeding is okay to inflict. Fatal injuries... not okay.] I don't imagine you fare much better than before, walking... How about standing?
[Aftercare could be performed when he's cleaning his Bonded up, but how well could they do even that, with Emet-Selch like this? He still had the intent to take him to the shower. He was... quite the mess, and Mettaton would gladly look out for him, care for him, see to it that the injury he had inflicted could be cleaned and soothed. Everything including the heartache he could feel so starkly, the one that drowned in misery and fear: abandonment.]