[Slowly, the close contact soothed, some better degree of rationality returning (particularly as he was no longer being fed Mettaton's feral state via Bond, to return it to him with his own increasing agitation). Though he was still badly shaken, and would be for some time (and would likely spend the next few days demanding his lover's continuous company while he healed), his breathing was a bit steadier, and it was possible to look back on what had happened with some small amount of thoughtfulness. Or thought at all, rather than only reacting.
...Emet-Selch knew, in some abstract way, that Mettaton had made the right decision in separating from him then. It didn't erase the fear that lingered, the feeling of being left behind, abandoned and unable to follow. But he knew. He remembered his lover's tears falling on him after his awakening from bleeding out. Mettaton's fear and relief, how stricken he had been... and in that case, Emet-Selch had survived. But what if he hadn't? What if he, as he'd wanted to do in this case, had willingly and deliberately placed himself in Mettaton's way, offered his life up to spare his mind... even if it had worked, how would his lover have felt about the aftermath? After he'd realized what he'd done, and what the Ascian had allowed him to do?
It's a thought to strike him cold, that causes him to shiver, to burrow himself that bit more against Mettaton's metal frame, to feel his sore body give in to it. From touching Mettaton's face, he lets his hand fall back, his arm to wrap more tightly around him, as much as his reduced strength would permit. But this was a feeling he tried to ingrain in himself; he knew it was likely the most effective means he had for tempering his own nature, should a similar circumstance occur.
As ferality would happen, insanity would happen; it had been careless to think a Bond alone would be enough to always prevent it. Outside influences happened, emotional disturbances certainly happened, and considering the degree to which they felt things... no, even without a curse, they were fully capable of doing this to one another. Mettaton's desire for being desired, heightened to a god's demand for appropriate reverence... his own want to live in service, coupled with existing self-destructiveness, heightened to a willingness to offer his life even when unnecessary. They operated so frequently in extremes; this was inevitable. Even knowing better, having stared down the risk of their excess once before, it was inevitable.
How then, could they be trusted to manage it? Though they fed into each other so easily, Emet-Selch knew his blood could have a calming, clarifying effect on the puca. And there was nothing wrong with providing it to him in principle, he thought. And he could spare quite a bit without it becoming dangerous. But in the heat of a moment like this, how could they ensure that Mettaton didn't snap down on anything immediately lethal? And that if he tried to, that the Ascian would be willing to stop him? Those things were... the truest problem.
And one he didn't know the answer to. Even though he felt sick now at the thought of his lover having to face having accidentally murdered him while in a state of blood-soaked madness, emerging from his rapturous fury only to find his mangled corpse- he knew himself well enough to be uncertain how well he'd remember that lesson when required. These past few minutes had been proof enough of that; even now, the thought of his lover's teeth in his throat was--
--still disturbingly acceptable.
...And that in itself was a problem he hadn't wanted to consider and also didn't have an answer to. But while Emet-Selch didn't have Mettaton's optimism, he was stubborn. There really was no other option: they would have to manage this. As he also refused to entertain any possibility that the only way to avoid this fate was to separate. They were too arrogant to give in to that, too entwined- and too much in love. Enough not only to refuse to part, but also to be motivated to find some means of sparing the other pain.
But his thoughts are disrupted when he feels Mettaton's lips move to his throat- and even now, he felt no hesitation in having his attention there, softness applied to wounded skin, a heat that only... soothed. Comforted. And while he would've liked to believe that his lack of concern was due to feeling no trace of aggression on his lover's part, that there was no reason to think that he would snap down on him now- Emet-Selch can't be entirely sure. That much, he tries not to dwell on; this moment, at least, was safe. Mettaton wouldn't hurt him... the Bond made that clear. And for all that he couldn't match the robot's stability, his sentiment was no less determined, desperately so. Mettaton's lips reach his face, kiss away blood-diluted tears, before finding their way to his own lips. Kisses there were the most natural thing to follow, and the most comforting part of all- particularly the ever-familiar inclination to never just leave it at one. Though with nerves as raw as his, it's affection that in itself nearly leaves him stricken, even as he loves him for it.
...They would do better. Even if they kept making mistakes, they would keep trying... they would survive. Swallowing painfully, Emet-Selch nods again, following it with another kiss, feeling his lover's smile, endeared terribly to him.
The comment on his soreness though, almost gets a sigh, though it's limited to a slightly heavier exhalation. A practical consideration was a momentary reprieve, even if it wasn't as though his overwhelming bodily aching and fatigue were particularly pleasant. But in comparison to his emotional state, it was straightforward; in itself, there was nothing wrong with blood or bruise.
(He still clings to him; still huddles close. Just the thought of even temporarily separating from Mettaton was- panic-inducing. He needed to touch him, to smell him, to have his company as close as possible, to bury himself inside it.)
But could he stand.... 'Not really', Emet-Selch mouths against his lips, following it with a shake of his head. If he absolutely had to, he could stand, he thought, especially if he had support, but walking... if his life depended on it, probably. And in that case he'd rather risk teleporting.]
no subject
...Emet-Selch knew, in some abstract way, that Mettaton had made the right decision in separating from him then. It didn't erase the fear that lingered, the feeling of being left behind, abandoned and unable to follow. But he knew. He remembered his lover's tears falling on him after his awakening from bleeding out. Mettaton's fear and relief, how stricken he had been... and in that case, Emet-Selch had survived. But what if he hadn't? What if he, as he'd wanted to do in this case, had willingly and deliberately placed himself in Mettaton's way, offered his life up to spare his mind... even if it had worked, how would his lover have felt about the aftermath? After he'd realized what he'd done, and what the Ascian had allowed him to do?
It's a thought to strike him cold, that causes him to shiver, to burrow himself that bit more against Mettaton's metal frame, to feel his sore body give in to it. From touching Mettaton's face, he lets his hand fall back, his arm to wrap more tightly around him, as much as his reduced strength would permit. But this was a feeling he tried to ingrain in himself; he knew it was likely the most effective means he had for tempering his own nature, should a similar circumstance occur.
As ferality would happen, insanity would happen; it had been careless to think a Bond alone would be enough to always prevent it. Outside influences happened, emotional disturbances certainly happened, and considering the degree to which they felt things... no, even without a curse, they were fully capable of doing this to one another. Mettaton's desire for being desired, heightened to a god's demand for appropriate reverence... his own want to live in service, coupled with existing self-destructiveness, heightened to a willingness to offer his life even when unnecessary. They operated so frequently in extremes; this was inevitable. Even knowing better, having stared down the risk of their excess once before, it was inevitable.
How then, could they be trusted to manage it? Though they fed into each other so easily, Emet-Selch knew his blood could have a calming, clarifying effect on the puca. And there was nothing wrong with providing it to him in principle, he thought. And he could spare quite a bit without it becoming dangerous. But in the heat of a moment like this, how could they ensure that Mettaton didn't snap down on anything immediately lethal? And that if he tried to, that the Ascian would be willing to stop him? Those things were... the truest problem.
And one he didn't know the answer to. Even though he felt sick now at the thought of his lover having to face having accidentally murdered him while in a state of blood-soaked madness, emerging from his rapturous fury only to find his mangled corpse- he knew himself well enough to be uncertain how well he'd remember that lesson when required. These past few minutes had been proof enough of that; even now, the thought of his lover's teeth in his throat was--
--still disturbingly acceptable.
...And that in itself was a problem he hadn't wanted to consider and also didn't have an answer to. But while Emet-Selch didn't have Mettaton's optimism, he was stubborn. There really was no other option: they would have to manage this. As he also refused to entertain any possibility that the only way to avoid this fate was to separate. They were too arrogant to give in to that, too entwined- and too much in love. Enough not only to refuse to part, but also to be motivated to find some means of sparing the other pain.
But his thoughts are disrupted when he feels Mettaton's lips move to his throat- and even now, he felt no hesitation in having his attention there, softness applied to wounded skin, a heat that only... soothed. Comforted. And while he would've liked to believe that his lack of concern was due to feeling no trace of aggression on his lover's part, that there was no reason to think that he would snap down on him now- Emet-Selch can't be entirely sure. That much, he tries not to dwell on; this moment, at least, was safe. Mettaton wouldn't hurt him... the Bond made that clear. And for all that he couldn't match the robot's stability, his sentiment was no less determined, desperately so. Mettaton's lips reach his face, kiss away blood-diluted tears, before finding their way to his own lips. Kisses there were the most natural thing to follow, and the most comforting part of all- particularly the ever-familiar inclination to never just leave it at one. Though with nerves as raw as his, it's affection that in itself nearly leaves him stricken, even as he loves him for it.
...They would do better. Even if they kept making mistakes, they would keep trying... they would survive. Swallowing painfully, Emet-Selch nods again, following it with another kiss, feeling his lover's smile, endeared terribly to him.
The comment on his soreness though, almost gets a sigh, though it's limited to a slightly heavier exhalation. A practical consideration was a momentary reprieve, even if it wasn't as though his overwhelming bodily aching and fatigue were particularly pleasant. But in comparison to his emotional state, it was straightforward; in itself, there was nothing wrong with blood or bruise.
(He still clings to him; still huddles close. Just the thought of even temporarily separating from Mettaton was- panic-inducing. He needed to touch him, to smell him, to have his company as close as possible, to bury himself inside it.)
But could he stand.... 'Not really', Emet-Selch mouths against his lips, following it with a shake of his head. If he absolutely had to, he could stand, he thought, especially if he had support, but walking... if his life depended on it, probably. And in that case he'd rather risk teleporting.]