[Emet-Selch's choice to forgo healing, to let it scar and to keep it... Even though he doesn't voice it, Mettaton can almost tell that this is the inevitable outcome. And he agrees with it, really. Both as a mark - a mark he'd always leave more and more of - and as a reminder. Like the bite on his neck, they could patch it up and take the regular means of keeping his wound contained. They would heal from this, slow and steady, not with anything to quickly cover up the problem. Bandages and cleaning and the same thing they'd done for his neck. The most important part was to make it count.
The one he wore on his shoulder would be cleaned and dressed. It would be watched after, almost as though willing for it to stay. They'd prevent it from festering and acknowledge it happened — something Mettaton's historically had such trouble doing, the simple act of acknowledging that a problem existed at all. Even still he struggles with that, preferring to pretend all was right. Like this, neither of them could forget.
All of his scars counted toward something, thought Mettaton, as he continues to stare at his chest and his neck. And he smiles at the one on his neck, a weak one: it wasn't a failed lesson either. The thought of Emet-Selch so weak and indisposed had occurred to him before he'd lost his mind, after all. Even if it was a bit late, even if they were already spiraling in the descent of madness together, it changed something. The Puca reaches out to rub the back of his finger against that scar. To this day, it still seems like it gets better and better with each, slow to stitch back together with as deep as it was, as vulnerable a spot.
Low and close, Mettaton dips down to plant a kiss against Emet-Selch's ravaged neck. Tender, soft.]
I thought about that time we... Well. The last time. I don't know how...
[He doesn't clarify what the "last time" was. Mettaton doesn't think he needs to. They both knew what he spoke of. That he was the one who sunk his teeth in Emet-Selch's neck didn't strike him as it being solely his problem. It was a thing for both of them to work on, because it was rooted in each of their breeds of excess. The lack of control, the want for it all, the want to lose minds, to self-ruination... It was a joint effort.
In the end, neither of them want to hold back... And most of the time, it does go perfectly. Excess to die for, their intensities the only thing in the world to match each other, to truly sate if not satisfy with any permanency. It was the nature of them and their relationship: nothing would ever be perfectly satisfactory when potential existed, neither of them done with one another. Not even here, their hearts bruised as badly as Emet-Selch's neck.
Having the Ascian wrap his arm around him, no matter how loose, encourages Mettaton toward closeness. He thinks about cleaning that bite wound on his shoulder, but decides it was something they could tackle when they were vertical, when Mettaton helped him to the shower. They could both take care of it then, and for now, Emet-Selch's blood could do... what it could, to manage this atrocity. The way it did when he'd bit his chest, and the blood that gushed from him lazily began to lessen, the way it healed over on its own. His body was delicate, but it would withstand much, and it would persevere. With this reassurance on the mind, Mettaton lets Emet-Selch pull him close with an eagerness.
Like this, the robot glances off to the side. He may not have towels, but he does have blankets: ones he likes the textures of, now that he could feel them to any degree. A few had been kicked off in the wake of their passion, and his arms are more than capable of reclaiming them, no matter how far. Mettaton reaches over the edge of the bed and gropes for fabric, withdrawing his hand and a dark, fleece blanket, thankfully untouched by any of their usual and plentiful fluids that naturally accompany their sex. Even if he's not yet clean, Emet-Selch deserves to be as comfortable as possible, and if they were going to lounge here for a spell, he wants to cover his lover's body from the air — but not from him. He could remain flush to Mettaton.
A flick of his wrist has the blanket unfolded and draped poorly over Emet-Selch's form, but Mettaton's reach has the situating covered, pulling it over Emet-Selch's legs and feet all while laying at his side. It's useful to have nonstandard arms. Mettaton still remains propped up on the bend of his arm, his shoulders too... embellished for him to lay on his side.
His lover covered up and with himself (mostly) under that blanket, Mettaton sighs, moving from neck to lips. Once more tender and soft, a kiss is applied there, too.]
Thinking about you... I tried to hold back, believe it or not. It was hard... That scares me.
[That it took effort to spare Emet-Selch instead of collecting his dues from a man who had disappointed him, who had failed to sing him his praises and prayers. It had seemed so logical and right, to collect his throat instead. He couldn't wait for the taste... Right here, it disorients and disturbs him. No, this was hardly an improvement... But maybe it was something. Would he have stopped if he lacked that memory from before, where he was so sure Emet-Selch would die because of his reckless conveyance of emotion? Of their bedlam of maddening emotion for each other, fear and furor and love and insatiability?]
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The one he wore on his shoulder would be cleaned and dressed. It would be watched after, almost as though willing for it to stay. They'd prevent it from festering and acknowledge it happened — something Mettaton's historically had such trouble doing, the simple act of acknowledging that a problem existed at all. Even still he struggles with that, preferring to pretend all was right. Like this, neither of them could forget.
All of his scars counted toward something, thought Mettaton, as he continues to stare at his chest and his neck. And he smiles at the one on his neck, a weak one: it wasn't a failed lesson either. The thought of Emet-Selch so weak and indisposed had occurred to him before he'd lost his mind, after all. Even if it was a bit late, even if they were already spiraling in the descent of madness together, it changed something. The Puca reaches out to rub the back of his finger against that scar. To this day, it still seems like it gets better and better with each, slow to stitch back together with as deep as it was, as vulnerable a spot.
Low and close, Mettaton dips down to plant a kiss against Emet-Selch's ravaged neck. Tender, soft.]
I thought about that time we... Well. The last time. I don't know how...
[He doesn't clarify what the "last time" was. Mettaton doesn't think he needs to. They both knew what he spoke of. That he was the one who sunk his teeth in Emet-Selch's neck didn't strike him as it being solely his problem. It was a thing for both of them to work on, because it was rooted in each of their breeds of excess. The lack of control, the want for it all, the want to lose minds, to self-ruination... It was a joint effort.
In the end, neither of them want to hold back... And most of the time, it does go perfectly. Excess to die for, their intensities the only thing in the world to match each other, to truly sate if not satisfy with any permanency. It was the nature of them and their relationship: nothing would ever be perfectly satisfactory when potential existed, neither of them done with one another. Not even here, their hearts bruised as badly as Emet-Selch's neck.
Having the Ascian wrap his arm around him, no matter how loose, encourages Mettaton toward closeness. He thinks about cleaning that bite wound on his shoulder, but decides it was something they could tackle when they were vertical, when Mettaton helped him to the shower. They could both take care of it then, and for now, Emet-Selch's blood could do... what it could, to manage this atrocity. The way it did when he'd bit his chest, and the blood that gushed from him lazily began to lessen, the way it healed over on its own. His body was delicate, but it would withstand much, and it would persevere. With this reassurance on the mind, Mettaton lets Emet-Selch pull him close with an eagerness.
Like this, the robot glances off to the side. He may not have towels, but he does have blankets: ones he likes the textures of, now that he could feel them to any degree. A few had been kicked off in the wake of their passion, and his arms are more than capable of reclaiming them, no matter how far. Mettaton reaches over the edge of the bed and gropes for fabric, withdrawing his hand and a dark, fleece blanket, thankfully untouched by any of their usual and plentiful fluids that naturally accompany their sex. Even if he's not yet clean, Emet-Selch deserves to be as comfortable as possible, and if they were going to lounge here for a spell, he wants to cover his lover's body from the air — but not from him. He could remain flush to Mettaton.
A flick of his wrist has the blanket unfolded and draped poorly over Emet-Selch's form, but Mettaton's reach has the situating covered, pulling it over Emet-Selch's legs and feet all while laying at his side. It's useful to have nonstandard arms. Mettaton still remains propped up on the bend of his arm, his shoulders too... embellished for him to lay on his side.
His lover covered up and with himself (mostly) under that blanket, Mettaton sighs, moving from neck to lips. Once more tender and soft, a kiss is applied there, too.]
Thinking about you... I tried to hold back, believe it or not. It was hard... That scares me.
[That it took effort to spare Emet-Selch instead of collecting his dues from a man who had disappointed him, who had failed to sing him his praises and prayers. It had seemed so logical and right, to collect his throat instead. He couldn't wait for the taste... Right here, it disorients and disturbs him. No, this was hardly an improvement... But maybe it was something. Would he have stopped if he lacked that memory from before, where he was so sure Emet-Selch would die because of his reckless conveyance of emotion? Of their bedlam of maddening emotion for each other, fear and furor and love and insatiability?]