[Of course his sentiment would be such... Mettaton snorts at the suggestion to forget because it's not relevant to him, though he doesn't connect that reason to his future demise. Instead he connects it to his apathy for the world they inhabit, its laws surely different from where he comes from. He feels inclined once more to kiss him, because he feels even freer to remember it.
So he writes,]
Such liberty to do as I please... I may just take your birthday, then. Yes, I WILL celebrate it.
[Weirdly threatening for just saying "I'm going to celebrate your birthday whether you like it or not." It's also one of the things he feels like biting him for suddenly...
Mettaton does not view his thirst for blood to be tiresome or unwanted. He stares at very human-appearing passersby. The robot remembers when he could smell Mira in a particularly tense moment, how she was just a Witch to him for a fleeting moment that he can barely grasp...
And just as quickly, he banishes the thought. Really, other Witches don't smell like Emet-Selch. There's no reason he'd want their blood as much, logically. That he would ever pursue anyone else's was surely because he only wanted Emet-Selch's. And that makes it all slot comfortably into place, even as he watches two obviously practicing Witches walking by hand-in-hand, watches their skin, thinks of the taste that pulses underneath. Yes, Mettaton's distracted. For him, it's a manageable distraction to the tune of arousal on a body that shows no signs of it. Similarly, he shows the public no signs of his hunger unless there were a perceptive eye in the crowd.
He's just thinking of Emet-Selch bruised and bitten and in his arms. And thinking of him makes him keep reading. Then, of course, he's made to think of himself, given the subject matter.]
I am used to it. Yes. I would get plenty of fan correspondence... Letters, flowers, gifts. Tributes to my splendor. When you have a birthday before a crowd, that's the sort of reception you'd expect. An abundance of adoration foisted upon you... Haha.
[Mettaton is the kind of person who would say he got "so many cards that he couldn't read them all," but he definitely reads every last word. Nonetheless, there wasn't as much in the ways of celebrating from anyone he considered close during those times. So when he thinks of that, he has to dig deeper, and he stops thinking of Witch blood altogether. He stops listening to people conversing around him, sinking into his spot.]
Before that. [Chewing on how to address whatever he did in more intimate company, he wonders if he should send anything like this at all. But of course he... could. Not should. That's part of what makes Emet-Selch unique company: he has the whole of him.] Sometimes... If I wanted to celebrate others, I would try to impress them with something nice. One time, Blooky made a mix CD for me, entirely without me knowing. It was pretty bad. I liked it.
[That was strangely threatening of a promise, which ends up hitting on his own stubbornness.]
Take it and do with it what you like, then. I won't be coming anywhere near it.
[Take his birthday so thoroughly, that it has nothing to do with him and he can just ignore the whole thing.
Though oblivious to any desires for a bite (or several; there was rarely just one), Emet-Selch would not be surprised by it. Nor would he ever think of discouraging the impulse, neither of the biting, nor of the taking of his blood. Both experiences had become... pleasant. Both the rush of pain and the thought of the accompanying drain. Perhaps even the drain itself when Mettaton took enough for him to notice the distinct way it felt as it was being pulled from him. The idea of filling his Bonded up that way, coupled with the sight of the resulting wounds left on his own body- was something that not-infrequently occurred to him.
But any chance of thinking about that now is deflected by the rest of Mettaton's reply. The first part was as expected- the kind of gifts one would get from adoring fans, and though by their nature impersonal, the Ascian doubted that the idol would scorn them. For a love of the attention, a receiving of adoration that was only to be expected- but also an appreciation of their feelings expressed.
But it's the second part that gets his attention, and it softens him a little to think about. That the morose and depressive ghost would still manage to find the energy to put something together for their cousin. And of course Mettaton would appreciate it, regardless of the gift's actual quality- because it was for him, because someone important cared enough for him to try. That Mettaton would choose to disclose this moment to him at all, while knowing how reticent he was of his past- also mattered.
It takes him some moments to reply.]
Your cousin must care for you a great deal.
[And how awkward it inevitably would be, when he revealed who he was to them. It was the sort of thought that has him want to pull the idol into an embrace, to press his face to his throat.]
I don't think I could ever match something so earnest... but I suppose I'll have to try to find you something appropriate when the season turns.
[It's the sort of retort that has Mettaton that much more craving of Emet-Selch's skin: the heat of his blood washing his tongue, the warmth of his vitality in his throat, the give of his body flush to his own. A demand to overtake and temper him, to show him how very present they'd both be for the event. The kind of wanting that he glares at his device for. Were anybody watching him closely, he would be a roller-coaster ride of emotional twists and loops in expression, and he grinds his teeth for lack of anywhere to sink them. Emet-Selch misses his point, and he doesn't think he feels threatened enough.
It reminds him a little of how the Ascian would tell him not to get accustomed to the look of surprise on him when in reality, Mettaton relishes it all the more for how frequently he can pull it from him. And so he dedicates himself to surprising him and keeping his attention, something he glares harder at his device for until he levels his gaze with the nightlife unfolding before him. Why is he here... and not where his Bonded is?
He rises to his feet in that moment, incensed and alert and excited, before he gets the next reply.
It softens him in turn. The acknowledgement that the ghost he left behind cares for him so is a bittersweet note, and it feels like too long ago since he's seen them. He saw Napstablook in a memory, but he also saw them right before he showed up here... Those are points to hang onto. He wonders if he'd see them here. If he could introduce Emet-Selch to them — after, of course, awkwardly coming clean once and for all.
And how awkward it would be. Mettaton feels less uncertain about it right now, compared to some months ago. He can't begin to figure out why, not in this moment, especially when his focus is shifted back to the Ascian's sentiments. Mettaton so quickly shifts from ravenous and passionate to tender and infatuated when it comes to Emet-Selch. For his Bonded to have such dramatic sway over his emotions... He feels he met someone very special in him.]
I'm not concerned about you matching anything, darling. So don't worry about that. I have faith in you for what you have a mind for.
[Mettaton has no expectations, but a bar of standard. He's neither easy nor difficult to impress, but affected nonetheless. Emet-Selch's wondering about comparing to his cousin in itself is endearing.]
How about you? Did you commonly celebrate your real birthday? As opposed to my mercurial one.
[Was that a flash of something he felt through the Bond? A demand, a frustration, a hunger? He can well imagine that Mettaton wouldn't have been pleased with his refusal to have anything to do with his own birthday. A refusal that had more to do with pettiness rather than any deep-seated conviction, a stubbornness out of habit. And that if Mettaton were before him now, that they would've begun to tear at each other, his own body so much more fragile and blood-filled than the robot's, but no less willing to give in. And they would take--
--But it had faded just as quickly back and- Emet-Selch wasn't entirely certain if he'd imagined the whole thing. If he'd just been caught up in his idea of Mettaton's disapproval and passion, as well as to how it could fade back into tenderness just as easily. With just a few words of genuine sentiment, a memory invoked.]
Well, we'll see. 'Tis not an effort that I've regularly indulged in.
[And yet here he was, desiring to do unnecessary things. But he knew that Mettaton's relationship with his cousin was different than his relationship with the Ascian; there was no competition there. But he did want to please him. Or at the very least, not disappoint.
While he'd always known that Bonding with the puca was bound to be troublesome, he hadn't expected this to be one of the ways.]
And I'm sure it will come as no great surprise that I did not. My lack of interest in it was not unusual, however- with as long-lived as we were, any individual year might as well have been a day or an hour: so numerous as to be made mundane.
Moreover. It wasn't frowned on exactly... but to be so individually-invested was not a commonplace desire.
[It doesn't even occur to him to specify that this all applied to Amaurot alone. The idea of celebrating anything after the sundering would've been absurd.]
So with no tradition for it, I'm sure you can see why I'll continue in my lifetime of apathy to the bitter end.
[It's just as well that he doesn't think to address anything but Amaurot, because that's what Mettaton's thinking of. The aspect of birthdays losing meaning with years... It makes sense, even though Mettaton's own excitability over things like this scarcely wanes, only takes on new shades and variables. There's nothing mundane about the way the robot would like to live his life — he's been there, he's not a fan, time can disappear with the blink of an eye. Nothing provoking, nothing interesting, nothing stimulating. The Underground was full of that.
How did Emet-Selch deal with it... It makes more sense yet to read that being "individually-invested," or wanting to stand out, wasn't commonplace. He nods to himself. No wonder they didn't appear to care for fashion! No wonder even architecture was formed with such resonant harmony, not one building vying for attention over another! He's contrasting with human cities he's seen in movies with their advertisingsplendorandbrightlights, all things Mettaton... likes... and did not see in Amaurot. It was closer to the towering pressure he wanted than Aefenglom, far closer to the city strips he'd dreamed of, but quite different. Orderly. Beautiful. Elegant. And Mettaton thought that if he were unleashed in such a city, he'd have a hard time figuring out which building was which. Lacking individuality.
He hums thoughtfully. They're not talking about cities, though. Though an undercurrent of possessiveness remains, he remains in a more thoughtful state than a fervent one.]
Then... I'll ensnare you in my own captivation for such investment. I think you can break your streak of apathy a little... and celebrate a birthday. Something exciting to occupy one of those mundane days or hours! An indulgence, yes.
[Even if he's sure Emet-Selch isn't inclined toward being so center stage, it's not like it has to be like that. That may be Mettaton's thing, but he acknowledges their differences. Even if it were just himself, he would be content celebrating Emet-Selch.
Already, Mettaton brainstorms "good ways to celebrate Emet-Selch." A lack of desire for material goods, it would be easy for Mettaton to deliver his sentiment through means of expression. He knows already there are other things he could give him any day, but things made special by dedicating them upon him specifically for a day. Mettaton's aim is always to impress, and he has no doubt he could. He's nothing if not confident in his ability to inspire.]
You wouldn't protest to my want to celebrate you, would you? As I am invested in you, after all...
Edited (he could break his Steak of Apathy, too, i guess) 2020-06-28 05:23 (UTC)
[Emet-Selch would be surprised to hear that Mettaton thought Amaurot, in its beautiful elegance (that part was right) lacked individuality itself. Or thought it would be hard to navigate on his own. Surely the Ascian's memorization of the city, down to the placement of individual trees, had nothing to do with his idea of how easy or otherwise the place would be to get around in to an outsider.
Mettaton's insistence on giving any sort of attention to a birthday still pulls a continued frown from him, directed at the watch, as though that would make any more of a difference compared to directing it at Mettaton directly. It was fine for the robot to be interested in things like that for himself- considering how captivated he was by mortal habits, it was to be expected, and who else would care about the recording of years?- but why inflict it on someone uninterested?
While on one hand, he could appreciate Mettaton's desire for appreciation of him. It was warranted, of course. But on several other hands (somehow) he resisted the concept entirely.]
Anything that you would call exciting I doubt I would want to get anywhere near of. So yes- I would protest.
[Though he can guess that Mettaton would try to take his preferences into account, and that it wouldn't be a wholly terrible experience, but that doesn't make him like the idea that much more. He'd tolerate it if it happened, but--]
Besides. It seems a morbid thing to celebrate. An accruing of years in this place... knowing that it shall never be reflected elsewhere. No, I still want no part in that.
[Time could only keep ticking over for him here. He already spent enough time dwelling on that, he didn't care to devote a specific day to doing nothing else.]
[Trade the confusion of harmonious architecture for the confusion of chaotic billboards and flashy advertisements. Would it really be any easier to navigate than a labyrinthine human city with its competing labels and brands, but at least everything is labelled/mislabeled? No. But it's what Mettaton would want.
Mettaton's easy mood is challenged by what he reads, and that spark of aggression returns in him as he smiles maliciously at his device, ears swiveling, angling, flicking. It's not that Emet-Selch would protest — that's fine. If he were really so reluctant, Mettaton would be glad to reduce his celebratory efforts into something compact, a token of his appreciation for being that he thinks would be agreeable to the Ascian. Meeting in-between. No, what incites his ire is, once again, the assertion that time spent here has no meaning elsewhere.
And his aggression is difficult to channel into anything productive, given how uncertain it all continues to be. But he's agitated all the same. He marches onward, in the direction of his Bonded. People part for the tall robotic Puca, his stride so long, so fast, so unstoppable and regarding nothing in his path that he might just stomp someone flat if they didn't yield to him.
Nobody agitates him quite like Emet-Selch does.]
You don't have any surefire proof of that, darling. We've gone over this.
You'll find it reflected elsewhere. It'll haunt you. I'll haunt you. Always. You won't be able to stop thinking about me, and these years you spend with me. You'll be hooked. I'll make sure of it.
[He writes it like slamming his thumbs on his keys... He scarcely thinks about it, emotion high. But he adds on quickly, emotions still high and the smell of the air striking him suddenly (smells, tastes, senses he doesn't want to forget even if he loses them),]
Yes. Your time here matters. Significantly. You'll leave with me yourself, you know. Your impact.
[Mettaton is hellbent on remembering, after all, which he has no say in doing. He considers that a form of reflection. He considers then that he'll remember how much Emet-Selch plays his nerves, and how much he loves him for it.]
[While Emet-Selch would still wish to show Mettaton a living Amaurot- not a memory, not a lonely reconstruction under the waters of the First- he would worry slightly as to what influence the showy idol would have on the place. Though the Amaurotine population might be bewildered at the purpose of competing anything apart from politely debated philosophies... anything created was made available freely to the good of all, surely.
But Mettaton's mood comes across loud and very clear in his reply- a response that has his eyes narrow, manner tense and contained. While the robot might well trample anyone careless enough to get underfoot, the Ascian is still, the grip he has on his watch tight. There's energy, certainly, but with nothing even resembling an outlet for it.
It was a strange thing to be so agitated, perhaps even angry- to have that even be laced with his usual bitterness and petty spite- but to not actually despise Mettaton for it at all. It was a delicate balance to strike, a knife-edge of precision, to incite to emotion but not cruelty. To frustration but not resentment. And even in his current state, he loved him for managing it.]
And you have no more proof that we'll remember aught.
[It's not that he wanted to deny his impact. Nor to refuse it or refute it; even as he expected to lose it, he'd demand that it remain. For Mettaton to carve himself so deeply that they'd never be rid of each other. He wanted this; there was no question of that. So long as they remained there, there would be no cutting free.
So long as they remained here. Sometimes he could ignore it; sometimes Emet-Selch thought he was getting better at accepting it, either to focus on what Mettaton could give him here, or to believe in him impossibly. But sometimes, like now, he wondered if it was less acceptance and more denial, an avoidance of topics that called to mind the futility of what they both wanted.
Or perhaps he was just agitated in general, or drawing off of Mettaton's own unsettled state, latching onto a topic easy to twist despairing.]
So long as we're here- yes. I'll never be free of you. You'll never be rid of me. You can carve it down to the bone if you like, drain me of all that I'll ever have here- and here is all we'll ever have.
[Imagine it... Amaurot, but with neon lights and marquee signs... Single-handedly, he would do this. That's Mettaton...
His pace is even, the sound of his footsteps a rhythm unstoppable to his own ears, the tempo of a quickened heartbeat if he were to have one. No outlet indeed, and no way to confirm a thing, Mettaton's forced to acknowledge that there may be no remembering (for most people; he's still decided that he's exempt from all of the rules). But that means that Emet-Selch could forget him, and he realizes he dislikes that.
In his irritation, he denies the very possibility. He grips onto that tether between them with all of his might, letting it determine his course so that he could trace it back to his lover, do exactly what Emet-Selch wrote: carve to bone, drain him completely, and surpass here. He can't whittle his already pinpointed annoyance down into words, feeling it would only do to let likewise sharp claws and teeth do all of the expressing for him. Thoughts could be communicated by way of manner, by way of action and expression: dance, gesture, violence, sex, affection. All of it at once.
Mettaton hates that he has no proof to the contrary.
So even in his trek, he adapts. He may be determined to find Emet-Selch (at whatever place he's calling residence for the night, his Puca-derived ability to track things down a boon), but he tries to figure out how else he could approach this. If they forget everything, if there is no record of it, all scars removed and no physical evidence remaining on Emet-Selch's body regardless of Mettaton's care to establish it...
His device comes back out, though he doesn't slow.]
I bit you raw in our dreams, and you woke without sign of it. However, it happened. Each time you lay claim to my body, each time it disappears from transformation or to silicone... I know of it. Nothing changes that we have everything of each other. Even if it's only here, by some chance... Even were it forgotten. It's here.
More importantly, I'm going to have you right now, gorgeous. Whether I'm right or not, it would be a shame not to occupy myself with what I love and adore in this moment! You do know how to provoke me so completely... Unlike any other.
[Were this anyone else, the Ascian's irritation would override all else. The presumption of deciding what was there or not (even if he agreed entirely, that every bruise healed, that every bite vanished due to dream, to transformation, all of it remained), the greater presumption that Mettaton could just decide how his time would be occupied- it would've been intolerable. Mettaton could track him through Bond and monster-given senses, but the Ascian was a witch who could teleport. He could escape for a while if he chose; until his own energy ran out he could abscond as much as he desired.
And for a moment he's tempted. Not out of any actual want to escape, but because he could. Out of spite, or a similarly petty demand to be chased. His pulse lifts, and it's almost as if he can feel the way his blood ran quicker through his veins, as though it knew what was coming for it should he choose to remain, should Mettaton catch up with him. Because there was no question of what would happen: the sinking of teeth, the tearing of flesh, the slickness and heat of blood escaping the insufficient confines of his body. A feeling he could hardly get enough of, to capture Mettaton's attention completely, to feel that focus writ messily onto his skin and beneath it. A connection he longed for, a proof he needed endlessly applied, that they belonged to one another--
And yet the impulse remained to flee. To spite himself, to prove some point he's not even sure of. It's enough to have him stand- even pace in a terse arc around the tastefully appointed confines of his room- the room he held at Mettaton's house, specifically, one of those times he was in his own, rather than his lover's.
He can tell the puca's closing in, even if he can't tell precisely how far off he is, how much time he has remaining. It's an anticipation that only adds to his agitation. But in his indecision, he's distracted by answering.]
It's here, for as long as we are. What then, what afterward? If we both forget if there's nothing left
[A statement he can't even complete, making an annoyed sound as he unintentionally sends it in his rush. It's followed almost immediately by another.]
You should hurry, then. Before I decide to spend this night elsewhere.
[He wouldn't spend his night anywhere but in Mettaton's arms, he thinks, even as he hastens his pace into a sprint. There's nothing more to write.
Mettaton may be wearing heels, but he has the same power behind his legs granted to him by transforming into a Puca at all, something of an interesting, welcome change, despite their distortion in appearance. He's so fast now, his legs have such substance, and it's a rush just to use them at all when he's this wound up. It's even a rush to know that his Bonded remains, that they're both keyed up and agitated by their circumstances, both of them knowing the same thing yet contending for either side of the issue.
If Mettaton couldn't feel Emet-Selch's emotions clear as day through their Bond, he'd be able to tell in his erratic manner of typing. But even his own mood is clear: his decision, his desperation, his assertion, his possessiveness and his craving. All the idol's adoration manifest.
He's a lot faster when running, making it easy to clear distance from Entertainment District to Haven. He takes shortcuts over buildings - they're nothing to his ability to jump them and his inability to hurt himself in the process - and it's no time at all until he kicks in his own front door, caring little for trying the knob. (He fortunately only breaks it a little.) Mettaton closes it (to the best of his ability), marches up the stairs on steely steps marked by the click of heels, and opens Emet-Selch's door.
He closes it behind him, and locks eyes with his lover's figure. All at once, that flinty coldness to his golden eye ignites into passion, and he crosses the room for him in a matter of strides.]
Hades.
[Mettaton's voice is modulated and firm when he says his name, but low enough for it to be just for his ears as he stands before him. A deliberate use of his name as he confirms what he savors having of him. He pulls Emet-Selch close and... simply presses his forehead to his, first. He tips their noses, closes his eye, loves him and breathes in his presence. It's heavy and heartfelt, the product fondness. Mettaton smiles softly.
Should there be no protest, he slips down to his neck and snaps his teeth into flesh in with a voracity, shuddering and sighing into the heady feeling of his Bonded's magic signature. A long-awaited treat, the feeling of his Bond's soul so close, his body warm and alive in his arms, his blood hot and his favorite thing to taste. His arms pull Emet-Selch so close to his waist that he may very well be lifting him off the floor slightly.]
[He didn't have long to wait. He knew he wouldn't.
Pacing paused at the distinctive slam of a door being kicked open, all of the Ascian's restlessness continues to build in the face of losing even that meager outlet of movement. This would be his last chance to leave for a time, to put off the inevitable for no reason at all, and for all that he didn't want to, the idea remained, intrusive. A long-ingrained habit towards making things worse was a hard thing to override, the spell in his thoughts, his fingers digging into his palms as he fought back the instinct to escape.
When his own door opens, he freezes in place entirely, as though he were the one with the puca-instinct towards stillness. Only his voice remains, gaze locked upon his lover's face. How familiar he'd become to him, and how welcome the sight of him was. All of that tension and aggression and hurting remained, but the accompanying tenderness was unmistakable.]
Mettaton.
[An acknowledgement. A breath let out as Mettaton closes in on him. His own eyes slip shut as their foreheads touch, at the brush of their noses together, at the brush of their souls close together. This much was as it should be. A sense of belonging that in itself brought an ache; he was trapped, just as he'd wanted from the start.
Emet-Selch knows what's coming when Mettaton's head dips lower, his action so natural that he tenses no further at it. If anything, there was a sense of relief of finally having his lover's teeth in his neck, where they should be, his cry choked off into a hissing inhalation. The sharpness, the rightness of it all brought with it a form of clarity, as though the only way he could be certain of anything in his life was when he could feel Mettaton tearing into his flesh, mouth filling with blood. When he could feel arms crushing him against an unforgiving body, his own the only one able to yield.
It felt like Mettaton could scoop him up entirely like this, with his greater height and machine-led strength. It already felt like his breath was being pushed from his lungs, with no chance given to collect any more- a feeling he only attempts to enhance by the way his own arms wrap around the puca's body. They tighten; his fingers claw for purchase against metal and across fur, to touch, to hold, to push him ever closer. To drive him deeper into his neck with a need, a demand. If the idol was going to threaten his balance, he could have it, as he locks a leg around his, to further reduce space, to further feel him.
To be convinced. That they would remain, that they would remember, that all of this meant a damn even if they did not. To be convinced, over and over, carved into so many times until he had nothing left with which to deny it. Even then, it wouldn't be enough; even then he'd still want him, from the firmness of jaws and sharpness of claws, to the softness and love that went with them.]
[It's true: were he to teleport, Mettaton would track him down again. Bond failing, he would simply think of an object he'd imagine on his person: his earring, if he couldn't simply covet his soul and find him that way. Mettaton has countless ways he'd track him down, and he doesn't imagine Emet-Selch would put up such a fight so as to make him truly untraceable.
This simply means he can devote his energy entirely to ravishing him rather than hunting him.
Blood seeps between his teeth and drains into his mouth. He's gotten good at forming his lips around his bite to reduce the amount of loss, so wanting of his Bonded's blood as he is. His ears perk up, though there's a contentedness to them in their angle, in how they lean and swivel to pick up sounds from his Bondmate over all else. Feeling even his leg locked with his, Mettaton nuzzles into his bite, agitating it, ushering forth a greater gush — has he hit something good already? There's so much...
He sucks; it's a relief beyond measure. He couldn't begin to cough on all of the blood he has in his throat, given that he has no need to breathe, but he swallows and swallows, pleased by its abundance. Mettaton groans into his bite, realizing that he'd been wanting this taste for... days. Ever since he last had his fix of the Ascian, even though it hasn't been long. How stressed he's been, how frantic and agitated, and how immediately Emet-Selch's life serves to ameliorate his troubles, a cure to his anxieties. He is his solace where he can't have one, and his next sigh is crossed with the notes of pleasure and desperation both. And now that he has it, it's a wonderful bite of him, he thinks. One he could suck on for a time, with how plentiful a supply it is. (Perhaps MTT isn't considering any danger to his Emet-Selch. How much is too much? Mettaton doesn't know of such a thing.)
Adjusting his hold on his lover, one of Mettaton's flexible arms winds entirely around Emet-Selch's middle as the other crosses over his back, gripping down onto his ass as he comfortably takes a share of gravity from the Ascian. The idol tugs him as close as he can, shifting his hip into Emet-Selch's leg to form his body against his where he knows it'll give way to his own. Pressing as completely to him as possible as he sucks rapturously upon his injury.
He can only show him he has him in this moment, but this moment has expanse. The uncertainty of their return, should it come, should it be cruel... Whenever it is, it's not now, and now is always happening. Mettaton's upset begins to dissolve with him in his arms: there's nothing to worry about. Emet-Selch is securely in his grip, and surely his loss would feel like danger. He feels nothing of the sort.
This reassurance in place, Mettaton sighs again into his neck, adjusting his lips once more when he feels blood seep from the corner of them. He shudders, even as he remains stable. He swallows again breaking free and sighing long and hard against his skin.
Mettaton kisses him where a bruise blooms around punctures. He bleeds copiously. He shivers again, the smell overwhelming him, intoxicating him. All of his pleasure to have his Bonded so close is immense, and he feels he possesses him all the more for his delight. With a voice deeper and thicker, painted awash in the blood in his throat and the love he harbors, Mettaton speaks against his throat.]
Ah... Y-You didn't tense, darling... I can tell...
[His sharpened teeth slipped through him so readily. It makes him want more.]
[Relying on Mettaton to stand as a hypothetical turns into relying on him to stand as a truth; his arms cling onto him with a certain rigidity, grateful for the idol's reliable winding grip. The rush of dizziness catches him off-guard, and with it a hint of nausea, as he feels the distinct way Mettaton sucked upon the wound, and how quickly blood flowed from it, in a seemingly endless torrent. And how good the robot had gotten, he distantly noticed, at funneling most of it down his throat; so little, at first, escaped his desperate lips.
It was just the suddenness of the drain, he assumed; Mettaton hadn't taken this much this quickly before. As deep as the wound on his chest had been (and still was, as it was yet reluctantly healing), necks were an easier access point for the fluid. From the last time, he'd perhaps he'd felt a touch weaker afterward, but that was the natural result of injury. And this- this was just the abruptness; he'd adjust, he was certain.
His breath is quicker; he swallows heavily. His fingers knead slowly into Mettaton, trying to think more on the press of his hip and the tie of their legs, on the familiar hold on his ass, but it was a faded backdrop to the blood. His heartbeat. That specific sort of pulsing; his lover's lips against the wound.]
I... ah--
[It's not a distracted note (how could he be distracted from all of this?) or even precisely a disoriented one, but it takes a few moments to gather his concentration, to apply them to words. His pulse was thready and so quickened; he wondered how easily Mettaton could feel it, each moment squeezing that bit more life from him. With the puca's mouth less-effectively covering the wound in order to speak (but not to breathe; a robot's body had its advantages, he thought... he would require no breaks from him) he can better feel the way it not only welled up, but flowed past. Wetness uncaught by lips pours down his neck to soak into fabric. A deep red scent that was not uncommon these days.]
Perhaps I'm getting used to it.
[A healthy response to develop, surely: a complete lack of alarm to incisors slicing into his throat. But how could he be at all troubled, knowing what effect his blood had on his lover? Mettaton had been so anxious ever since they'd returned from the underground, and to know he could sooth him like this, if only for a time... it filled him with affection for him. And if Emet-Selch were likewise soothed by the connection, the sensation made it that much harder to think about inevitable losses. Much harder to think in general, but particularly about that; how could anything be forgotten when they were so full of each other? A trading of blood for open wounds, a connection so natural it sets him shivering.]
[Even as Emet-Selch grasps for words, Mettaton licks and kisses at his generous wound, not alarmed by its giving nature. When he presses his lips around the bite marks and presses his tongue against punctures to soak up the blood, he indeed finds the strange sensation of a deep pulse — but he's sure that has far more to do with how in-tune he is with his lover, every time he tangles with him. He's envious of that heartbeat, and wants it for himself. He craves Emet-Selch on a level primal, carnal, and cerebral.
Another sigh slips from his throat, a pleasant one this time. That psychological pleasure is derived easily form Emet-Selch's admission to growing accustomed to Mettaton's vice, willing to give into him as he is. He feels a shudder of electricity course his body, a wave of arousal unique to this form but one he knows would translated readily into obvious excitement, if he had an organic form. He can't seem to separate the two pleasures: of the delight of filling himself with his Bonded's magic, his fluids, his body, versus pleasure found in sex and intimacy. (The intimacy, he suppose, is an element in both.)
Rubbing his lips against blood, envisioning their stain, he smiles against his skin.]
Used to it... wonderful. To give way to me... To anticipate my intrusion. Is it really an intrusion if I'm a part of you?
[He licks again, licks and licks and cleans, but the blood shows no signs of letting up. Mettaton's still not worried. Dizzied for reasons other than blood loss in his own right, the Puca wraps his lips again around Emet-Selch's neck, sucking more of his blood from this generous wound. Even though he holds the Ascian, Mettaton moans, his legs trembling. He feels that wonderful prickling atop his scalp, a deep connection with his Bonded's body and soul... And he tucks himself close to that beloved, dark entity, just as he sidles his thigh between Emet-Selch's legs. Props him up on his leg to supplement the grip he has with his robotic arms and strength.
The robot can hardly think. Emet-Selch's blood overwhelms his senses, tunes out all of his problems and hones his focus in on his Bondmate. He feels so pampered and filled, wishing for nothing more than to lie on his back and feel blood be dripped into his mouth like wine, but something that actually manages to intoxicate him. And intoxicate it does, so quickly...
So quickly, because Mettaton realizes how easily his "getting used to it" wound is really draining. So much to drink, he realizes with a hearty suck. A draw of blood, a pull of vitality into Mettaton's throat as he once again releases his bite of Witch.]
You have... have so much to give me tonight, Hades-darling... Ahhh... [He smears his lips into his blood, then trails kisses from his throat to his jaw. He pulls back and regards his handiwork with a sigh.] You're... Addictive... Ohh....
[Not a statement meant to indicate that he finds anything wrong with their arrangement. He sucks some more, not wanting to waste Emet-Selch's body on the soaking quality of cloth.
Nor realizing how quickly this injury drains. Rather, realizing it, but not knowing of its potential excessiveness. Mettaton drifts from his sucking of Emet-Selch's wounds to brush his lips against his Bonded's, to kiss him gently with lips tinged crimson.]
[It barely even hurt, somehow- or rather, the deep throbbing of the wound was the same as the sensation of it being sucked on. It didn't even sting this time, or at least he didn't notice it accompanying the prodding of a tongue, the pressure of lips. There was an ache, he supposed, a deeper one that felt like it reached the core of him, and he couldn't tell if it was the result of injury or longing. He needed to lose so much in order to be filled with something else, for Mettaton to take the place of all that unnecessary blood and pain. It was soothing; he was still nauseous.
And his eyes are firmly closed. He is aroused himself- or getting there, at least, Emet-Selch had felt flickers of it while waiting for Mettaton's arrival. A normal response to anticipating him, a normal response to not only his presence but the thought of it, a distraction eternal. And with the slide of a thigh between his legs he shudders, beginning to stiffen despite of it all- or because of it, perhaps. But it's a bodily response that dizzies him further, as his blood is torn between filling his cock, and Mettaton's eager mouth, with his lover getting the lion's (or rather, the puca's) share. It was good that he was being propped up so well, he thought; if Mettaton let go, he was certain he'd collapse without him....
It takes him a moment to realize he's being kissed, that he's not just imagining the taste of blood against them. So there's a moment's delay before he presses back, a soft nuzzle for his lips, wet entirely from his own excess. If he slipped his tongue between them, would he taste anything else? A stray thought: Mettaton's mouth tasted more of blood than himself, these days; it was almost a pity.
His neck was wet and not getting any less so; opened and deep, the wound continued to drain. Fabric began to stick to him, a heaviness to it that was gradually spreading, and he's only dimly aware of why. A sensation distant, like so many others. A sensation drowned out by his pulse, by his own quickened breathing. Even arousal seemed quieter, a different sort of throb that seemed to reassure that all was well.
There was... nothing wrong with this. He was also certain of that, as he licks back at Mettaton's lips, legs tensing around his thigh- though it's as much for balance as pleasure.]
Is it....
[He's still working through a response to Mettaton's first words, even as he hears the rest, and his thoughts lose their track again. The robot had barely left his neck and already so much--]
You're- losing some of it.
[A low murmur between kisses, between breaths, shallow and fast.]
[Even though the robot craves his blood like nothing else, Mettaton wants to kiss him — and having Emet-Selch bring notice to his would so quickly after he's left it, after he's started kissing him, has him drawing his gaze to the spot before his mouth for once. And what he sees...
Mettaton is not a professional at Being Organic and Having Blood, but he has enough experience to take note of the amount. The way it floods from his bite, and he tries to envision whatever's underneath, something circulatory from his intensive study. Sure, the body is delicate, he acknowledges. But why would it be too terrible if he'd hit a plentiful vessel...? "Terrible" isn't even something that yet occurs to him, gazing down upon all of that red. How much more comes, even in looking at it.
His lover's breathing is erratic. His clothes are getting as wet as his own was that one time, near the collar, and Mettaton's attention shoots to Emet-Selch's face. Down to his cock; he rubs a thigh against him some more, idly, appreciatively. He sighs, both at the feeling of his growing hardness, and at the reminder.]
Oh...
[Maybe there's a hint of concern now. But it only causes Mettaton to want to stop the blood from escaping him — to claim it as his own, he doesn't have any, he wants it. If he could press his mouth to it, let the excess flow into his mouth, surely it would stop... staining his clothes any worse, and then it wouldn't look as alarming. That would solve the problem. So he returns to his wound eagerly, lapping at it with his tongue behind the security of lips pressed tight to skin, catching any and all excess.
Just with the taste of it on his tongue, there's not as much worry anymore: he could fill himself to the brim like this, he thinks with anticipation. (Without considering that in filling up his chassis, he would be draining that same amount from his Bonded — and he can fit easily 40% of his blood in his body, not that he's thinking about it in numbers, only vastness to be filled. (A very, very bad thing, but Mettaton doesn't realize it. He really should realize it; he would if he weren't placated by blood in the first place.)) He considers the distribution of blood in his Emet-Selch's body, with a concentration of it being given to him by mouth, and a concentration filling his cock. Both are for him. He thinks about how much of a pleasure his Bonded's body is, even without it being his own. But then, isn't it his?
He cares so much for him. Mettaton wants to kiss him all over...
The Puca pulls him closer to his body, even as he continues laving his tongue along his wound. He wishes he could nuzzle him, but he's busy trying to avoid losing any of his blood — no longer sucking hard, but gently prodding him with his tongue. The hand that remains on Emet-Selch's waist strokes him softly, an accompanying sigh of satisfaction slipping from his throat.
Surely, applying his tongue and catching all blood in his mouth will solve all problems. Not that he feels that there were any problems to begin with, even if there was the inkling of a feeling...]
[As far as Emet-Selch was concerned, that was the only concern (insofar as there were any): that Mettaton would miss out on too much of him. How much blood would it take to sooth him properly, to sustain him through the time it would take to solve the problem of someone knowing things they shouldn't? How much removal would it take to ease his own fears of loss? The answer involved more blood than he possessed, but they would just have to make do with what he had. They would just have to make the best use of it.
He thought he was fine; he was sure of it, if Mettaton had hit something too important, he would've bled out by now. Arteries were quick like that. This was just a lesser tier of Plentiful Vessel that the robot had struck upon, which meant that there was no problem at all (problems were not a gradient, they either existed or they did not; he wasn't dying, therefore anything less than that might as well not exist).
So when Mettaton returns to his neck, the Ascian tries for a hum of approval. He makes a sound anyway, something pleased in tone. If there was an issue at all, it was in where all that mess was ending up. He did miss kissing him though, even if it tasted only of blood, so he settles for nuzzling instead at one of his ears. Or at least, letting his face press against it, the absent brush of lips, of breath. There's fur occasionally in his face, anyway, so he makes what he can of it. Yet even with his eyes closed, the dizziness wasn't receding. If anything, it was getting worse, and that was troubling. Not because he had any concept of danger, but because he worried he might faint, and that would be a hassle.]
Mettaton.
[He was used to speech becoming difficult around him, but not usually quite so quickly. Also it felt a bit different this time, somehow. Bodies weren't meant to lose this much blood so rapidly, he supposed, in an extremely distant way, still completely unalarmed. It was speed, not amount that was the problem (not that there were any).]
--Bed. Please.
[It would've been hard to pull back from him under less-excessively-bleeding circumstances, to drag him in the direction of his bed, and it was a complete impossibility now. But Mettaton could get them there, so it was fine in the end. Once he could collapse back, he'd be alright, he assumed, it would be easier to adjust. Then he could relax, to better appreciate the sensation of his lover's lips over his neck. The way his vitality was flowing to someone who needed it more than himself. Mettaton was so gentle to him, he thought, as his arms attempt to rub at his back. From the softness of his tongue, to the security of his hold, to the steady drag of a thigh against his cock. The prickling of arousal was such a warm undercurrent, and warmth was what he wanted. The puca always seemed to provide what he needed....
Mettaton wouldn't let him fall; he was safe. It didn't matter what his pulse or breath was doing, Emet-Selch knew this, with a passion he was at a loss as to how to express. But it was a thought that sustained him through the haze of dizziness, as he tries to nuzzle at his head again with a small sound. He was so fond of him.]
[Even against his neck, that perfect juncture of tender flesh between his shoulder where it's tantalizing to sink deep incisors and canines, where he sloppily runs his tongue and drools against his skin in his lavish enjoyment, he hears Emet-Selch's request. Silver ears swivel, though they remain pressed to the Ascian's face; and he realizes then that his ears are capable of feeling temperature, and it's not unusual that Emet-Selch would feel cooler than his abnormally hot ears. This doesn't strike him as odd, either — because it's not strange to be cooler than Mettaton, either in metal or flesh flavors.
He hums a contented affirmative against skin, past the bubbling of blood in his throat as it's met with vibrations of sound. He unlatches from his bite with a kiss.]
You've got it, my darling. Anything... [He licks the corner of his lips, where blood cascades down his chin.] -you'd like.
[One arm unwinds from his waist; the other braces Emet-Selch's lax weight against his thigh as he readjusts his grip on him, manhandling his body like he's nothing. He dislodges his leg from its entanglement, scooping the other man into his arms in something more of a bridal carry — both to better clear him of his legs, and to deposit him squarely in the center of the bed. Standing over him, his hand moves to briefly run through his beloved's hair, taking in his appearance, appreciating him even like this and finding him lovely regardless of pallor.
The robot follows after him, lunging for his neck to prevent any further loss of blood to the dark bedspread — a color more appropriate for bloodstain, he considers. Dark or not, sheets couldn't appreciate blood like he could, so it's only right that he takes it before it goes to waste.
As he sucks upon his neck, Mettaton's body catches up with him. With Emet-Selch laid upon his back, the idol stoops his entire body low enough to rub contours of metal and silicone and fur against his lover's thigh, abdomen, waist, until he finds himself in a good place, body parallel to his. His leg is pressed between Emet-Selch's, thigh flush to his groin, and he hums into his claim on Emet-Selch's skin. This close, Mettaton finally eases himself down, providing the full of his weight upon his body: with his head at his neck, he presses his chest to his, hips to hips, and shifts excitably against him with the whole of his body.
He thinks about Emet-Selch's reassurance to help him deal with the situation he's found himself in. It's a terrifying obstacle, but he feels so empowered, so safe and secure and perfectly at home with this man, and he can feel their mutual trust so clearly in this moment. Emet-Selch is worth his infatuation, and he hums into his neck, a soft, ascending note of comfort. With his weight pressed against his lover, his hand's free to wander: it follows the shape of his body by touch, gently skimming the other side of Emet-Selch's neck and further north yet, until he can run his fingers as far back into his hair as he can reach. He braces his lover's head there, nuzzling into his claim upon his neck with greater security, applying the pressure of his tongue with reverence — not entirely for blood, but for Emet-Selch.
But he breaks from him for a moment to lick. He cleans around the wound whatever excess blood has escaped him, for whatever good that does. It's maintenance, wanting to keep blood from messily drying upon his beloved. Kisses follow, kisses to his clavicle and then following the front of his throat, up to his chin, along his jaw, then just beneath his ear — then right back to his bite mark, where he laps at any draining blood. Forms his lips around him with another soft moan, a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss where he steals away some of his blood in the process. Mettaton shifts his thigh against his erection, hum dipping lower.]
[His form is nearly slack when he feels Mettaton- so casually, it seemed- detangle him and pick him up from the ground. Yet careful as it is, any movement at all has the Ascian feeling queasy again, and strangely sweaty despite the odd chill. Unable to cling, he's forced to remain as still as possible instead; the mix of signals his body was sending him were actually quite unpleasant in that moment. There was the security of being carried and the warm throb of arousal, the disorientation of being moved at all, the dizziness, fatigue, and cold, his body reacting as though something were wrong with it, which he refused to acknowledge. Once he could lie still for a time, he'd feel better.
And once he feels himself flat on his back- deposited there so safely that he's touched all over again- Emet-Selch risks letting his eyes flicker open, dazedly attempting to focus up on Mettaton above him. There was blood on his Bonded's face- a warm, red trail that only complemented his features, he thought. Reassured anew at the sight of him, his eyes drift shut as he feels a hand brush his hair, and he settles for listening and feeling for Mettaton instead. The sound of the covers and bed being pressed on, the friction of the idol's thigh against the fabric of his pants. That, of course, was sensation too, his erection stubbornly maintaining itself despite where the rest of his blood was going, even continuing to harden because his body knew where his priorities should be.
And he did feel a bit better, he thought, to be on his back, with Mettaton's lips returned to his neck; the problem (that didn't exist) would certainly solve itself now that his blood was going where it needed to. The feeling of him trying to clean the wound was sweet, even if it amounted to smearing around a steady flow, and Emet-Selch even manages to hum very softly this time at the way damp lips traveled over the rest of his neglected neck, his jaw, even reaching close to his ear. The way his hand touched and supported his head, providing him that bit more steadiness. It was affection that warmed him when blood no longer could, tilting his head into the touches, in both encouragement and appreciation.
Could he be any more secure, with Mettaton's weight pressing in on him, surely locking in what heat that remained; it didn't matter that he was taking it from him when he was providing it right back with his most fascinating body. Emet-Selch manages to loop one arm loosely about his waist, while the other moves to the back of the idol's head. His fingers shakily stroke from the back of his neck and upwards, petting him while the robot continued to feed from him.
His hips even try to press up against his thigh, though the motion is weaker than it should be, and much movement at all sets everything spinning and off-kilter in his head again. How troublesome. Nearly as bad was how cold he still felt, which didn't make any sense; Mettaton provided plenty of heat, and he was aroused, which provided its own sort of warmth. But when he shivered, it had more to do with chill than anything else.
Emet-Selch couldn't clutch to him very hard, but he tries to; this would help somehow, eventually. He just needed more time to adjust, that was all....]
[The developing prominence of the taste of sweat and his cooling skin under Mettaton's hot, bloodied mouth are notable, though the monster isn't sure how. It's different, and he can feel his mild tremors as he strokes the back of his neck. Can feel the way he shivers under his body.
It brings Mettaton the desire to soothe him in return, for this display of complete vulnerability in body. He does so by licking and further agitating that wound with his tongue. Nuzzling his temple into Emet-Selch's cheek. Pressing his thigh against his engorged arousal, humming at the sensation of him and his attempts to press into his thigh: a reward for his tenacity, for his delectable hardness, a good use of his blood, in Mettaton's opinion. Further taking his blood, preventing it from spilling anywhere other than into his mouth. That he was bleeding this much was for him, he decides, and the robot would gladly take all of this and more from Emet-Selch, because he loves him. Because he would take the whole of him, from head to toe and deeper yet. Not a drop that exits his body should go anywhere else, and it's such a delightful feeling, something that sedates and tides him over, a fixation to distract him from all of his worries. He focuses so wholly on the Ascian that he can't possibly ruminate over all that ails him, so dearly in love with the man beneath him in his gradual chill. Firmly grounded in the moment, this is all that exists: the future and past all exist right now, and of course it means the world. This means everything.
Their Bond. Emet-Selch is dizzy. It's a dizziness that doesn't come from breathlessness, though he wonders if that would make it better if he could suffocate him with his tongue instead of solely pulling blood from his body. (If only he had a duplicate of himself! He could feed on his spilling wound and kiss his lover to death.) Mettaton's arms press into Emet-Selch's body, trying to bring his weight down upon him more firmly.
He still tastes his clamminess.
Mettaton swallows. He swallows and swallows and feels he couldn't get enough of him. But he breaks free of his leaking wound for just a moment, the need to express his thoughts and communicate occurring to him. A check-in to make sense of his Bonded's feelings, despite how he can sense them sympathetically.]
H... Hades? How are you doing?
[Mettaton's voice is soft and light, unhurried and unworried. Even as he thinks that Emet-Selch has lost a lot of blood... It feels like a lot, anyway, when he considers how much has made it down his throat. The idol interprets Emet-Selch's body language to be weakened, succumbing to him... But he was plenty agitated before he got here. They both were. That he should be so receptive and submissive, that he should be so hard and soft simultaneously, and that he should bleed so profusely... All of it felt appropriate, somehow. Whether it's right or not, that's the question. Whether Emet-Selch is all right, that's yet another question.
Because ultimately, Mettaton cares for him. He doesn't think they're in any danger, but he wants to know how Emet-Selch's doing nonetheless. He wants to know how he feels about this drain of lifeblood. He wants to know how his mood sits. He wants to know what troubles him, what he desires, what could soothe, what he feels, what weighs upon his shoulders... and how he could make him feel weightless, if temporarily. What he could do to alleviate that burden.
As soon as he finishes speaking, Mettaton wraps his lips around that bite. How hard he bleeds still... It's fortunate that it's going down somewhat, but it's likely less for any actual healing, and more for lack of pressure. Mettaton presses his tongue to his skin again, applying wet, heated pressure.]
But why was that? The Ascian was no longer overbonded, and he always got plenty of sleep. Too much. Had he been overdoing it again? It's a thought that sidetracks him, distracts him, not noticing any words at first, or even sound. He was always tired; that was nothing strange. There were sensations happening, and that was nice. Some sort of pressure against his face, against his cock. That was good, because he was having trouble moving.
A voice. How had he missed it? He can't recall the words, even the memory of the sound is distant, like it's coming from underwater. Or was he the one drowning?]
Mettaton?
[A question in a soft voice, bewildered. He can barely hear that either, and questions whether he spoke at all. He thinks to ask him to repeat what he said, but loses track of the thought before he can completely think of it. Only uncertainty remained.
But he was better for lying down, that much was still true, and yet it was hard, so hard to concentrate. Fewer things were making sense, and he couldn't stop trembling. His skin felt damp all over and he couldn't remember why; only his neck was bleeding, that was the only place that should be wet. His neck was bleeding somehow? He ached and his lover was here. That was right. His breath remained shallow and fast, and he still couldn't get enough oxygen. Why else would he remain so dizzy, even while holding still, even while prone and the world made dark?
Where was he, again?
He was so cold. The last time he'd been so cold, he'd been carved open completely, and he couldn't move then either. This wasn't nearly so bad; he only had one point of injury, never mind all the healing nibbles he'd acquired over the weeks. He was still safe, he knew that much, somehow; this was Mettaton, and he loved him. Which just made the association that much more confusing. Which just made him more confused in general. Had he imagined everything after all, was this it--]
You're- you're here, aren't you....?
[The disorientation was getting worse, and he was losing any ability to track it. His fingers dig in as hard as they can to- something, he can't tell, he can't even feel it (it's not a hard grip at all, only a spasming brush). His tone reflects pure confusion, unsettled by his own uncertainty. He was so tired, but when wasn't he? But what would happen if he rested, if he lost track of Mettaton entirely?
He wants to tell him not to leave, but the words don't form. He grasps harder, but he can't feel a thing. It was like being tempered again, but without any god waiting to catch him; there was only the darkness itself, and he could only succumb to it. Losing consciousness, his body slackens completely.]
[As soon as he hears the feebleness of Emet-Selch's voice, Mettaton realizes something's wrong. He doesn't immediately pull from his neck, remaining there with a sturdy pressure and a rigid posture, and he feels such delicate, slow stirring from their Bond. It's pitiful, and he pulls away to ask him what he wants.
But then he asks him if he's here at all. Mettaton freezes, ears bolt upright, blood dripping from parted lips. What's he saying? He suddenly realizes what that lukewarm temperature of his skin is all about. His signature feels weak, and Mettaton fears for the worst.]
Hades? Hades?! I'm here!
[Mettaton shifts his entire body, jolting to his knees, straddling his hips, gripping onto his cheeks. He can't feel how cold he is, but there's a slight stickiness that he can detect. He swallows.]
Wait! I'm...
[Emet-Selch is out like a light, as is his Bond. Mettaton despairs. He exhales a pained whimper. Just like when he'd overloaded him with a fourth Bond, Emet-Selch this time has given too much away. Futilely, the idol kisses his cheeks feverishly, thumbs pressing into paling skin, but the other man's gone slack.
He's passed out, just like before. Just like when he took on one too many Bonds. He's the cause then, and now. But this time, Mettaton worries that his physical condition will only worsen.
Mettaton pulls back, diverting his attention with a hazy, stupefied slowness to his manner made sluggish by so much intoxicating indulgence. He feels frozen. It's difficult to move when he needs to, petrified by a slow, creeping dread... which he wrenches himself out of with a sharp glare to Emet-Selch's neck. All of that blood he's lost, and still losing. His clamminess is another point of notice, something he can only sympathize with from his failed attempts at shapeshifting — a surefire way to fall unconscious. The dizzied room, the eventual blackout, and a resolution coming only from... undoing his transformation. Emet-Selch has no transformation to undo, and Mettaton realizes then just how ill-equipped he is at handling his Bondmate's body. He's totally inept, and never bothered to learn properly what to do. What does he do? He can't return his blood to him; he's already taken so much from him, leaving his heart empty and struggling to replenish it all. Mettaton grips onto his own chest, wishing he could empty it back into Emet-Selch as easily as he took it.
But that wound remains. It pours, as it ever does. Mettaton leaps forward and into action: he wads the sheet from beneath his lover's shoulder, bunching them in his fist and pressing it firmly against the deep bite mark on his neck. The idol's first impulse is to make that wound stop bleeding, at any cost. He's had enough of his blood: the cost for his greed is too steep. In his overabundance, his overindulgence, was he blinded to his lover's failing condition? Was he so pacified that he saw no warning signs of his deterioration? He was so blissed out; it was no wonder he couldn't see past it all. His need to go to bed, his softening voice, his woozy manner and unsteadiness felt through their Bond were all the tips he needed, but he ignored them all in favor of pressing ever forward, ignoring all of their problems as though it could be soothed with pleasure and their voracious tearing into each other. Emet-Selch was in agreement with him the entire time despite it. Their approval matched: his blood belongs to him. Yet he harmed his Bonded with his carelessness.
The more seconds pass without the Ascian's stirring, the more frantic Mettaton becomes. He presses flush, leaning in to kiss Emet-Selch's eyelids, smearing blood along his temple in the process. He doesn't know what to do. What if he dies like this? Mettaton stares down upon his lover's body, pale and sticky and shirt collar bloodied from his reckless adoration. From all Emet-Selch wants to give him. Mettaton feels that same sickly feeling he gets when his organs drop, a phantom sensation he couldn't possibly be having.
No, this wasn't innocent adoration: it was fervor, wrath, terror, craving, loneliness, desperation, helplessness. Uncertainty. This was their feelings unmanageable, combined.
His ears flatten. He panics, watching his pallid features helplessly. It's agonizing seconds, agonizing minutes as he keeps leaning forward to listen for his heartbeat with sensitive ears. How soft it is, he thinks, reassured only that it's there. But it's weak: against his lips, this heartbeat is a delightful thing. Mettaton chokes on air. He needs to do something, but what does he do?
Mikasa. Unable to maintain his nigh-impenetrable composure, unable to think straight, Mettaton reaches for his device. The latest message is from Emet-Selch, a thought incomplete, and he panics some more even as he brings up ma and calls her for help, knowing she's probably still displeased with him about all he's been hiding from her... But this was more important, and she knows what it's like to deal with injured people, he assumes.
As soon as his call concludes, Mettaton finds himself trembling, almost ready to burst in his stress. Like he might overheat, and that wouldn't help anybody.]
Legs... [With some purpose, Mettaton can go into action.] Okay.
[Mettaton stacks pillows. He quickly unhands his wad of blankets and lifts his Bonded's legs to shove them underfoot. Another quick diversion: Mettaton hops off the bed and rummages for a spare blanket, of which he's sure to stock around in all manners of textures he's found enchanting. A thick, deep purple one is carelessly attained, and Mettaton crawls on the bed before he unfolds it in his inefficiency, draping it over his lover's body, raised legs included. He's quick to return to applying pressure to his neck, this time with a pillowcase he grabbed in the wake of his blanket-fetching, hoping to warm his Bonded's poor, chilled body with the blanket upon his person. He shifts close, tucking his chin possessively atop his head, pressing his free hand to his clavicle — feeling for a pulse and finding one yet, faint as it is.
None of this was how this was supposed to go. How readily they fell into each other's arms, Emet-Selch into his teeth. He'd given him such trust, such little resistance...
After some time like this, Mettaton checks his heart again. It's beating. He does this over and over. Beating. Breathing. He gets frustrated once and feels inclined to bite him; he can't. He's irritated, mostly with himself. For this inclination that proves too dangerous, after all.
Even after a time, Mettaton's still pressing firm against his neck, afraid that if he lets go, it'll all come apart. The pillowcase is part-way soaked, but not at all soaked through. At some point, he's snuggled in with his Bonded and tucked his chin atop his shoulder so that he can watch his neck, his profile. When he's still, he can watch the rise and fall of his chest, gentle as it is. Mettaton wills himself to ignore the alluring smell of blood, finding it both addictive and worth wariness at once.
Regardless, Mettaton doesn't leave or sleep. He watches. He drapes his free arm across his chest. Should it take long, he begins to talk to Emet-Selch once he confirms that he's breathing still. He tells him about the first movie he'd ever seen and how much he adored the humans he saw. He talks about the first time he saw the plans for his body. He tells him about the show he was just in that evening. He tells him about Mikasa, and how he met her rescuing a human child. He talks about Alphys a little, how he'd grown away from her — and how he's not sure how to bridge that gap, even still. (He's not very good at that, is he?) He confesses that he nearly bit Mira recently, stopped only by a quick-thinking attack on her part. He says really, it didn't scare him to think of Emet-Selch working on his body, it's quite different from being a human and wide open, and he trusts him. He fantasizes aloud that, were he to have it his way, he'd love to relax and watch movies with him — a perfect activity given his disinclination toward moving, and Mettaton's love for such entertainment. He reminds him he loves him.
He talks even when he doesn't reply, because it makes him feel better, and he can't help but remember the tone of Emet-Selch's voice. Lost and confused, imploring for his presence, and he wants to somehow convey to him that he's not alone still. A vain hope that his voice will reach him somehow, as if he could throw it into his head. But he also lapses into silence between, listening to his breathing, tilting his head every once in a while to let the shell of a sensitive ear land upon the Ascian's chest to confirm that his heart's still beating.
Around the time Emet-Selch might come to, he might very well be talking about his idea of a date: a line or so that goes, "I don't just act in the feature, you know. I like to watch things too. I think you'd like it, relaxing in our own space and watching something with me... Even if you disliked the movie. Haha." His fingers trace his profile, such shameless care and observation as he absorbs the sight of his face: terrified about the thought of how pale and sickly he looked, but trying to prescribe his appearance to his memory so strongly that he couldn't forget it, just like Emet-Selch suggested he should when he was the one bleeding out.
His hand remains fisted around a wad of pillowcase, pressed firmly to his neck as though scared to lift it. Mettaton doesn't know what to do with this body of his, except to be patient with it. He thinks that's what he needs, even when they know they both don't care for patience. Sometimes it's necessary.]
[The fall into unconsciousness was not a pleasant one. It was an experience beset by confusion, nausea, fear. A fear not even that he was dying (though that would've been a most reasonable assumption, and an expected thing to be afraid of), but only because it hadn't quite occurred to him that he might be. Not exactly. But instead a fear of madness, and of solitude, and of not being able to tell where he was, what was happening, and only scarcely who he was with. But was even that knowledge reliable? That was the worst of the fears, and it was the one that carried him into darkness.
He'd never been afraid of the dark before. He'd never thought to fear what could be lurking in the bottom of it.
And so he sank. And so he remained, for a long time.
Hours of passivity, unresponsive and relaxed in the comforting way a corpse would be. A similar level of warmth and color further deepens the facsimile, the only thing giving the game away was his continuance to breathe, for his heart to beat, however inefficiently. But it still worked, as though it didn't know how to do anything else, a shallow, fast pulse that did its feeble best to keep moving whatever blood that remained. An effort that meant he kept bleeding, more fluid lost from each pass, from each beat- but progressively less. And not only because there was less to lose, but with the pressure of something other than a sucking mouth on the wound, the barest hint of something like coagulation could start. With the pressure of fabric instead, blood was encouraged to stay on the inside of his body, despite its best attempt to find freedom elsewhere. To decorate the bed, or to trail down his throat, or into Mettaton's mouth- these were all normal places for his blood to be.
And how inconsiderate his body was to not realize this, to instead start shutting down because it didn't like suddenly having a dozen or more percentage points of its blood vanished, claimed by someone who had just as much right to it.
But slowly it regained some manner of stability, and while the Ascian wasn't in any manner of good or perhaps even safe condition, he wasn't getting any worse either. Cloth was pressed to him, and he had soaked so much of it without realizing. But even that began to dry, though the sticky scent of blood remained. As fragile as the movement was, his heart continued.
It wasn't quite the same as it had been during his periodic comatose states. This Bond was muted, but not completely dead- sluggish, with a stirring barely perceptible, but there. While his condition before had been a gradual erosion of energy, of magic, of self, with the times of unconsciousness dropping him into a flat featureless plain, blank and still- this had a different note to it. More clearly sickly, a faint pulsing of life that was strong enough to remain, but not yet strong enough to break the barrier of consciousness.
And so he survived, because what choice did he have?
Oblivious to the panic that surrounds him, to the efforts gone to for his sake, at least for the moment, he can do nothing but lie there quiet, and far too still. Removed entirely from the decisions that had led to this moment, from all of that desperation and love and despair, from his encouragement to this end, from Mettaton's glad embracing of it. They'd done this to each other, in their carelessness and adoration and need, a reckless building of violence that led to this inevitability. They needed too many things from one another, and in a willingness to provide... what else could be the result?
Hours pass, and Emet-Selch's condition continues to stabilize. He's weak- so very weak, and somehow both overheated and cold- but consciousness begins to emerge. Not flickering, not in twitches or starts, but slowly. A peeling back of layers, a draining of the waters that surround his suffocated form. And from the depths of that darkness he could hear a voice.
It wasn't always there, and his consciousness wasn't complete enough to think about why, or what it was. But a presence remained, and eventually the sound would continue, and all of this was terribly, terribly soothing. He could listen to that forever, he thought, and not get tired of it.
But thought itself encourages more of them, more rousing, and as consciousness coalesces, words do as well. Emet-Selch doesn't think about where he is or what had happened or why he felt so desperately weak: there was his lover's voice. There was his hand on his face with a gentleness that he could lose himself in, and he could feel that, and he doesn't know why both of those things felt so remarkable. Both to feel and to possess. He's not sure why he's near tears or why his head hurts, but he imagined love was the culprit of at least one of those things.
What had Mettaton been saying? With his meager consciousness devoted solely to his lover's words (and not put towards anything like 'recognizing location' or 'remembering what had happened'), he can almost comprehend them. He doesn't know why he can't remember the rest of the conversation, but....]
I would- like that. I think....
[He doesn't know why his voice is so hoarse either, or why he could barely move, apart from a pained shudder, as though instinctively attempting to curl closer to Mettaton, to shield himself from all these discomforts with his body. A body uncooperative and sore and still very tired. His eyes open, but only slightly, and seem to struggle to focus on anything.]
[It's so sad to feel such flickering of him through their Bond, with his Bonded's otherwise remarkable soul... And at first, he feels he'd admit that it's better than the nothingness. At least it's something. But as the hours go by, he realizes that the pitiful sign he has of Emet-Selch's life felt through their Bond is indicative of a true lack rather than the connection just being shut down, as it did months back, and that thought terrifies him somewhat. How could that be better when it's that much closer to losing him? Which one is worse? He dislikes it all, never wanting to feel his soul fade.
There's no better option, he decides, except one of them could be immediately fatal.
Yet his heart kept beating. It's a relief every time, even when it's faint and struggling. He wondered at some point if he should be bringing him somewhere for proper medical attention, but he can't bring himself to move his hand, and he can't ever think of where to go. He wishes he knew who healed Emet-Selch before... They seemed to be good at it, he thought. Mettaton doesn't know anybody who heals. He wonders if the Coven could help, if he could only bring him there.
So he hopes this works. A part of him starts to make plans, just in case he doesn't rouse or it starts to look unstable, because he won't let Emet-Selch die, even if Mikasa were to tell him he was a lost cause — he's seen her give up before, and she was wrong. He feels like he could stop his death no matter what sometimes, and at others, he feels very incapable of it.
But he comes back. It's hard to tell at first, with his own voice smoothing over the gradual strengthening of Emet-Selch's magical signature, but evening's well into night. Mettaton's fingers are smoothing over his brow, moving to trace over his lips; running over his forehead, down the bridge of his nose. And it's then that he speaks. Mettaton gasps, halting in his reverent tracing as he shifts impossibly close, overwhelmed with emotion.]
Hades...
[The Ascian's eyes open then. Mettaton catches his visage from the side, just as he has all evening, and it's dim in the room but he can see him quite clearly. The relief he feels may just overpower all else, seeing him stir to some manner of alertness.
The idol is the one to come closer, making sure that Emet-Selch doesn't have to. He keeps his hand pressed to the wadded fabric against his neck, moving so that his face should come into view without any further effort on his Bondmate's part — save for the trouble of having to focus on him at all. His free hand rests against his cheek as Mettaton smiles down on him, ears nearly back and brow knit in concern.
They couldn't really do what Mettaton wants, since TV doesn't exist. Movies don't exist. But having Emet-Selch return his words at all has Mettaton elated, desperately so. When he laughs, it's laden with emotion: the relief of hearing his Bonded after fearing for worse and worse situations. That he might never wake, or that he'd die... Any manner of scenarios cropped up in that head of his, extreme or not. He didn't know what to think.]
I'm glad to hear it... Really.
[Less that he might like his date fantasy, and more at the sound of his voice at all, no matter its quality. His thumb strokes over his cheekbone, thankful for all of the work his body's putting forth to recover. It's so much relief to know that he's alive (even if he'll only die when he returns home; Mettaton's thinking about this very moment over all else) that it weighs his very being down, a hope assuaging despair so thoroughly that the whiplash causes the robot to tear up. He can only imagine how Emet-Selch must be feeling: disoriented, aching, weak... But he hopes desperately that he doesn't feel alone or lost.
When Mettaton realizes too late that tears have slipped onto Emet-Selch's neck (the other, unaffected side), he gasps. Then, he hisses:]
Oh! Shit, no—
[He hastily wipes the tear from his neck with the blanket that covers him. ... His tears are perfectly benign, though Mettaton imagines that they must be acidic, proof of how infrequently he cries. (Proof that this robot can cry at all?) At least it snaps him out of crying at all. But Emet-Selch is fine, at least with regards to burning. Unless he can't tolerate robot fluid any more than he already does.
With that dealt with, Mettaton closes his eye and tries to pull himself together with a soundless sigh.]
Ah... How are you doing, darling? Will you... Are you all right?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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So he writes,]
Such liberty to do as I please... I may just take your birthday, then. Yes, I WILL celebrate it.
[Weirdly threatening for just saying "I'm going to celebrate your birthday whether you like it or not." It's also one of the things he feels like biting him for suddenly...
Mettaton does not view his thirst for blood to be tiresome or unwanted. He stares at very human-appearing passersby. The robot remembers when he could smell Mira in a particularly tense moment, how she was just a Witch to him for a fleeting moment that he can barely grasp...
And just as quickly, he banishes the thought. Really, other Witches don't smell like Emet-Selch. There's no reason he'd want their blood as much, logically. That he would ever pursue anyone else's was surely because he only wanted Emet-Selch's. And that makes it all slot comfortably into place, even as he watches two obviously practicing Witches walking by hand-in-hand, watches their skin, thinks of the taste that pulses underneath. Yes, Mettaton's distracted. For him, it's a manageable distraction to the tune of arousal on a body that shows no signs of it. Similarly, he shows the public no signs of his hunger unless there were a perceptive eye in the crowd.
He's just thinking of Emet-Selch bruised and bitten and in his arms. And thinking of him makes him keep reading. Then, of course, he's made to think of himself, given the subject matter.]
I am used to it. Yes. I would get plenty of fan correspondence... Letters, flowers, gifts. Tributes to my splendor. When you have a birthday before a crowd, that's the sort of reception you'd expect. An abundance of adoration foisted upon you... Haha.
[Mettaton is the kind of person who would say he got "so many cards that he couldn't read them all," but he definitely reads every last word. Nonetheless, there wasn't as much in the ways of celebrating from anyone he considered close during those times. So when he thinks of that, he has to dig deeper, and he stops thinking of Witch blood altogether. He stops listening to people conversing around him, sinking into his spot.]
Before that. [Chewing on how to address whatever he did in more intimate company, he wonders if he should send anything like this at all. But of course he... could. Not should. That's part of what makes Emet-Selch unique company: he has the whole of him.] Sometimes... If I wanted to celebrate others, I would try to impress them with something nice. One time, Blooky made a mix CD for me, entirely without me knowing. It was pretty bad. I liked it.
no subject
Take it and do with it what you like, then. I won't be coming anywhere near it.
[Take his birthday so thoroughly, that it has nothing to do with him and he can just ignore the whole thing.
Though oblivious to any desires for a bite (or several; there was rarely just one), Emet-Selch would not be surprised by it. Nor would he ever think of discouraging the impulse, neither of the biting, nor of the taking of his blood. Both experiences had become... pleasant. Both the rush of pain and the thought of the accompanying drain. Perhaps even the drain itself when Mettaton took enough for him to notice the distinct way it felt as it was being pulled from him. The idea of filling his Bonded up that way, coupled with the sight of the resulting wounds left on his own body- was something that not-infrequently occurred to him.
But any chance of thinking about that now is deflected by the rest of Mettaton's reply. The first part was as expected- the kind of gifts one would get from adoring fans, and though by their nature impersonal, the Ascian doubted that the idol would scorn them. For a love of the attention, a receiving of adoration that was only to be expected- but also an appreciation of their feelings expressed.
But it's the second part that gets his attention, and it softens him a little to think about. That the morose and depressive ghost would still manage to find the energy to put something together for their cousin. And of course Mettaton would appreciate it, regardless of the gift's actual quality- because it was for him, because someone important cared enough for him to try. That Mettaton would choose to disclose this moment to him at all, while knowing how reticent he was of his past- also mattered.
It takes him some moments to reply.]
Your cousin must care for you a great deal.
[And how awkward it inevitably would be, when he revealed who he was to them. It was the sort of thought that has him want to pull the idol into an embrace, to press his face to his throat.]
I don't think I could ever match something so earnest... but I suppose I'll have to try to find you something appropriate when the season turns.
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It reminds him a little of how the Ascian would tell him not to get accustomed to the look of surprise on him when in reality, Mettaton relishes it all the more for how frequently he can pull it from him. And so he dedicates himself to surprising him and keeping his attention, something he glares harder at his device for until he levels his gaze with the nightlife unfolding before him. Why is he here... and not where his Bonded is?
He rises to his feet in that moment, incensed and alert and excited, before he gets the next reply.
It softens him in turn. The acknowledgement that the ghost he left behind cares for him so is a bittersweet note, and it feels like too long ago since he's seen them. He saw Napstablook in a memory, but he also saw them right before he showed up here... Those are points to hang onto. He wonders if he'd see them here. If he could introduce Emet-Selch to them — after, of course, awkwardly coming clean once and for all.
And how awkward it would be. Mettaton feels less uncertain about it right now, compared to some months ago. He can't begin to figure out why, not in this moment, especially when his focus is shifted back to the Ascian's sentiments. Mettaton so quickly shifts from ravenous and passionate to tender and infatuated when it comes to Emet-Selch. For his Bonded to have such dramatic sway over his emotions... He feels he met someone very special in him.]
I'm not concerned about you matching anything, darling. So don't worry about that. I have faith in you for what you have a mind for.
[Mettaton has no expectations, but a bar of standard. He's neither easy nor difficult to impress, but affected nonetheless. Emet-Selch's wondering about comparing to his cousin in itself is endearing.]
How about you? Did you commonly celebrate your real birthday? As opposed to my mercurial one.
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--But it had faded just as quickly back and- Emet-Selch wasn't entirely certain if he'd imagined the whole thing. If he'd just been caught up in his idea of Mettaton's disapproval and passion, as well as to how it could fade back into tenderness just as easily. With just a few words of genuine sentiment, a memory invoked.]
Well, we'll see. 'Tis not an effort that I've regularly indulged in.
[And yet here he was, desiring to do unnecessary things. But he knew that Mettaton's relationship with his cousin was different than his relationship with the Ascian; there was no competition there. But he did want to please him. Or at the very least, not disappoint.
While he'd always known that Bonding with the puca was bound to be troublesome, he hadn't expected this to be one of the ways.]
And I'm sure it will come as no great surprise that I did not. My lack of interest in it was not unusual, however- with as long-lived as we were, any individual year might as well have been a day or an hour: so numerous as to be made mundane.
Moreover. It wasn't frowned on exactly... but to be so individually-invested was not a commonplace desire.
[It doesn't even occur to him to specify that this all applied to Amaurot alone. The idea of celebrating anything after the sundering would've been absurd.]
So with no tradition for it, I'm sure you can see why I'll continue in my lifetime of apathy to the bitter end.
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How did Emet-Selch deal with it... It makes more sense yet to read that being "individually-invested," or wanting to stand out, wasn't commonplace. He nods to himself. No wonder they didn't appear to care for fashion! No wonder even architecture was formed with such resonant harmony, not one building vying for attention over another! He's contrasting with human cities he's seen in movies with their advertising splendor and bright lights, all things Mettaton... likes... and did not see in Amaurot. It was closer to the towering pressure he wanted than Aefenglom, far closer to the city strips he'd dreamed of, but quite different. Orderly. Beautiful. Elegant. And Mettaton thought that if he were unleashed in such a city, he'd have a hard time figuring out which building was which. Lacking individuality.
He hums thoughtfully. They're not talking about cities, though. Though an undercurrent of possessiveness remains, he remains in a more thoughtful state than a fervent one.]
Then... I'll ensnare you in my own captivation for such investment. I think you can break your streak of apathy a little... and celebrate a birthday. Something exciting to occupy one of those mundane days or hours! An indulgence, yes.
[Even if he's sure Emet-Selch isn't inclined toward being so center stage, it's not like it has to be like that. That may be Mettaton's thing, but he acknowledges their differences. Even if it were just himself, he would be content celebrating Emet-Selch.
Already, Mettaton brainstorms "good ways to celebrate Emet-Selch." A lack of desire for material goods, it would be easy for Mettaton to deliver his sentiment through means of expression. He knows already there are other things he could give him any day, but things made special by dedicating them upon him specifically for a day. Mettaton's aim is always to impress, and he has no doubt he could. He's nothing if not confident in his ability to inspire.]
You wouldn't protest to my want to celebrate you, would you? As I am invested in you, after all...
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Mettaton's insistence on giving any sort of attention to a birthday still pulls a continued frown from him, directed at the watch, as though that would make any more of a difference compared to directing it at Mettaton directly. It was fine for the robot to be interested in things like that for himself- considering how captivated he was by mortal habits, it was to be expected, and who else would care about the recording of years?- but why inflict it on someone uninterested?
While on one hand, he could appreciate Mettaton's desire for appreciation of him. It was warranted, of course. But on several other hands (somehow) he resisted the concept entirely.]
Anything that you would call exciting I doubt I would want to get anywhere near of. So yes- I would protest.
[Though he can guess that Mettaton would try to take his preferences into account, and that it wouldn't be a wholly terrible experience, but that doesn't make him like the idea that much more. He'd tolerate it if it happened, but--]
Besides. It seems a morbid thing to celebrate. An accruing of years in this place... knowing that it shall never be reflected elsewhere. No, I still want no part in that.
[Time could only keep ticking over for him here. He already spent enough time dwelling on that, he didn't care to devote a specific day to doing nothing else.]
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Mettaton's easy mood is challenged by what he reads, and that spark of aggression returns in him as he smiles maliciously at his device, ears swiveling, angling, flicking. It's not that Emet-Selch would protest — that's fine. If he were really so reluctant, Mettaton would be glad to reduce his celebratory efforts into something compact, a token of his appreciation for being that he thinks would be agreeable to the Ascian. Meeting in-between. No, what incites his ire is, once again, the assertion that time spent here has no meaning elsewhere.
And his aggression is difficult to channel into anything productive, given how uncertain it all continues to be. But he's agitated all the same. He marches onward, in the direction of his Bonded. People part for the tall robotic Puca, his stride so long, so fast, so unstoppable and regarding nothing in his path that he might just stomp someone flat if they didn't yield to him.
Nobody agitates him quite like Emet-Selch does.]
You don't have any surefire proof of that, darling. We've gone over this.
You'll find it reflected elsewhere. It'll haunt you. I'll haunt you. Always. You won't be able to stop thinking about me, and these years you spend with me. You'll be hooked. I'll make sure of it.
[He writes it like slamming his thumbs on his keys... He scarcely thinks about it, emotion high. But he adds on quickly, emotions still high and the smell of the air striking him suddenly (smells, tastes, senses he doesn't want to forget even if he loses them),]
Yes. Your time here matters. Significantly. You'll leave with me yourself, you know. Your impact.
[Mettaton is hellbent on remembering, after all, which he has no say in doing. He considers that a form of reflection. He considers then that he'll remember how much Emet-Selch plays his nerves, and how much he loves him for it.]
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But Mettaton's mood comes across loud and very clear in his reply- a response that has his eyes narrow, manner tense and contained. While the robot might well trample anyone careless enough to get underfoot, the Ascian is still, the grip he has on his watch tight. There's energy, certainly, but with nothing even resembling an outlet for it.
It was a strange thing to be so agitated, perhaps even angry- to have that even be laced with his usual bitterness and petty spite- but to not actually despise Mettaton for it at all. It was a delicate balance to strike, a knife-edge of precision, to incite to emotion but not cruelty. To frustration but not resentment. And even in his current state, he loved him for managing it.]
And you have no more proof that we'll remember aught.
[It's not that he wanted to deny his impact. Nor to refuse it or refute it; even as he expected to lose it, he'd demand that it remain. For Mettaton to carve himself so deeply that they'd never be rid of each other. He wanted this; there was no question of that. So long as they remained there, there would be no cutting free.
So long as they remained here. Sometimes he could ignore it; sometimes Emet-Selch thought he was getting better at accepting it, either to focus on what Mettaton could give him here, or to believe in him impossibly. But sometimes, like now, he wondered if it was less acceptance and more denial, an avoidance of topics that called to mind the futility of what they both wanted.
Or perhaps he was just agitated in general, or drawing off of Mettaton's own unsettled state, latching onto a topic easy to twist despairing.]
So long as we're here- yes. I'll never be free of you. You'll never be rid of me. You can carve it down to the bone if you like, drain me of all that I'll ever have here- and here is all we'll ever have.
[And that meant it didn't matter.]
Nothing will remain.
no subject
His pace is even, the sound of his footsteps a rhythm unstoppable to his own ears, the tempo of a quickened heartbeat if he were to have one. No outlet indeed, and no way to confirm a thing, Mettaton's forced to acknowledge that there may be no remembering (for most people; he's still decided that he's exempt from all of the rules). But that means that Emet-Selch could forget him, and he realizes he dislikes that.
In his irritation, he denies the very possibility. He grips onto that tether between them with all of his might, letting it determine his course so that he could trace it back to his lover, do exactly what Emet-Selch wrote: carve to bone, drain him completely, and surpass here. He can't whittle his already pinpointed annoyance down into words, feeling it would only do to let likewise sharp claws and teeth do all of the expressing for him. Thoughts could be communicated by way of manner, by way of action and expression: dance, gesture, violence, sex, affection. All of it at once.
Mettaton hates that he has no proof to the contrary.
So even in his trek, he adapts. He may be determined to find Emet-Selch (at whatever place he's calling residence for the night, his Puca-derived ability to track things down a boon), but he tries to figure out how else he could approach this. If they forget everything, if there is no record of it, all scars removed and no physical evidence remaining on Emet-Selch's body regardless of Mettaton's care to establish it...
His device comes back out, though he doesn't slow.]
I bit you raw in our dreams, and you woke without sign of it. However, it happened. Each time you lay claim to my body, each time it disappears from transformation or to silicone... I know of it. Nothing changes that we have everything of each other. Even if it's only here, by some chance... Even were it forgotten. It's here.
More importantly, I'm going to have you right now, gorgeous. Whether I'm right or not, it would be a shame not to occupy myself with what I love and adore in this moment! You do know how to provoke me so completely... Unlike any other.
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And for a moment he's tempted. Not out of any actual want to escape, but because he could. Out of spite, or a similarly petty demand to be chased. His pulse lifts, and it's almost as if he can feel the way his blood ran quicker through his veins, as though it knew what was coming for it should he choose to remain, should Mettaton catch up with him. Because there was no question of what would happen: the sinking of teeth, the tearing of flesh, the slickness and heat of blood escaping the insufficient confines of his body. A feeling he could hardly get enough of, to capture Mettaton's attention completely, to feel that focus writ messily onto his skin and beneath it. A connection he longed for, a proof he needed endlessly applied, that they belonged to one another--
And yet the impulse remained to flee. To spite himself, to prove some point he's not even sure of. It's enough to have him stand- even pace in a terse arc around the tastefully appointed confines of his room- the room he held at Mettaton's house, specifically, one of those times he was in his own, rather than his lover's.
He can tell the puca's closing in, even if he can't tell precisely how far off he is, how much time he has remaining. It's an anticipation that only adds to his agitation. But in his indecision, he's distracted by answering.]
It's here, for as long as we are. What then, what afterward? If we both forget if there's nothing left
[A statement he can't even complete, making an annoyed sound as he unintentionally sends it in his rush. It's followed almost immediately by another.]
You should hurry, then. Before I decide to spend this night elsewhere.
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Mettaton may be wearing heels, but he has the same power behind his legs granted to him by transforming into a Puca at all, something of an interesting, welcome change, despite their distortion in appearance. He's so fast now, his legs have such substance, and it's a rush just to use them at all when he's this wound up. It's even a rush to know that his Bonded remains, that they're both keyed up and agitated by their circumstances, both of them knowing the same thing yet contending for either side of the issue.
If Mettaton couldn't feel Emet-Selch's emotions clear as day through their Bond, he'd be able to tell in his erratic manner of typing. But even his own mood is clear: his decision, his desperation, his assertion, his possessiveness and his craving. All the idol's adoration manifest.
He's a lot faster when running, making it easy to clear distance from Entertainment District to Haven. He takes shortcuts over buildings - they're nothing to his ability to jump them and his inability to hurt himself in the process - and it's no time at all until he kicks in his own front door, caring little for trying the knob. (He fortunately only breaks it a little.) Mettaton closes it (to the best of his ability), marches up the stairs on steely steps marked by the click of heels, and opens Emet-Selch's door.
He closes it behind him, and locks eyes with his lover's figure. All at once, that flinty coldness to his golden eye ignites into passion, and he crosses the room for him in a matter of strides.]
Hades.
[Mettaton's voice is modulated and firm when he says his name, but low enough for it to be just for his ears as he stands before him. A deliberate use of his name as he confirms what he savors having of him. He pulls Emet-Selch close and... simply presses his forehead to his, first. He tips their noses, closes his eye, loves him and breathes in his presence. It's heavy and heartfelt, the product fondness. Mettaton smiles softly.
Should there be no protest, he slips down to his neck and snaps his teeth into flesh in with a voracity, shuddering and sighing into the heady feeling of his Bonded's magic signature. A long-awaited treat, the feeling of his Bond's soul so close, his body warm and alive in his arms, his blood hot and his favorite thing to taste. His arms pull Emet-Selch so close to his waist that he may very well be lifting him off the floor slightly.]
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Pacing paused at the distinctive slam of a door being kicked open, all of the Ascian's restlessness continues to build in the face of losing even that meager outlet of movement. This would be his last chance to leave for a time, to put off the inevitable for no reason at all, and for all that he didn't want to, the idea remained, intrusive. A long-ingrained habit towards making things worse was a hard thing to override, the spell in his thoughts, his fingers digging into his palms as he fought back the instinct to escape.
When his own door opens, he freezes in place entirely, as though he were the one with the puca-instinct towards stillness. Only his voice remains, gaze locked upon his lover's face. How familiar he'd become to him, and how welcome the sight of him was. All of that tension and aggression and hurting remained, but the accompanying tenderness was unmistakable.]
Mettaton.
[An acknowledgement. A breath let out as Mettaton closes in on him. His own eyes slip shut as their foreheads touch, at the brush of their noses together, at the brush of their souls close together. This much was as it should be. A sense of belonging that in itself brought an ache; he was trapped, just as he'd wanted from the start.
Emet-Selch knows what's coming when Mettaton's head dips lower, his action so natural that he tenses no further at it. If anything, there was a sense of relief of finally having his lover's teeth in his neck, where they should be, his cry choked off into a hissing inhalation. The sharpness, the rightness of it all brought with it a form of clarity, as though the only way he could be certain of anything in his life was when he could feel Mettaton tearing into his flesh, mouth filling with blood. When he could feel arms crushing him against an unforgiving body, his own the only one able to yield.
It felt like Mettaton could scoop him up entirely like this, with his greater height and machine-led strength. It already felt like his breath was being pushed from his lungs, with no chance given to collect any more- a feeling he only attempts to enhance by the way his own arms wrap around the puca's body. They tighten; his fingers claw for purchase against metal and across fur, to touch, to hold, to push him ever closer. To drive him deeper into his neck with a need, a demand. If the idol was going to threaten his balance, he could have it, as he locks a leg around his, to further reduce space, to further feel him.
To be convinced. That they would remain, that they would remember, that all of this meant a damn even if they did not. To be convinced, over and over, carved into so many times until he had nothing left with which to deny it. Even then, it wouldn't be enough; even then he'd still want him, from the firmness of jaws and sharpness of claws, to the softness and love that went with them.]
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This simply means he can devote his energy entirely to ravishing him rather than hunting him.
Blood seeps between his teeth and drains into his mouth. He's gotten good at forming his lips around his bite to reduce the amount of loss, so wanting of his Bonded's blood as he is. His ears perk up, though there's a contentedness to them in their angle, in how they lean and swivel to pick up sounds from his Bondmate over all else. Feeling even his leg locked with his, Mettaton nuzzles into his bite, agitating it, ushering forth a greater gush — has he hit something good already? There's so much...
He sucks; it's a relief beyond measure. He couldn't begin to cough on all of the blood he has in his throat, given that he has no need to breathe, but he swallows and swallows, pleased by its abundance. Mettaton groans into his bite, realizing that he'd been wanting this taste for... days. Ever since he last had his fix of the Ascian, even though it hasn't been long. How stressed he's been, how frantic and agitated, and how immediately Emet-Selch's life serves to ameliorate his troubles, a cure to his anxieties. He is his solace where he can't have one, and his next sigh is crossed with the notes of pleasure and desperation both. And now that he has it, it's a wonderful bite of him, he thinks. One he could suck on for a time, with how plentiful a supply it is. (Perhaps MTT isn't considering any danger to his Emet-Selch. How much is too much? Mettaton doesn't know of such a thing.)
Adjusting his hold on his lover, one of Mettaton's flexible arms winds entirely around Emet-Selch's middle as the other crosses over his back, gripping down onto his ass as he comfortably takes a share of gravity from the Ascian. The idol tugs him as close as he can, shifting his hip into Emet-Selch's leg to form his body against his where he knows it'll give way to his own. Pressing as completely to him as possible as he sucks rapturously upon his injury.
He can only show him he has him in this moment, but this moment has expanse. The uncertainty of their return, should it come, should it be cruel... Whenever it is, it's not now, and now is always happening. Mettaton's upset begins to dissolve with him in his arms: there's nothing to worry about. Emet-Selch is securely in his grip, and surely his loss would feel like danger. He feels nothing of the sort.
This reassurance in place, Mettaton sighs again into his neck, adjusting his lips once more when he feels blood seep from the corner of them. He shudders, even as he remains stable. He swallows again breaking free and sighing long and hard against his skin.
Mettaton kisses him where a bruise blooms around punctures. He bleeds copiously. He shivers again, the smell overwhelming him, intoxicating him. All of his pleasure to have his Bonded so close is immense, and he feels he possesses him all the more for his delight. With a voice deeper and thicker, painted awash in the blood in his throat and the love he harbors, Mettaton speaks against his throat.]
Ah... Y-You didn't tense, darling... I can tell...
[His sharpened teeth slipped through him so readily. It makes him want more.]
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It was just the suddenness of the drain, he assumed; Mettaton hadn't taken this much this quickly before. As deep as the wound on his chest had been (and still was, as it was yet reluctantly healing), necks were an easier access point for the fluid. From the last time, he'd perhaps he'd felt a touch weaker afterward, but that was the natural result of injury. And this- this was just the abruptness; he'd adjust, he was certain.
His breath is quicker; he swallows heavily. His fingers knead slowly into Mettaton, trying to think more on the press of his hip and the tie of their legs, on the familiar hold on his ass, but it was a faded backdrop to the blood. His heartbeat. That specific sort of pulsing; his lover's lips against the wound.]
I... ah--
[It's not a distracted note (how could he be distracted from all of this?) or even precisely a disoriented one, but it takes a few moments to gather his concentration, to apply them to words. His pulse was thready and so quickened; he wondered how easily Mettaton could feel it, each moment squeezing that bit more life from him. With the puca's mouth less-effectively covering the wound in order to speak (but not to breathe; a robot's body had its advantages, he thought... he would require no breaks from him) he can better feel the way it not only welled up, but flowed past. Wetness uncaught by lips pours down his neck to soak into fabric. A deep red scent that was not uncommon these days.]
Perhaps I'm getting used to it.
[A healthy response to develop, surely: a complete lack of alarm to incisors slicing into his throat. But how could he be at all troubled, knowing what effect his blood had on his lover? Mettaton had been so anxious ever since they'd returned from the underground, and to know he could sooth him like this, if only for a time... it filled him with affection for him. And if Emet-Selch were likewise soothed by the connection, the sensation made it that much harder to think about inevitable losses. Much harder to think in general, but particularly about that; how could anything be forgotten when they were so full of each other? A trading of blood for open wounds, a connection so natural it sets him shivering.]
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Another sigh slips from his throat, a pleasant one this time. That psychological pleasure is derived easily form Emet-Selch's admission to growing accustomed to Mettaton's vice, willing to give into him as he is. He feels a shudder of electricity course his body, a wave of arousal unique to this form but one he knows would translated readily into obvious excitement, if he had an organic form. He can't seem to separate the two pleasures: of the delight of filling himself with his Bonded's magic, his fluids, his body, versus pleasure found in sex and intimacy. (The intimacy, he suppose, is an element in both.)
Rubbing his lips against blood, envisioning their stain, he smiles against his skin.]
Used to it... wonderful. To give way to me... To anticipate my intrusion. Is it really an intrusion if I'm a part of you?
[He licks again, licks and licks and cleans, but the blood shows no signs of letting up. Mettaton's still not worried. Dizzied for reasons other than blood loss in his own right, the Puca wraps his lips again around Emet-Selch's neck, sucking more of his blood from this generous wound. Even though he holds the Ascian, Mettaton moans, his legs trembling. He feels that wonderful prickling atop his scalp, a deep connection with his Bonded's body and soul... And he tucks himself close to that beloved, dark entity, just as he sidles his thigh between Emet-Selch's legs. Props him up on his leg to supplement the grip he has with his robotic arms and strength.
The robot can hardly think. Emet-Selch's blood overwhelms his senses, tunes out all of his problems and hones his focus in on his Bondmate. He feels so pampered and filled, wishing for nothing more than to lie on his back and feel blood be dripped into his mouth like wine, but something that actually manages to intoxicate him. And intoxicate it does, so quickly...
So quickly, because Mettaton realizes how easily his "getting used to it" wound is really draining. So much to drink, he realizes with a hearty suck. A draw of blood, a pull of vitality into Mettaton's throat as he once again releases his bite of Witch.]
You have... have so much to give me tonight, Hades-darling... Ahhh... [He smears his lips into his blood, then trails kisses from his throat to his jaw. He pulls back and regards his handiwork with a sigh.] You're... Addictive... Ohh....
[Not a statement meant to indicate that he finds anything wrong with their arrangement. He sucks some more, not wanting to waste Emet-Selch's body on the soaking quality of cloth.
Nor realizing how quickly this injury drains. Rather, realizing it, but not knowing of its potential excessiveness. Mettaton drifts from his sucking of Emet-Selch's wounds to brush his lips against his Bonded's, to kiss him gently with lips tinged crimson.]
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And his eyes are firmly closed. He is aroused himself- or getting there, at least, Emet-Selch had felt flickers of it while waiting for Mettaton's arrival. A normal response to anticipating him, a normal response to not only his presence but the thought of it, a distraction eternal. And with the slide of a thigh between his legs he shudders, beginning to stiffen despite of it all- or because of it, perhaps. But it's a bodily response that dizzies him further, as his blood is torn between filling his cock, and Mettaton's eager mouth, with his lover getting the lion's (or rather, the puca's) share. It was good that he was being propped up so well, he thought; if Mettaton let go, he was certain he'd collapse without him....
It takes him a moment to realize he's being kissed, that he's not just imagining the taste of blood against them. So there's a moment's delay before he presses back, a soft nuzzle for his lips, wet entirely from his own excess. If he slipped his tongue between them, would he taste anything else? A stray thought: Mettaton's mouth tasted more of blood than himself, these days; it was almost a pity.
His neck was wet and not getting any less so; opened and deep, the wound continued to drain. Fabric began to stick to him, a heaviness to it that was gradually spreading, and he's only dimly aware of why. A sensation distant, like so many others. A sensation drowned out by his pulse, by his own quickened breathing. Even arousal seemed quieter, a different sort of throb that seemed to reassure that all was well.
There was... nothing wrong with this. He was also certain of that, as he licks back at Mettaton's lips, legs tensing around his thigh- though it's as much for balance as pleasure.]
Is it....
[He's still working through a response to Mettaton's first words, even as he hears the rest, and his thoughts lose their track again. The robot had barely left his neck and already so much--]
You're- losing some of it.
[A low murmur between kisses, between breaths, shallow and fast.]
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Mettaton is not a professional at Being Organic and Having Blood, but he has enough experience to take note of the amount. The way it floods from his bite, and he tries to envision whatever's underneath, something circulatory from his intensive study. Sure, the body is delicate, he acknowledges. But why would it be too terrible if he'd hit a plentiful vessel...? "Terrible" isn't even something that yet occurs to him, gazing down upon all of that red. How much more comes, even in looking at it.
His lover's breathing is erratic. His clothes are getting as wet as his own was that one time, near the collar, and Mettaton's attention shoots to Emet-Selch's face. Down to his cock; he rubs a thigh against him some more, idly, appreciatively. He sighs, both at the feeling of his growing hardness, and at the reminder.]
Oh...
[Maybe there's a hint of concern now. But it only causes Mettaton to want to stop the blood from escaping him — to claim it as his own, he doesn't have any, he wants it. If he could press his mouth to it, let the excess flow into his mouth, surely it would stop... staining his clothes any worse, and then it wouldn't look as alarming. That would solve the problem. So he returns to his wound eagerly, lapping at it with his tongue behind the security of lips pressed tight to skin, catching any and all excess.
Just with the taste of it on his tongue, there's not as much worry anymore: he could fill himself to the brim like this, he thinks with anticipation. (Without considering that in filling up his chassis, he would be draining that same amount from his Bonded — and he can fit easily 40% of his blood in his body, not that he's thinking about it in numbers, only vastness to be filled. (A very, very bad thing, but Mettaton doesn't realize it. He really should realize it; he would if he weren't placated by blood in the first place.)) He considers the distribution of blood in his Emet-Selch's body, with a concentration of it being given to him by mouth, and a concentration filling his cock. Both are for him. He thinks about how much of a pleasure his Bonded's body is, even without it being his own. But then, isn't it his?
He cares so much for him. Mettaton wants to kiss him all over...
The Puca pulls him closer to his body, even as he continues laving his tongue along his wound. He wishes he could nuzzle him, but he's busy trying to avoid losing any of his blood — no longer sucking hard, but gently prodding him with his tongue. The hand that remains on Emet-Selch's waist strokes him softly, an accompanying sigh of satisfaction slipping from his throat.
Surely, applying his tongue and catching all blood in his mouth will solve all problems. Not that he feels that there were any problems to begin with, even if there was the inkling of a feeling...]
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He thought he was fine; he was sure of it, if Mettaton had hit something too important, he would've bled out by now. Arteries were quick like that. This was just a lesser tier of Plentiful Vessel that the robot had struck upon, which meant that there was no problem at all (problems were not a gradient, they either existed or they did not; he wasn't dying, therefore anything less than that might as well not exist).
So when Mettaton returns to his neck, the Ascian tries for a hum of approval. He makes a sound anyway, something pleased in tone. If there was an issue at all, it was in where all that mess was ending up. He did miss kissing him though, even if it tasted only of blood, so he settles for nuzzling instead at one of his ears. Or at least, letting his face press against it, the absent brush of lips, of breath. There's fur occasionally in his face, anyway, so he makes what he can of it. Yet even with his eyes closed, the dizziness wasn't receding. If anything, it was getting worse, and that was troubling. Not because he had any concept of danger, but because he worried he might faint, and that would be a hassle.]
Mettaton.
[He was used to speech becoming difficult around him, but not usually quite so quickly. Also it felt a bit different this time, somehow. Bodies weren't meant to lose this much blood so rapidly, he supposed, in an extremely distant way, still completely unalarmed. It was speed, not amount that was the problem (not that there were any).]
--Bed. Please.
[It would've been hard to pull back from him under less-excessively-bleeding circumstances, to drag him in the direction of his bed, and it was a complete impossibility now. But Mettaton could get them there, so it was fine in the end. Once he could collapse back, he'd be alright, he assumed, it would be easier to adjust. Then he could relax, to better appreciate the sensation of his lover's lips over his neck. The way his vitality was flowing to someone who needed it more than himself. Mettaton was so gentle to him, he thought, as his arms attempt to rub at his back. From the softness of his tongue, to the security of his hold, to the steady drag of a thigh against his cock. The prickling of arousal was such a warm undercurrent, and warmth was what he wanted. The puca always seemed to provide what he needed....
Mettaton wouldn't let him fall; he was safe. It didn't matter what his pulse or breath was doing, Emet-Selch knew this, with a passion he was at a loss as to how to express. But it was a thought that sustained him through the haze of dizziness, as he tries to nuzzle at his head again with a small sound. He was so fond of him.]
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He hums a contented affirmative against skin, past the bubbling of blood in his throat as it's met with vibrations of sound. He unlatches from his bite with a kiss.]
You've got it, my darling. Anything... [He licks the corner of his lips, where blood cascades down his chin.] -you'd like.
[One arm unwinds from his waist; the other braces Emet-Selch's lax weight against his thigh as he readjusts his grip on him, manhandling his body like he's nothing. He dislodges his leg from its entanglement, scooping the other man into his arms in something more of a bridal carry — both to better clear him of his legs, and to deposit him squarely in the center of the bed. Standing over him, his hand moves to briefly run through his beloved's hair, taking in his appearance, appreciating him even like this and finding him lovely regardless of pallor.
The robot follows after him, lunging for his neck to prevent any further loss of blood to the dark bedspread — a color more appropriate for bloodstain, he considers. Dark or not, sheets couldn't appreciate blood like he could, so it's only right that he takes it before it goes to waste.
As he sucks upon his neck, Mettaton's body catches up with him. With Emet-Selch laid upon his back, the idol stoops his entire body low enough to rub contours of metal and silicone and fur against his lover's thigh, abdomen, waist, until he finds himself in a good place, body parallel to his. His leg is pressed between Emet-Selch's, thigh flush to his groin, and he hums into his claim on Emet-Selch's skin. This close, Mettaton finally eases himself down, providing the full of his weight upon his body: with his head at his neck, he presses his chest to his, hips to hips, and shifts excitably against him with the whole of his body.
He thinks about Emet-Selch's reassurance to help him deal with the situation he's found himself in. It's a terrifying obstacle, but he feels so empowered, so safe and secure and perfectly at home with this man, and he can feel their mutual trust so clearly in this moment. Emet-Selch is worth his infatuation, and he hums into his neck, a soft, ascending note of comfort. With his weight pressed against his lover, his hand's free to wander: it follows the shape of his body by touch, gently skimming the other side of Emet-Selch's neck and further north yet, until he can run his fingers as far back into his hair as he can reach. He braces his lover's head there, nuzzling into his claim upon his neck with greater security, applying the pressure of his tongue with reverence — not entirely for blood, but for Emet-Selch.
But he breaks from him for a moment to lick. He cleans around the wound whatever excess blood has escaped him, for whatever good that does. It's maintenance, wanting to keep blood from messily drying upon his beloved. Kisses follow, kisses to his clavicle and then following the front of his throat, up to his chin, along his jaw, then just beneath his ear — then right back to his bite mark, where he laps at any draining blood. Forms his lips around him with another soft moan, a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss where he steals away some of his blood in the process. Mettaton shifts his thigh against his erection, hum dipping lower.]
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And once he feels himself flat on his back- deposited there so safely that he's touched all over again- Emet-Selch risks letting his eyes flicker open, dazedly attempting to focus up on Mettaton above him. There was blood on his Bonded's face- a warm, red trail that only complemented his features, he thought. Reassured anew at the sight of him, his eyes drift shut as he feels a hand brush his hair, and he settles for listening and feeling for Mettaton instead. The sound of the covers and bed being pressed on, the friction of the idol's thigh against the fabric of his pants. That, of course, was sensation too, his erection stubbornly maintaining itself despite where the rest of his blood was going, even continuing to harden because his body knew where his priorities should be.
And he did feel a bit better, he thought, to be on his back, with Mettaton's lips returned to his neck; the problem (that didn't exist) would certainly solve itself now that his blood was going where it needed to. The feeling of him trying to clean the wound was sweet, even if it amounted to smearing around a steady flow, and Emet-Selch even manages to hum very softly this time at the way damp lips traveled over the rest of his neglected neck, his jaw, even reaching close to his ear. The way his hand touched and supported his head, providing him that bit more steadiness. It was affection that warmed him when blood no longer could, tilting his head into the touches, in both encouragement and appreciation.
Could he be any more secure, with Mettaton's weight pressing in on him, surely locking in what heat that remained; it didn't matter that he was taking it from him when he was providing it right back with his most fascinating body. Emet-Selch manages to loop one arm loosely about his waist, while the other moves to the back of the idol's head. His fingers shakily stroke from the back of his neck and upwards, petting him while the robot continued to feed from him.
His hips even try to press up against his thigh, though the motion is weaker than it should be, and much movement at all sets everything spinning and off-kilter in his head again. How troublesome. Nearly as bad was how cold he still felt, which didn't make any sense; Mettaton provided plenty of heat, and he was aroused, which provided its own sort of warmth. But when he shivered, it had more to do with chill than anything else.
Emet-Selch couldn't clutch to him very hard, but he tries to; this would help somehow, eventually. He just needed more time to adjust, that was all....]
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It brings Mettaton the desire to soothe him in return, for this display of complete vulnerability in body. He does so by licking and further agitating that wound with his tongue. Nuzzling his temple into Emet-Selch's cheek. Pressing his thigh against his engorged arousal, humming at the sensation of him and his attempts to press into his thigh: a reward for his tenacity, for his delectable hardness, a good use of his blood, in Mettaton's opinion. Further taking his blood, preventing it from spilling anywhere other than into his mouth. That he was bleeding this much was for him, he decides, and the robot would gladly take all of this and more from Emet-Selch, because he loves him. Because he would take the whole of him, from head to toe and deeper yet. Not a drop that exits his body should go anywhere else, and it's such a delightful feeling, something that sedates and tides him over, a fixation to distract him from all of his worries. He focuses so wholly on the Ascian that he can't possibly ruminate over all that ails him, so dearly in love with the man beneath him in his gradual chill. Firmly grounded in the moment, this is all that exists: the future and past all exist right now, and of course it means the world. This means everything.
Their Bond. Emet-Selch is dizzy. It's a dizziness that doesn't come from breathlessness, though he wonders if that would make it better if he could suffocate him with his tongue instead of solely pulling blood from his body. (If only he had a duplicate of himself! He could feed on his spilling wound and kiss his lover to death.) Mettaton's arms press into Emet-Selch's body, trying to bring his weight down upon him more firmly.
He still tastes his clamminess.
Mettaton swallows. He swallows and swallows and feels he couldn't get enough of him. But he breaks free of his leaking wound for just a moment, the need to express his thoughts and communicate occurring to him. A check-in to make sense of his Bonded's feelings, despite how he can sense them sympathetically.]
H... Hades? How are you doing?
[Mettaton's voice is soft and light, unhurried and unworried. Even as he thinks that Emet-Selch has lost a lot of blood... It feels like a lot, anyway, when he considers how much has made it down his throat. The idol interprets Emet-Selch's body language to be weakened, succumbing to him... But he was plenty agitated before he got here. They both were. That he should be so receptive and submissive, that he should be so hard and soft simultaneously, and that he should bleed so profusely... All of it felt appropriate, somehow. Whether it's right or not, that's the question. Whether Emet-Selch is all right, that's yet another question.
Because ultimately, Mettaton cares for him. He doesn't think they're in any danger, but he wants to know how Emet-Selch's doing nonetheless. He wants to know how he feels about this drain of lifeblood. He wants to know how his mood sits. He wants to know what troubles him, what he desires, what could soothe, what he feels, what weighs upon his shoulders... and how he could make him feel weightless, if temporarily. What he could do to alleviate that burden.
As soon as he finishes speaking, Mettaton wraps his lips around that bite. How hard he bleeds still... It's fortunate that it's going down somewhat, but it's likely less for any actual healing, and more for lack of pressure. Mettaton presses his tongue to his skin again, applying wet, heated pressure.]
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But why was that? The Ascian was no longer overbonded, and he always got plenty of sleep. Too much. Had he been overdoing it again? It's a thought that sidetracks him, distracts him, not noticing any words at first, or even sound. He was always tired; that was nothing strange. There were sensations happening, and that was nice. Some sort of pressure against his face, against his cock. That was good, because he was having trouble moving.
A voice. How had he missed it? He can't recall the words, even the memory of the sound is distant, like it's coming from underwater. Or was he the one drowning?]
Mettaton?
[A question in a soft voice, bewildered. He can barely hear that either, and questions whether he spoke at all. He thinks to ask him to repeat what he said, but loses track of the thought before he can completely think of it. Only uncertainty remained.
But he was better for lying down, that much was still true, and yet it was hard, so hard to concentrate. Fewer things were making sense, and he couldn't stop trembling. His skin felt damp all over and he couldn't remember why; only his neck was bleeding, that was the only place that should be wet. His neck was bleeding somehow? He ached and his lover was here. That was right. His breath remained shallow and fast, and he still couldn't get enough oxygen. Why else would he remain so dizzy, even while holding still, even while prone and the world made dark?
Where was he, again?
He was so cold. The last time he'd been so cold, he'd been carved open completely, and he couldn't move then either. This wasn't nearly so bad; he only had one point of injury, never mind all the healing nibbles he'd acquired over the weeks. He was still safe, he knew that much, somehow; this was Mettaton, and he loved him. Which just made the association that much more confusing. Which just made him more confused in general. Had he imagined everything after all, was this it--]
You're- you're here, aren't you....?
[The disorientation was getting worse, and he was losing any ability to track it. His fingers dig in as hard as they can to- something, he can't tell, he can't even feel it (it's not a hard grip at all, only a spasming brush). His tone reflects pure confusion, unsettled by his own uncertainty. He was so tired, but when wasn't he? But what would happen if he rested, if he lost track of Mettaton entirely?
He wants to tell him not to leave, but the words don't form. He grasps harder, but he can't feel a thing. It was like being tempered again, but without any god waiting to catch him; there was only the darkness itself, and he could only succumb to it. Losing consciousness, his body slackens completely.]
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But then he asks him if he's here at all. Mettaton freezes, ears bolt upright, blood dripping from parted lips. What's he saying? He suddenly realizes what that lukewarm temperature of his skin is all about. His signature feels weak, and Mettaton fears for the worst.]
Hades? Hades?! I'm here!
[Mettaton shifts his entire body, jolting to his knees, straddling his hips, gripping onto his cheeks. He can't feel how cold he is, but there's a slight stickiness that he can detect. He swallows.]
Wait! I'm...
[Emet-Selch is out like a light, as is his Bond. Mettaton despairs. He exhales a pained whimper. Just like when he'd overloaded him with a fourth Bond, Emet-Selch this time has given too much away. Futilely, the idol kisses his cheeks feverishly, thumbs pressing into paling skin, but the other man's gone slack.
He's passed out, just like before. Just like when he took on one too many Bonds. He's the cause then, and now. But this time, Mettaton worries that his physical condition will only worsen.
Mettaton pulls back, diverting his attention with a hazy, stupefied slowness to his manner made sluggish by so much intoxicating indulgence. He feels frozen. It's difficult to move when he needs to, petrified by a slow, creeping dread... which he wrenches himself out of with a sharp glare to Emet-Selch's neck. All of that blood he's lost, and still losing. His clamminess is another point of notice, something he can only sympathize with from his failed attempts at shapeshifting — a surefire way to fall unconscious. The dizzied room, the eventual blackout, and a resolution coming only from... undoing his transformation. Emet-Selch has no transformation to undo, and Mettaton realizes then just how ill-equipped he is at handling his Bondmate's body. He's totally inept, and never bothered to learn properly what to do. What does he do? He can't return his blood to him; he's already taken so much from him, leaving his heart empty and struggling to replenish it all. Mettaton grips onto his own chest, wishing he could empty it back into Emet-Selch as easily as he took it.
But that wound remains. It pours, as it ever does. Mettaton leaps forward and into action: he wads the sheet from beneath his lover's shoulder, bunching them in his fist and pressing it firmly against the deep bite mark on his neck. The idol's first impulse is to make that wound stop bleeding, at any cost. He's had enough of his blood: the cost for his greed is too steep. In his overabundance, his overindulgence, was he blinded to his lover's failing condition? Was he so pacified that he saw no warning signs of his deterioration? He was so blissed out; it was no wonder he couldn't see past it all. His need to go to bed, his softening voice, his woozy manner and unsteadiness felt through their Bond were all the tips he needed, but he ignored them all in favor of pressing ever forward, ignoring all of their problems as though it could be soothed with pleasure and their voracious tearing into each other. Emet-Selch was in agreement with him the entire time despite it. Their approval matched: his blood belongs to him. Yet he harmed his Bonded with his carelessness.
The more seconds pass without the Ascian's stirring, the more frantic Mettaton becomes. He presses flush, leaning in to kiss Emet-Selch's eyelids, smearing blood along his temple in the process. He doesn't know what to do. What if he dies like this? Mettaton stares down upon his lover's body, pale and sticky and shirt collar bloodied from his reckless adoration. From all Emet-Selch wants to give him. Mettaton feels that same sickly feeling he gets when his organs drop, a phantom sensation he couldn't possibly be having.
No, this wasn't innocent adoration: it was fervor, wrath, terror, craving, loneliness, desperation, helplessness. Uncertainty. This was their feelings unmanageable, combined.
His ears flatten. He panics, watching his pallid features helplessly. It's agonizing seconds, agonizing minutes as he keeps leaning forward to listen for his heartbeat with sensitive ears. How soft it is, he thinks, reassured only that it's there. But it's weak: against his lips, this heartbeat is a delightful thing. Mettaton chokes on air. He needs to do something, but what does he do?
Mikasa. Unable to maintain his nigh-impenetrable composure, unable to think straight, Mettaton reaches for his device. The latest message is from Emet-Selch, a thought incomplete, and he panics some more even as he brings up ma and calls her for help, knowing she's probably still displeased with him about all he's been hiding from her... But this was more important, and she knows what it's like to deal with injured people, he assumes.
As soon as his call concludes, Mettaton finds himself trembling, almost ready to burst in his stress. Like he might overheat, and that wouldn't help anybody.]
Legs... [With some purpose, Mettaton can go into action.] Okay.
[Mettaton stacks pillows. He quickly unhands his wad of blankets and lifts his Bonded's legs to shove them underfoot. Another quick diversion: Mettaton hops off the bed and rummages for a spare blanket, of which he's sure to stock around in all manners of textures he's found enchanting. A thick, deep purple one is carelessly attained, and Mettaton crawls on the bed before he unfolds it in his inefficiency, draping it over his lover's body, raised legs included. He's quick to return to applying pressure to his neck, this time with a pillowcase he grabbed in the wake of his blanket-fetching, hoping to warm his Bonded's poor, chilled body with the blanket upon his person. He shifts close, tucking his chin possessively atop his head, pressing his free hand to his clavicle — feeling for a pulse and finding one yet, faint as it is.
None of this was how this was supposed to go. How readily they fell into each other's arms, Emet-Selch into his teeth. He'd given him such trust, such little resistance...
After some time like this, Mettaton checks his heart again. It's beating. He does this over and over. Beating. Breathing. He gets frustrated once and feels inclined to bite him; he can't. He's irritated, mostly with himself. For this inclination that proves too dangerous, after all.
Even after a time, Mettaton's still pressing firm against his neck, afraid that if he lets go, it'll all come apart. The pillowcase is part-way soaked, but not at all soaked through. At some point, he's snuggled in with his Bonded and tucked his chin atop his shoulder so that he can watch his neck, his profile. When he's still, he can watch the rise and fall of his chest, gentle as it is. Mettaton wills himself to ignore the alluring smell of blood, finding it both addictive and worth wariness at once.
Regardless, Mettaton doesn't leave or sleep. He watches. He drapes his free arm across his chest. Should it take long, he begins to talk to Emet-Selch once he confirms that he's breathing still. He tells him about the first movie he'd ever seen and how much he adored the humans he saw. He talks about the first time he saw the plans for his body. He tells him about the show he was just in that evening. He tells him about Mikasa, and how he met her rescuing a human child. He talks about Alphys a little, how he'd grown away from her — and how he's not sure how to bridge that gap, even still. (He's not very good at that, is he?) He confesses that he nearly bit Mira recently, stopped only by a quick-thinking attack on her part. He says really, it didn't scare him to think of Emet-Selch working on his body, it's quite different from being a human and wide open, and he trusts him. He fantasizes aloud that, were he to have it his way, he'd love to relax and watch movies with him — a perfect activity given his disinclination toward moving, and Mettaton's love for such entertainment. He reminds him he loves him.
He talks even when he doesn't reply, because it makes him feel better, and he can't help but remember the tone of Emet-Selch's voice. Lost and confused, imploring for his presence, and he wants to somehow convey to him that he's not alone still. A vain hope that his voice will reach him somehow, as if he could throw it into his head. But he also lapses into silence between, listening to his breathing, tilting his head every once in a while to let the shell of a sensitive ear land upon the Ascian's chest to confirm that his heart's still beating.
Around the time Emet-Selch might come to, he might very well be talking about his idea of a date: a line or so that goes, "I don't just act in the feature, you know. I like to watch things too. I think you'd like it, relaxing in our own space and watching something with me... Even if you disliked the movie. Haha." His fingers trace his profile, such shameless care and observation as he absorbs the sight of his face: terrified about the thought of how pale and sickly he looked, but trying to prescribe his appearance to his memory so strongly that he couldn't forget it, just like Emet-Selch suggested he should when he was the one bleeding out.
His hand remains fisted around a wad of pillowcase, pressed firmly to his neck as though scared to lift it. Mettaton doesn't know what to do with this body of his, except to be patient with it. He thinks that's what he needs, even when they know they both don't care for patience. Sometimes it's necessary.]
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He'd never been afraid of the dark before. He'd never thought to fear what could be lurking in the bottom of it.
And so he sank. And so he remained, for a long time.
Hours of passivity, unresponsive and relaxed in the comforting way a corpse would be. A similar level of warmth and color further deepens the facsimile, the only thing giving the game away was his continuance to breathe, for his heart to beat, however inefficiently. But it still worked, as though it didn't know how to do anything else, a shallow, fast pulse that did its feeble best to keep moving whatever blood that remained. An effort that meant he kept bleeding, more fluid lost from each pass, from each beat- but progressively less. And not only because there was less to lose, but with the pressure of something other than a sucking mouth on the wound, the barest hint of something like coagulation could start. With the pressure of fabric instead, blood was encouraged to stay on the inside of his body, despite its best attempt to find freedom elsewhere. To decorate the bed, or to trail down his throat, or into Mettaton's mouth- these were all normal places for his blood to be.
And how inconsiderate his body was to not realize this, to instead start shutting down because it didn't like suddenly having a dozen or more percentage points of its blood vanished, claimed by someone who had just as much right to it.
But slowly it regained some manner of stability, and while the Ascian wasn't in any manner of good or perhaps even safe condition, he wasn't getting any worse either. Cloth was pressed to him, and he had soaked so much of it without realizing. But even that began to dry, though the sticky scent of blood remained. As fragile as the movement was, his heart continued.
It wasn't quite the same as it had been during his periodic comatose states. This Bond was muted, but not completely dead- sluggish, with a stirring barely perceptible, but there. While his condition before had been a gradual erosion of energy, of magic, of self, with the times of unconsciousness dropping him into a flat featureless plain, blank and still- this had a different note to it. More clearly sickly, a faint pulsing of life that was strong enough to remain, but not yet strong enough to break the barrier of consciousness.
And so he survived, because what choice did he have?
Oblivious to the panic that surrounds him, to the efforts gone to for his sake, at least for the moment, he can do nothing but lie there quiet, and far too still. Removed entirely from the decisions that had led to this moment, from all of that desperation and love and despair, from his encouragement to this end, from Mettaton's glad embracing of it. They'd done this to each other, in their carelessness and adoration and need, a reckless building of violence that led to this inevitability. They needed too many things from one another, and in a willingness to provide... what else could be the result?
Hours pass, and Emet-Selch's condition continues to stabilize. He's weak- so very weak, and somehow both overheated and cold- but consciousness begins to emerge. Not flickering, not in twitches or starts, but slowly. A peeling back of layers, a draining of the waters that surround his suffocated form. And from the depths of that darkness he could hear a voice.
It wasn't always there, and his consciousness wasn't complete enough to think about why, or what it was. But a presence remained, and eventually the sound would continue, and all of this was terribly, terribly soothing. He could listen to that forever, he thought, and not get tired of it.
But thought itself encourages more of them, more rousing, and as consciousness coalesces, words do as well. Emet-Selch doesn't think about where he is or what had happened or why he felt so desperately weak: there was his lover's voice. There was his hand on his face with a gentleness that he could lose himself in, and he could feel that, and he doesn't know why both of those things felt so remarkable. Both to feel and to possess. He's not sure why he's near tears or why his head hurts, but he imagined love was the culprit of at least one of those things.
What had Mettaton been saying? With his meager consciousness devoted solely to his lover's words (and not put towards anything like 'recognizing location' or 'remembering what had happened'), he can almost comprehend them. He doesn't know why he can't remember the rest of the conversation, but....]
I would- like that. I think....
[He doesn't know why his voice is so hoarse either, or why he could barely move, apart from a pained shudder, as though instinctively attempting to curl closer to Mettaton, to shield himself from all these discomforts with his body. A body uncooperative and sore and still very tired. His eyes open, but only slightly, and seem to struggle to focus on anything.]
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There's no better option, he decides, except one of them could be immediately fatal.
Yet his heart kept beating. It's a relief every time, even when it's faint and struggling. He wondered at some point if he should be bringing him somewhere for proper medical attention, but he can't bring himself to move his hand, and he can't ever think of where to go. He wishes he knew who healed Emet-Selch before... They seemed to be good at it, he thought. Mettaton doesn't know anybody who heals. He wonders if the Coven could help, if he could only bring him there.
So he hopes this works. A part of him starts to make plans, just in case he doesn't rouse or it starts to look unstable, because he won't let Emet-Selch die, even if Mikasa were to tell him he was a lost cause — he's seen her give up before, and she was wrong. He feels like he could stop his death no matter what sometimes, and at others, he feels very incapable of it.
But he comes back. It's hard to tell at first, with his own voice smoothing over the gradual strengthening of Emet-Selch's magical signature, but evening's well into night. Mettaton's fingers are smoothing over his brow, moving to trace over his lips; running over his forehead, down the bridge of his nose. And it's then that he speaks. Mettaton gasps, halting in his reverent tracing as he shifts impossibly close, overwhelmed with emotion.]
Hades...
[The Ascian's eyes open then. Mettaton catches his visage from the side, just as he has all evening, and it's dim in the room but he can see him quite clearly. The relief he feels may just overpower all else, seeing him stir to some manner of alertness.
The idol is the one to come closer, making sure that Emet-Selch doesn't have to. He keeps his hand pressed to the wadded fabric against his neck, moving so that his face should come into view without any further effort on his Bondmate's part — save for the trouble of having to focus on him at all. His free hand rests against his cheek as Mettaton smiles down on him, ears nearly back and brow knit in concern.
They couldn't really do what Mettaton wants, since TV doesn't exist. Movies don't exist. But having Emet-Selch return his words at all has Mettaton elated, desperately so. When he laughs, it's laden with emotion: the relief of hearing his Bonded after fearing for worse and worse situations. That he might never wake, or that he'd die... Any manner of scenarios cropped up in that head of his, extreme or not. He didn't know what to think.]
I'm glad to hear it... Really.
[Less that he might like his date fantasy, and more at the sound of his voice at all, no matter its quality. His thumb strokes over his cheekbone, thankful for all of the work his body's putting forth to recover. It's so much relief to know that he's alive (even if he'll only die when he returns home; Mettaton's thinking about this very moment over all else) that it weighs his very being down, a hope assuaging despair so thoroughly that the whiplash causes the robot to tear up. He can only imagine how Emet-Selch must be feeling: disoriented, aching, weak... But he hopes desperately that he doesn't feel alone or lost.
When Mettaton realizes too late that tears have slipped onto Emet-Selch's neck (the other, unaffected side), he gasps. Then, he hisses:]
Oh! Shit, no—
[He hastily wipes the tear from his neck with the blanket that covers him. ... His tears are perfectly benign, though Mettaton imagines that they must be acidic, proof of how infrequently he cries. (Proof that this robot can cry at all?) At least it snaps him out of crying at all. But Emet-Selch is fine, at least with regards to burning. Unless he can't tolerate robot fluid any more than he already does.
With that dealt with, Mettaton closes his eye and tries to pull himself together with a soundless sigh.]
Ah... How are you doing, darling? Will you... Are you all right?
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