[The door is slammed behind him in the wake of his stride, the robotic idol marching down the hall on quick steps. He paces in circles and lines and stomps the halls blindly, down the stairs, seeing only mere feet in front of him in his rage that won't quell. In the living room he tears open the pillow Papyrus used to use on full moons to chew on, caring not at all that he definitely just... chewed on that. He tears it to shreds. He moves onto all of the nicer ones he'd bought, too, slicing them apart with teeth and claws in his mindless fury. At first, Mettaton knows only this: Emet-Selch wouldn't call him desirable, wouldn't tell him he'd service him and deify him and praise him for eternity, leaving his thoughts of red devoid of sound save for static when they should have been accompanied by the song of his lover's voice. He's deprived again, disappointed, and rightfully seething.
There's a lot of static in these moments, but their Bond remains completely open, stormy and black and tumultuous. It could have gotten so rotten that, were they newly-Bonds, it may have been enough emotion to rip it apart. It could have been enough to wreck even this... but it holds fast. (Neither of them would really want it to break, and it wasn't as though either of them were in their best frame of mind.) But the Puca's ire grows beyond him, tangles and grows thorns, thickets of steely barbs, and Mettaton kicks over decorative glass with such violence that it shatters from impact alone. But it wasn't at all satisfying to Mettaton's raging temper, even though the entire world ought to be as furious as he is, shambling and destructive. Mettaton finds himself darkening, furious that nobody in the world could compare to Emet-Selch's praise and he'd lost even that.
Something worthy of praise continues to entice, lighting this building aflame, making it explode — and had he the magic, he would've done it in an instant. All people would behold it with awe and terror, and (Emet-Selch was upstairs still, he didn't want to hurt him, but) he didn't care who was caught in the crossfire. The robotic Puca tears into books, breaks porcelain, listens to the insanity of sound to replace the void where Emet-Selch's low, intimate voice should have been. Yes, his fury was appropriate, for why wouldn't a god demand worship and express his fury thusly? Abandon his devotees who couldn't appropriately laud him with reverence—
(He doesn't want to leave Emet-Selch behind... but he can't even focus on that anymore, thinking only in such fleeting frames of instants that this gets lost in the shuffle.)
The house is his storm and he doesn't even know where he's gone for a few minutes, hearing only the cacophony of breaking glass and pounding into the wall here and there. Nothing fixes this; nobody could match Emet-Selch's devotion, and his devotion failed him, left him wanting, and he wanted so much. He wanted it all, wanted the world and wanted his lover's body all over again.
Property stops enticing; Mettaton turns in on himself, gnawing on his arms. Tearing black fur, giving himself points of intensity to focus on, to lose his mind to, raking his claws over walls and feeling them pulled by unyielding drywall. Raking his claws over his metal body, too, to shudder with more intensity at the horrible scrape of nails against steel. None of this is with the intent to be self-destructive as much as it is to be real, to recognize for himself that he was so beautiful, undeniable and present and imposing, touchable and able to feel. But nothing tides him over; he can barely remember why he's so angry, and the feverish pitch of his emotions ties with... despair? He feels such despair, and he can't even tell that it's not his own, but it all intensifies his emotions even away from the pendant... urging him evermore toward ferality that couldn't subside. Not with such godly fury, vindictive and malicious as he's become.
—Until his claws snag on his shoulder jewelry. Diamonds spill from him like droplets of sparkling blood, clattering upon the floor as the jewelry comes unfastened by the neck, an entire section of it falling apart. This is worth despair, and Mettaton glances around him, shocked by the sudden loss of such a dazzling piece that slips off of his body like water. Emotions are high still, but as he stoops to the ground to lament the loss of his diamonds, so too does he lose the flaring rampage he could no longer place.
And he stills, staring at the glittering gems under the light, thinking about how he'd gotten here. Staring at blood on his hands; smelling it on his body. His own come, his lover's sweat and blood and...
(The sound of his pain, he wondered — but most certainly, the presence of grief that could fill the emptying space of their Bond where his own fury diminished, making room for the torrent of his Bonded's negativity.)
Not even caring to make himself presentable, Mettaton rises to his feet in an instant. Agile on the tips of his toes, he sprints for the stairs — feelings of disbelief, worry, pity and ache overwhelming him. It's not even ten (five? somewhere between there, he had no idea) minutes later that he's charging back into the room with a sudden slam of the door.]
Hades...?
[Voice softer, but still full of his emotion. Emotions not chastising or furious, but emotions of a similar intensity, concerned, but still fierce and passionate. Mettaton doesn't hover in place, immediately encroaching on his lover's space, no matter where he lay. If that was the floor, so be it — he would stoop down and collect him into his arms, alarmed less at the sight of blood and bruise as much as the flashes of recollection of his stricken, terrified eyes, of his despair, of... leaving him behind like that, even if it was for the better of them both. Of this sight before him. His lover's a mess, covered in blood and come and sweat, in tears and crumpled to the floor, made raw, rendered so painfully vulnerable yet left like this... How could Mettaton not want to pull him into his arms? He loves him, even if he's out of his mind.
Being in this room for long would surely influence him all over again in the moons' favor, but his fur's since colored itself silver, though it remains touched dark from the remaining intensity of his emotion.]
Edited (flipped 2 words; not sure if his claws are keratin tbh) 2020-09-23 01:48 (UTC)
[It wasn't comfort that he felt, when Emet-Selch realized that Mettaton was remaining in the building. That he wasn't far, that he could track his position through the clatter of shattered objects, or the stomp of pacing heels. The Bond, as well, remained close. So close, and so open that it burned.
(More than once he was afraid it would break, their connection. His heart lurched with every distant smash, and his breathing stopped, lungs aching along with his throat, waiting for his lover's soaring madness to veer into hatred, if only for an instant. To decide he was truly unforgivable, and to snap what he truly was looking to break. But the moment never arrives and he ends up choking on air some seconds later, dizzied and still sick, waiting for the next brutal peak.)
No, Mettaton remaining close was its own version of dread. As rather than this small separation bringing calm, it only served to intensify the storm, with the only outlet being the insufficiency of objects. Even through his despair, Emet-Selch could tell it was getting worse, a haze of furor so thick he couldn't see past it, couldn't feel anything but his lover's suffering.
More than once does he try to convince himself to stand, to find him. So long as he could hear things shattering, breaking, a monster stalking about his possessions and smashing them, Mettaton was still somewhere he could reach. But his legs shake as much from fear as pain as his Bonded's mood deepens past blackened and into pure ferality. Into unthinking rage and frustration, broken and animalistic, surely tearing into anything that he could grasp. Even himself, perhaps.
(Emet-Selch remembered Mettaton describing his time becoming feral during their captivity, the way he'd ripped at himself without realizing, and he felt nauseous all over again. He should be there, he should be able to help, how... how could he have let it get this far-- he'd told him. He'd told him before that it wouldn't have to happen again, now that they were Bonded.)
He wanted to reach him. Even if he couldn't appease him through word, then his blood, his body- if Mettaton could tear into him instead, then- maybe that would be enough to save him. If the Ascian were the cause for this insanity, then he had to be the one to fix it. His blood would be succor, even if Mettaton had to devour him entirely for it to be enough. Then- then he could stop. They both could stop.
But he couldn't move from his place by the bed, curled against it as though trying to find some protection there, gaze fixed on the closed door even through his tears. But he couldn't move no matter how much he cursed at himself to try, to place himself in Mettaton's path again, even if it meant that the last thing he felt would be his teeth in his throat; at least it would mean that he wouldn't die alone.
When the fury begins to diminish by degrees, the Ascian doesn't immediately notice, his own feelings only becoming more predominant instead, the blackness of rage smoothing easily into that of misery. Despair remaining greatest of all, in its encompassing familiarity. It's etched starkly into every thought- or what passes for them- twisting all to fit a darker interpretation, reminding him in convincing whispers of the perfect uselessness in ever getting attached. One way or another he would be abandoned, and it was that much more bitter to know that it was his own fault.
The door opens with a loud noise and he freezes, as though the witch were the one with the puca's instinct towards stillness. Emet-Selch stares, not hearing him, and scarcely seeing him either, not even knowing what to hope for. Perhaps Mettaton had decided to try and sate himself on his blood after all, or had recalled that he was the one at fault for his current madness. There was something less dark about him, but- his vision is too blurry to know what or why. But... even if it was only another sign of his weakness, he... was relieved to see him again. It didn't matter if Mettaton was just here to kill him. This would be enough.
The puca closes in, lowering himself, and scooping Emet-Selch up into his arms. And for a moment, the Ascian remains frozen, not breathing- not resisting, but not helping either. He didn't understand it, what was happening, why Mettaton wasn't biting him, why he was being- kind?- to him after all this.
He shivers, but doesn't relax, rigidity only giving way to an exhausted tremble. Fear remains, evident in every breath, in the tears that continued to make a mess of his limited vision; not of Mettaton, or any danger he might pose to him, but only of him vanishing again.]
[Ever since he rose from his place in a sea of diamonds, disoriented with the loss of such intense emotion, an impassioned, ever-present fury... Disorientation's plagued Mettaton. It was a feeling to consume him and drive him to blindness, all for it to dissipate with an errant swipe of claws. Ears flatten as he reels from it all, finally committing fully to that urge to protect his loved one. To protect him from them both, as it happens.
Easing himself down onto his knees and pulling Emet-Selch between his thighs, he presses his nose into his hair, breathing him in. The Ascian smells so strongly of blood and sex and spit, a look so raw and vulnerable and not one he'd like for anyone else to see of him. Not because it was the product of fearsome and passionate entwining, but because this was only for his own consumption: Emet-Selch in every way is for Mettaton's eyes, whether it's in his haughty grace or his power, or in shambles, broken and crying and smeared in come and blood on the floor, curled up at the foot of Mettaton's bed. For now, this was where they both belonged, and Mettaton wraps him tight in his winding arms.
To see Emet-Selch so wrung out, despairing and sore and expecting to be carved into with teeth... yet feeling only relief at seeing him again tells a tale Mettaton can read word for word. He knows his lover's heart: the many times Emet-Selch has asked for him not to leave all comes together in this moment after a cry of pain, after Mettaton's turbulent descent into ferality from a lack of... voice, he's certain. His fingers trace Emet-Selch's throat gently as he holds him close, tucking his Bonded into the crook of his neck.
Even though he feels immense sorrow and pity for Emet-Selch... the Puca can't help but think he looks beautiful like this, in his terror and vulnerability. Soft, just like his body; like his heart, tenderized and wounded, manifest upon tissue in patterns of red and purple and streaks of fluid drying and wet alike. A smell of being ravaged and used, a sight of it, too: hair tangled, mussed, stiff and sticky, Emet-Selch was still lovely like this.
And though he'd just marched in after losing his mind, even though he feels all of that disorientation and emptiness where such burning hot rage used to live, it fills quickly with emotions just as wild as Mettaton is, but no longer bound so strictly to the course of madness. It's that fondness, an awe; but it's also pity, worry; and... sorrow, that it ended up this way. There's a streak of incredulity in it all for the same reason, that they found themselves... like this. But with intensity and extremity like theirs, where else would they end up but fucking passionately as it dips around into considering the taking of lives? Their relationship was chaos, unpredictable and fierce enough to burn them both alive, to consume them and everything around them, and this... this could have been anticipated. Even without a necklace, couldn't they find themselves here with the right fury, the right passion, the right ache and the proper catalyst?
If Mettaton felt any regret, it was that it felt so much like the time he'd nearly killed Emet-Selch. He clutches him closer, soft body that he is. His claws are still sharp, one of the residual effects that lingers after the sway of moons as his fur gradually pitches again, as his very aura goes blacker, ghastly, monstrous... But not feral.
There was a lot to address between them, but Mettaton needs to cover the most basic of them all. His lover trembles; he answers it by letting him in the safety of his arms, even though he's the most dangerous thing in this house. No... They both are. The two of them are both dangerous to Emet-Selch. But perhaps, when together... They could both keep him safe. (If they actually tried.)
Emet-Selch was self-destructive. He knows that. And perhaps his life would have been proper sacrifice to a deity as grand as himself... But Mettaton doesn't want that. He wants to keep his lover well in hand, bruised and bitten and marked up by him, but what good is that if he kills him? And he doesn't want to hurt him that badly. Ever.
Lips trail down Emet-Selch's temple, stopping next to his ear before Mettaton pulls back just enough to gaze into his lover's eyes. Luminous gold meets his lover's, softer around the edges, no longer the look belonging to a beast of spiteful insanity. His lips are parted, still stained in dried blood, still sharp of teeth, and he runs a curled finger against Emet-Selch's eye. He doesn't even need to ask that Emet-Selch's heartache is sourced from fearing abandonment, of his disappearance. He shows him mercy, but he's also no longer requiring the reverence and worship of a deity just to think straight. ...On that note, Mettaton knows he fears being left alone. But the fear he sees in his eyes, the way he doesn't at all resist the possibility of Mettaton's feral teeth sinking into his flesh in this moment should he have been too Monstrous, too lost to see straight... it's that self-destructive streak at work, he thought. It was still a surprise that he didn't fear him, but that he'd anticipate his behavior wasn't a surprise. Even though he was locked in the righteously indignant insanity of his own mind, Mettaton was aware of everything. He knowingly did what he did, opted to spare him, opted to drink him, opted to leave... Only upon exiting did he succumb to any sort of uncontrollable behavior, tearing and breaking and gnawing and scratching at the confines of the house, his body, his fury. He can pitch furious with ease, but it's the sort that turns the brightness of cheer into the licking flames of animosity.
That Emet-Selch would anticipate his demise and do nothing to stop it... Mettaton strokes his throat some more, claws only grazing his skin as he traces up to his hairline, stroking through deep brown locks of hair, even when it's tangled in spit, matted with blood. He squeezes him between his thighs, pulling him flush to his body. Once more, Emet-Selch's form is made to give way to Mettaton's metal one.]
My darling Hades... I...
[He could've hurt him, terribly. Emet-Selch would've let him, too. He would've laid down and allowed Mettaton to tear out his throat, would've given himself as a sacrifice to temper his ferality even just for a moment of peace. In the end, Mettaton did hurt him, but not with teeth or claws. It had to happen.
The last he left him, he notes he was on the bed. On the bed and dropped, and he remembers, vaguely, the sound of something thudding onto the ground. That must've been Emet-Selch, trying his best to hobble after him on disagreeable limbs that ached, with a heart heavy and sore and fear alive like static in his brain. He imagines him crumpling here, used and feeling disposed, abandoned, and Mettaton strokes his hair some more. Unable to call out with his voice the way it is, he couldn't tell Mettaton to return. ...It was for the best that he didn't at that time. What would he have done to him? Mettaton didn't like the thought. He liked that less than the vivid flashes of wild fever, of chewing his arms and clawing his hips.
He exhales heat into his hair, letting his hand run down the back of his neck, down his spine, and to his side again.]
Thank you for waiting for me. ... I was losing my mind. I had to clear my head somehow, before seeing red turned into something... worse. [He kisses his forehead again. He doesn't quite know how his head was cleared, nor why he ended up that way save for the lack of proper recognition — an affront to be sure, but nothing worth killing his beloved over. He knows he was trying, besides. He saw it in his every move, in his every feeble mouthing or desperate sound.] ... We lost ourselves again, didn't we?
[Like the last time he nearly tore out Emet-Selch's throat.]
[The embrace continued, but no violence with it. It's something that Emet-Selch at first isn't sure what to make of, why Mettaton would touch his throat so tenderly but not drive himself into it with incisors bared. Why he would stroke his hair or hold him close, pull him against the comforting stability of his body. Against all odds, he'd not only returned but had decided to show him mercy, and in his current state, the Ascian doesn't know which part confuses him more. His own disorientation lingered; everything had happened so quickly, with his lover's cascading anger and his own inability to quell it, to do anything for him--
That line of thinking only led to more tears welling up, even as he was slowly accepting that for whatever reason Mettaton hadn't given up on him. That his mood was- while still intense, still bearing emotions strong enough to unsteady the Ascian- not overrun with a god's vengefulness and capacity for wrath. That he'd lost his shoulder jewelry goes unnoticed; his lover was a capricious god, and who was he to question his decisions? With a weakened nudge, he buries his face against Mettaton's neck as he's tucked there, breathing him in- the familiar scent of him, and his blood, and their sex, all layered together, as it should be.
Slowly, he calms by degrees, as Mettaton holds him and shows no sign of leaving him again. With effort, Emet-Selch manages to wrap an arm around him in turn, and from tension, his body gradually just- gives up. Not relaxing, but only losing the ability to hold himself steady, collapsing against him. Curling against him as though he were the only thing in the world, as though he could protect him from- the both of them, he likewise realizes.
They had been doing so well, he had thought. Mettaton still bit him, because they both enjoyed that, the giving of blood and the taking of it. It had been manageable, and while their passions were always high, they'd avoided ever veering again into dangerous territory. Bleeding out as far as he had was a... complicated memory, but an important lesson in maintaining some degree of moderation in their aggressions, their desires, their fears. Mettaton didn't want to hurt him, and Emet-Selch didn't want to upset him. They both knew this.
But had they really improved? Or was it through chance alone that they had managed to avoid any particular catalyst in the interim? What if there hadn't been any particular deliberation on their part; would inevitability itself always drag them back to this place? To a state of high emotions requiring a payment made in blood and sacrifice.
--But this had had the potential of being more than that. It wasn't only recklessly strong emotion leading to a bite made too deep by incidentally poor luck, drunk from too heavily, with neither of them knowing concern until it was nearly too late. Emet-Selch could feel this pitching darker than that, that Mettaton could've easily and deliberately snapped his jaws through his throat, and neither of them would've done a thing to prevent it. Even now in this immediate aftermath, when everything was at its most raw and he lay shivering in his lover's arms, Emet-Selch knows he wouldn't try to stop him. Should Mettaton's mood turn dark again (and something about him seemed darker once more, if only monstrous rather than feral) it wouldn't take any convincing. He would offer himself to claws, to teeth, to spite. Because he loved him.
Mettaton lines his face with presses of lips before nudging him back, meeting his eyes. Emet-Selch blinks repeatedly to try and clear his, to focus on his lover's countenance through a blurry haze. Even distorted by his vision, Mettaton was still strikingly beautiful to him. The blood was no detriment, nor was the suggestion of sharpened teeth. His own look remains somewhat lost, uncertain, as watchful as he can manage, as though if he weren't careful, Mettaton would vanish on him again. Mettaton traces around his eye, and he holds still, and nor does he flinch when those fingers trail over his throat, over scratch and bruise. Whether his lover decided to tear into him or not was--
--probably not something that he should view with such ambivalence.
Tugged closer again, he feels himself stroked, petted, kept firmly and safely against his body (he would always be safe there, except when he wasn't), and his eyes close for a moment at the kiss to his forehead. Mettaton thanking him for staying even when he'd wanted to reach him fills him with another sort of unease, knowing that if he had been able to more easily move, he would've gone to him. He would've found him, and Mettaton would've either killed him, or been forced to retreat even further.
(He didn't want to see him upset. That was his only hesitation. His only regret now was disappointing him.)
Emet-Selch still couldn't speak. But he listens, moving a hand up to gently touch the side of Mettaton's face, the side with his working eye. He feels for familiar details with his eyes closed, with unsteady fingers. At the last of his words, he pauses, then nods. Even knowing better, they'd done this to each other. It hadn't ended up with him unconscious and fading from a lack of blood, but he wouldn't at all have called this version an improvement. He didn't know how to stop it; there was no reason to believe it wouldn't happen again, considering how intensely they felt everything.]
[Fingers roam the panels of his cheek, seams, the corner of his eye — though smooth, there are a lot of details to take in, slight lines and changes in material that make up the composite of his features. Naturally as anything, Mettaton leans into his touch. Naturally as anything, he strokes reassuringly over Emet-Selch's back, noting that his lover's distress scarred... deeply. Tapping into feelings rooted in love and attachment, but how else could these feelings manifest on a man who has lost so much, who loved so hard, who made himself so vulnerable to the idol?
When Mettaton examines his own actions, he does so from a more creative, poetic lens, and dislikes the thought of his extricating himself from Them to be some kind of poetic foreshadowing. As though the only way for them both to remain well in hand should be that they separate themselves... As if! He holds Emet-Selch tighter, not at all fearing the analysis he'd have to put into their combination that made it so threatening to Emet-Selch's well-being. It all came down to Mettaton's carelessness, his lack of forethought or examining the consequences of his actions; as well as Emet-Selch's self-destructive, similarly consequences-what-consequences attitude. He was so loyal, so good to him, so dedicated, so giving and willing that he'd give his life over to Mettaton because the Puca had the whim to take it.
It pulls a sigh from Mettaton in this moment, and he shakes his head, but... he smiles, bittersweet. He wanted to see Mettaton happy and well, sated and sane, so of course he'd offer his body where his voice failed... It was a matter of trying to check himself, but how could he do that if he were going feral? ...Emet-Selch had told him he wouldn't have to veer feral while they were Bonded, but Mettaton knows there isn't anything about this world that wouldn't try to see him that way. Whether it was a curse or some amplification of the moons, he could go feral in a more sudden, more unrelenting context... This was during a play of passion, and probably more dangerous because their bodies were so entwined and blood was so plentiful...
Mettaton examines Emet-Selch's body like this, claws lightly grazing over his back. Nails sharp and curved, he doesn't allow them to do anything more than glide along the surface of his lover's skin while he can't keep them duller and controlled. If he can't keep himself controlled, if controlling at all is no option, what would Emet-Selch do for him? There was still something that helped in this equation, even if it had the potential to be dangerous, and that was his blood. Mettaton knows for a fact that it steadied his mind... He would have slipped quite a few minutes beforehand, had he not had that. His emotions were rampant and vicious, and blood is a vice of his. Mollifying and clarifying, Emet-Selch's blood would keep him from pitching feral. But what if he was already inevitably headed there, or already there...?
It's an answer he doesn't have at the moment, and he leans in to kiss Emet-Selch's eyes. To ease his tears, to reassure him that he's here and he loves him, no matter what. They could figure out how to manage themselves along the way. Mistakes were inevitable... But it was a matter of keeping them in check, to prevent lethal failures like this one could have been.
But it wasn't, because one of them eventually showed restraint. Mettaton made that conscious decision with his fraying mind, relying on the blood of the Ascian to make the call to leave, to stop fantasizing about his trachea in his teeth and scarlet on their bodies, to stop himself from devouring his Bonded's body from the inside out because he loved him that much, his beautiful, soulbound lover who could make bruises and tears and sweat look like a signature of fervent adoration on his skin. ...But Mettaton could hardly call this an improvement either. It had been too close. And his own judgement aside (which was capricious indeed, and conceptualized too late), Emet-Selch's was... lacking in self-preservation.
That there was a cursed necklace involved didn't matter to Mettaton, either, even while he begins to piece that bit together on his own. That was a basement full of cursed objects. That he thought it natural on him meant two things: one, he could be cursed and not know it. Two, that kind of behavior... was an integral part of his personality drawn to the surface, the desire to be revered in darkness and lust and deified, worshiped. Though he may not be like that all the time didn't mean he couldn't find himself behaving that way again, couldn't see himself slipping into ferality if he lacked the proper admiration... And really, when he thinks about it, he's the kind of person he could see justifying the exchange of someone's life for their lack of ardent support. It was within him, and the jewelry just brought that to the surface. He wouldn't place any accountability on a curse: this was about Emet-Selch's life, and he'd have to overcome a curse to see to his well-being. The problem here was rooted in a lack of reason: if he'd had any to begin with, he'd know that Emet-Selch could no longer speak, and if Emet-Selch had any, he'd try to express this, would try to preserve himself.
But they were both inclined toward being unreasonable at times. Mettaton knew that. They were volatile and ferocious, passionate and extreme. They just had to recognize when that was happening and try to heal from the wounds they inflicted, like this one.
Mettaton leans in to perform an act of extreme intimacy considering this moment, stooping down to kiss and mouth Emet-Selch's throat. There's no teeth, only gentle sucking and licking, the soft press of silicone lips and the betrayal of heat that has mounted so extremely that it was unmistakable. They would both have to figure out what was dangerous, and what was not — like this. His ears are folded back, comfortable and inviting and sure of his place here, holding Emet-Selch and being held, being collapsed upon; Mettaton is deserving of love and willing to dole it out plentifully. Emet-Selch deserved him, too. And by Bond, his emotions are strongly felt, passionate, stabilized and sure. Sure that they would overcome this together.
Close to his neck, Mettaton kisses up his jaw and to Emet-Selch's cheek, licking up any tears that found their way down his cheek in the process, even those which mingled with blood. He rises enough to press their noses together, to press a kiss to his lips... but he can never have just one, so he gets a couple of those.]
... We'll do better, then. [Even if they continued to make this mistake... They'd surely have successes peppered between. And they'd have to do better: Mettaton wanted Emet-Selch safe, and Emet-Selch didn't want Mettaton upset. They went hand-in-hand, this goal.] Won't we?
[There wasn't any option. The failure would be Emet-Selch's ruination at Mettaton's hands, and the terror that would follow. It would be excess to the highest degree, but so transient, so fatal. If they were both ever-wanting, it would make sense that they'd see to their continued ability to want each other. Mettaton's sure of this, and he offers Emet-Selch a smile against his lips.]
You must be so sore. [Soreness is okay to inflict. Bleeding is okay to inflict. Fatal injuries... not okay.] I don't imagine you fare much better than before, walking... How about standing?
[Aftercare could be performed when he's cleaning his Bonded up, but how well could they do even that, with Emet-Selch like this? He still had the intent to take him to the shower. He was... quite the mess, and Mettaton would gladly look out for him, care for him, see to it that the injury he had inflicted could be cleaned and soothed. Everything including the heartache he could feel so starkly, the one that drowned in misery and fear: abandonment.]
[Slowly, the close contact soothed, some better degree of rationality returning (particularly as he was no longer being fed Mettaton's feral state via Bond, to return it to him with his own increasing agitation). Though he was still badly shaken, and would be for some time (and would likely spend the next few days demanding his lover's continuous company while he healed), his breathing was a bit steadier, and it was possible to look back on what had happened with some small amount of thoughtfulness. Or thought at all, rather than only reacting.
...Emet-Selch knew, in some abstract way, that Mettaton had made the right decision in separating from him then. It didn't erase the fear that lingered, the feeling of being left behind, abandoned and unable to follow. But he knew. He remembered his lover's tears falling on him after his awakening from bleeding out. Mettaton's fear and relief, how stricken he had been... and in that case, Emet-Selch had survived. But what if he hadn't? What if he, as he'd wanted to do in this case, had willingly and deliberately placed himself in Mettaton's way, offered his life up to spare his mind... even if it had worked, how would his lover have felt about the aftermath? After he'd realized what he'd done, and what the Ascian had allowed him to do?
It's a thought to strike him cold, that causes him to shiver, to burrow himself that bit more against Mettaton's metal frame, to feel his sore body give in to it. From touching Mettaton's face, he lets his hand fall back, his arm to wrap more tightly around him, as much as his reduced strength would permit. But this was a feeling he tried to ingrain in himself; he knew it was likely the most effective means he had for tempering his own nature, should a similar circumstance occur.
As ferality would happen, insanity would happen; it had been careless to think a Bond alone would be enough to always prevent it. Outside influences happened, emotional disturbances certainly happened, and considering the degree to which they felt things... no, even without a curse, they were fully capable of doing this to one another. Mettaton's desire for being desired, heightened to a god's demand for appropriate reverence... his own want to live in service, coupled with existing self-destructiveness, heightened to a willingness to offer his life even when unnecessary. They operated so frequently in extremes; this was inevitable. Even knowing better, having stared down the risk of their excess once before, it was inevitable.
How then, could they be trusted to manage it? Though they fed into each other so easily, Emet-Selch knew his blood could have a calming, clarifying effect on the puca. And there was nothing wrong with providing it to him in principle, he thought. And he could spare quite a bit without it becoming dangerous. But in the heat of a moment like this, how could they ensure that Mettaton didn't snap down on anything immediately lethal? And that if he tried to, that the Ascian would be willing to stop him? Those things were... the truest problem.
And one he didn't know the answer to. Even though he felt sick now at the thought of his lover having to face having accidentally murdered him while in a state of blood-soaked madness, emerging from his rapturous fury only to find his mangled corpse- he knew himself well enough to be uncertain how well he'd remember that lesson when required. These past few minutes had been proof enough of that; even now, the thought of his lover's teeth in his throat was--
--still disturbingly acceptable.
...And that in itself was a problem he hadn't wanted to consider and also didn't have an answer to. But while Emet-Selch didn't have Mettaton's optimism, he was stubborn. There really was no other option: they would have to manage this. As he also refused to entertain any possibility that the only way to avoid this fate was to separate. They were too arrogant to give in to that, too entwined- and too much in love. Enough not only to refuse to part, but also to be motivated to find some means of sparing the other pain.
But his thoughts are disrupted when he feels Mettaton's lips move to his throat- and even now, he felt no hesitation in having his attention there, softness applied to wounded skin, a heat that only... soothed. Comforted. And while he would've liked to believe that his lack of concern was due to feeling no trace of aggression on his lover's part, that there was no reason to think that he would snap down on him now- Emet-Selch can't be entirely sure. That much, he tries not to dwell on; this moment, at least, was safe. Mettaton wouldn't hurt him... the Bond made that clear. And for all that he couldn't match the robot's stability, his sentiment was no less determined, desperately so. Mettaton's lips reach his face, kiss away blood-diluted tears, before finding their way to his own lips. Kisses there were the most natural thing to follow, and the most comforting part of all- particularly the ever-familiar inclination to never just leave it at one. Though with nerves as raw as his, it's affection that in itself nearly leaves him stricken, even as he loves him for it.
...They would do better. Even if they kept making mistakes, they would keep trying... they would survive. Swallowing painfully, Emet-Selch nods again, following it with another kiss, feeling his lover's smile, endeared terribly to him.
The comment on his soreness though, almost gets a sigh, though it's limited to a slightly heavier exhalation. A practical consideration was a momentary reprieve, even if it wasn't as though his overwhelming bodily aching and fatigue were particularly pleasant. But in comparison to his emotional state, it was straightforward; in itself, there was nothing wrong with blood or bruise.
(He still clings to him; still huddles close. Just the thought of even temporarily separating from Mettaton was- panic-inducing. He needed to touch him, to smell him, to have his company as close as possible, to bury himself inside it.)
But could he stand.... 'Not really', Emet-Selch mouths against his lips, following it with a shake of his head. If he absolutely had to, he could stand, he thought, especially if he had support, but walking... if his life depended on it, probably. And in that case he'd rather risk teleporting.]
[An answer to coax a hum from Mettaton's throat as he pulls back again, getting a look at his lover, envisioning him as he was for... who knows how long. Legs spread, always riding Mettaton's hips in one regard or another, always permitting the Puca to pleasure himself on his body... A hum that actually has him pulling a cheeky smirk, in spite of the heaviness of their recent threat. Or, more aptly, of Mettaton's recent threat toward Emet-Selch. Or perhaps their mutual threat toward Emet-Selch's continued life, and Mettaton's conscience. It was a complicated combination.]
I can hardly imagine it! Being so sore... [And the way he says it implies he wishes he could imagine it... Mettaton.] I'll give you options, then. How about that?
[Before providing his options, Mettaton readjusts his arms. He releases Emet-Selch from his tight embrace with one hand, shifting his thighs so he's not trapping him on the floor between them as he worms his hand beneath the other man's knees. With relative ease, Mettaton braces his arm against Emet-Selch's back as he lifts him from the floor — a bridal carry, despite the fact that they're unmarried, it was fine. It's a quick maneuver, one intended to carry Emet-Selch to the bed, where Mettaton deliberately places him somewhere less... messy.
The covers would all have to be changed, eventually. They had been plentiful in their endeavors, liquids of all kinds merely a byproduct to pleasure. Mettaton stares at it all, before realizing that he'd settled Emet-Selch close to the two pendants. He stares at them, too.
His fur's darkened completely again, spreading as prolifically as the fluids they've left in their wake. He's not feral still: he remains perfectly even-tempered, his mood by Bond stable as he gently lowers Emet-Selch back to recline on the mess of pillows he always keeps on his bed. His hands remain on Emet-Selch's skin, claws as present as fingertips as he pets gently over his thigh, on his shoulder, redirecting his gaze back to Emet-Selch's. He remains touching him, standing at the edge of the bed before he sidles upon its surface on his hip, pressing his thigh along his lover's side as his hands drift to lace with Emet-Selch's fingers. ...Unable to restrain himself, he leans in to press another kiss to Emet-Selch's lips.
His desires mount all over again, undeniable urges clouding his head to... once more, bed his lover. An exhalation of heat, a tightening of fingers laced with his. Carnal, primal, he's sure that if he were shapeshifted still, if he had the body for it, Emet-Selch would just watch him get interested in him all over again — exasperating really, considering their most recent engagement and the dangers it posed them. That his body would continue to keep him interested had a lot to do with the way the moons influenced him, particularly while around Emet-Selch. He was fully aware, fully conscious of these desires and fully in control of them, even when his body had desires of their own, and he gives the pendants a pointed look again as he draws back, eyelids dropping a degree.
Not that he needed pendants or moons to agitate his high libido. He wouldn't describe himself as easily distracted by sex, but he was certainly easy to arouse, even if he could think around it all. Emet-Selch was his kryptonite.
Then he fixes his attention back on Emet-Selch's gaze, ears rising enough to properly lean forward toward his Bonded.]
I could help you shower. Or... If you'd like to recover first, we can stay here together. How about it?
[Emet-Selch would be creative enough to express his preference even without the use of his throat, Mettaton knew. He could mouth it, make a face, move his body... And Mettaton would know. But he takes a moment to unhand Emet-Selch, grabs one of the two pendants (just one!), and... throws it across the room.
Luckily, it is a fairly spacious room. Immediately, any pressure he felt begins to diminish as the sisters are once more separated. It wasn't intolerable by any stretch of the word, especially while he lacked the diamonds around his neck (diamonds he'd clean off the floor... later, unless Papyrus found them first and got confused (MTT was sure he'd tidy them up and understand that diamonds are Mettaton's, he still wants them)), but it was still less precarious like this. Any of the more wild inclinations he might have during the pull of the moons, such as the desire to run, to play tricks, to get petty revenge... They'd diminish like this. He didn't need the draw of the moons to be attracted to his Bonded, nor to give into whimsy. He could do that on his own.
That taken care of, he joins their hands again. The change back would be gradual, but he's sure to lean closer to Emet-Selch, to make it easy for him to be kissed, even if Emet-Selch would have to work for it like this.]
You're getting a shower, no matter what. But we could wait. [Even though Mettaton would towel him off at least of the worst of it.]
[That his physical condition was becoming something Mettaton could view with some amusement didn't particularly surprise him (nor did Mettaton's apparent desire to experience said soreness... absurd as it was, his fascination with sensations like that was a point of fondness). And even with the immediate crisis so briefly behind them, it wouldn't be hard to take a single glance at the Ascian's body and not be reminded of exactly how he had been made to be so sore. How long he'd gone with his legs wrapped around Mettaton or otherwise spread, with a cock stroking his body so deeply. It wasn't as though their most recent unfortunate conclusion could erase the pleasure they'd both took in everything preceding it.
Mettaton's mention of options draws a blink, especially when instead of going ahead and giving them to him, he shifts an arm underneath the Ascian's legs, scooping him up into a scandalous, unmarried bridal-carry. But other than continuing to attach to him as much as possible, Emet-Selch does nothing to prevent or protest this, caring only about remaining in contact with his body. Of course, any kind of movement hurt, put pressure on one thing, or pulled at something else. None of it was comfortable. But then, neither was remaining where he had been, curled against his lover's body while on the floor.
It was still a small relief to be placed down somewhere softer, even if any contact with his shoulders stung, and his gaze remains on Mettaton, more relieved when the other man was careful to never break contact with him, even when settling him in place upon the pillows. Deliberate contact, even when it was relatively small- the brush of claw-tipped fingers, or the nudge of a hip- it was enough to sustain him through the process. Watching his lover's fur darken again (and only then really recognizing that it had briefly returned to its more familiar silvery-hue), sparks more fascination than concern; after all, his mood still felt secure. Whether his fur was dark or light, both looks were striking on him....
And it was the strangest point of reassurance, as Mettaton sidles into bed with him, thigh against his body, fingers together, leaned in for a kiss- to note his lover's continued desire for him. To recognize those glimmers of arousal, evident even in a body currently without a cock to make it particularly blatant. And he kisses him back, firmly, loving, with a heat of his own- though it's more in the direction of a want for his company than anything strictly sexual. Just- wanting him overall.
Mettaton looking back to the pendants reminds Emet-Selch of them again; that would explain the puca's forced shifting, the increase in certain inclinations, despite there being no full moon. But it was also clear that it was only an influence rather than control, nudges in certain directions that he could choose to indulge in or not.
And then Mettaton provides him his options (shower now, or later), asks him what he prefers- and then distracts him by letting go of his hand, picking up one of the pendants, and throwing it to the other side of the room. Landing with a distant clatter, Emet-Selch understands after a moment the point of such sudden anti-jewelry activity. Thusly separated, their influence should be greatly reduced... and his lover wouldn't have those extra inclinations nagging at him. It was a reasonable action, and the Ascian settles stiffly back into the bed, accepting his hand again as Mettaton resumes leaning close.
Squeezing a little at their fingers, Emet-Selch thinks about what he'd prefer. He did, sorely (literally) desire to be clean, a feeling that did steadily increase the longer he was left like this, and as uncomfortable as the process would be, the result would be soothing, a sign that everything would be fine... even if it took a while to get there. But Mettaton had also just picked him up and placed him down so kindly upon the bed... stained as it was, damp in any number of places. For at least a little while, then... he could rest here.
In either case, he just wanted to be with him. Leaning up, he does go to the effort to kiss him again, a firm touch of lips. ...But his neck hurt to stretch out like that, so he lets his head fall back against the pillows with what would've been a huff. But with the way he settles in, it seems to indicate a desire to stay where he was, for the time being. Still wanting to kiss him, and wanting him closer in general, he lets go of his hand in order to bring fingers to the back of Mettaton's head, tugging him downward, in the direction of his lips.
It's not much of a tug, all things considered. But he tries.]
[There was always another point of amusement to keeping his eyes on Emet-Selch: watching what he'd do. And without voice, every little detail of movement and flit of his gaze was worth his attention, watching him watch him in his explanation or action, from the following of his gaze as he offered him options to the way he'd grab for him, this close.
And if anything, these points of action offered perfect clarity for Mettaton. He knew what his lover wanted. There were options off the menu, and Emet-Selch just wanted Mettaton, and whatever Mettaton would do. But judging by his behavior, settling in place and wrapping his fingers around the back of his neck, staying just where he was would be fine for a while. To remain in bed, to be held, simple as that. That was congenial, and Mettaton smirks upon him for his attempts at kissing that fell flat, just as much as Emet-Selch fell back onto the pillows behind him.
(And, in a distant way, gazing upon Emet-Selch's body and smelling the sex on him, the scent of himself and Emet-Selch entwined together... It was primal, sure, but he relished the thought of his markings of blood and come remaining on his body, as though leaving them to stain skin. It was arousing, possessive, something worth his contentment and pride. ...He couldn't possibly help the way a spark of heat enters his gaze, in spite of their too-recent scare, the air between them fragile as anything. He just couldn't help wanting him, not when he was displayed before him like this.
...It was no wonder a feral-minded version of himself found this body impossible to resist. That he did it at all impressed Mettaton in the present, even though he'd do his best to resist him right now.)
To sate Emet-Selch's need for kisses, the Puca leans in to press one squarely, softly, against his lips. But it's only soft for so long, until it intensifies into a deeper, passionate affair, mouthing and sucking his lip, flicking him with tongue and tasting him, the knowledge of how much come Emet-Selch has consumed coming to the forefront of Mettaton's thoughts to entice. But he wouldn't let it distract him when he wants simply to foster contact, to be with him. At his core, for all of his desires, he only wanted to be touched and loved in return.
It's not a kiss to suffocate, and it has an end. Mettaton lingers against his lips, resting there for a spell as he keeps their fingers laced together — just as they are, squeezing tight and bowing his head to push their foreheads together for an added nudge of affection. ...For knowing each other for almost nine months, it felt like he'd known Emet-Selch for much longer. Perhaps it's their Bond, the way it penetrates them both... He could feel Emet-Selch at all hours of the day, and their interactions deepen with each encounter. Even seeing him in the morning, or wishing him goodnight, all of it compounded into a feeling of familiarity. Moments like these became ones to deepen their bond further, even if it tore them apart first to do it. How long had it been since Mettaton kept the company of someone steadily like this? ...Not as long as he imagines it's been for Emet-Selch, but he finds a renewed appreciation for it anyway. Here, against his lips, he closes his eye and soaks in the moment, all of its fears and its love and its weight. The intensity of it all impresses him and always entices him. Entertains him. Fascinates him. It was effortless.
Drawing back so slightly, Mettaton frees one of his hands to reach for that promised towel — rather, the throw he'd used earlier to wipe off Emet-Selch's face. (He doesn't keep towels near their bed. He should.) Though he appreciates the come and blood slathered on his lover's body, some of it... could go, if he wanted to nap at all comfortably under blankets. It was a different sort of contact, wiping at his abdomen with the dry face of a blanket; moving to a different part and repeating the process on the front of his blood-and-spit coated shoulders and chest, mindful of clotting wounds, to the best of his ability. He clicks his tongue.]
You're such a mess. Look at you. [As though chiding. He was part of the cause: Emet-Selch wouldn't have made all of this mess without Mettaton, after all. But Emet-Selch can't talk back, so he won't bother acknowledging that. The smile on his face suggests that he knows, and he's proud of it.] But we can at least get you dry enough for now...
[Changing his grip on the blanket again, Mettaton forces his way between Emet-Selch's thighs, lifting each and wiping him of any excess ejaculate. Toweling him and watching, his gaze fixed on come and bruise alike — and how much there is, really... Some of it has dried, and some of it yet remains on Emet-Selch's backside, but he wasn't trying to be extremely thorough. He still leans down to kiss his hips, letting go of the throw blanket for a moment to smooth his palms over his thighs, pressing fingers into taut, tender muscle, experimental and investigative.]
[There was a lot to observe, he knew. How marked he was, how claimed... every sign of his subjugation to him. Even if it had almost come at a price, it didn't erase how attractive of a look it was. And even though it meant living with being sticky and thoroughly unwashed for a time longer, to be surrounded by these signs of his lover's possession of him, to rest while still smelling their sex, still feeling it dried upon his skin- it wasn't the worst of things by far.
Emet-Selch tries to make some sort of low, pleased sound, ill-advised as it would be, but not much of anything emerges. Which is probably for the best anyway; it just would've sounded like a staticy rasp, context alone indicating pleasure or approval. And he had the rest of his manner to indicate that, tired as he was. But a soft kiss that turns into a deeper one- that was exactly what he wanted.
Even though he has no energy for any sort of followthrough or particular arousal, it's the sort of kiss that would've caused a moan, and which did cause his pulse to rise a notch. Mettaton's own passion was always catching, the sort of thing Emet-Selch had little resistance to- whenever he wasn't trying to incite it himself. Any effort to entice each another tended to be successful, attracted as they were to each other. Even now, when he knew they weren't actively trying to bed one another, weren't trying to tempt towards another round, it was impossible to remove all trace of heat between their contact. Whether it was represented through the threading of their fingers, or the depth of a kiss, the slipping of tongues against one another's, or the hint of suction- passion always remained. It was a natural part of them.
And it was hard to forget all that he'd taken into his mouth over this past... while. Both Mettaton's cock and his come, repeatedly- and the thought of how much he'd swallowed down, the memory of the taste of him thick in his mouth, was a deeply pleasurable one. He would always want to suck him off, or lick the excess from his fingers. And even if those earliest rounds had led to this, with the damaging of his throat, the rendering of him unable to speak and all that had followed because of his inability to vocalize sufficient praise- he didn't regret it. He didn't think they should've gone easier on him either, and he knew he'd want Mettaton to fuck his throat just as thoroughly in future. They would just... have to be a little more careful elsewhere, that was all.
Though he's a touch breathless at the end of the kiss, it's only a touch. Brushing his lips across his afterward in the faintest of nuzzles, with the press of their foreheads together, along with the union of their hands- he felt loved. And that in itself would be enough to take his breath, loving him in return just as severely. That it felt that bit sharper, heavier- Emet-Selch assumed that was due to what had just happened, heights of emotion finding a sort of catharsis, a release into utter affection and care that could reach ever deeper. But even when they weren't tearing each other open like this- physically, emotionally- he found the way they settled into one another reassuring. There was an ease there that was both restful and anything but, considering how frequently they turned towards passionate entwining. But even then, what was that but a somewhat more energetic display of affection?
Intensity was always there, no matter how gentle or impassioned they were being. They just had to find ways to channel it that wouldn't end with the Ascian's throat torn out.
But for now there was this. There was aftercare and love and soreness and mess, a considerable amount of them all. And Emet-Selch sighs quietly when Mettaton pulls back slightly, enough to take up a blanket that had become a towel, wiping up some of the excess... everything, that he'd been slathered in. Coated in. Stained by. Blood and come, sweat and saliva- the four cornerstones of their union.
Mettaton's comment does get a look of mild objection, as though to protest not only his current state, but his lover's hand in it (even if it was the result of his cock primarily, or his teeth... though his claws had played some role as well), along with his current non-verbal status. It's a very efficient look that way, far more so than any sort of speech would be. Mettaton's pride was also expected and- well. He can't blame him. To render him as thoroughly used as this, in absolute disarray, it was something worth appreciation (and as uncomfortable as it was, Emet-Selch found it no less impressive, even if he couldn't see it all).
Cleaning his thighs of excesses of come (there sure was a lot... which was satisfying to realize, and a point of strange smugness, to have inspired his lover to leave him with this much), he knew there would still be a certain amount of residue, but Emet-Selch appreciated Mettaton's overall gentleness towards him. And even if he did still feel like a mess and knew he looked like one, considering all that had already dried on him... it was better. The consideration alone made it better.
Tilting his head up a little (though not for too long, it wasn't exactly comfortable), Emet-Selch watches Mettaton's kiss to his hip, the palpitations over his thighs. Bruised skin and tired muscle- legs that had spent more time spread around his lover than otherwise, tight and tensing. Even now they twinged a little on reflex from being prodded. But even sore... it was nice to feel his touch on him regardless.]
[Emet-Selch's pointed look gets a giggle out of Mettaton, for having anticipated his minor annoyance and for it being so clear on his face, so easy to read, almost like he could have predicted it and imitated it for himself. Drawn it from a precognitive memory, but it's much more satisfying to see it for himself. The pride, however, remains: it's more obvious as a backdrop to his amusement, still working his hands over his legs, his lips against his skin, tasting him despite having no intent to consume him. Yet when he presses and prods his thighs, he can feel the tension beneath his fingers and he knows fully that such soreness came from Emet-Selch's proper position, thighs spread around Mettaton's body as he took a thick cock, pleasured them both with the warmth of his body—
Excessive and indulgent, Mettaton continues to kiss hotly around his hip, his abdomen, surely kissing right over areas where he'd wiped up (a rudimentary fix) some of his lover's come, caring not at all that he's still a mess regardless and deigning to make him more of a mess, it seems. A mess of saliva — then, as he rubs his cheek against the taut plane of his abdomen, a mess of scents as well. As if he weren't already a mess of all regards...
...Arousal plagues him still, and he knows better than to continue, even though he has no anatomical features that should ache or distract. It didn't make it necessarily easier to cope with... Just less obvious, and more frustrating. A forced abstinence from relief, when Mettaton is hardly one to abstain.
They were a mess, and Mettaton scarcely knew how to hold back. Evidenced by the amount of come he'd wiped just from his inner thighs, a true exercise in excess, an amount shocking and only from places he could reach! This wasn't including the come left on the floor, from the multiple attempts his lover had at rising — and it's terrible, really, how aroused Mettaton feels. He squirms somewhat, imagining the times earlier where he saw milky fluid cascading down his thighs, how it looked when he spread his ass and had a chance to fit his cock against all of that, proof of how much he'd fucked him, deposited in him load after load... Before it all went sour, before he lost his mind and Emet-Selch was rendered too used to say a word.
The Puca presses his face more deeply into Emet-Selch's abdomen to cope, reminding himself that such excess is what led them down this scary path when unchecked.
So the robot pulls back, gaze gentling, still fixing on his lover's lower half for the moment. He exhales, letting the settling, charged air between them weigh on him as comfortably and uncomfortably, as it should. They were coming around from the fearsome drop into terror and discomfort their sex brought them, all of it intense, but when he glances at Emet-Selch's face he can still see the evidence of tears. Mettaton gentles further, and he scoots himself closer to his upper half, having cleaned what he could get to on his lower half.
He truly is weak to Emet-Selch now, he thought... Emet-Selch would do anything for his sake, but if Emet-Selch wanted something, Mettaton's sure he'd have a hard time denying him. Even when he doesn't want something and Mettaton thinks he ought to have it, he has a hard time saying no to himself. Closer to his face, Mettaton presses his palm to the Ascian's cheek in a regard for him: his split lip, his attentive gaze, the shock of white in his bangs... All of his features are once more soaked in.]
You're so difficult to pass up...
[Said on a voice airy and smooth, reflective and low as if in a dream — and a touch embarrassed, but not because he thought it shameful to want Emet-Selch so bad. Just that he possessed such uncontrollable libido. No doubt Emet-Selch could feel the full of his appetitive conflict, and he shakes his head no. One of his ears stands properly, attentive and neutral, but the other... flops over somewhat, forgetting to stand like its partner.
He doesn't plan on ravishing him another time, even when his body wishes it. That much is clear.
But it's clear that Mettaton thinks of something when he looks at his chest. His other hand skims over scars: a long line of one, then rounding around the bite he'd taken out of his lover's chest, just over his heart. A time during the heat of summer, the allure of sun so inviting to Mettaton as he wanted to try it on for himself — failure imminent, scarring in a different way. An admission of trouble to his lover, making an unfaltering idol look weakened; a subsequent admission between them both that they were both bearing scars from the time they met. They'd traded traumas, spoke of them, shared their horrors and held each other, elected to take back what was rightfully theirs.
...He lifts his gaze again to meet Emet-Selch's eyes.]
Your shoulder... I think it's going to scar, at this rate.
[The option was always to go to a healer who could properly close it. Stitches and magic, the options were plentiful here. Mettaton only caught sight of it when they sat on the floor, but his understanding of what scarred and what didn't suggested to him that such openness wrought by his teeth sunken in flesh twice over would me more difficult for his lover's body to piece back together again.]
I didn't hold back, did I? [Aside from the lack of coordination from too-recent climax that hindered his ability to sink his teeth into flesh, making for a bite so sloppy... no, he didn't.]
[And Mettaton's giggle gets an ever more pointed look from Emet-Selch, completely unsurprised by his reaction, and also completely unable to keep himself from responding to it anyway with demonstrative irritation and an added sigh. But it was little disguise from his underlying approval for the state Mettaton had left him in, his artistry evident on his body anywhere one cared to look. Despite the way they had been forced to stop, resulting in his lingering need for Mettaton's company (with the side of fear at the thought of not having it), and this exhibition of the dangers their mutual intensity posed... it was an attractive condition.
It was no wonder that his lover was drawn towards touching those stained places on his lower body, and the Ascian's muscles tense underneath his lips, fully conscious himself over the way his own come had dried against his abdomen, how each of his orgasms had mostly ended up resting there, or had been left to drip down along his cock. How aroused he'd been, and how desperate, and how blatant that record of it was, displayed upon his own body for Mettaton's amusement or delectation. This explicit proof that he was so enamored of and attracted to his lover's cock that his own required no stimulation in order to find climax.
It was an arousing memory, and Mettaton was in an arousing position, mouthing his skin and rubbing it, marking him all over again with his face, layers upon layers of claim. And the robot didn't need to have a visible erection for Emet-Selch to know of the man's arousal, how readily he was stoked, and how deeply he was desired. This encounter had led to any number of images to return to, each more alluring than the next. If he weren't so utterly spent, depleted, the sight of Mettaton anywhere near his lower body would've had him stiffening. Just having Mettaton anywhere near him at all could have that effect.
Mettaton lingered at his abdomen, and Emet-Selch recognized the mix of feelings going through him; even without the Bond, he would've known. Moving a hand, he touches the robot's hair, fingers slowly trailing through it, stroking him very gently. Desire remained, but so did discomfort... there was the memory of spread legs and thick white fluid dripping between them, the continued evidence of come decorating parts of his body, and the recollection of fury. Of spite, vindictiveness and malice, insult and distress. The consequence of indulging so far.
He can feel his lover gentling, and his touch to the idol's hair slows further, to the point of resting warmly against his head. Mettaton shifts himself upward, and his hand falls to the side, arm moving to try and wrap around the puca instead, to encourage him to stay close. Mettaton's own hand rested against his cheek, and he rubs his face into it, just a little. Affection, even if it wasn't quite simple.
The verbal admission of his lust gets a look of mixed empathy and apology. Desire was such a normal state between them, and to be unable to give into it was... unfortunate. But he was grateful for Mettaton's restraint, even if he disliked the conflict of it all. That they were given more proof that the strength of their emotions unfettered could lead to pained distress and nearly grievous consequence- it unsettled.
Attention turns instead to more visible scars, and Emet-Selch watches as his lover's gaze takes in those of his chest. Evident and clear, a mix of those unwanted and those asked for, on a day both difficult and necessary. He remembered the sight of his Bondmate so ill, his shape distorted; how warm the interior of his body was, and the texture of his organs. The recollection of traumas seen and experienced. The effort to try and face things side by side.... A complicated memory, as the most important ones often were.
His shoulder. Mettaton's comment has him tense it briefly as he meets his eyes again for a moment, before glancing aside, expression both contemplative and uncomfortable. It wasn't necessary for him to see it to know that it would scar. But he knew just as well that he wouldn't try to get it healed with magic, would keep it clean but otherwise leave it alone; another for his growing collection of permanent markings. But in the end, it was like the one on his neck: a reminder. Though he would carry the memory regardless of what was left etched on his skin, to be able to touch it made it that much more immediate. It wasn't a lesson to forget, and he wondered how many more he'd acquire before they found a way not to do this.
He sighs again, but it's a softer sound, tired and worn. Looking to Mettaton again, he shakes his head no; his lover really hadn't held back. Emet-Selch hadn't wanted him to, and on most occasions it went perfectly. It was only when the Ascian hadn't been able to live up to expectations that it had failed... scars were an appropriate price for that.
(Even now, it was hard not to think that if Mettaton had stayed to tear his throat out, that it would've been warranted. It was a feeling difficult to clamp down on, that went against not only ingrained habit and the fresh memory of all of that intense emotion (the desperation to quell his lover's rage at all cost), but what felt like some intrinsic part of him.)]
[Emet-Selch's choice to forgo healing, to let it scar and to keep it... Even though he doesn't voice it, Mettaton can almost tell that this is the inevitable outcome. And he agrees with it, really. Both as a mark - a mark he'd always leave more and more of - and as a reminder. Like the bite on his neck, they could patch it up and take the regular means of keeping his wound contained. They would heal from this, slow and steady, not with anything to quickly cover up the problem. Bandages and cleaning and the same thing they'd done for his neck. The most important part was to make it count.
The one he wore on his shoulder would be cleaned and dressed. It would be watched after, almost as though willing for it to stay. They'd prevent it from festering and acknowledge it happened — something Mettaton's historically had such trouble doing, the simple act of acknowledging that a problem existed at all. Even still he struggles with that, preferring to pretend all was right. Like this, neither of them could forget.
All of his scars counted toward something, thought Mettaton, as he continues to stare at his chest and his neck. And he smiles at the one on his neck, a weak one: it wasn't a failed lesson either. The thought of Emet-Selch so weak and indisposed had occurred to him before he'd lost his mind, after all. Even if it was a bit late, even if they were already spiraling in the descent of madness together, it changed something. The Puca reaches out to rub the back of his finger against that scar. To this day, it still seems like it gets better and better with each, slow to stitch back together with as deep as it was, as vulnerable a spot.
Low and close, Mettaton dips down to plant a kiss against Emet-Selch's ravaged neck. Tender, soft.]
I thought about that time we... Well. The last time. I don't know how...
[He doesn't clarify what the "last time" was. Mettaton doesn't think he needs to. They both knew what he spoke of. That he was the one who sunk his teeth in Emet-Selch's neck didn't strike him as it being solely his problem. It was a thing for both of them to work on, because it was rooted in each of their breeds of excess. The lack of control, the want for it all, the want to lose minds, to self-ruination... It was a joint effort.
In the end, neither of them want to hold back... And most of the time, it does go perfectly. Excess to die for, their intensities the only thing in the world to match each other, to truly sate if not satisfy with any permanency. It was the nature of them and their relationship: nothing would ever be perfectly satisfactory when potential existed, neither of them done with one another. Not even here, their hearts bruised as badly as Emet-Selch's neck.
Having the Ascian wrap his arm around him, no matter how loose, encourages Mettaton toward closeness. He thinks about cleaning that bite wound on his shoulder, but decides it was something they could tackle when they were vertical, when Mettaton helped him to the shower. They could both take care of it then, and for now, Emet-Selch's blood could do... what it could, to manage this atrocity. The way it did when he'd bit his chest, and the blood that gushed from him lazily began to lessen, the way it healed over on its own. His body was delicate, but it would withstand much, and it would persevere. With this reassurance on the mind, Mettaton lets Emet-Selch pull him close with an eagerness.
Like this, the robot glances off to the side. He may not have towels, but he does have blankets: ones he likes the textures of, now that he could feel them to any degree. A few had been kicked off in the wake of their passion, and his arms are more than capable of reclaiming them, no matter how far. Mettaton reaches over the edge of the bed and gropes for fabric, withdrawing his hand and a dark, fleece blanket, thankfully untouched by any of their usual and plentiful fluids that naturally accompany their sex. Even if he's not yet clean, Emet-Selch deserves to be as comfortable as possible, and if they were going to lounge here for a spell, he wants to cover his lover's body from the air — but not from him. He could remain flush to Mettaton.
A flick of his wrist has the blanket unfolded and draped poorly over Emet-Selch's form, but Mettaton's reach has the situating covered, pulling it over Emet-Selch's legs and feet all while laying at his side. It's useful to have nonstandard arms. Mettaton still remains propped up on the bend of his arm, his shoulders too... embellished for him to lay on his side.
His lover covered up and with himself (mostly) under that blanket, Mettaton sighs, moving from neck to lips. Once more tender and soft, a kiss is applied there, too.]
Thinking about you... I tried to hold back, believe it or not. It was hard... That scares me.
[That it took effort to spare Emet-Selch instead of collecting his dues from a man who had disappointed him, who had failed to sing him his praises and prayers. It had seemed so logical and right, to collect his throat instead. He couldn't wait for the taste... Right here, it disorients and disturbs him. No, this was hardly an improvement... But maybe it was something. Would he have stopped if he lacked that memory from before, where he was so sure Emet-Selch would die because of his reckless conveyance of emotion? Of their bedlam of maddening emotion for each other, fear and furor and love and insatiability?]
[This host of his really was taking a beating... but Emet-Selch wouldn't have exchanged it, even if he could have. Even if none of the memories involved were straightforward, they were worth remembering. A visual reminder of something slow to recover from, uncomfortable and deep, and that would always be there- but that didn't have to be seen as a detriment, or a flaw. They weren't hindrances, these scars. If anything, they were their best defense.
Mettaton touches that spot on his neck, leans in to kiss it. And the Ascian keeps still, stroking slowly at him with his fingers as he tries to hold him near. That the puca had managed to recall that past moment, even in the midst of insanity was- reassuring and saddening alike. It was good that he'd been able to (even if his heart hurt terribly as he remembered the sight of him leaving, the sound of the door slamming after him, with terrible finality--), and very much less good that he'd had to. And as useful as it had been, unfortunate again that he'd had that memory to turn to.
Their cooperation was a striking thing. An alignment fierce and destructive, that usually only served to provide heights of pleasure and adoration, a possessiveness that ensured that they would provide all they could to one another. Like the last time they'd cooperated to nearly kill him, there were occasional... consequences to their tendency towards excess.
For now, his body could try to knit itself, and they could slowly try to follow. Staying close like this... helped. And a robot body did have its advantages, as Emet-Selch watches his lover obtain a covering for them without having to leave his side- even managing to place it on top of them without much issue. And he felt more secure like this, with warmth locked in, even if he was still a mess.
On one hand, that Mettaton only sank his teeth into his shoulder while incensed possibly counted as progress. It would still be a scar to provoke unease, one that would cause thoughts to return to this series of events- but he could take any number of scars like this without dying. Mettaton snapping down anywhere instead of his throat was acceptable, surely (though a part of him wondered what would've happened had he been on his back instead, if his neck had been that much more instantly accessible).
On the other hand, if this was progress, it was only really on Mettaton's side of things, that he had managed to hold himself back, even if it had been profoundly difficult... that even if he had been driven to snap down onto his shoulder so deeply, he hadn't gone further than that. But Emet-Selch- in that moment, soothing his lover's ire had taken all precedence. He would have delivered himself to his jaws if he could have, given himself over to make up for how he hadn't been able to perform as required.
And that... unsettled him. Because of how narrowly they had avoided complete disaster, but only because Mettaton had recalled enough of their previous lesson. If Emet-Selch had been able to successfully follow or prevent him from leaving him, how long would his lover have been able to resist taking his throat? Trying to tighten his arm around him for the moment, he shifts himself some small degree closer, as though wanting to hide against him, wrapped up in both Mettaton and blanket. He kisses him back, just as softly.
And his manner remains uncertain, though due entirely to this reminder of his own nature, something he'd never felt the need to address or acknowledge. That he had that memory of Mettaton being so distraught and concerned over him though... if it weren't for that, the Ascian knew his hesitations would be that much weaker. But how could he learn to prioritize a future that they both wanted (continuing to live, so that they could keep giving themselves to each other, without reserve), over inclinations he'd never bothered to fight before?
He can't even ask, rhetorical as it would be, with his voice like this. But to know that Mettaton had been afraid for how close he'd come to tearing him apart- it was something to keep in mind. He had to. Somehow he had to remember this when he needed to, for Mettaton's sake, if not for his own. He couldn't expect his lover to be the only one to control himself. Yet even with that determination in his thoughts, Emet-Selch felt more uneasy than resolute as he holds him, and is held in turn. There was still the desire to comfort, insufficient and shaky as he felt, to show his appreciation for the effort Mettaton had made, even if it had hurt, and he nuzzles him quietly.]
[Simultaneously, Mettaton wonders similarly: if he'd been nestled between Emet-Selch's legs, his lover prone on his back and made to watch him devolve into the beast he'd become, would he had had such a conundrum stop him? There was inaccessibility to keep him from lunging for his throat, after all. The moment he'd craved something greater, he could've had it all waiting for him, a neck so delicate for the consumption... Instead, he'd had a memory hit him hard enough to feel like he had all the wires in his chassis yanked, and he still remembers acutely the conflicted feeling that had him so disrupted that he'd halted fucking his lover altogether. Thinking like this at all has him once more caressing his neck, but not for the sake of a scar. Trying to ingrain in himself that this is delicate, precious: it was integral for Emet-Selch to survive, that he refrain from eating him.
(If he hadn't conditioned himself into being a maneater thoroughly sated by his own Witch's blood, this might not be as much of a conundrum. But here he is, still finding the prospect of him appetizing... Even while he has more than enough control to restrain himself.)
There's no honing in on Emet-Selch as the problem between them. That even one of them practiced restraint for any reason was surely growth on their collective parts, even though Mettaton worries for these signs of Emet-Selch's willingness to be consumed, to sacrifice himself to a death at the hands of his lover gone feral. That even here, uncertainty plagues him: he remains propped up on his side, even as Emet-Selch plants a kiss on him, snuggles closer to him, hides from the world under blanket and between Mettaton. His ears splay apart, an uncertainty of his own striking his heart, taking form of pity and concern.
...Mettaton hadn't considered heavily how Emet-Selch's nature, living his life in devotion to another god (wow, seamlessly carrying "another god" over from their passion play and not even thinking twice) might impact him, how just... giving his life over for the ending at his lover's teeth might feel like the most natural thing to do, failing someone who had total dominion over him. He was a man who was the perfect devotee, subservient and comfortable in a place of being controlled, bound and taken. And it wasn't a bad trait in his mind, but to the level of such self-destruction... Emet-Selch never needs to hand over his life during their coupling. The level of uncertainty he was feeling suggests to Mettaton that it's a difficult thing for him to grapple with, both the knowledge and the way he'd go about tackling it.
For a moment, the robot unhands Emet-Selch. The hand he doesn't rely on for balance clicks those shoulder guards off of each of his arms (a bit more of a complicated process, some manner of pushing, shoving, then removing, but he makes it look fairly easy), setting them aside. Like this, he's capable of laying on his side, which he does, pulling Emet-Selch into him, wrapping his leg across the Ascian's hips. Sidling close, surrounding Emet-Selch in Mettaton just as he wants. Mettaton buries his nose in Emet-Selch's hair, responding to Emet-Selch's nuzzle with one of his own.]
I love you, Hades. Don't forget that.
[And that's why he wouldn't want him to die in his teeth. He could offer his blood; he could offer his body. He could give himself over completely, so long as Mettaton couldn't be made to end his life, a life he wants fostered and continued. He wouldn't want to leave him, even if leaving were necessary.
He can't answer to something when the question isn't asked, even when he gets the feeling that Emet-Selch is full of unease, uncertainty, discomfort. He grapples with his core, with them as a couple, and comes out still perplexed. It was understandable: even Mettaton felt such conflict, not knowing how he should stop when neither of them knew the meaning. When Mettaton wanted to possess the whole of his lover, from his life to his love, and wished to do with it all as he pleased while they were so entwined. To flirt with his lover's consciousness, to control his every movement and see him pleasured, to please himself on him... He wanted to possess these things freely, but didn't know how to be reasonable about it when reason was beyond them.
But he soothes himself when considering that if they could both look out for each other, it might be the case that they'd look out for themselves for the sake of one another. Emet-Selch's host would take a beating, but it should be one of love, of their continued love, he hoped.
...Not performing as required, according to Mettaton's standards, was something they'd have to get used to. After all, he's a machine. Emet-Selch is not. Mettaton's understanding of his limits are sometimes faulty — something he only scarcely considers, thinking to himself that he does understand them, even if he fails to remember that at the worst of times.]
[Mettaton having any sort of addiction to his blood still didn't come across to Emet-Selch as anything but normal, expected. Whether it was healthy or not didn't even register; his lover enjoyed drinking it from him, and the Ascian enjoyed feeling him take it from him. Whether it was from small mouthfuls or large (so long as they weren't life-threateningly so), there was a satisfaction in this claiming of essence, and nothing that he'd even consider trying to restrict (but then, as he was having significant trouble even mentally restricting Mettaton from claiming his life, denying him reasonable amounts of blood would've been completely hopeless).
His blood being delicious and soothing was both problem and solution; if it hadn't been so addictive, Emet-Selch wondered if Mettaton would've been so inclined towards his throat (but then, considering the problem this time had been his lack of voice, perhaps he would've ripped it out anyway, the perfect location for a release of spite; if the Ascian wouldn't use it to praise him, he didn't need it, after all). But it could still have a positive effect on his mental state, reducing the influence of any ferality the idol did find himself under.
This part, at least, only leads to an answer that Emet-Selch already knew: responsible(ish) bloodletting only. What qualified as responsible... varied, but so long as it was other than fatal (or near-fatal) he thought it didn't matter. But there was an addendum of knowledge, he supposed... that even if he hadn't been able to recognize at the time that he was meant to survive, that Mettaton wanted him to survive, no matter how terrible his failure in the moment was: this was something that he would have to work on. While still giving himself over completely otherwise- as he saw no reason to hesitate even when his lover brought him to unconsciousness via a cock in his throat, or at any other time when the puca was in particular control of his body. There were dangers (ignorable) and dangers (should probably do something about), and he just had to somehow... not give into the latter, even when his heart was screaming at him to do so.
That Mettaton would easily slot himself in as another god wouldn't even strike Emet-Selch as presumptuous, not at this point. Even if he weren't a literal deity (created or otherwise), the effect, and the intensity of his devotion amounted to much of the same. There was no Zodiark here, but his nature remained. And even were the Ascian somehow untempered- as would be the likely state of his soul after death- if anything, that would only create a greater void to be filled, a purpose to find in service once more.
Even now, Emet-Selch doesn't question it: he loved Mettaton, absolutely. And what was more natural to accompany love than subservience to one most beloved?
Though he blinks, tensing briefly as the robot moves, he settles again once he realizes what he's up to, removing those dramatic (if contrary to cuddling ease) shoulderguards. So he waits patiently through the twisting and shoving and placing aside, still thinking about how to ever balance his (completely normal) submission to his lover's will with... disobeying it should Mettaton find himself unable to hold back at some future point. It wasn't as though Emet-Selch wanted to die. Far from it... but his fear of it was lesser than the distress of not giving Mettaton what he wanted, when it was most important.
(It wasn't as though the contrary part of his nature would ever come in useful, even though this would be a time when it would be convenient for it to manifest. Even if it tried, Mettaton would overwhelm him. Emet-Selch wanted him to, and they both enjoyed it... as they'd even demonstrated earlier, when the puca had bitten and roughly mounted him in response to the Ascian stubbornly fucking himself with his fingers rather than immediately begging for his cock. But then, he'd still been able to praise him as well, through a faltering throat... making up for his insult with blood and voice and body.)
Mettaton's words of love still his breath, leave him both warmed and that bit more stricken. He knew it was true... which meant he had to survive. Even in those insane moments when neither of them wanted him to- or rather, that blood and recompense took precedence, with consequence forgotten.
But he couldn't forget, even if unease would linger. Mouthing a returned 'I love you too,' he kisses Mettaton again, tightening the arm he has wrapped around him for a few instants, resting that bit more comfortably against him, feeling the wrap of his lover's leg around him, and the steadying firmness of his body. Every bit of rigidity was reassuring.
...gods, he was tired, though. As if all of their (already emotionally intense, as usual) sex hadn't been enough to wear him, all of these outpourings of fear and pain and concern, of despair and near-tragedy, of everything about them at their most loving- which was the same as being at their most dangerous. And in this moment of peace in the aftermath, even the soreness and drying mess (even if it were thoughtfully reduced a bit) was giving way to those feelings of exhaustion. Only now was there space for it, time for it, and less ability to resist it. Unless specifically shuffled around, he's likely to pass out fairly soon.]
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There's a lot of static in these moments, but their Bond remains completely open, stormy and black and tumultuous. It could have gotten so rotten that, were they newly-Bonds, it may have been enough emotion to rip it apart. It could have been enough to wreck even this... but it holds fast. (Neither of them would really want it to break, and it wasn't as though either of them were in their best frame of mind.) But the Puca's ire grows beyond him, tangles and grows thorns, thickets of steely barbs, and Mettaton kicks over decorative glass with such violence that it shatters from impact alone. But it wasn't at all satisfying to Mettaton's raging temper, even though the entire world ought to be as furious as he is, shambling and destructive. Mettaton finds himself darkening, furious that nobody in the world could compare to Emet-Selch's praise and he'd lost even that.
Something worthy of praise continues to entice, lighting this building aflame, making it explode — and had he the magic, he would've done it in an instant. All people would behold it with awe and terror, and (Emet-Selch was upstairs still, he didn't want to hurt him, but) he didn't care who was caught in the crossfire. The robotic Puca tears into books, breaks porcelain, listens to the insanity of sound to replace the void where Emet-Selch's low, intimate voice should have been. Yes, his fury was appropriate, for why wouldn't a god demand worship and express his fury thusly? Abandon his devotees who couldn't appropriately laud him with reverence—
(He doesn't want to leave Emet-Selch behind... but he can't even focus on that anymore, thinking only in such fleeting frames of instants that this gets lost in the shuffle.)
The house is his storm and he doesn't even know where he's gone for a few minutes, hearing only the cacophony of breaking glass and pounding into the wall here and there. Nothing fixes this; nobody could match Emet-Selch's devotion, and his devotion failed him, left him wanting, and he wanted so much. He wanted it all, wanted the world and wanted his lover's body all over again.
Property stops enticing; Mettaton turns in on himself, gnawing on his arms. Tearing black fur, giving himself points of intensity to focus on, to lose his mind to, raking his claws over walls and feeling them pulled by unyielding drywall. Raking his claws over his metal body, too, to shudder with more intensity at the horrible scrape of nails against steel. None of this is with the intent to be self-destructive as much as it is to be real, to recognize for himself that he was so beautiful, undeniable and present and imposing, touchable and able to feel. But nothing tides him over; he can barely remember why he's so angry, and the feverish pitch of his emotions ties with... despair? He feels such despair, and he can't even tell that it's not his own, but it all intensifies his emotions even away from the pendant... urging him evermore toward ferality that couldn't subside. Not with such godly fury, vindictive and malicious as he's become.
—Until his claws snag on his shoulder jewelry. Diamonds spill from him like droplets of sparkling blood, clattering upon the floor as the jewelry comes unfastened by the neck, an entire section of it falling apart. This is worth despair, and Mettaton glances around him, shocked by the sudden loss of such a dazzling piece that slips off of his body like water. Emotions are high still, but as he stoops to the ground to lament the loss of his diamonds, so too does he lose the flaring rampage he could no longer place.
And he stills, staring at the glittering gems under the light, thinking about how he'd gotten here. Staring at blood on his hands; smelling it on his body. His own come, his lover's sweat and blood and...
(The sound of his pain, he wondered — but most certainly, the presence of grief that could fill the emptying space of their Bond where his own fury diminished, making room for the torrent of his Bonded's negativity.)
Not even caring to make himself presentable, Mettaton rises to his feet in an instant. Agile on the tips of his toes, he sprints for the stairs — feelings of disbelief, worry, pity and ache overwhelming him. It's not even ten (five? somewhere between there, he had no idea) minutes later that he's charging back into the room with a sudden slam of the door.]
Hades...?
[Voice softer, but still full of his emotion. Emotions not chastising or furious, but emotions of a similar intensity, concerned, but still fierce and passionate. Mettaton doesn't hover in place, immediately encroaching on his lover's space, no matter where he lay. If that was the floor, so be it — he would stoop down and collect him into his arms, alarmed less at the sight of blood and bruise as much as the flashes of recollection of his stricken, terrified eyes, of his despair, of... leaving him behind like that, even if it was for the better of them both. Of this sight before him. His lover's a mess, covered in blood and come and sweat, in tears and crumpled to the floor, made raw, rendered so painfully vulnerable yet left like this... How could Mettaton not want to pull him into his arms? He loves him, even if he's out of his mind.
Being in this room for long would surely influence him all over again in the moons' favor, but his fur's since colored itself silver, though it remains touched dark from the remaining intensity of his emotion.]
no subject
(More than once he was afraid it would break, their connection. His heart lurched with every distant smash, and his breathing stopped, lungs aching along with his throat, waiting for his lover's soaring madness to veer into hatred, if only for an instant. To decide he was truly unforgivable, and to snap what he truly was looking to break. But the moment never arrives and he ends up choking on air some seconds later, dizzied and still sick, waiting for the next brutal peak.)
No, Mettaton remaining close was its own version of dread. As rather than this small separation bringing calm, it only served to intensify the storm, with the only outlet being the insufficiency of objects. Even through his despair, Emet-Selch could tell it was getting worse, a haze of furor so thick he couldn't see past it, couldn't feel anything but his lover's suffering.
More than once does he try to convince himself to stand, to find him. So long as he could hear things shattering, breaking, a monster stalking about his possessions and smashing them, Mettaton was still somewhere he could reach. But his legs shake as much from fear as pain as his Bonded's mood deepens past blackened and into pure ferality. Into unthinking rage and frustration, broken and animalistic, surely tearing into anything that he could grasp. Even himself, perhaps.
(Emet-Selch remembered Mettaton describing his time becoming feral during their captivity, the way he'd ripped at himself without realizing, and he felt nauseous all over again. He should be there, he should be able to help, how... how could he have let it get this far-- he'd told him. He'd told him before that it wouldn't have to happen again, now that they were Bonded.)
He wanted to reach him. Even if he couldn't appease him through word, then his blood, his body- if Mettaton could tear into him instead, then- maybe that would be enough to save him. If the Ascian were the cause for this insanity, then he had to be the one to fix it. His blood would be succor, even if Mettaton had to devour him entirely for it to be enough. Then- then he could stop. They both could stop.
But he couldn't move from his place by the bed, curled against it as though trying to find some protection there, gaze fixed on the closed door even through his tears. But he couldn't move no matter how much he cursed at himself to try, to place himself in Mettaton's path again, even if it meant that the last thing he felt would be his teeth in his throat; at least it would mean that he wouldn't die alone.
When the fury begins to diminish by degrees, the Ascian doesn't immediately notice, his own feelings only becoming more predominant instead, the blackness of rage smoothing easily into that of misery. Despair remaining greatest of all, in its encompassing familiarity. It's etched starkly into every thought- or what passes for them- twisting all to fit a darker interpretation, reminding him in convincing whispers of the perfect uselessness in ever getting attached. One way or another he would be abandoned, and it was that much more bitter to know that it was his own fault.
The door opens with a loud noise and he freezes, as though the witch were the one with the puca's instinct towards stillness. Emet-Selch stares, not hearing him, and scarcely seeing him either, not even knowing what to hope for. Perhaps Mettaton had decided to try and sate himself on his blood after all, or had recalled that he was the one at fault for his current madness. There was something less dark about him, but- his vision is too blurry to know what or why. But... even if it was only another sign of his weakness, he... was relieved to see him again. It didn't matter if Mettaton was just here to kill him. This would be enough.
The puca closes in, lowering himself, and scooping Emet-Selch up into his arms. And for a moment, the Ascian remains frozen, not breathing- not resisting, but not helping either. He didn't understand it, what was happening, why Mettaton wasn't biting him, why he was being- kind?- to him after all this.
He shivers, but doesn't relax, rigidity only giving way to an exhausted tremble. Fear remains, evident in every breath, in the tears that continued to make a mess of his limited vision; not of Mettaton, or any danger he might pose to him, but only of him vanishing again.]
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Easing himself down onto his knees and pulling Emet-Selch between his thighs, he presses his nose into his hair, breathing him in. The Ascian smells so strongly of blood and sex and spit, a look so raw and vulnerable and not one he'd like for anyone else to see of him. Not because it was the product of fearsome and passionate entwining, but because this was only for his own consumption: Emet-Selch in every way is for Mettaton's eyes, whether it's in his haughty grace or his power, or in shambles, broken and crying and smeared in come and blood on the floor, curled up at the foot of Mettaton's bed. For now, this was where they both belonged, and Mettaton wraps him tight in his winding arms.
To see Emet-Selch so wrung out, despairing and sore and expecting to be carved into with teeth... yet feeling only relief at seeing him again tells a tale Mettaton can read word for word. He knows his lover's heart: the many times Emet-Selch has asked for him not to leave all comes together in this moment after a cry of pain, after Mettaton's turbulent descent into ferality from a lack of... voice, he's certain. His fingers trace Emet-Selch's throat gently as he holds him close, tucking his Bonded into the crook of his neck.
Even though he feels immense sorrow and pity for Emet-Selch... the Puca can't help but think he looks beautiful like this, in his terror and vulnerability. Soft, just like his body; like his heart, tenderized and wounded, manifest upon tissue in patterns of red and purple and streaks of fluid drying and wet alike. A smell of being ravaged and used, a sight of it, too: hair tangled, mussed, stiff and sticky, Emet-Selch was still lovely like this.
And though he'd just marched in after losing his mind, even though he feels all of that disorientation and emptiness where such burning hot rage used to live, it fills quickly with emotions just as wild as Mettaton is, but no longer bound so strictly to the course of madness. It's that fondness, an awe; but it's also pity, worry; and... sorrow, that it ended up this way. There's a streak of incredulity in it all for the same reason, that they found themselves... like this. But with intensity and extremity like theirs, where else would they end up but fucking passionately as it dips around into considering the taking of lives? Their relationship was chaos, unpredictable and fierce enough to burn them both alive, to consume them and everything around them, and this... this could have been anticipated. Even without a necklace, couldn't they find themselves here with the right fury, the right passion, the right ache and the proper catalyst?
If Mettaton felt any regret, it was that it felt so much like the time he'd nearly killed Emet-Selch. He clutches him closer, soft body that he is. His claws are still sharp, one of the residual effects that lingers after the sway of moons as his fur gradually pitches again, as his very aura goes blacker, ghastly, monstrous... But not feral.
There was a lot to address between them, but Mettaton needs to cover the most basic of them all. His lover trembles; he answers it by letting him in the safety of his arms, even though he's the most dangerous thing in this house. No... They both are. The two of them are both dangerous to Emet-Selch. But perhaps, when together... They could both keep him safe. (If they actually tried.)
Emet-Selch was self-destructive. He knows that. And perhaps his life would have been proper sacrifice to a deity as grand as himself... But Mettaton doesn't want that. He wants to keep his lover well in hand, bruised and bitten and marked up by him, but what good is that if he kills him? And he doesn't want to hurt him that badly. Ever.
Lips trail down Emet-Selch's temple, stopping next to his ear before Mettaton pulls back just enough to gaze into his lover's eyes. Luminous gold meets his lover's, softer around the edges, no longer the look belonging to a beast of spiteful insanity. His lips are parted, still stained in dried blood, still sharp of teeth, and he runs a curled finger against Emet-Selch's eye. He doesn't even need to ask that Emet-Selch's heartache is sourced from fearing abandonment, of his disappearance. He shows him mercy, but he's also no longer requiring the reverence and worship of a deity just to think straight. ...On that note, Mettaton knows he fears being left alone. But the fear he sees in his eyes, the way he doesn't at all resist the possibility of Mettaton's feral teeth sinking into his flesh in this moment should he have been too Monstrous, too lost to see straight... it's that self-destructive streak at work, he thought. It was still a surprise that he didn't fear him, but that he'd anticipate his behavior wasn't a surprise. Even though he was locked in the righteously indignant insanity of his own mind, Mettaton was aware of everything. He knowingly did what he did, opted to spare him, opted to drink him, opted to leave... Only upon exiting did he succumb to any sort of uncontrollable behavior, tearing and breaking and gnawing and scratching at the confines of the house, his body, his fury. He can pitch furious with ease, but it's the sort that turns the brightness of cheer into the licking flames of animosity.
That Emet-Selch would anticipate his demise and do nothing to stop it... Mettaton strokes his throat some more, claws only grazing his skin as he traces up to his hairline, stroking through deep brown locks of hair, even when it's tangled in spit, matted with blood. He squeezes him between his thighs, pulling him flush to his body. Once more, Emet-Selch's form is made to give way to Mettaton's metal one.]
My darling Hades... I...
[He could've hurt him, terribly. Emet-Selch would've let him, too. He would've laid down and allowed Mettaton to tear out his throat, would've given himself as a sacrifice to temper his ferality even just for a moment of peace. In the end, Mettaton did hurt him, but not with teeth or claws. It had to happen.
The last he left him, he notes he was on the bed. On the bed and dropped, and he remembers, vaguely, the sound of something thudding onto the ground. That must've been Emet-Selch, trying his best to hobble after him on disagreeable limbs that ached, with a heart heavy and sore and fear alive like static in his brain. He imagines him crumpling here, used and feeling disposed, abandoned, and Mettaton strokes his hair some more. Unable to call out with his voice the way it is, he couldn't tell Mettaton to return. ...It was for the best that he didn't at that time. What would he have done to him? Mettaton didn't like the thought. He liked that less than the vivid flashes of wild fever, of chewing his arms and clawing his hips.
He exhales heat into his hair, letting his hand run down the back of his neck, down his spine, and to his side again.]
Thank you for waiting for me. ... I was losing my mind. I had to clear my head somehow, before seeing red turned into something... worse. [He kisses his forehead again. He doesn't quite know how his head was cleared, nor why he ended up that way save for the lack of proper recognition — an affront to be sure, but nothing worth killing his beloved over. He knows he was trying, besides. He saw it in his every move, in his every feeble mouthing or desperate sound.] ... We lost ourselves again, didn't we?
[Like the last time he nearly tore out Emet-Selch's throat.]
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That line of thinking only led to more tears welling up, even as he was slowly accepting that for whatever reason Mettaton hadn't given up on him. That his mood was- while still intense, still bearing emotions strong enough to unsteady the Ascian- not overrun with a god's vengefulness and capacity for wrath. That he'd lost his shoulder jewelry goes unnoticed; his lover was a capricious god, and who was he to question his decisions? With a weakened nudge, he buries his face against Mettaton's neck as he's tucked there, breathing him in- the familiar scent of him, and his blood, and their sex, all layered together, as it should be.
Slowly, he calms by degrees, as Mettaton holds him and shows no sign of leaving him again. With effort, Emet-Selch manages to wrap an arm around him in turn, and from tension, his body gradually just- gives up. Not relaxing, but only losing the ability to hold himself steady, collapsing against him. Curling against him as though he were the only thing in the world, as though he could protect him from- the both of them, he likewise realizes.
They had been doing so well, he had thought. Mettaton still bit him, because they both enjoyed that, the giving of blood and the taking of it. It had been manageable, and while their passions were always high, they'd avoided ever veering again into dangerous territory. Bleeding out as far as he had was a... complicated memory, but an important lesson in maintaining some degree of moderation in their aggressions, their desires, their fears. Mettaton didn't want to hurt him, and Emet-Selch didn't want to upset him. They both knew this.
But had they really improved? Or was it through chance alone that they had managed to avoid any particular catalyst in the interim? What if there hadn't been any particular deliberation on their part; would inevitability itself always drag them back to this place? To a state of high emotions requiring a payment made in blood and sacrifice.
--But this had had the potential of being more than that. It wasn't only recklessly strong emotion leading to a bite made too deep by incidentally poor luck, drunk from too heavily, with neither of them knowing concern until it was nearly too late. Emet-Selch could feel this pitching darker than that, that Mettaton could've easily and deliberately snapped his jaws through his throat, and neither of them would've done a thing to prevent it. Even now in this immediate aftermath, when everything was at its most raw and he lay shivering in his lover's arms, Emet-Selch knows he wouldn't try to stop him. Should Mettaton's mood turn dark again (and something about him seemed darker once more, if only monstrous rather than feral) it wouldn't take any convincing. He would offer himself to claws, to teeth, to spite. Because he loved him.
Mettaton lines his face with presses of lips before nudging him back, meeting his eyes. Emet-Selch blinks repeatedly to try and clear his, to focus on his lover's countenance through a blurry haze. Even distorted by his vision, Mettaton was still strikingly beautiful to him. The blood was no detriment, nor was the suggestion of sharpened teeth. His own look remains somewhat lost, uncertain, as watchful as he can manage, as though if he weren't careful, Mettaton would vanish on him again. Mettaton traces around his eye, and he holds still, and nor does he flinch when those fingers trail over his throat, over scratch and bruise. Whether his lover decided to tear into him or not was--
--probably not something that he should view with such ambivalence.
Tugged closer again, he feels himself stroked, petted, kept firmly and safely against his body (he would always be safe there, except when he wasn't), and his eyes close for a moment at the kiss to his forehead. Mettaton thanking him for staying even when he'd wanted to reach him fills him with another sort of unease, knowing that if he had been able to more easily move, he would've gone to him. He would've found him, and Mettaton would've either killed him, or been forced to retreat even further.
(He didn't want to see him upset. That was his only hesitation. His only regret now was disappointing him.)
Emet-Selch still couldn't speak. But he listens, moving a hand up to gently touch the side of Mettaton's face, the side with his working eye. He feels for familiar details with his eyes closed, with unsteady fingers. At the last of his words, he pauses, then nods. Even knowing better, they'd done this to each other. It hadn't ended up with him unconscious and fading from a lack of blood, but he wouldn't at all have called this version an improvement. He didn't know how to stop it; there was no reason to believe it wouldn't happen again, considering how intensely they felt everything.]
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When Mettaton examines his own actions, he does so from a more creative, poetic lens, and dislikes the thought of his extricating himself from Them to be some kind of poetic foreshadowing. As though the only way for them both to remain well in hand should be that they separate themselves... As if! He holds Emet-Selch tighter, not at all fearing the analysis he'd have to put into their combination that made it so threatening to Emet-Selch's well-being. It all came down to Mettaton's carelessness, his lack of forethought or examining the consequences of his actions; as well as Emet-Selch's self-destructive, similarly consequences-what-consequences attitude. He was so loyal, so good to him, so dedicated, so giving and willing that he'd give his life over to Mettaton because the Puca had the whim to take it.
It pulls a sigh from Mettaton in this moment, and he shakes his head, but... he smiles, bittersweet. He wanted to see Mettaton happy and well, sated and sane, so of course he'd offer his body where his voice failed... It was a matter of trying to check himself, but how could he do that if he were going feral? ...Emet-Selch had told him he wouldn't have to veer feral while they were Bonded, but Mettaton knows there isn't anything about this world that wouldn't try to see him that way. Whether it was a curse or some amplification of the moons, he could go feral in a more sudden, more unrelenting context... This was during a play of passion, and probably more dangerous because their bodies were so entwined and blood was so plentiful...
Mettaton examines Emet-Selch's body like this, claws lightly grazing over his back. Nails sharp and curved, he doesn't allow them to do anything more than glide along the surface of his lover's skin while he can't keep them duller and controlled. If he can't keep himself controlled, if controlling at all is no option, what would Emet-Selch do for him? There was still something that helped in this equation, even if it had the potential to be dangerous, and that was his blood. Mettaton knows for a fact that it steadied his mind... He would have slipped quite a few minutes beforehand, had he not had that. His emotions were rampant and vicious, and blood is a vice of his. Mollifying and clarifying, Emet-Selch's blood would keep him from pitching feral. But what if he was already inevitably headed there, or already there...?
It's an answer he doesn't have at the moment, and he leans in to kiss Emet-Selch's eyes. To ease his tears, to reassure him that he's here and he loves him, no matter what. They could figure out how to manage themselves along the way. Mistakes were inevitable... But it was a matter of keeping them in check, to prevent lethal failures like this one could have been.
But it wasn't, because one of them eventually showed restraint. Mettaton made that conscious decision with his fraying mind, relying on the blood of the Ascian to make the call to leave, to stop fantasizing about his trachea in his teeth and scarlet on their bodies, to stop himself from devouring his Bonded's body from the inside out because he loved him that much, his beautiful, soulbound lover who could make bruises and tears and sweat look like a signature of fervent adoration on his skin. ...But Mettaton could hardly call this an improvement either. It had been too close. And his own judgement aside (which was capricious indeed, and conceptualized too late), Emet-Selch's was... lacking in self-preservation.
That there was a cursed necklace involved didn't matter to Mettaton, either, even while he begins to piece that bit together on his own. That was a basement full of cursed objects. That he thought it natural on him meant two things: one, he could be cursed and not know it. Two, that kind of behavior... was an integral part of his personality drawn to the surface, the desire to be revered in darkness and lust and deified, worshiped. Though he may not be like that all the time didn't mean he couldn't find himself behaving that way again, couldn't see himself slipping into ferality if he lacked the proper admiration... And really, when he thinks about it, he's the kind of person he could see justifying the exchange of someone's life for their lack of ardent support. It was within him, and the jewelry just brought that to the surface. He wouldn't place any accountability on a curse: this was about Emet-Selch's life, and he'd have to overcome a curse to see to his well-being. The problem here was rooted in a lack of reason: if he'd had any to begin with, he'd know that Emet-Selch could no longer speak, and if Emet-Selch had any, he'd try to express this, would try to preserve himself.
But they were both inclined toward being unreasonable at times. Mettaton knew that. They were volatile and ferocious, passionate and extreme. They just had to recognize when that was happening and try to heal from the wounds they inflicted, like this one.
Mettaton leans in to perform an act of extreme intimacy considering this moment, stooping down to kiss and mouth Emet-Selch's throat. There's no teeth, only gentle sucking and licking, the soft press of silicone lips and the betrayal of heat that has mounted so extremely that it was unmistakable. They would both have to figure out what was dangerous, and what was not — like this. His ears are folded back, comfortable and inviting and sure of his place here, holding Emet-Selch and being held, being collapsed upon; Mettaton is deserving of love and willing to dole it out plentifully. Emet-Selch deserved him, too. And by Bond, his emotions are strongly felt, passionate, stabilized and sure. Sure that they would overcome this together.
Close to his neck, Mettaton kisses up his jaw and to Emet-Selch's cheek, licking up any tears that found their way down his cheek in the process, even those which mingled with blood. He rises enough to press their noses together, to press a kiss to his lips... but he can never have just one, so he gets a couple of those.]
... We'll do better, then. [Even if they continued to make this mistake... They'd surely have successes peppered between. And they'd have to do better: Mettaton wanted Emet-Selch safe, and Emet-Selch didn't want Mettaton upset. They went hand-in-hand, this goal.] Won't we?
[There wasn't any option. The failure would be Emet-Selch's ruination at Mettaton's hands, and the terror that would follow. It would be excess to the highest degree, but so transient, so fatal. If they were both ever-wanting, it would make sense that they'd see to their continued ability to want each other. Mettaton's sure of this, and he offers Emet-Selch a smile against his lips.]
You must be so sore. [Soreness is okay to inflict. Bleeding is okay to inflict. Fatal injuries... not okay.] I don't imagine you fare much better than before, walking... How about standing?
[Aftercare could be performed when he's cleaning his Bonded up, but how well could they do even that, with Emet-Selch like this? He still had the intent to take him to the shower. He was... quite the mess, and Mettaton would gladly look out for him, care for him, see to it that the injury he had inflicted could be cleaned and soothed. Everything including the heartache he could feel so starkly, the one that drowned in misery and fear: abandonment.]
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...Emet-Selch knew, in some abstract way, that Mettaton had made the right decision in separating from him then. It didn't erase the fear that lingered, the feeling of being left behind, abandoned and unable to follow. But he knew. He remembered his lover's tears falling on him after his awakening from bleeding out. Mettaton's fear and relief, how stricken he had been... and in that case, Emet-Selch had survived. But what if he hadn't? What if he, as he'd wanted to do in this case, had willingly and deliberately placed himself in Mettaton's way, offered his life up to spare his mind... even if it had worked, how would his lover have felt about the aftermath? After he'd realized what he'd done, and what the Ascian had allowed him to do?
It's a thought to strike him cold, that causes him to shiver, to burrow himself that bit more against Mettaton's metal frame, to feel his sore body give in to it. From touching Mettaton's face, he lets his hand fall back, his arm to wrap more tightly around him, as much as his reduced strength would permit. But this was a feeling he tried to ingrain in himself; he knew it was likely the most effective means he had for tempering his own nature, should a similar circumstance occur.
As ferality would happen, insanity would happen; it had been careless to think a Bond alone would be enough to always prevent it. Outside influences happened, emotional disturbances certainly happened, and considering the degree to which they felt things... no, even without a curse, they were fully capable of doing this to one another. Mettaton's desire for being desired, heightened to a god's demand for appropriate reverence... his own want to live in service, coupled with existing self-destructiveness, heightened to a willingness to offer his life even when unnecessary. They operated so frequently in extremes; this was inevitable. Even knowing better, having stared down the risk of their excess once before, it was inevitable.
How then, could they be trusted to manage it? Though they fed into each other so easily, Emet-Selch knew his blood could have a calming, clarifying effect on the puca. And there was nothing wrong with providing it to him in principle, he thought. And he could spare quite a bit without it becoming dangerous. But in the heat of a moment like this, how could they ensure that Mettaton didn't snap down on anything immediately lethal? And that if he tried to, that the Ascian would be willing to stop him? Those things were... the truest problem.
And one he didn't know the answer to. Even though he felt sick now at the thought of his lover having to face having accidentally murdered him while in a state of blood-soaked madness, emerging from his rapturous fury only to find his mangled corpse- he knew himself well enough to be uncertain how well he'd remember that lesson when required. These past few minutes had been proof enough of that; even now, the thought of his lover's teeth in his throat was--
--still disturbingly acceptable.
...And that in itself was a problem he hadn't wanted to consider and also didn't have an answer to. But while Emet-Selch didn't have Mettaton's optimism, he was stubborn. There really was no other option: they would have to manage this. As he also refused to entertain any possibility that the only way to avoid this fate was to separate. They were too arrogant to give in to that, too entwined- and too much in love. Enough not only to refuse to part, but also to be motivated to find some means of sparing the other pain.
But his thoughts are disrupted when he feels Mettaton's lips move to his throat- and even now, he felt no hesitation in having his attention there, softness applied to wounded skin, a heat that only... soothed. Comforted. And while he would've liked to believe that his lack of concern was due to feeling no trace of aggression on his lover's part, that there was no reason to think that he would snap down on him now- Emet-Selch can't be entirely sure. That much, he tries not to dwell on; this moment, at least, was safe. Mettaton wouldn't hurt him... the Bond made that clear. And for all that he couldn't match the robot's stability, his sentiment was no less determined, desperately so. Mettaton's lips reach his face, kiss away blood-diluted tears, before finding their way to his own lips. Kisses there were the most natural thing to follow, and the most comforting part of all- particularly the ever-familiar inclination to never just leave it at one. Though with nerves as raw as his, it's affection that in itself nearly leaves him stricken, even as he loves him for it.
...They would do better. Even if they kept making mistakes, they would keep trying... they would survive. Swallowing painfully, Emet-Selch nods again, following it with another kiss, feeling his lover's smile, endeared terribly to him.
The comment on his soreness though, almost gets a sigh, though it's limited to a slightly heavier exhalation. A practical consideration was a momentary reprieve, even if it wasn't as though his overwhelming bodily aching and fatigue were particularly pleasant. But in comparison to his emotional state, it was straightforward; in itself, there was nothing wrong with blood or bruise.
(He still clings to him; still huddles close. Just the thought of even temporarily separating from Mettaton was- panic-inducing. He needed to touch him, to smell him, to have his company as close as possible, to bury himself inside it.)
But could he stand.... 'Not really', Emet-Selch mouths against his lips, following it with a shake of his head. If he absolutely had to, he could stand, he thought, especially if he had support, but walking... if his life depended on it, probably. And in that case he'd rather risk teleporting.]
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I can hardly imagine it! Being so sore... [And the way he says it implies he wishes he could imagine it... Mettaton.] I'll give you options, then. How about that?
[Before providing his options, Mettaton readjusts his arms. He releases Emet-Selch from his tight embrace with one hand, shifting his thighs so he's not trapping him on the floor between them as he worms his hand beneath the other man's knees. With relative ease, Mettaton braces his arm against Emet-Selch's back as he lifts him from the floor — a bridal carry, despite the fact that they're unmarried, it was fine. It's a quick maneuver, one intended to carry Emet-Selch to the bed, where Mettaton deliberately places him somewhere less... messy.
The covers would all have to be changed, eventually. They had been plentiful in their endeavors, liquids of all kinds merely a byproduct to pleasure. Mettaton stares at it all, before realizing that he'd settled Emet-Selch close to the two pendants. He stares at them, too.
His fur's darkened completely again, spreading as prolifically as the fluids they've left in their wake. He's not feral still: he remains perfectly even-tempered, his mood by Bond stable as he gently lowers Emet-Selch back to recline on the mess of pillows he always keeps on his bed. His hands remain on Emet-Selch's skin, claws as present as fingertips as he pets gently over his thigh, on his shoulder, redirecting his gaze back to Emet-Selch's. He remains touching him, standing at the edge of the bed before he sidles upon its surface on his hip, pressing his thigh along his lover's side as his hands drift to lace with Emet-Selch's fingers. ...Unable to restrain himself, he leans in to press another kiss to Emet-Selch's lips.
His desires mount all over again, undeniable urges clouding his head to... once more, bed his lover. An exhalation of heat, a tightening of fingers laced with his. Carnal, primal, he's sure that if he were shapeshifted still, if he had the body for it, Emet-Selch would just watch him get interested in him all over again — exasperating really, considering their most recent engagement and the dangers it posed them. That his body would continue to keep him interested had a lot to do with the way the moons influenced him, particularly while around Emet-Selch. He was fully aware, fully conscious of these desires and fully in control of them, even when his body had desires of their own, and he gives the pendants a pointed look again as he draws back, eyelids dropping a degree.
Not that he needed pendants or moons to agitate his high libido. He wouldn't describe himself as easily distracted by sex, but he was certainly easy to arouse, even if he could think around it all. Emet-Selch was his kryptonite.
Then he fixes his attention back on Emet-Selch's gaze, ears rising enough to properly lean forward toward his Bonded.]
I could help you shower. Or... If you'd like to recover first, we can stay here together. How about it?
[Emet-Selch would be creative enough to express his preference even without the use of his throat, Mettaton knew. He could mouth it, make a face, move his body... And Mettaton would know. But he takes a moment to unhand Emet-Selch, grabs one of the two pendants (just one!), and... throws it across the room.
Luckily, it is a fairly spacious room. Immediately, any pressure he felt begins to diminish as the sisters are once more separated. It wasn't intolerable by any stretch of the word, especially while he lacked the diamonds around his neck (diamonds he'd clean off the floor... later, unless Papyrus found them first and got confused (MTT was sure he'd tidy them up and understand that diamonds are Mettaton's, he still wants them)), but it was still less precarious like this. Any of the more wild inclinations he might have during the pull of the moons, such as the desire to run, to play tricks, to get petty revenge... They'd diminish like this. He didn't need the draw of the moons to be attracted to his Bonded, nor to give into whimsy. He could do that on his own.
That taken care of, he joins their hands again. The change back would be gradual, but he's sure to lean closer to Emet-Selch, to make it easy for him to be kissed, even if Emet-Selch would have to work for it like this.]
You're getting a shower, no matter what. But we could wait. [Even though Mettaton would towel him off at least of the worst of it.]
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Mettaton's mention of options draws a blink, especially when instead of going ahead and giving them to him, he shifts an arm underneath the Ascian's legs, scooping him up into a scandalous, unmarried bridal-carry. But other than continuing to attach to him as much as possible, Emet-Selch does nothing to prevent or protest this, caring only about remaining in contact with his body. Of course, any kind of movement hurt, put pressure on one thing, or pulled at something else. None of it was comfortable. But then, neither was remaining where he had been, curled against his lover's body while on the floor.
It was still a small relief to be placed down somewhere softer, even if any contact with his shoulders stung, and his gaze remains on Mettaton, more relieved when the other man was careful to never break contact with him, even when settling him in place upon the pillows. Deliberate contact, even when it was relatively small- the brush of claw-tipped fingers, or the nudge of a hip- it was enough to sustain him through the process. Watching his lover's fur darken again (and only then really recognizing that it had briefly returned to its more familiar silvery-hue), sparks more fascination than concern; after all, his mood still felt secure. Whether his fur was dark or light, both looks were striking on him....
And it was the strangest point of reassurance, as Mettaton sidles into bed with him, thigh against his body, fingers together, leaned in for a kiss- to note his lover's continued desire for him. To recognize those glimmers of arousal, evident even in a body currently without a cock to make it particularly blatant. And he kisses him back, firmly, loving, with a heat of his own- though it's more in the direction of a want for his company than anything strictly sexual. Just- wanting him overall.
Mettaton looking back to the pendants reminds Emet-Selch of them again; that would explain the puca's forced shifting, the increase in certain inclinations, despite there being no full moon. But it was also clear that it was only an influence rather than control, nudges in certain directions that he could choose to indulge in or not.
And then Mettaton provides him his options (shower now, or later), asks him what he prefers- and then distracts him by letting go of his hand, picking up one of the pendants, and throwing it to the other side of the room. Landing with a distant clatter, Emet-Selch understands after a moment the point of such sudden anti-jewelry activity. Thusly separated, their influence should be greatly reduced... and his lover wouldn't have those extra inclinations nagging at him. It was a reasonable action, and the Ascian settles stiffly back into the bed, accepting his hand again as Mettaton resumes leaning close.
Squeezing a little at their fingers, Emet-Selch thinks about what he'd prefer. He did, sorely (literally) desire to be clean, a feeling that did steadily increase the longer he was left like this, and as uncomfortable as the process would be, the result would be soothing, a sign that everything would be fine... even if it took a while to get there. But Mettaton had also just picked him up and placed him down so kindly upon the bed... stained as it was, damp in any number of places. For at least a little while, then... he could rest here.
In either case, he just wanted to be with him. Leaning up, he does go to the effort to kiss him again, a firm touch of lips. ...But his neck hurt to stretch out like that, so he lets his head fall back against the pillows with what would've been a huff. But with the way he settles in, it seems to indicate a desire to stay where he was, for the time being. Still wanting to kiss him, and wanting him closer in general, he lets go of his hand in order to bring fingers to the back of Mettaton's head, tugging him downward, in the direction of his lips.
It's not much of a tug, all things considered. But he tries.]
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And if anything, these points of action offered perfect clarity for Mettaton. He knew what his lover wanted. There were options off the menu, and Emet-Selch just wanted Mettaton, and whatever Mettaton would do. But judging by his behavior, settling in place and wrapping his fingers around the back of his neck, staying just where he was would be fine for a while. To remain in bed, to be held, simple as that. That was congenial, and Mettaton smirks upon him for his attempts at kissing that fell flat, just as much as Emet-Selch fell back onto the pillows behind him.
(And, in a distant way, gazing upon Emet-Selch's body and smelling the sex on him, the scent of himself and Emet-Selch entwined together... It was primal, sure, but he relished the thought of his markings of blood and come remaining on his body, as though leaving them to stain skin. It was arousing, possessive, something worth his contentment and pride. ...He couldn't possibly help the way a spark of heat enters his gaze, in spite of their too-recent scare, the air between them fragile as anything. He just couldn't help wanting him, not when he was displayed before him like this.
...It was no wonder a feral-minded version of himself found this body impossible to resist. That he did it at all impressed Mettaton in the present, even though he'd do his best to resist him right now.)
To sate Emet-Selch's need for kisses, the Puca leans in to press one squarely, softly, against his lips. But it's only soft for so long, until it intensifies into a deeper, passionate affair, mouthing and sucking his lip, flicking him with tongue and tasting him, the knowledge of how much come Emet-Selch has consumed coming to the forefront of Mettaton's thoughts to entice. But he wouldn't let it distract him when he wants simply to foster contact, to be with him. At his core, for all of his desires, he only wanted to be touched and loved in return.
It's not a kiss to suffocate, and it has an end. Mettaton lingers against his lips, resting there for a spell as he keeps their fingers laced together — just as they are, squeezing tight and bowing his head to push their foreheads together for an added nudge of affection. ...For knowing each other for almost nine months, it felt like he'd known Emet-Selch for much longer. Perhaps it's their Bond, the way it penetrates them both... He could feel Emet-Selch at all hours of the day, and their interactions deepen with each encounter. Even seeing him in the morning, or wishing him goodnight, all of it compounded into a feeling of familiarity. Moments like these became ones to deepen their bond further, even if it tore them apart first to do it. How long had it been since Mettaton kept the company of someone steadily like this? ...Not as long as he imagines it's been for Emet-Selch, but he finds a renewed appreciation for it anyway. Here, against his lips, he closes his eye and soaks in the moment, all of its fears and its love and its weight. The intensity of it all impresses him and always entices him. Entertains him. Fascinates him. It was effortless.
Drawing back so slightly, Mettaton frees one of his hands to reach for that promised towel — rather, the throw he'd used earlier to wipe off Emet-Selch's face. (He doesn't keep towels near their bed. He should.) Though he appreciates the come and blood slathered on his lover's body, some of it... could go, if he wanted to nap at all comfortably under blankets. It was a different sort of contact, wiping at his abdomen with the dry face of a blanket; moving to a different part and repeating the process on the front of his blood-and-spit coated shoulders and chest, mindful of clotting wounds, to the best of his ability. He clicks his tongue.]
You're such a mess. Look at you. [As though chiding. He was part of the cause: Emet-Selch wouldn't have made all of this mess without Mettaton, after all. But Emet-Selch can't talk back, so he won't bother acknowledging that. The smile on his face suggests that he knows, and he's proud of it.] But we can at least get you dry enough for now...
[Changing his grip on the blanket again, Mettaton forces his way between Emet-Selch's thighs, lifting each and wiping him of any excess ejaculate. Toweling him and watching, his gaze fixed on come and bruise alike — and how much there is, really... Some of it has dried, and some of it yet remains on Emet-Selch's backside, but he wasn't trying to be extremely thorough. He still leans down to kiss his hips, letting go of the throw blanket for a moment to smooth his palms over his thighs, pressing fingers into taut, tender muscle, experimental and investigative.]
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Emet-Selch tries to make some sort of low, pleased sound, ill-advised as it would be, but not much of anything emerges. Which is probably for the best anyway; it just would've sounded like a staticy rasp, context alone indicating pleasure or approval. And he had the rest of his manner to indicate that, tired as he was. But a soft kiss that turns into a deeper one- that was exactly what he wanted.
Even though he has no energy for any sort of followthrough or particular arousal, it's the sort of kiss that would've caused a moan, and which did cause his pulse to rise a notch. Mettaton's own passion was always catching, the sort of thing Emet-Selch had little resistance to- whenever he wasn't trying to incite it himself. Any effort to entice each another tended to be successful, attracted as they were to each other. Even now, when he knew they weren't actively trying to bed one another, weren't trying to tempt towards another round, it was impossible to remove all trace of heat between their contact. Whether it was represented through the threading of their fingers, or the depth of a kiss, the slipping of tongues against one another's, or the hint of suction- passion always remained. It was a natural part of them.
And it was hard to forget all that he'd taken into his mouth over this past... while. Both Mettaton's cock and his come, repeatedly- and the thought of how much he'd swallowed down, the memory of the taste of him thick in his mouth, was a deeply pleasurable one. He would always want to suck him off, or lick the excess from his fingers. And even if those earliest rounds had led to this, with the damaging of his throat, the rendering of him unable to speak and all that had followed because of his inability to vocalize sufficient praise- he didn't regret it. He didn't think they should've gone easier on him either, and he knew he'd want Mettaton to fuck his throat just as thoroughly in future. They would just... have to be a little more careful elsewhere, that was all.
Though he's a touch breathless at the end of the kiss, it's only a touch. Brushing his lips across his afterward in the faintest of nuzzles, with the press of their foreheads together, along with the union of their hands- he felt loved. And that in itself would be enough to take his breath, loving him in return just as severely. That it felt that bit sharper, heavier- Emet-Selch assumed that was due to what had just happened, heights of emotion finding a sort of catharsis, a release into utter affection and care that could reach ever deeper. But even when they weren't tearing each other open like this- physically, emotionally- he found the way they settled into one another reassuring. There was an ease there that was both restful and anything but, considering how frequently they turned towards passionate entwining. But even then, what was that but a somewhat more energetic display of affection?
Intensity was always there, no matter how gentle or impassioned they were being. They just had to find ways to channel it that wouldn't end with the Ascian's throat torn out.
But for now there was this. There was aftercare and love and soreness and mess, a considerable amount of them all. And Emet-Selch sighs quietly when Mettaton pulls back slightly, enough to take up a blanket that had become a towel, wiping up some of the excess... everything, that he'd been slathered in. Coated in. Stained by. Blood and come, sweat and saliva- the four cornerstones of their union.
Mettaton's comment does get a look of mild objection, as though to protest not only his current state, but his lover's hand in it (even if it was the result of his cock primarily, or his teeth... though his claws had played some role as well), along with his current non-verbal status. It's a very efficient look that way, far more so than any sort of speech would be. Mettaton's pride was also expected and- well. He can't blame him. To render him as thoroughly used as this, in absolute disarray, it was something worth appreciation (and as uncomfortable as it was, Emet-Selch found it no less impressive, even if he couldn't see it all).
Cleaning his thighs of excesses of come (there sure was a lot... which was satisfying to realize, and a point of strange smugness, to have inspired his lover to leave him with this much), he knew there would still be a certain amount of residue, but Emet-Selch appreciated Mettaton's overall gentleness towards him. And even if he did still feel like a mess and knew he looked like one, considering all that had already dried on him... it was better. The consideration alone made it better.
Tilting his head up a little (though not for too long, it wasn't exactly comfortable), Emet-Selch watches Mettaton's kiss to his hip, the palpitations over his thighs. Bruised skin and tired muscle- legs that had spent more time spread around his lover than otherwise, tight and tensing. Even now they twinged a little on reflex from being prodded. But even sore... it was nice to feel his touch on him regardless.]
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Excessive and indulgent, Mettaton continues to kiss hotly around his hip, his abdomen, surely kissing right over areas where he'd wiped up (a rudimentary fix) some of his lover's come, caring not at all that he's still a mess regardless and deigning to make him more of a mess, it seems. A mess of saliva — then, as he rubs his cheek against the taut plane of his abdomen, a mess of scents as well. As if he weren't already a mess of all regards...
...Arousal plagues him still, and he knows better than to continue, even though he has no anatomical features that should ache or distract. It didn't make it necessarily easier to cope with... Just less obvious, and more frustrating. A forced abstinence from relief, when Mettaton is hardly one to abstain.
They were a mess, and Mettaton scarcely knew how to hold back. Evidenced by the amount of come he'd wiped just from his inner thighs, a true exercise in excess, an amount shocking and only from places he could reach! This wasn't including the come left on the floor, from the multiple attempts his lover had at rising — and it's terrible, really, how aroused Mettaton feels. He squirms somewhat, imagining the times earlier where he saw milky fluid cascading down his thighs, how it looked when he spread his ass and had a chance to fit his cock against all of that, proof of how much he'd fucked him, deposited in him load after load... Before it all went sour, before he lost his mind and Emet-Selch was rendered too used to say a word.
The Puca presses his face more deeply into Emet-Selch's abdomen to cope, reminding himself that such excess is what led them down this scary path when unchecked.
So the robot pulls back, gaze gentling, still fixing on his lover's lower half for the moment. He exhales, letting the settling, charged air between them weigh on him as comfortably and uncomfortably, as it should. They were coming around from the fearsome drop into terror and discomfort their sex brought them, all of it intense, but when he glances at Emet-Selch's face he can still see the evidence of tears. Mettaton gentles further, and he scoots himself closer to his upper half, having cleaned what he could get to on his lower half.
He truly is weak to Emet-Selch now, he thought... Emet-Selch would do anything for his sake, but if Emet-Selch wanted something, Mettaton's sure he'd have a hard time denying him. Even when he doesn't want something and Mettaton thinks he ought to have it, he has a hard time saying no to himself. Closer to his face, Mettaton presses his palm to the Ascian's cheek in a regard for him: his split lip, his attentive gaze, the shock of white in his bangs... All of his features are once more soaked in.]
You're so difficult to pass up...
[Said on a voice airy and smooth, reflective and low as if in a dream — and a touch embarrassed, but not because he thought it shameful to want Emet-Selch so bad. Just that he possessed such uncontrollable libido. No doubt Emet-Selch could feel the full of his appetitive conflict, and he shakes his head no. One of his ears stands properly, attentive and neutral, but the other... flops over somewhat, forgetting to stand like its partner.
He doesn't plan on ravishing him another time, even when his body wishes it. That much is clear.
But it's clear that Mettaton thinks of something when he looks at his chest. His other hand skims over scars: a long line of one, then rounding around the bite he'd taken out of his lover's chest, just over his heart. A time during the heat of summer, the allure of sun so inviting to Mettaton as he wanted to try it on for himself — failure imminent, scarring in a different way. An admission of trouble to his lover, making an unfaltering idol look weakened; a subsequent admission between them both that they were both bearing scars from the time they met. They'd traded traumas, spoke of them, shared their horrors and held each other, elected to take back what was rightfully theirs.
...He lifts his gaze again to meet Emet-Selch's eyes.]
Your shoulder... I think it's going to scar, at this rate.
[The option was always to go to a healer who could properly close it. Stitches and magic, the options were plentiful here. Mettaton only caught sight of it when they sat on the floor, but his understanding of what scarred and what didn't suggested to him that such openness wrought by his teeth sunken in flesh twice over would me more difficult for his lover's body to piece back together again.]
I didn't hold back, did I? [Aside from the lack of coordination from too-recent climax that hindered his ability to sink his teeth into flesh, making for a bite so sloppy... no, he didn't.]
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It was no wonder that his lover was drawn towards touching those stained places on his lower body, and the Ascian's muscles tense underneath his lips, fully conscious himself over the way his own come had dried against his abdomen, how each of his orgasms had mostly ended up resting there, or had been left to drip down along his cock. How aroused he'd been, and how desperate, and how blatant that record of it was, displayed upon his own body for Mettaton's amusement or delectation. This explicit proof that he was so enamored of and attracted to his lover's cock that his own required no stimulation in order to find climax.
It was an arousing memory, and Mettaton was in an arousing position, mouthing his skin and rubbing it, marking him all over again with his face, layers upon layers of claim. And the robot didn't need to have a visible erection for Emet-Selch to know of the man's arousal, how readily he was stoked, and how deeply he was desired. This encounter had led to any number of images to return to, each more alluring than the next. If he weren't so utterly spent, depleted, the sight of Mettaton anywhere near his lower body would've had him stiffening. Just having Mettaton anywhere near him at all could have that effect.
Mettaton lingered at his abdomen, and Emet-Selch recognized the mix of feelings going through him; even without the Bond, he would've known. Moving a hand, he touches the robot's hair, fingers slowly trailing through it, stroking him very gently. Desire remained, but so did discomfort... there was the memory of spread legs and thick white fluid dripping between them, the continued evidence of come decorating parts of his body, and the recollection of fury. Of spite, vindictiveness and malice, insult and distress. The consequence of indulging so far.
He can feel his lover gentling, and his touch to the idol's hair slows further, to the point of resting warmly against his head. Mettaton shifts himself upward, and his hand falls to the side, arm moving to try and wrap around the puca instead, to encourage him to stay close. Mettaton's own hand rested against his cheek, and he rubs his face into it, just a little. Affection, even if it wasn't quite simple.
The verbal admission of his lust gets a look of mixed empathy and apology. Desire was such a normal state between them, and to be unable to give into it was... unfortunate. But he was grateful for Mettaton's restraint, even if he disliked the conflict of it all. That they were given more proof that the strength of their emotions unfettered could lead to pained distress and nearly grievous consequence- it unsettled.
Attention turns instead to more visible scars, and Emet-Selch watches as his lover's gaze takes in those of his chest. Evident and clear, a mix of those unwanted and those asked for, on a day both difficult and necessary. He remembered the sight of his Bondmate so ill, his shape distorted; how warm the interior of his body was, and the texture of his organs. The recollection of traumas seen and experienced. The effort to try and face things side by side.... A complicated memory, as the most important ones often were.
His shoulder. Mettaton's comment has him tense it briefly as he meets his eyes again for a moment, before glancing aside, expression both contemplative and uncomfortable. It wasn't necessary for him to see it to know that it would scar. But he knew just as well that he wouldn't try to get it healed with magic, would keep it clean but otherwise leave it alone; another for his growing collection of permanent markings. But in the end, it was like the one on his neck: a reminder. Though he would carry the memory regardless of what was left etched on his skin, to be able to touch it made it that much more immediate. It wasn't a lesson to forget, and he wondered how many more he'd acquire before they found a way not to do this.
He sighs again, but it's a softer sound, tired and worn. Looking to Mettaton again, he shakes his head no; his lover really hadn't held back. Emet-Selch hadn't wanted him to, and on most occasions it went perfectly. It was only when the Ascian hadn't been able to live up to expectations that it had failed... scars were an appropriate price for that.
(Even now, it was hard not to think that if Mettaton had stayed to tear his throat out, that it would've been warranted. It was a feeling difficult to clamp down on, that went against not only ingrained habit and the fresh memory of all of that intense emotion (the desperation to quell his lover's rage at all cost), but what felt like some intrinsic part of him.)]
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The one he wore on his shoulder would be cleaned and dressed. It would be watched after, almost as though willing for it to stay. They'd prevent it from festering and acknowledge it happened — something Mettaton's historically had such trouble doing, the simple act of acknowledging that a problem existed at all. Even still he struggles with that, preferring to pretend all was right. Like this, neither of them could forget.
All of his scars counted toward something, thought Mettaton, as he continues to stare at his chest and his neck. And he smiles at the one on his neck, a weak one: it wasn't a failed lesson either. The thought of Emet-Selch so weak and indisposed had occurred to him before he'd lost his mind, after all. Even if it was a bit late, even if they were already spiraling in the descent of madness together, it changed something. The Puca reaches out to rub the back of his finger against that scar. To this day, it still seems like it gets better and better with each, slow to stitch back together with as deep as it was, as vulnerable a spot.
Low and close, Mettaton dips down to plant a kiss against Emet-Selch's ravaged neck. Tender, soft.]
I thought about that time we... Well. The last time. I don't know how...
[He doesn't clarify what the "last time" was. Mettaton doesn't think he needs to. They both knew what he spoke of. That he was the one who sunk his teeth in Emet-Selch's neck didn't strike him as it being solely his problem. It was a thing for both of them to work on, because it was rooted in each of their breeds of excess. The lack of control, the want for it all, the want to lose minds, to self-ruination... It was a joint effort.
In the end, neither of them want to hold back... And most of the time, it does go perfectly. Excess to die for, their intensities the only thing in the world to match each other, to truly sate if not satisfy with any permanency. It was the nature of them and their relationship: nothing would ever be perfectly satisfactory when potential existed, neither of them done with one another. Not even here, their hearts bruised as badly as Emet-Selch's neck.
Having the Ascian wrap his arm around him, no matter how loose, encourages Mettaton toward closeness. He thinks about cleaning that bite wound on his shoulder, but decides it was something they could tackle when they were vertical, when Mettaton helped him to the shower. They could both take care of it then, and for now, Emet-Selch's blood could do... what it could, to manage this atrocity. The way it did when he'd bit his chest, and the blood that gushed from him lazily began to lessen, the way it healed over on its own. His body was delicate, but it would withstand much, and it would persevere. With this reassurance on the mind, Mettaton lets Emet-Selch pull him close with an eagerness.
Like this, the robot glances off to the side. He may not have towels, but he does have blankets: ones he likes the textures of, now that he could feel them to any degree. A few had been kicked off in the wake of their passion, and his arms are more than capable of reclaiming them, no matter how far. Mettaton reaches over the edge of the bed and gropes for fabric, withdrawing his hand and a dark, fleece blanket, thankfully untouched by any of their usual and plentiful fluids that naturally accompany their sex. Even if he's not yet clean, Emet-Selch deserves to be as comfortable as possible, and if they were going to lounge here for a spell, he wants to cover his lover's body from the air — but not from him. He could remain flush to Mettaton.
A flick of his wrist has the blanket unfolded and draped poorly over Emet-Selch's form, but Mettaton's reach has the situating covered, pulling it over Emet-Selch's legs and feet all while laying at his side. It's useful to have nonstandard arms. Mettaton still remains propped up on the bend of his arm, his shoulders too... embellished for him to lay on his side.
His lover covered up and with himself (mostly) under that blanket, Mettaton sighs, moving from neck to lips. Once more tender and soft, a kiss is applied there, too.]
Thinking about you... I tried to hold back, believe it or not. It was hard... That scares me.
[That it took effort to spare Emet-Selch instead of collecting his dues from a man who had disappointed him, who had failed to sing him his praises and prayers. It had seemed so logical and right, to collect his throat instead. He couldn't wait for the taste... Right here, it disorients and disturbs him. No, this was hardly an improvement... But maybe it was something. Would he have stopped if he lacked that memory from before, where he was so sure Emet-Selch would die because of his reckless conveyance of emotion? Of their bedlam of maddening emotion for each other, fear and furor and love and insatiability?]
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Mettaton touches that spot on his neck, leans in to kiss it. And the Ascian keeps still, stroking slowly at him with his fingers as he tries to hold him near. That the puca had managed to recall that past moment, even in the midst of insanity was- reassuring and saddening alike. It was good that he'd been able to (even if his heart hurt terribly as he remembered the sight of him leaving, the sound of the door slamming after him, with terrible finality--), and very much less good that he'd had to. And as useful as it had been, unfortunate again that he'd had that memory to turn to.
Their cooperation was a striking thing. An alignment fierce and destructive, that usually only served to provide heights of pleasure and adoration, a possessiveness that ensured that they would provide all they could to one another. Like the last time they'd cooperated to nearly kill him, there were occasional... consequences to their tendency towards excess.
For now, his body could try to knit itself, and they could slowly try to follow. Staying close like this... helped. And a robot body did have its advantages, as Emet-Selch watches his lover obtain a covering for them without having to leave his side- even managing to place it on top of them without much issue. And he felt more secure like this, with warmth locked in, even if he was still a mess.
On one hand, that Mettaton only sank his teeth into his shoulder while incensed possibly counted as progress. It would still be a scar to provoke unease, one that would cause thoughts to return to this series of events- but he could take any number of scars like this without dying. Mettaton snapping down anywhere instead of his throat was acceptable, surely (though a part of him wondered what would've happened had he been on his back instead, if his neck had been that much more instantly accessible).
On the other hand, if this was progress, it was only really on Mettaton's side of things, that he had managed to hold himself back, even if it had been profoundly difficult... that even if he had been driven to snap down onto his shoulder so deeply, he hadn't gone further than that. But Emet-Selch- in that moment, soothing his lover's ire had taken all precedence. He would have delivered himself to his jaws if he could have, given himself over to make up for how he hadn't been able to perform as required.
And that... unsettled him. Because of how narrowly they had avoided complete disaster, but only because Mettaton had recalled enough of their previous lesson. If Emet-Selch had been able to successfully follow or prevent him from leaving him, how long would his lover have been able to resist taking his throat? Trying to tighten his arm around him for the moment, he shifts himself some small degree closer, as though wanting to hide against him, wrapped up in both Mettaton and blanket. He kisses him back, just as softly.
And his manner remains uncertain, though due entirely to this reminder of his own nature, something he'd never felt the need to address or acknowledge. That he had that memory of Mettaton being so distraught and concerned over him though... if it weren't for that, the Ascian knew his hesitations would be that much weaker. But how could he learn to prioritize a future that they both wanted (continuing to live, so that they could keep giving themselves to each other, without reserve), over inclinations he'd never bothered to fight before?
He can't even ask, rhetorical as it would be, with his voice like this. But to know that Mettaton had been afraid for how close he'd come to tearing him apart- it was something to keep in mind. He had to. Somehow he had to remember this when he needed to, for Mettaton's sake, if not for his own. He couldn't expect his lover to be the only one to control himself. Yet even with that determination in his thoughts, Emet-Selch felt more uneasy than resolute as he holds him, and is held in turn. There was still the desire to comfort, insufficient and shaky as he felt, to show his appreciation for the effort Mettaton had made, even if it had hurt, and he nuzzles him quietly.]
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(If he hadn't conditioned himself into being a maneater thoroughly sated by his own Witch's blood, this might not be as much of a conundrum. But here he is, still finding the prospect of him appetizing... Even while he has more than enough control to restrain himself.)
There's no honing in on Emet-Selch as the problem between them. That even one of them practiced restraint for any reason was surely growth on their collective parts, even though Mettaton worries for these signs of Emet-Selch's willingness to be consumed, to sacrifice himself to a death at the hands of his lover gone feral. That even here, uncertainty plagues him: he remains propped up on his side, even as Emet-Selch plants a kiss on him, snuggles closer to him, hides from the world under blanket and between Mettaton. His ears splay apart, an uncertainty of his own striking his heart, taking form of pity and concern.
...Mettaton hadn't considered heavily how Emet-Selch's nature, living his life in devotion to another god (wow, seamlessly carrying "another god" over from their passion play and not even thinking twice) might impact him, how just... giving his life over for the ending at his lover's teeth might feel like the most natural thing to do, failing someone who had total dominion over him. He was a man who was the perfect devotee, subservient and comfortable in a place of being controlled, bound and taken. And it wasn't a bad trait in his mind, but to the level of such self-destruction... Emet-Selch never needs to hand over his life during their coupling. The level of uncertainty he was feeling suggests to Mettaton that it's a difficult thing for him to grapple with, both the knowledge and the way he'd go about tackling it.
For a moment, the robot unhands Emet-Selch. The hand he doesn't rely on for balance clicks those shoulder guards off of each of his arms (a bit more of a complicated process, some manner of pushing, shoving, then removing, but he makes it look fairly easy), setting them aside. Like this, he's capable of laying on his side, which he does, pulling Emet-Selch into him, wrapping his leg across the Ascian's hips. Sidling close, surrounding Emet-Selch in Mettaton just as he wants. Mettaton buries his nose in Emet-Selch's hair, responding to Emet-Selch's nuzzle with one of his own.]
I love you, Hades. Don't forget that.
[And that's why he wouldn't want him to die in his teeth. He could offer his blood; he could offer his body. He could give himself over completely, so long as Mettaton couldn't be made to end his life, a life he wants fostered and continued. He wouldn't want to leave him, even if leaving were necessary.
He can't answer to something when the question isn't asked, even when he gets the feeling that Emet-Selch is full of unease, uncertainty, discomfort. He grapples with his core, with them as a couple, and comes out still perplexed. It was understandable: even Mettaton felt such conflict, not knowing how he should stop when neither of them knew the meaning. When Mettaton wanted to possess the whole of his lover, from his life to his love, and wished to do with it all as he pleased while they were so entwined. To flirt with his lover's consciousness, to control his every movement and see him pleasured, to please himself on him... He wanted to possess these things freely, but didn't know how to be reasonable about it when reason was beyond them.
But he soothes himself when considering that if they could both look out for each other, it might be the case that they'd look out for themselves for the sake of one another. Emet-Selch's host would take a beating, but it should be one of love, of their continued love, he hoped.
...Not performing as required, according to Mettaton's standards, was something they'd have to get used to. After all, he's a machine. Emet-Selch is not. Mettaton's understanding of his limits are sometimes faulty — something he only scarcely considers, thinking to himself that he does understand them, even if he fails to remember that at the worst of times.]
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His blood being delicious and soothing was both problem and solution; if it hadn't been so addictive, Emet-Selch wondered if Mettaton would've been so inclined towards his throat (but then, considering the problem this time had been his lack of voice, perhaps he would've ripped it out anyway, the perfect location for a release of spite; if the Ascian wouldn't use it to praise him, he didn't need it, after all). But it could still have a positive effect on his mental state, reducing the influence of any ferality the idol did find himself under.
This part, at least, only leads to an answer that Emet-Selch already knew: responsible(ish) bloodletting only. What qualified as responsible... varied, but so long as it was other than fatal (or near-fatal) he thought it didn't matter. But there was an addendum of knowledge, he supposed... that even if he hadn't been able to recognize at the time that he was meant to survive, that Mettaton wanted him to survive, no matter how terrible his failure in the moment was: this was something that he would have to work on. While still giving himself over completely otherwise- as he saw no reason to hesitate even when his lover brought him to unconsciousness via a cock in his throat, or at any other time when the puca was in particular control of his body. There were dangers (ignorable) and dangers (should probably do something about), and he just had to somehow... not give into the latter, even when his heart was screaming at him to do so.
That Mettaton would easily slot himself in as another god wouldn't even strike Emet-Selch as presumptuous, not at this point. Even if he weren't a literal deity (created or otherwise), the effect, and the intensity of his devotion amounted to much of the same. There was no Zodiark here, but his nature remained. And even were the Ascian somehow untempered- as would be the likely state of his soul after death- if anything, that would only create a greater void to be filled, a purpose to find in service once more.
Even now, Emet-Selch doesn't question it: he loved Mettaton, absolutely. And what was more natural to accompany love than subservience to one most beloved?
Though he blinks, tensing briefly as the robot moves, he settles again once he realizes what he's up to, removing those dramatic (if contrary to cuddling ease) shoulderguards. So he waits patiently through the twisting and shoving and placing aside, still thinking about how to ever balance his (completely normal) submission to his lover's will with... disobeying it should Mettaton find himself unable to hold back at some future point. It wasn't as though Emet-Selch wanted to die. Far from it... but his fear of it was lesser than the distress of not giving Mettaton what he wanted, when it was most important.
(It wasn't as though the contrary part of his nature would ever come in useful, even though this would be a time when it would be convenient for it to manifest. Even if it tried, Mettaton would overwhelm him. Emet-Selch wanted him to, and they both enjoyed it... as they'd even demonstrated earlier, when the puca had bitten and roughly mounted him in response to the Ascian stubbornly fucking himself with his fingers rather than immediately begging for his cock. But then, he'd still been able to praise him as well, through a faltering throat... making up for his insult with blood and voice and body.)
Mettaton's words of love still his breath, leave him both warmed and that bit more stricken. He knew it was true... which meant he had to survive. Even in those insane moments when neither of them wanted him to- or rather, that blood and recompense took precedence, with consequence forgotten.
But he couldn't forget, even if unease would linger. Mouthing a returned 'I love you too,' he kisses Mettaton again, tightening the arm he has wrapped around him for a few instants, resting that bit more comfortably against him, feeling the wrap of his lover's leg around him, and the steadying firmness of his body. Every bit of rigidity was reassuring.
...gods, he was tired, though. As if all of their (already emotionally intense, as usual) sex hadn't been enough to wear him, all of these outpourings of fear and pain and concern, of despair and near-tragedy, of everything about them at their most loving- which was the same as being at their most dangerous. And in this moment of peace in the aftermath, even the soreness and drying mess (even if it were thoughtfully reduced a bit) was giving way to those feelings of exhaustion. Only now was there space for it, time for it, and less ability to resist it. Unless specifically shuffled around, he's likely to pass out fairly soon.]