[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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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.]