[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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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.]