if i keep my eyes closed - private, mettaton

[JOHN WHISKERS]

[justify]John got into dangerous situations all the time; it'd been apart of his life ever since he'd been young. Though since arriving at the Badlands it'd happened much more, though he'd grown with it; now he was dangerous, he wasn't a pushover anymore.

Didn't mean he was invincible, it just meant he was prepared when everything went to shit. Like now for example,
when he'd been walking home with a bag of small game slung over his shoulder and he ran across an unfriendly face.

Muggers were a common occurrence in his life; it just happened when you carried valuable goods around while also conveniently staying away from crowds. Still, usually they had knives or shanks; but this person, bundled up in a large coat and a wide-brimmed hat to shadow his face had a gun.

It was a pistol in good condition and the way the mugger held themselves he could tell it was loaded and in working order. He put up his hands as the person gestured for him to enter the alleyway. He considered his chances at bolting; but was the measly game he'd brought back really worth his life?

Nah, it wasn't.

He walked into the alleyway and the person roughly grabbed his shoulder and pushed the gun underneath his chin. They shoved him against the wall and used one arm to hold him there as they used the other to ruffle through his bag. Apparently displeased with what they'd found, they tossed the bag to the ground.

"I don't want this shit. I know you live with that girl- I know she has stashes of good shit, and you're going to take me to them or I'll put a bullet in your head, understood?" Their voice was scratchy and rough, and carried the undertone of desperation John knew all too well.

"I don't know where she keeps her stuff." John responded curtly, hoping the druggie was dumb enough to drag him to Sel to question her instead with his head as the bargaining chip. Even if they had their differences, Sel would protect him, even if it was just because she viewed him as her property.

"I don't believe you." The drugged person hissed before grabbing his head and slamming it against the brick wall. John let out a sharp scream of pain and tried to pull away, only to be knocked down as the person kicked his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, but still made a grab for his spear only to have a switchblade sink into his palm.

He let out another scream and tried to roll away, only to have the person hold him down with their foot. They glared down, gun pointed directly at him, sides heaving and eyes wild.

// [member=149]Mettaton.[/member] gonna leave it there for you so MTT can come in and wreck shit[/justify]

we're swimming with the sharks until we drown

[ashen]

[align=center]

going to the discotheque -- getting high and getting wrecked

Mettaton had always maintained a fairly peaceful, friendly attitude. Sure, there were...cracks in that attitude, particularly when someone drove him past his breaking point--but besides that, few got to see how violent he really could be. He didn't often need to be violent--he liked to talk, and negotiate, and most often, that worked. Tat had promoted him to warchief and he didn't doubt that some questioned the motives behind it, except perhaps nepotism--since they were so close, and practically siblings. But Tatiana knew him better than most, and she'd seen his combative prowess firsthand--and so would this druggie.

---

He'd been having a lazy enough day; but it had been time for him to get up, take a walk around the city, and keep an eye on things. It was a sort of unofficial duty he liked to take care of--more often than not he found a newcomer, or someone up to no good. Today was no exception--he sighed as he heard a scream, and took off jogging towards the intersection it seemed to come from. Probably a pair of grunts in a fight. Technically, not against any rules...but he always checked. It might be someone he liked. And if it was someone he didn't like, he'd like to watch. He found the alleyway, and turned into it--taking a second to take in the scene as his face quickly fell and his stomach plummeted.

The sight of a gun, as always, made him sick. It meant someone was going to die, and the last time he'd seen one, it had been pointed at him. That fear in his nerves began to spread, and he grabbed his knife--despite knowing it wasn't aiming for him. Then he looked down--and saw the bloody mess of a palm, and then...a familiar face, trapped under this man's boot, his expression betraying the pain he was feeling--and Mettaton snapped. He felt his panic surge into anger, drawing back before he slammed into the mugger, knocking him to the ground--it wasn't his smartest move, as the gun went off--but because he'd fallen, it wasn't aimed at John, and the bullet hit the gutter of a nearby building with a loud crack. Mettaton was larger than this guy--taller, at least--and quickly wrested the gun from his hand, growling as he scuffled with the guy--who clearly hadn't been expecting this. "Don't you fucking dare--" The warchief hissed, spitting into the man's face with contempt. "I will fucking kill you--garbage--rat--fucking worm--"

NOTES ; mettaton ;; warchief ;; other tags here

＃forsaken

[JOHN WHISKERS]

[justify]John didn't realize Mettaton was there until he was shoving the man to the ground, and a gunshot that made John shudder in terror went off. He couldn't help it; he stayed sitting there for a moment as he watched the two struggle, shock making everything feel like static.

Then he reached for his spear, his hands shaking as he tried to push down the deep, animal urge to bolt. He scrambled to his feet and jabbed the druggie in the shoulder, causing the man to let out a growl; not nearly as much of a reaction as John would've expected, but this guy seemed to be too far gone to feel much.

He could feel his entire body shaking, and his breath was unsteady and too quick; he'd been in that position before, too many times, but he thought he'd escaped that life. Escaped the uncertainty, the fear, the constant reliance on another's pity for survival.

"Mettaton- We need to leave-" John finally choked out. He didn't know how long they'd been fighting until he spoke; was he in shock? He'd felt this way before, once, but that was much worse. Wait, was that blade still buried in his hand? He hadn't even noticed the blood, or the searing pain.[/justify]

we're swimming with the sharks until we drown

[ashen]

[align=center]

going to the discotheque -- getting high and getting wrecked

He'd not noticed, but the man beneath him, though still putting up a fight, was not worth his efforts--in fact, he might as well have already won, this man was desperate and not a strong physical threat, not without his gun. But the warchief hadn't gotten off--he hadn't had the presence of mind to think of much besides his anger and fear, as he wanted to make sure he would never--never touch that gun again, never shoot someone.

The voice from behind him caught his attention, with some delay; but when it hit him he jumped, back off the druggie, and turned, his features still wild themselves, but with less animosity than John's attacker. His eyes roved his rival's for a moment before catching on to the blood and the wound and a small gasp escaped before he moved, grabbing John's wrists and trying to force himself back into a concentrated and functional mental state. He wasn't particularly hurt, though he'd probably be bruised--and that guy had gotten him in the lip. He turned, trying to get at the bag he kept on his back; you needed to be prepared whenever you left--well, actually, you needed to be prepared, out of the house or not, out here. He kept bandages on him as a matter of course, and he got them out now--staring at that hand--the knife still embedded. Chances were, it wasn't near an artery. Right? It was just his hand...but if this fucked up, there might be bone or nerve damage...that would be bad, but he needed to stop the blood, and that was that. And...he needed to get that knife out. "I'm going to take this out--but--here, hold this on, put pressure on it. Try to keep it from bleeding more when I take this out, okay?" His voice was trembling only a bit, full of concern but still not fully recovered from the fight.

NOTES ; mettaton ;; warchief ;; other tags here

＃forsaken

[JOHN WHISKERS]

[justify]John watched Mettaton fight for a while- or was it just a few seconds? Either way, he doubted that druggie would be showing his face around these parts again. Though as his rival's eyes met his, he noticed the bruises already blossoming and the blood on Mettaton's lips.

He looked wild, dangerous. John instinctively took a step back but didn't fight as Mettaton grabbed his wrists.
He braced himself; he didn't know for what, but he knew it was coming. Sel wasn't around, the man had already darted off into the shadows, now would be the perfect time to end him and just blame it on the mugger.

Instead, Mettaton spoke; talking about taking the knife out. Oh right, that still had to happen; wouldn't want to leave it in too long. Luckily it wasn't rusty, or else he would've been in for a much worse time.

"Okay." John said, hating how much his voice shook. He hated showing this weakness, but he couldn't disguise his voice right now. He clutched the bandage Metta had handed him and stared at the wound, trying to concentrate and ignore the floating feeling in his head.[/justify]

we're swimming with the sharks until we drown

[ashen]

[align=center]

going to the discotheque -- getting high and getting wrecked

Mettaton couldn't see, or understand, John's apprehension at him; and he nodded, gla to see the guy take the bandage. If he lost too much, he might lose some of his lucidity, and as it was--he could see teh guy looked at least a bit out of it.

It was fast. He probed the back of John's hand, feeling to try and gauge if it had hit bone, and upon realization it hadn't, it was swiftly that he removed the knife, immediately wrapping the bandages over and around, tight so as to keep pressure on staunching the blood. He tied it off after padding it with gauze, checking over and holding it still as he could, no matter what pain John was going through.

Finally--he was bandaged. They'd clean it when they got back, make sure it was safe. Sel knew more than he did about healing, anyway, and she'd want to see her servant.

Mettaton stepped back, still catching his breath, silent, and stared at John. He'd nearly just died.
Without a word, the warchief pulled John into a tight hug, squeezing him with the relief that he was hugging a man who was standing up of his own accord, most certainly alive, most certainly conscious, for now. Thank god.

NOTES ; mettaton ;; warchief ;; other tags here

＃forsaken

[JOHN WHISKERS]

[justify]He bit his lip and tensed as the knife slid out of his hand, the pain starting to make him a bit dizzy. Well, dizzier then he already was. Soon enough it was bandaged, though the pain still stayed. He wasn't losing much blood anymore though, which was good.

He was slowly coming back to his senses, slowly; near-death experiences weren't something he ever thought he'd get used to, and apparently that was true. He'd have to tell Sel about the druggie; she would want to know if someone was looking for her stuff. Maybe she'd help him with his hand, though it was doubtful; she didn't really much care for his health, though perhaps if he convinced her that he'd become a burden until it was healed.

Mettaton stepped back, but John kept his eyes on the ground. He was processing the situation, quicker and quicker now that the danger had passed; he'd almost died, and Mettaton had saved him. Gods, this was wonderful; he'd let his enemy, his rival, see him at his weakest. Though Mettaton was maybe more human then some of the others; he hadn't confirmed it, but it was a possibility.

Still, now he owed two life debts. Fucking hell.

He hadn't even noticed Mettaton had pulled him into a tight hug until he realized he'd just, instinctively started hugging back. He wanted to pull away, but gods it'd been so long since he'd been touched in a manner that wasn't harmful or sexual.

He buried his head into Mettaton's shoulder and tried to choke down a sob. When had his life become this? A constant battle for survival, with no end in sight or friends to pull him up when he got knocked down.[/justify]

we're swimming with the sharks until we drown

[ashen]

[align=center]

going to the discotheque -- getting high and getting wrecked

He could feel John's weight fall into his, and the taller man supported him well, not relinquishing his grip for a good ten seconds. Just feeling John's beating heart in his chest--it was reassuring. He didn't care about him--well, okay, he didn't care more than he did about anyone else--well, probably--but he did care, to an extent, and if he'd seen John bleed out--if that druggie'd killed him, Mettaton knew he would have been...distraught. Upset? The former felt too strong but the latter far too weak. He didn't know how he'd feel, because he wasn't entirely sure how he felt right now.

So he kept hugging him. One hand ruffled John's hair--it was an instinct, because he certainly wouldn't do it intentionally except to mock the much shorter fellow. Still, it happened, and his brow furrowed with more concern when he heard that sob--muffled in his shoulder as it might have been.

"We can go home, if you want--Sel's probably out, if you...want a bit to...collect yourself. You should rest, though--but I have food back home. And water. And wine--" He added, enticingly. He wouldn't force John home, but it would be safer--but still...he wasn't entirely sure the guy could walk.

He didn't really want to carry the guy.

NOTES ; mettaton ;; warchief ;; other tags here

＃forsaken

[JOHN WHISKERS]

[justify]He didn't know how much he'd been leaning on Mettaton; looking back, probably a ton. He was.. Processing a lot of things. He hadn't realized the full extent his situation had been trying him; he felt ragged, washed up, like he was casually falling into the abyss after walking off the edge a long time ago.

He shut his eyes and tried to collect himself, just a little bit. Though the motion of Mettaton ruffling his hair made the more rebellious tears leak out of his closed lids. As Mettaton told him to go home, listing off enticing things; composing himself would be good, rest would be great, a drink sounded like heaven right now.

"Y-yeah, we should get home." John said, grinding his teeth afterwards at how much his voice shook. He wanted to be normal and strong and clever like usual, but he just felt raw and awkward and wrong.

He pulled away from Mettaton, and his body swayed unevenly. He put a hand on the wall to steady himself before grabbing his spear from its abandoned place on the ground. He leaned against it, using it as a makeshift cane.

"Lead the way." John mumbled, his knuckles turning white at how tightly he was gripping his spear.[/justify]

we're swimming with the sharks until we drown

[ashen]

[align=center]

going to the discotheque -- getting high and getting wrecked

Mettaton nodded, letting him step back without complaint--but had to stifle his comment when he saw the wobbly way John held himself. He could see how hard it was for him to stand, and he subconsciously shifted a bit closer than he'd normally keep himself--if John fell, he had damn better catch him. He just nodded once more in response to John, not sure about his own voice. It wasn't shaking like John's, but he was realizing how much...concern he felt, and he wasn't sure he liked it. They made their way slowly, with Mettaton's gaze sharp and darting down every street, every alley to make sure they wouldn't be ambushed again. He kept one hand on his knife, but the other hovering--ready to grab hold of John if need be.

With the slow pace they took, it felt like forever before Mettaton could see his, John's, and Sel's home loom ahead. It was probably one of the safest places in the badlands--three people, all who were capable with a weapon and two of whom were...fairly well known--and feared, though Sel commanded much more of that than Mettaton.
Still--the steps up presented a problem. Mettaton paused, glancing to and from John and the house, before venturing to say something--albeit his voice more hesitant. He didn't know if John was quite so...shaken, now, and he didn't want to needle the guy. "I--could help you up?" He offered quietly. He didn't want the guy to fall and break his neck after everything they'd gone through.

NOTES ; mettaton ;; warchief ;; other tags here

＃forsaken

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