[Trade the confusion of harmonious architecture for the confusion of chaotic billboards and flashy advertisements. Would it really be any easier to navigate than a labyrinthine human city with its competing labels and brands, but at least everything is labelled/mislabeled? No. But it's what Mettaton would want.
Mettaton's easy mood is challenged by what he reads, and that spark of aggression returns in him as he smiles maliciously at his device, ears swiveling, angling, flicking. It's not that Emet-Selch would protest — that's fine. If he were really so reluctant, Mettaton would be glad to reduce his celebratory efforts into something compact, a token of his appreciation for being that he thinks would be agreeable to the Ascian. Meeting in-between. No, what incites his ire is, once again, the assertion that time spent here has no meaning elsewhere.
And his aggression is difficult to channel into anything productive, given how uncertain it all continues to be. But he's agitated all the same. He marches onward, in the direction of his Bonded. People part for the tall robotic Puca, his stride so long, so fast, so unstoppable and regarding nothing in his path that he might just stomp someone flat if they didn't yield to him.
Nobody agitates him quite like Emet-Selch does.]
You don't have any surefire proof of that, darling. We've gone over this.
You'll find it reflected elsewhere. It'll haunt you. I'll haunt you. Always. You won't be able to stop thinking about me, and these years you spend with me. You'll be hooked. I'll make sure of it.
[He writes it like slamming his thumbs on his keys... He scarcely thinks about it, emotion high. But he adds on quickly, emotions still high and the smell of the air striking him suddenly (smells, tastes, senses he doesn't want to forget even if he loses them),]
Yes. Your time here matters. Significantly. You'll leave with me yourself, you know. Your impact.
[Mettaton is hellbent on remembering, after all, which he has no say in doing. He considers that a form of reflection. He considers then that he'll remember how much Emet-Selch plays his nerves, and how much he loves him for it.]
no subject
Mettaton's easy mood is challenged by what he reads, and that spark of aggression returns in him as he smiles maliciously at his device, ears swiveling, angling, flicking. It's not that Emet-Selch would protest — that's fine. If he were really so reluctant, Mettaton would be glad to reduce his celebratory efforts into something compact, a token of his appreciation for being that he thinks would be agreeable to the Ascian. Meeting in-between. No, what incites his ire is, once again, the assertion that time spent here has no meaning elsewhere.
And his aggression is difficult to channel into anything productive, given how uncertain it all continues to be. But he's agitated all the same. He marches onward, in the direction of his Bonded. People part for the tall robotic Puca, his stride so long, so fast, so unstoppable and regarding nothing in his path that he might just stomp someone flat if they didn't yield to him.
Nobody agitates him quite like Emet-Selch does.]
You don't have any surefire proof of that, darling. We've gone over this.
You'll find it reflected elsewhere. It'll haunt you. I'll haunt you. Always. You won't be able to stop thinking about me, and these years you spend with me. You'll be hooked. I'll make sure of it.
[He writes it like slamming his thumbs on his keys... He scarcely thinks about it, emotion high. But he adds on quickly, emotions still high and the smell of the air striking him suddenly (smells, tastes, senses he doesn't want to forget even if he loses them),]
Yes. Your time here matters. Significantly. You'll leave with me yourself, you know. Your impact.
[Mettaton is hellbent on remembering, after all, which he has no say in doing. He considers that a form of reflection. He considers then that he'll remember how much Emet-Selch plays his nerves, and how much he loves him for it.]