[Circumstances were aligning just so, that Mettaton hasn't had a single moment to assess himself, aside from the unwelcome mark that showed up in his next selfie. Since then, the dragon has shifted into a sunbeam, and curled up in a nice, cat-like donut. Mettaton sits on the other side of the couch, tapping away on his phone—and between Emet-Selch's responses and his own, he glances back down at the tattoo.
He observes it. He can't feel it, but the marking's circles gently... move, a hypnotic rotation around the center stage light—which Mettaton recognizes instantly. Not necessarily as a symbol of his own, but its shape was obvious to him. The circular signs, though, looked familiar in some way...
When his phone beeps at him, he picks it up. The dragon readjusts, grumpy at the interruption of sound.]
Your magics... Oh! That's right! I was wondering where I'd see these marks before. But darling, the center is a stage light, of course. Though I would know best, given that I'm so often staring right into them!
[This deserves another healthy regard to this tattoo. Its rings drift, though the center remains still, and Mettaton tries to touch it with his free hand. Out of... what he decides is a sensitivity to the sudden presence of this magical marking??... he flinches; it's sore, it feels like.
(It's not sore, not really. But it feels like it, to Mettaton, who feels... suddenly, if gradually, overwhelmed by the air itself. The robot gasps to himself, for all that he doesn't use the air for any purpose.)]
Maybe, darling...
[He sends just that. No quips about the dragon picking up his habits, as he's increasingly distracted by... all else. For a moment, he flexes his fingers; the buttons feel... quite pronounced against his fingertips. Like pinpricks. He soldiers on.]
I'd have you come home straightaway, instead of embarking on your shopping errand for cleaners. Please.
no subject
He observes it. He can't feel it, but the marking's circles gently... move, a hypnotic rotation around the center stage light—which Mettaton recognizes instantly. Not necessarily as a symbol of his own, but its shape was obvious to him. The circular signs, though, looked familiar in some way...
When his phone beeps at him, he picks it up. The dragon readjusts, grumpy at the interruption of sound.]
Your magics... Oh! That's right! I was wondering where I'd see these marks before. But darling, the center is a stage light, of course. Though I would know best, given that I'm so often staring right into them!
[This deserves another healthy regard to this tattoo. Its rings drift, though the center remains still, and Mettaton tries to touch it with his free hand. Out of... what he decides is a sensitivity to the sudden presence of this magical marking??... he flinches; it's sore, it feels like.
(It's not sore, not really. But it feels like it, to Mettaton, who feels... suddenly, if gradually, overwhelmed by the air itself. The robot gasps to himself, for all that he doesn't use the air for any purpose.)]
Maybe, darling...
[He sends just that. No quips about the dragon picking up his habits, as he's increasingly distracted by... all else. For a moment, he flexes his fingers; the buttons feel... quite pronounced against his fingertips. Like pinpricks. He soldiers on.]
I'd have you come home straightaway, instead of embarking on your shopping errand for cleaners. Please.