metalcrusher: Mettaton leans forward with an air of apprehension, clutching a mic in his fists. (Don't worry about me.)
Mettaton ([personal profile] metalcrusher) wrote in [personal profile] unsundered 2023-06-04 12:15 am (UTC)

Your magics, and... a stage light. An interesting choice. Why didn't it transfer my brand??

[Just imagine it...

In something of a haze, palms let to press carefully on the couch, Mettaton too draws the connection from bite, to the two 'parents' belonging to this dragon. A sigil, representative of the two that reared it into being... Turning his body he spares the snoozing dragon a look, before murmuring in a softer, more pleasant voice,]


(And why was I the one who you marked...?)

[Emet-Selch was more often the one who bore markings of their love! On him, he'd be hard-pressed to do anything about this, and it'd never heal. Gingerly he leaves the markings alone, reuctant to agitate it lest there's some magic to it. (There is; he would learn this for sure, atop all other magic going on in this house.) For now he would have a mark on his body, and no rushing would see it gone any quicker... If at all. Mettaton considers this possibility, given the nature of magic, and of love.

A mark representative of them... He folds his hands over his front, and attempts to lean back, contemplative. Over the fact that he doesn't particularly mind that thought, and over the feeling of the couch, and of his own fingers laced together. The back of the couch feels more... scratchy than usual. Mettaton's screen flickers, nonplussed. Should he accept this sudden nuance of Couch Texture, or make a deal out of it...]


I'll await your return. I know bidding you to 'hurry on home' is pointless, given your lack of teleportation... And I'm able to hang tight. But I'm beginning to wonder if this bite has... infected me, somehow.

[He wouldn't be able to put it into words. He holds the phone against his body... and finds that the sensation of its wooden case is... strangely firm in sensation. Is he hallucinating? All things feel like pressure of some kind, but it was as though he was remembering all over again what it was like to feel... material differences. He taps the phone against his body, screen a very dim red.]

..... [Like this, he would wait, as still as he can remain.]

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