Well, there's nothing threatening. But there's something.
At feeling Emet-Selch stir at all, even if it's by being manipulated like a lifeless doll, Mettaton grips onto him tighter like his favorite teddy bear. In dreamland, being reminded of his Bondmate's movement and even the stir of his soul (though their robust Bond has been temporarily damaged by their death, the worst part of dying) is a warmth, a security. Mettaton nuzzles his cheek against the top of Emet-Selch's head in the process of trying to cuddle closer.
It's a nice reminder, recalling that Emet-Selch is alive and near. But it'd be selfish of him to request Emet-Selch remain awake just for this consolation. No, they could meet in their dreams instead... Except for that there's the voice of an interloper afoot.
At the first evidence of Elidibus' voice, Mettaton stirs anew. His tone is measured and calm enough that it doesn't rouse him immediately, what with this being the first hint of deep sleep Hotland's idol has managed in... weeks, it felt like. But with enough talking, Mettaton buries his face in dark locks of hair; he burrows, he rouses, his leg twitches and tightens in its entanglement with his bedridden Ascian.
Mettaton doesn't comprehend what Elidibus is saying, just that there's an intruder, and Emet-Selch is under his protection. The robot has a habit of thinking like this, especially when he's disoriented or slipping into a feral, primal mindset. In a beat, Mettaton comes to with a start: in a hasty burst of energy, his hand reaches across Emet-Selch's body and slams down against the mattress in agitated protectiveness. He pushes himself up the best he can, leaning low over Emet-Selch's torso as his upper lip peels back and he stares, glares with a single luminous, golden eye, right at (or through?) Elidibus, the unexpected company.
—And just as quickly as that moment came to be, Mettaton blinks. His lips part, and his eye widens as he stares stupid at Elidibus. Then, at Emet-Selch. Then back to Elidibus.
Then, back to Emet-Selch again, who he pouts at and sinks toward. Mettaton is not the former "glory" he was back when he first met the Emissary, with glinting, silvery fur and an overall glow to his demeanor. His ears are ratty and hang like a lop's, his hair a tangly mess—though it'd be a surprise to anyone that this isn't the worst it had been. It remains caked with blood and dirt, but the bangs are desperately smoothed down, even if they remain unkempt. Where Emet-Selch's body is riddled in bandages and the evidence of wounds, Mettaton's entire chassis is flecked with dried, old blood, with every patch of fur having been plucked and torn away at until he was left with more bald spots than patches of blood-caked fur. His arms, and even his hips once they were revealed, would bear this same self-destructive pattern. In short: Mettaton is a horrid mess of still caked blood, black fur, and dirt, and nobody in this fine establishment has sought to change this fate of his. Much to his vanity-fueled dismay.
The Puca sighs, an expression of relief, realizing that Emet-Selch is fairly calm, and that this is a face he recognizes, and his attention's directed again to Emet-Selch's compatriot. His voice is smooth and melodious as ever, unaffected by his own recent resurrection and poor condition.
"Elidibus, darling! What a surprise... Did you leave Emmy a message, that you were stopping by?"
If so, he should've liked to hear about it! Mettaton dislikes being viewed while in such a state of disarray, and he would've made more of an effort to stay awake! But moments more spent staring at him has him piecing together some more... impressions.
Such as the linens. The cloth in hand, drenched in water. Emet-Selch's arm left arm being pulled toward Elidibus. That's the arm he'd most recently injured, he considers: the bicep is wrapped in dirty bandages, his ring finger bejeweled in a reddish-gold band. Only the roots of his ears seem to twitch at all, the rest of him unwilling to cooperate.
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Date: 18 Feb 2021 11:35 (UTC)Well, there's nothing threatening. But there's something.
At feeling Emet-Selch stir at all, even if it's by being manipulated like a lifeless doll, Mettaton grips onto him tighter like his favorite teddy bear. In dreamland, being reminded of his Bondmate's movement and even the stir of his soul (though their robust Bond has been temporarily damaged by their death, the worst part of dying) is a warmth, a security. Mettaton nuzzles his cheek against the top of Emet-Selch's head in the process of trying to cuddle closer.
It's a nice reminder, recalling that Emet-Selch is alive and near. But it'd be selfish of him to request Emet-Selch remain awake just for this consolation. No, they could meet in their dreams instead... Except for that there's the voice of an interloper afoot.
At the first evidence of Elidibus' voice, Mettaton stirs anew. His tone is measured and calm enough that it doesn't rouse him immediately, what with this being the first hint of deep sleep Hotland's idol has managed in... weeks, it felt like. But with enough talking, Mettaton buries his face in dark locks of hair; he burrows, he rouses, his leg twitches and tightens in its entanglement with his bedridden Ascian.
Mettaton doesn't comprehend what Elidibus is saying, just that there's an intruder, and Emet-Selch is under his protection. The robot has a habit of thinking like this, especially when he's disoriented or slipping into a feral, primal mindset. In a beat, Mettaton comes to with a start: in a hasty burst of energy, his hand reaches across Emet-Selch's body and slams down against the mattress in agitated protectiveness. He pushes himself up the best he can, leaning low over Emet-Selch's torso as his upper lip peels back and he stares, glares with a single luminous, golden eye, right at (or through?) Elidibus, the unexpected company.
—And just as quickly as that moment came to be, Mettaton blinks. His lips part, and his eye widens as he stares stupid at Elidibus. Then, at Emet-Selch. Then back to Elidibus.
Then, back to Emet-Selch again, who he pouts at and sinks toward. Mettaton is not the former "glory" he was back when he first met the Emissary, with glinting, silvery fur and an overall glow to his demeanor. His ears are ratty and hang like a lop's, his hair a tangly mess—though it'd be a surprise to anyone that this isn't the worst it had been. It remains caked with blood and dirt, but the bangs are desperately smoothed down, even if they remain unkempt. Where Emet-Selch's body is riddled in bandages and the evidence of wounds, Mettaton's entire chassis is flecked with dried, old blood, with every patch of fur having been plucked and torn away at until he was left with more bald spots than patches of blood-caked fur. His arms, and even his hips once they were revealed, would bear this same self-destructive pattern. In short: Mettaton is a horrid mess of still caked blood, black fur, and dirt, and nobody in this fine establishment has sought to change this fate of his. Much to his vanity-fueled dismay.
The Puca sighs, an expression of relief, realizing that Emet-Selch is fairly calm, and that this is a face he recognizes, and his attention's directed again to Emet-Selch's compatriot. His voice is smooth and melodious as ever, unaffected by his own recent resurrection and poor condition.
"Elidibus, darling! What a surprise... Did you leave Emmy a message, that you were stopping by?"
If so, he should've liked to hear about it! Mettaton dislikes being viewed while in such a state of disarray, and he would've made more of an effort to stay awake! But moments more spent staring at him has him piecing together some more... impressions.
Such as the linens. The cloth in hand, drenched in water. Emet-Selch's arm left arm being pulled toward Elidibus. That's the arm he'd most recently injured, he considers: the bicep is wrapped in dirty bandages, his ring finger bejeweled in a reddish-gold band. Only the roots of his ears seem to twitch at all, the rest of him unwilling to cooperate.