How strange it was, to experience somebody else's touch. Despite being a touchy person, Mettaton's far more accustomed to touch on his powerful terms. The only chances he has to let other people touch him was when permission is granted: repairs, invitations, or even the force of his will exerting itself upon an unfortunate victim. Most of the time it's eyes only.
Mettaton truly fits being a rabbit. He likes to be touched, but only when he wants it.
So he hums, leaning back, permitting Elidibus the full of his body, even though he refuses to lose touch with Emet-Selch at his side. And he watches Elidibus with a piercing, golden stare, observant and interested, trying to fit his own curiosity together piece by piece. While he gives Elidibus a slow tilt of his head, Elidibus is clearly ogling his body for reasons not sensual, but of clinical interest. Oh well. Mettaton doesn't care either way: as far as he cares, interest is interest. He hums, slightly jutting out his hip salaciously in offering.
"Yes," is his simple reply. "Real flesh, that grows fur and bleeds. Before coming here, I looked quite different. Emet-Selch can testify to that."
Idly, Mettaton stretches his legs. Wiggles his toes. Stares at his entire legs, which are just... very, very different. Thicker, more muscular (?!??!?) thighs. Long, furry rabbit feet have even replaced the pink heels he once wore. Elidibus pauses around his waist, where Mettaton's sustained damage that has yet to be repaired—after all, the Coven's already written him off in the realm of care. It's not in their wheelhouse, machines. Mettaton gazes down at his injury, remembering all too well where it must have come from, but not how it came about.
And so he smiles softly, sadly, and remains quiet for a spell. But he follows up with a nod. "I do feel pain. I am c— alive, you know." Mettaton huffs as a cover-up. And seamlessly, he moves his hand to rub at the area metal's been rent, a steel blade against a steel body. He considers it fortunate that his body gave in first.
"Healing doesn't repair metal. That's for mechanics! Or... transmutation spells. Do you know any, Lidi-darling?"
And Mettaton smiles at Elidibus with a bright fondness, eagerness. But he wouldn't be disappointed one way or another. Emet-Selch's gotten good at transmutation: once he heals up, he knows his Bonded would be glad to help him. As for the name of endearment... Mettaton doesn't flinch at having used that, either. Elidibus is giving Mettaton a sponge bath. Mettaton has a lingering, misplaced memory where the Emissary's a consideration. This warrants a shortening of his name.
But as soon as the question is posed to Emet-Selch, Mettaton volunteers an answer with immediacy, his expression falling, eye wide, forthright and earnest.
"I attacked him." Attacked is a kind word. Mettaton swallows, only barely able to keep his expression from falling with restraint, keeping his face stiff. "I killed him."
♥
Mettaton truly fits being a rabbit. He likes to be touched, but only when he wants it.
So he hums, leaning back, permitting Elidibus the full of his body, even though he refuses to lose touch with Emet-Selch at his side. And he watches Elidibus with a piercing, golden stare, observant and interested, trying to fit his own curiosity together piece by piece. While he gives Elidibus a slow tilt of his head, Elidibus is clearly ogling his body for reasons not sensual, but of clinical interest. Oh well. Mettaton doesn't care either way: as far as he cares, interest is interest. He hums, slightly jutting out his hip salaciously in offering.
"Yes," is his simple reply. "Real flesh, that grows fur and bleeds. Before coming here, I looked quite different. Emet-Selch can testify to that."
Idly, Mettaton stretches his legs. Wiggles his toes. Stares at his entire legs, which are just... very, very different. Thicker, more muscular (?!??!?) thighs. Long, furry rabbit feet have even replaced the pink heels he once wore. Elidibus pauses around his waist, where Mettaton's sustained damage that has yet to be repaired—after all, the Coven's already written him off in the realm of care. It's not in their wheelhouse, machines. Mettaton gazes down at his injury, remembering all too well where it must have come from, but not how it came about.
And so he smiles softly, sadly, and remains quiet for a spell. But he follows up with a nod. "I do feel pain. I am c— alive, you know." Mettaton huffs as a cover-up. And seamlessly, he moves his hand to rub at the area metal's been rent, a steel blade against a steel body. He considers it fortunate that his body gave in first.
"Healing doesn't repair metal. That's for mechanics! Or... transmutation spells. Do you know any, Lidi-darling?"
And Mettaton smiles at Elidibus with a bright fondness, eagerness. But he wouldn't be disappointed one way or another. Emet-Selch's gotten good at transmutation: once he heals up, he knows his Bonded would be glad to help him. As for the name of endearment... Mettaton doesn't flinch at having used that, either. Elidibus is giving Mettaton a sponge bath. Mettaton has a lingering, misplaced memory where the Emissary's a consideration. This warrants a shortening of his name.
But as soon as the question is posed to Emet-Selch, Mettaton volunteers an answer with immediacy, his expression falling, eye wide, forthright and earnest.
"I attacked him." Attacked is a kind word. Mettaton swallows, only barely able to keep his expression from falling with restraint, keeping his face stiff. "I killed him."