A/N: Wow, another chapter that didn't take half a year to be written? Guys, Armageddon is happening now. Anyways, thank you all so much for 11k reads! Enjoy this chapter to brighten up your Monday, my darling corpses.
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“Good morning, darling,” Mettaton greeted you that morning, his eye bright, and his smile warm. It took all your mental willpower not to meet his gaze and begin to imagine less than holy things.

You yawned in response, “Morning, Glitterbot. Sleep well?”

He smirked, “No, actually. I didn’t sleep at all.”

It was too early for this. “Smart Aleck,” you grumbled, making your way to the kitchen to get some breakfast, knowing that he was already following you.

“So are we calling names now, darling?” His eyebrow arched and the smirk grew. You had half a mind to slap it straight off of those lips. Gently, though. And possibly with your own. Your mind began to wander. You wondered if he even could do that, if his lips were soft and gentle, if they were cold, if they’d taste like rubber or if maybe he wore lipgloss. Was he even a good kisser? That probably depended on what kind of experience he had. You realized that you knew next to nothing about who Mettaton really was, who he had been in the underground. Perhaps you should ask him sometime.

“Beautiful?” He cooed, and his voice broke you from your thoughts. They were weird, and you really shouldn’t have been thinking them.

“Hmm? Did you say something?” Your eyes fluttered up to his face. For a moment, you remembered yesterday, but you willed it out of your mind just as soon.

“My, my, darling. What are you thinking about in that pretty little head of yours?” He mused, a small smile on his lips and a single gloved finger going through your hair.

Your heart fluttered. You. “Nothing,” you instead shrugged.

“I don’t believe that,” he disagreed, “I’ll just have to conclude that it was me.”

That was some A plus modesty right there. Although, he was right, and you didn't know why you even expected modesty from Mettaton, of all people. You snorted quietly and pretended to ignore him, turning instead to the refrigerator. Food seemed like a good course of action at the moment. “Wow, there is literally nothing to eat in here,” you commented idly upon opening the door.

“You’re not denying it?” He joked, leaning against the counter next to the fridge. You found a single Pop-Tart lying wrapped in one of the shelves. Eh, it’d have to do.

“I have nothing to deny,” you answered, unwrapping it. “Could I get by you for a second?”

He glanced behind himself and moved over, allowing you access to the toaster. “So you were thinking about me!” He exclaimed this triumphantly, a beaming smile gracing his lips. Something about Mettaton’s smile was always positively infectious. It took only a moment before you were awkwardly grinning in response at him.

You moved back away from the counter and stood across from him. You shrugged strangely as you responded, “Yeah, so? I'll bet you think about me sometimes.” Why did you say that? Regret hit you like a cement block. You made a mental note to one day build a time machine to go back and punch yourself for everytime you said something stupid or weird, and that would be first on the list.  

“That's no secret, beautiful,” he purred. Wait, what? What did that mean? Why would he say that? The figurative processors in your brain worked overtime while you struggled for an appropriate answer and tried to decode his simple sentence.

“I-It isn't?” You stuttered, purposefully looking away from him.

“Well, I thought yesterday would've made some things rather obvious to you,” he explained in a low voice that made the hairs on your neck stand up. Great. Just freaking perfect. Of course he brought that up. He couldn't just leave it well enough alone and ignore that it happened, as you were trying to do. No, he had to pull it out and thrust it straight into your face, all but shouting ‘Hey, remember how you did that!’

But it had happened, and you supposed that it wasn't going to be something that was easily forgotten. Apparently, he was counting on your remembering it. Why, you were not certain. Still, you found yourself less and less successful in your mission to keep him at an arm’s length. Speaking of which, you probably should do that, because now he was in front of you, and he was getting a little too close for the liking of your more logical side. However, the rest of you was awake with anticipation, your skin erupting into gooseflesh, your heart racing. It was unfair.

“Jerk,” you blurted out, unable to really say anything else, and finding that a one word insult was all your burning brain could manage.

“Are you calling me a jerk?” He questioned you. He feigned shock for a moment, before silently chuckling. You know he asked it rhetorically, but you still felt the need to come up with an answer of some sort.

“It's, uh, pretty obvious. At least I thought so.” You didn't know why you said that. Although, to be fair, you didn't really know much of anything at that moment, except that he was definitely getting closer and you definitely were not moving.

“How cruel of you, sweetheart,” he pouted, “Although, I guess I am, in a way. I can't help it though, it's simply part of being a diva.” There goes that smirk again, and it made you want to simply throw caution to the wind. It made you want to just say to hell with it all and leave all inhibitions behind.

This robot really wasn't good for you.

“That's not a very good excuse,” you manage to say. Conversation was hard. Especially this conversation.

“Well, that isn't very nice of you, either then. I'd say it makes us both jerks.” He stood in such a way that he wasn't quite blocking you, but he was still urging you back into the counter. Your fingers curled under the lip behind you.

“Fine then.” You grinned and added, “Jerk.”

“Meanie,” he pouted. He looked down at you with an odd expression you couldn't quite identify, but it didn't scare you at all. In fact, you wanted to stay right there in the comfort of that gaze forever.

“A-hole,” you countered, finding your breath slightly more labored than it had been. You met his look with your own, still allowing that little smirk you earlier equipped to tug at your lips.

“Beautiful.” Your spine was already tingling, but the chorus of chills crescendoed as his hand went to cradle your cheek gently.

“Oh.” It was partially a reaction to what he had said (he ruined the insult chain, how rude) and a reaction to how his arm had now slipped around your waist. This was so clichéd that you could vomit at it. Or maybe that feeling was just from the legion of butterflies, nay, pterodactyls tearing at the lining of your stomach.

He smiled at your prolonged silence, continuing, “Gorgeous, adorable, marvelous, darling.”

You had never really noticed how much you loved that smile until now. Of course, he had the confident, beaming grins and the mischievous little smirks that were a part of his day to day array of expressions. He had the adorable pouts and the faces that were more fitted on a television screen or on a stage instead of your home. Your mind wasn't even going to get started on the faces he had made on the couch yesterday, but you loved those too. Still, something about the way he looked at you now fascinated you. It was something you'd never seen on him before.

“Lovely,” he muttered in a tone so tender and gentle that for a moment you were surprised that his voice was his own. His thumb gently traced a path from your cheek to the corner of your lip.

It had always been your understanding that one person takes the initiative. One person always starts it. There is someone that leads the way and someone that follows. That was the way that people went about doing things, really just a game of follow the leader.

But when you and Mettaton kissed, you couldn't even tell who had been first.
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A/N: Whoop de doo