[ this was all small talk to stuff a barren elephant in the room (if they were in a room). eren’s tongue tips out, and for a moment he stares hard, squints at the puca as he spoke without actually listening to a single word he said— before unfocused rounded pupils thin back to honed shards. he has been quiet, hasn’t he? he should fix that: ]
[The Winter chill settles upon them in their very not-elephant-shaped room, as it's the great outdoors. But there's certainly an elephant in the room as Eren stares at Mettaton like he didn't understand his own upset?
Like he wasn't even listening. Talk about a slight.
For a moment, Mettaton feels his temper flare. His ire could consume him, but his arm sparks in protest, a grounding reminder to do whatever it took to retrieve his arm. He could feel however he felt about Eren later, once business was taken care of.
Mettaton's gaze is level for a heavy moment, his smile working its way into a tight, small frown. His arm sparks again, still dripping with some sort of clear fluid, not at all clotting like any good organic wound should. He lifts the (unopened) box, taking only two steps forward.
And then he just... lifts his leg and delicately unlids the ornamental box with the tip of his boot. He sure did that. Leave it to Mettaton to utilize his legs to the greatest extent.]
You know, Eren... I don't see why this trade has to happen. At all. [He doesn't say that with his usual playfulness, even though it's somehow easygoing and light. Under the overcast, darkening sky, a dark, rich blade catches light overhead, polished perfectly. It's a tease of a knife, as Mettaton hasn't yet shown it to him fully.] It's my arm we're talking about here!
[ what a glint. it’s a shame that eren can’t be damned to recognize the talent in the robot puca’s leggy presentation. an art form, no doubt . . . but the real art here was the lovely glint of the blade’s face, prompting the largest filling of his pupils, round and leaving no space for the ice color of his iris— he’s engaged and interested, the end of his tail forming a methodical sway of prickling spines as he got up and dipped down to get an obvious better look. the puca’s tone was heard but disdained, and the wyvern’s talons rake against the metal in his hands, making it cry out as he stroked the fines, jagged edges it was ripped from. those ends were sharp, as his thumb pad proves when it prods his skin and harmlessly scrapes at scaling. ]
It’s mine.
[ he’ll say it only once with a chilly and superior sense of indifference like he was calling something pink when it was blatantly blue. was mettaton stupid? it didn’t matter if it came from his body or not. it was eren’s, now. it was his the second the metal ends bent into keen tips. it belonged to him and his ridiculous pile of other hazardous objects. he’ll be more offended the second time that isn’t acknowledged.
though he’s watching the teaser of the blade and not mettaton, his talons begin to tap the longer he watches— an anxious, impatient tapping that betrays the mostly placid look he keeps on his face, and the forked tongue that more rapidly slides from the back of his teeth and in the direction of the box’s lid. he wants to see it he wants to see it— ]
Open it.
[ he’s being rude, isn’t he! like a suspicious and fixated addict . . . a trick? it could be. mettaton better be careful with his leggies, eren’s tail is beginning to slither and surround them in a very recognizable semi-circle . . . ]
[Eren... If it weren't for the fact she was supposed to be hidden, she'd be having words. Claiming stolen goods as his own was one thing, someone's limbs was another. Hidden within her illusion the fae's arms spread in an unseen threat. Her lips curling back to show teeth.
He really did need taking down a peg or two... Or five.
But for now, there was nothing the fae could do. Though she did slip up, not mask her scent for a split second when that long serpentine tail gazed her boot. Then the illusion was back up fully as she stepped over it.]
[Mettaton gives Eren a smile. It's a touch malicious, tired and tried, his brow knit and his laugh soft, near incredulous.]
Demanding... How rude of you. [With that dexterous leg, the robot points to the lid, already on the floor... The box is open, but it's Mettaton taking a moment to stabilize the box amidst all of his gesturing with hand and leg alike.] I don't know where you get off on calling MY arm, yours. The nerve. If you were that much of a fan of mine, you could just ask, darling! I'm quite generous. [Pause. A twist of his smile in response to the shrill cry of talons upon metal.] And don't scratch my arm like that.
[How accommodating Mettaton would be, if Eren just came up to him and told him how much he loved his arms! A unique pick for a favorite feature, but Mettaton would understand. There's a lot to love about him, he'd say.
Where Mikasa's illusion falters at the possessive curl of Eren's long, serpentine tail, Mettaton remains just as house-fire-smelling and distractingly waving a boxed knife around as before. This won't stop Eren from noticing her, but maybe, just maybe, Mettaton's Puca luck will rub off on the Fae who deigns to keep her invisibility.
Or maybe fast action will work. With Mettaton's remaining arm, he holds out the knife for Eren's appraisal. It smells sweet, but not precisely telling of chocolate... Sweet, bitter, but it's obviously sharp and glistening, even signed with Mettaton's initials on its blade! How nice. Mettaton's irate smile veers charming, and his arm socket sparks as he unconsciously tries to gesture with his missing arm to its splendor like he's advertising a product on the streetside.]
If you like what you see... I'll let you take it, but you have to give me my arm first! I promise I'll hand over this knife! You have my word.
[ a wonderful combination of puca luck and mettaton’s prompt distraction is the only thing that saves mikasa’s presence in the shadows. otherwise— his tongue would’ve caught it. the aroma of wild berries, of honey and tart . . . it is dim on the puca’s furry ears. his pointed stare at where the fae should be is quickly interrupted by wanting to see the knife. the deep growling at the back of his throat is almost an imposter to purring— but there’s an edge to it. he keeps saying his arm his arm and it is not his arm unless he chooses to give it to him. and what an observation it was . . . his eyes are so wide, so astounded, like coming upon a wonder of the world, a true wonder.
he doesn’t have this knife. eren bends in ever angle to be able to catch it at its most beautiful. even a gasp drips from his lips as the greed presses its hands to his pride and strangles it quiet. it was. gorgeous. tentatively, eren hovers his talons out , clicks them back into a retreating curl, thinks— thinks long and hard.
well, he supposes, even if his pinned ears drop in deflating body language when silently saying his goodbyes to the pointed edges of the robotic limb. it’s a good trade. his hoarding blinds him to anything else.
he holds both hands out, palms up; one of them is free and beckons for the faux blade, while the other holds mettaton’s arm, secured to take back but equally ready to let go if he’s given the trade. ]
[Yes. Yes. Mettaton chants internally many different coaxing, hopeful agreements, smiling and nodding ever-so-slightly as he sees Eren glance between the (oh, sharpened) ends of his arm, versus the chocolate knife he holds in a nice ornamental box.
But what surprises him is how effective knives are... He'd heard about it. But seeing it first hand... (And he registered his arm as categorically relevant?!)
It's too long for Mettaton to be so still and quiet, but he remains that way with bated breath he doesn't possess, robot that he is. And finally, finally, Eren holds out... three hands.
One of them's Mettaton's, and that's all that matters.
With a skip, the Puca carelessly (and perhaps even recklessly) closes that distance.]
Well, I said to give it to me first, but! I'll take it. [Knife box set in one palm, and now the Puca's reaching for his rightful prize: his arm!] I hope you find that blade as sweet a victory, as I find reclaiming my arm to be!! I may have handsome legs, but I still use my arms!
[Yes Eren, look at the shine of dark hardened chocolate. The occasional flicker of sparkle from where fae dust had gotten caught in the mix. Clearly, this knife was sharper than the arm, it was made for this.
At Mettaton's recklessness, Mikasa falters. Blinking. Mtt plz, wait until Eren had fully extended, putting himself off balance for the trade. But nevermind, it was too late and she couldn't say anything without being noticed.
But she keeps her watch trained on the two. All that time recording Tater waddle was being put to good use. Now Mettaton just had to go before Eren realised he'd been duped.]
[ sorry, mettaton and company— as soon as the box’s weight taps onto his palm, eren’s remaining fingers snap into a curl much like a predatory plant around it; the arm is given freedom, but the box is now taken by both greedy claws. any words that the puca has spoken are replied to with a now disinterest grunt as he marvels, like a child in a candy store (this will not age well) at the boxed, sleek black knife. his tail returns to him as he also chooses to walk some paces away from them, but just enough to give himself protective space to inspect the new addition to his collection. how lovely a point, the shine, it even looks like its been carefully crafted into one as his talons diligently lift the faux blade from its cell.
the dragon’s tail curl’s around his own ankles, and his possession runs amok in his thoughts. eren allows the object to fall flat on both palms now that he venerates it, touches and licks and creates too much friction for molded chocolate to handle. the blade’s face dents as its turned over eagerly, almost immediately turned over once more when keen reptilian eyes catch the molded spot of his own damn finger.
[That was a fast grab. As soon as Eren takes the box, Mettaton's nearly concerned that in his reverie, he'd forget to hand back his, well, hand... But Eren gives his arm at the tug of it, and Mettaton takes his precious limb back. His ears bolt upright at the sensation of his transaction gone so smoothly, and the Puca even jumps for joy. Just a little skip to his step, a sort of half-circle first around Eren, then around the... invisible Mikasa.]
Fabulous!! It's a deal, then. Well! I'd better be heading off, so I can put myself in the capable hands of a queen of a machinist! I have an appointment already set. [Like he's off to get his nails done, or something.
Mettaton bounds forward by a few steps, sure to proclaim loudly that he intends to leave... Even though he can tell Eren's absorbed by the knife.]
You really do like... ... [... Nevermind. It was near ritualistic and rapturous, the way he was just... —Well, Mettaton knows that he'd better head off before the knife melts.] Whatever. Hope you find that knife as sweet as I do, darling! Toodles!
[Mikasa... come hither. If she doesn't, it's not that Mettaton knows where she is. He sort of gazes at the air, unable to see where she is at all. Then, he makes a dash for it.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
FOR METTATON
[ this was all small talk to stuff a barren elephant in the room (if they were in a room). eren’s tongue tips out, and for a moment he stares hard, squints at the puca as he spoke without actually listening to a single word he said— before unfocused rounded pupils thin back to honed shards. he has been quiet, hasn’t he? he should fix that: ]
Let me see it.
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Like he wasn't even listening. Talk about a slight.
For a moment, Mettaton feels his temper flare. His ire could consume him, but his arm sparks in protest, a grounding reminder to do whatever it took to retrieve his arm. He could feel however he felt about Eren later, once business was taken care of.
Mettaton's gaze is level for a heavy moment, his smile working its way into a tight, small frown. His arm sparks again, still dripping with some sort of clear fluid, not at all clotting like any good organic wound should. He lifts the (unopened) box, taking only two steps forward.
And then he just... lifts his leg and delicately unlids the ornamental box with the tip of his boot. He sure did that. Leave it to Mettaton to utilize his legs to the greatest extent.]
You know, Eren... I don't see why this trade has to happen. At all. [He doesn't say that with his usual playfulness, even though it's somehow easygoing and light. Under the overcast, darkening sky, a dark, rich blade catches light overhead, polished perfectly. It's a tease of a knife, as Mettaton hasn't yet shown it to him fully.] It's my arm we're talking about here!
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It’s mine.
[ he’ll say it only once with a chilly and superior sense of indifference like he was calling something pink when it was blatantly blue. was mettaton stupid? it didn’t matter if it came from his body or not. it was eren’s, now. it was his the second the metal ends bent into keen tips. it belonged to him and his ridiculous pile of other hazardous objects. he’ll be more offended the second time that isn’t acknowledged.
though he’s watching the teaser of the blade and not mettaton, his talons begin to tap the longer he watches— an anxious, impatient tapping that betrays the mostly placid look he keeps on his face, and the forked tongue that more rapidly slides from the back of his teeth and in the direction of the box’s lid. he wants to see it he wants to see it— ]
Open it.
[ he’s being rude, isn’t he! like a suspicious and fixated addict . . . a trick? it could be. mettaton better be careful with his leggies, eren’s tail is beginning to slither and surround them in a very recognizable semi-circle . . . ]
no subject
He really did need taking down a peg or two... Or five.
But for now, there was nothing the fae could do. Though she did slip up, not mask her scent for a split second when that long serpentine tail gazed her boot. Then the illusion was back up fully as she stepped over it.]
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Demanding... How rude of you. [With that dexterous leg, the robot points to the lid, already on the floor... The box is open, but it's Mettaton taking a moment to stabilize the box amidst all of his gesturing with hand and leg alike.] I don't know where you get off on calling MY arm, yours. The nerve. If you were that much of a fan of mine, you could just ask, darling! I'm quite generous. [Pause. A twist of his smile in response to the shrill cry of talons upon metal.] And don't scratch my arm like that.
[How accommodating Mettaton would be, if Eren just came up to him and told him how much he loved his arms! A unique pick for a favorite feature, but Mettaton would understand. There's a lot to love about him, he'd say.
Where Mikasa's illusion falters at the possessive curl of Eren's long, serpentine tail, Mettaton remains just as house-fire-smelling and distractingly waving a boxed knife around as before. This won't stop Eren from noticing her, but maybe, just maybe, Mettaton's Puca luck will rub off on the Fae who deigns to keep her invisibility.
Or maybe fast action will work. With Mettaton's remaining arm, he holds out the knife for Eren's appraisal. It smells sweet, but not precisely telling of chocolate... Sweet, bitter, but it's obviously sharp and glistening, even signed with Mettaton's initials on its blade! How nice. Mettaton's irate smile veers charming, and his arm socket sparks as he unconsciously tries to gesture with his missing arm to its splendor like he's advertising a product on the streetside.]
If you like what you see... I'll let you take it, but you have to give me my arm first! I promise I'll hand over this knife! You have my word.
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he doesn’t have this knife. eren bends in ever angle to be able to catch it at its most beautiful. even a gasp drips from his lips as the greed presses its hands to his pride and strangles it quiet. it was. gorgeous. tentatively, eren hovers his talons out , clicks them back into a retreating curl, thinks— thinks long and hard.
well, he supposes, even if his pinned ears drop in deflating body language when silently saying his goodbyes to the pointed edges of the robotic limb. it’s a good trade. his hoarding blinds him to anything else.
he holds both hands out, palms up; one of them is free and beckons for the faux blade, while the other holds mettaton’s arm, secured to take back but equally ready to let go if he’s given the trade. ]
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But what surprises him is how effective knives are... He'd heard about it. But seeing it first hand... (And he registered his arm as categorically relevant?!)
It's too long for Mettaton to be so still and quiet, but he remains that way with bated breath he doesn't possess, robot that he is. And finally, finally, Eren holds out... three hands.
One of them's Mettaton's, and that's all that matters.
With a skip, the Puca carelessly (and perhaps even recklessly) closes that distance.]
Well, I said to give it to me first, but! I'll take it. [Knife box set in one palm, and now the Puca's reaching for his rightful prize: his arm!] I hope you find that blade as sweet a victory, as I find reclaiming my arm to be!! I may have handsome legs, but I still use my arms!
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At Mettaton's recklessness, Mikasa falters. Blinking. Mtt plz, wait until Eren had fully extended, putting himself off balance for the trade. But nevermind, it was too late and she couldn't say anything without being noticed.
But she keeps her watch trained on the two. All that time recording Tater waddle was being put to good use. Now Mettaton just had to go before Eren realised he'd been duped.]
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the dragon’s tail curl’s around his own ankles, and his possession runs amok in his thoughts. eren allows the object to fall flat on both palms now that he venerates it, touches and licks and creates too much friction for molded chocolate to handle. the blade’s face dents as its turned over eagerly, almost immediately turned over once more when keen reptilian eyes catch the molded spot of his own damn finger.
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Fabulous!! It's a deal, then. Well! I'd better be heading off, so I can put myself in the capable hands of a queen of a machinist! I have an appointment already set. [Like he's off to get his nails done, or something.
Mettaton bounds forward by a few steps, sure to proclaim loudly that he intends to leave... Even though he can tell Eren's absorbed by the knife.]
You really do like... ... [... Nevermind. It was near ritualistic and rapturous, the way he was just... —Well, Mettaton knows that he'd better head off before the knife melts.] Whatever. Hope you find that knife as sweet as I do, darling! Toodles!
[Mikasa... come hither. If she doesn't, it's not that Mettaton knows where she is. He sort of gazes at the air, unable to see where she is at all. Then, he makes a dash for it.]
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Then for a second a chittering-laugh slipped through the illusion and she still...
Then she too bolted. The illusion coming undone completely as she got to the corner Mettaton had turned down. ]