[The door is slammed behind him in the wake of his stride, the robotic idol marching down the hall on quick steps. He paces in circles and lines and stomps the halls blindly, down the stairs, seeing only mere feet in front of him in his rage that won't quell. In the living room he tears open the pillow Papyrus used to use on full moons to chew on, caring not at all that he definitely just... chewed on that. He tears it to shreds. He moves onto all of the nicer ones he'd bought, too, slicing them apart with teeth and claws in his mindless fury. At first, Mettaton knows only this: Emet-Selch wouldn't call him desirable, wouldn't tell him he'd service him and deify him and praise him for eternity, leaving his thoughts of red devoid of sound save for static when they should have been accompanied by the song of his lover's voice. He's deprived again, disappointed, and rightfully seething.
There's a lot of static in these moments, but their Bond remains completely open, stormy and black and tumultuous. It could have gotten so rotten that, were they newly-Bonds, it may have been enough emotion to rip it apart. It could have been enough to wreck even this... but it holds fast. (Neither of them would really want it to break, and it wasn't as though either of them were in their best frame of mind.) But the Puca's ire grows beyond him, tangles and grows thorns, thickets of steely barbs, and Mettaton kicks over decorative glass with such violence that it shatters from impact alone. But it wasn't at all satisfying to Mettaton's raging temper, even though the entire world ought to be as furious as he is, shambling and destructive. Mettaton finds himself darkening, furious that nobody in the world could compare to Emet-Selch's praise and he'd lost even that.
Something worthy of praise continues to entice, lighting this building aflame, making it explode — and had he the magic, he would've done it in an instant. All people would behold it with awe and terror, and (Emet-Selch was upstairs still, he didn't want to hurt him, but) he didn't care who was caught in the crossfire. The robotic Puca tears into books, breaks porcelain, listens to the insanity of sound to replace the void where Emet-Selch's low, intimate voice should have been. Yes, his fury was appropriate, for why wouldn't a god demand worship and express his fury thusly? Abandon his devotees who couldn't appropriately laud him with reverence—
(He doesn't want to leave Emet-Selch behind... but he can't even focus on that anymore, thinking only in such fleeting frames of instants that this gets lost in the shuffle.)
The house is his storm and he doesn't even know where he's gone for a few minutes, hearing only the cacophony of breaking glass and pounding into the wall here and there. Nothing fixes this; nobody could match Emet-Selch's devotion, and his devotion failed him, left him wanting, and he wanted so much. He wanted it all, wanted the world and wanted his lover's body all over again.
Property stops enticing; Mettaton turns in on himself, gnawing on his arms. Tearing black fur, giving himself points of intensity to focus on, to lose his mind to, raking his claws over walls and feeling them pulled by unyielding drywall. Raking his claws over his metal body, too, to shudder with more intensity at the horrible scrape of nails against steel. None of this is with the intent to be self-destructive as much as it is to be real, to recognize for himself that he was so beautiful, undeniable and present and imposing, touchable and able to feel. But nothing tides him over; he can barely remember why he's so angry, and the feverish pitch of his emotions ties with... despair? He feels such despair, and he can't even tell that it's not his own, but it all intensifies his emotions even away from the pendant... urging him evermore toward ferality that couldn't subside. Not with such godly fury, vindictive and malicious as he's become.
—Until his claws snag on his shoulder jewelry. Diamonds spill from him like droplets of sparkling blood, clattering upon the floor as the jewelry comes unfastened by the neck, an entire section of it falling apart. This is worth despair, and Mettaton glances around him, shocked by the sudden loss of such a dazzling piece that slips off of his body like water. Emotions are high still, but as he stoops to the ground to lament the loss of his diamonds, so too does he lose the flaring rampage he could no longer place.
And he stills, staring at the glittering gems under the light, thinking about how he'd gotten here. Staring at blood on his hands; smelling it on his body. His own come, his lover's sweat and blood and...
(The sound of his pain, he wondered — but most certainly, the presence of grief that could fill the emptying space of their Bond where his own fury diminished, making room for the torrent of his Bonded's negativity.)
Not even caring to make himself presentable, Mettaton rises to his feet in an instant. Agile on the tips of his toes, he sprints for the stairs — feelings of disbelief, worry, pity and ache overwhelming him. It's not even ten (five? somewhere between there, he had no idea) minutes later that he's charging back into the room with a sudden slam of the door.]
Hades...?
[Voice softer, but still full of his emotion. Emotions not chastising or furious, but emotions of a similar intensity, concerned, but still fierce and passionate. Mettaton doesn't hover in place, immediately encroaching on his lover's space, no matter where he lay. If that was the floor, so be it — he would stoop down and collect him into his arms, alarmed less at the sight of blood and bruise as much as the flashes of recollection of his stricken, terrified eyes, of his despair, of... leaving him behind like that, even if it was for the better of them both. Of this sight before him. His lover's a mess, covered in blood and come and sweat, in tears and crumpled to the floor, made raw, rendered so painfully vulnerable yet left like this... How could Mettaton not want to pull him into his arms? He loves him, even if he's out of his mind.
Being in this room for long would surely influence him all over again in the moons' favor, but his fur's since colored itself silver, though it remains touched dark from the remaining intensity of his emotion.]
no subject
There's a lot of static in these moments, but their Bond remains completely open, stormy and black and tumultuous. It could have gotten so rotten that, were they newly-Bonds, it may have been enough emotion to rip it apart. It could have been enough to wreck even this... but it holds fast. (Neither of them would really want it to break, and it wasn't as though either of them were in their best frame of mind.) But the Puca's ire grows beyond him, tangles and grows thorns, thickets of steely barbs, and Mettaton kicks over decorative glass with such violence that it shatters from impact alone. But it wasn't at all satisfying to Mettaton's raging temper, even though the entire world ought to be as furious as he is, shambling and destructive. Mettaton finds himself darkening, furious that nobody in the world could compare to Emet-Selch's praise and he'd lost even that.
Something worthy of praise continues to entice, lighting this building aflame, making it explode — and had he the magic, he would've done it in an instant. All people would behold it with awe and terror, and (Emet-Selch was upstairs still, he didn't want to hurt him, but) he didn't care who was caught in the crossfire. The robotic Puca tears into books, breaks porcelain, listens to the insanity of sound to replace the void where Emet-Selch's low, intimate voice should have been. Yes, his fury was appropriate, for why wouldn't a god demand worship and express his fury thusly? Abandon his devotees who couldn't appropriately laud him with reverence—
(He doesn't want to leave Emet-Selch behind... but he can't even focus on that anymore, thinking only in such fleeting frames of instants that this gets lost in the shuffle.)
The house is his storm and he doesn't even know where he's gone for a few minutes, hearing only the cacophony of breaking glass and pounding into the wall here and there. Nothing fixes this; nobody could match Emet-Selch's devotion, and his devotion failed him, left him wanting, and he wanted so much. He wanted it all, wanted the world and wanted his lover's body all over again.
Property stops enticing; Mettaton turns in on himself, gnawing on his arms. Tearing black fur, giving himself points of intensity to focus on, to lose his mind to, raking his claws over walls and feeling them pulled by unyielding drywall. Raking his claws over his metal body, too, to shudder with more intensity at the horrible scrape of nails against steel. None of this is with the intent to be self-destructive as much as it is to be real, to recognize for himself that he was so beautiful, undeniable and present and imposing, touchable and able to feel. But nothing tides him over; he can barely remember why he's so angry, and the feverish pitch of his emotions ties with... despair? He feels such despair, and he can't even tell that it's not his own, but it all intensifies his emotions even away from the pendant... urging him evermore toward ferality that couldn't subside. Not with such godly fury, vindictive and malicious as he's become.
—Until his claws snag on his shoulder jewelry. Diamonds spill from him like droplets of sparkling blood, clattering upon the floor as the jewelry comes unfastened by the neck, an entire section of it falling apart. This is worth despair, and Mettaton glances around him, shocked by the sudden loss of such a dazzling piece that slips off of his body like water. Emotions are high still, but as he stoops to the ground to lament the loss of his diamonds, so too does he lose the flaring rampage he could no longer place.
And he stills, staring at the glittering gems under the light, thinking about how he'd gotten here. Staring at blood on his hands; smelling it on his body. His own come, his lover's sweat and blood and...
(The sound of his pain, he wondered — but most certainly, the presence of grief that could fill the emptying space of their Bond where his own fury diminished, making room for the torrent of his Bonded's negativity.)
Not even caring to make himself presentable, Mettaton rises to his feet in an instant. Agile on the tips of his toes, he sprints for the stairs — feelings of disbelief, worry, pity and ache overwhelming him. It's not even ten (five? somewhere between there, he had no idea) minutes later that he's charging back into the room with a sudden slam of the door.]
Hades...?
[Voice softer, but still full of his emotion. Emotions not chastising or furious, but emotions of a similar intensity, concerned, but still fierce and passionate. Mettaton doesn't hover in place, immediately encroaching on his lover's space, no matter where he lay. If that was the floor, so be it — he would stoop down and collect him into his arms, alarmed less at the sight of blood and bruise as much as the flashes of recollection of his stricken, terrified eyes, of his despair, of... leaving him behind like that, even if it was for the better of them both. Of this sight before him. His lover's a mess, covered in blood and come and sweat, in tears and crumpled to the floor, made raw, rendered so painfully vulnerable yet left like this... How could Mettaton not want to pull him into his arms? He loves him, even if he's out of his mind.
Being in this room for long would surely influence him all over again in the moons' favor, but his fur's since colored itself silver, though it remains touched dark from the remaining intensity of his emotion.]