[This is not like Alphys' horrible cartoons. This is not a fun, musical transformation sequence where the heroine gains a cute skirt and shiny tiara over the course of one pirouette. This isn't an anime. This is An American Werewolf in London. This is a horror show.
Instinct wipes the smile off his face as his hands reach forward, as if he could help the pain. Logic says not to get any closer. He's stuck in between, eyebrows knitted in concern and mouth opened in a silent gasp, but trapped against the door.
It ends, eventually. What's left behind isn't a magical girl or a werewolf, but something else. Something that's definitely Keats, but more... Monstrous. Honestly; the claws of something like Asgore, the flowing white hair and piercing eyes, almost like a ghost. Gray skin that's completely inhuman...
It takes a while, half out of shock and half out of concern for his own safety, before Mettaton actually steps toward the other. He opens his mouth, hoping for something insightful or relevant to pour out. You're terrifying. You're beautiful. I'm sorry it hurt. Does it still hurt? Are you alright? Are you going to be okay?]
You're a magical werewolf. [No, wrong. Try again.
...No, now you're just caressing the tattoo on his face. What are you doing. You can't even feel that. Reboot yourself immediately.]
no subject
[This is not like Alphys' horrible cartoons. This is not a fun, musical transformation sequence where the heroine gains a cute skirt and shiny tiara over the course of one pirouette. This isn't an anime. This is An American Werewolf in London. This is a horror show.
Instinct wipes the smile off his face as his hands reach forward, as if he could help the pain. Logic says not to get any closer. He's stuck in between, eyebrows knitted in concern and mouth opened in a silent gasp, but trapped against the door.
It ends, eventually. What's left behind isn't a magical girl or a werewolf, but something else. Something that's definitely Keats, but more... Monstrous. Honestly; the claws of something like Asgore, the flowing white hair and piercing eyes, almost like a ghost. Gray skin that's completely inhuman...
It takes a while, half out of shock and half out of concern for his own safety, before Mettaton actually steps toward the other. He opens his mouth, hoping for something insightful or relevant to pour out. You're terrifying. You're beautiful. I'm sorry it hurt. Does it still hurt? Are you alright? Are you going to be okay?]
You're a magical werewolf. [No, wrong. Try again.
...No, now you're just caressing the tattoo on his face. What are you doing. You can't even feel that. Reboot yourself immediately.]