[Words still aren't happening. Mettaton's obviously transfixed, fingers following the lines of magical ink on almost bluish skin. His hair is gorgeous, almost moving with a wind of its own, like whips of smoke from a burnt out match. The light from his eyes glow like the plants in Waterfall, bright and blue, far more than anything should be in the darkness.
And those teeth...
Say something, Mettaton. You're an actor. You're a writer and a musician and a star: you have words. You use your words for money literally every day of your life. You exist to say and sing and act out words. Use your words.]
no subject
And those teeth...
Say something, Mettaton. You're an actor. You're a writer and a musician and a star: you have words. You use your words for money literally every day of your life. You exist to say and sing and act out words. Use your words.]
Your face is good. [Kill him.]