[They better be. They so better be or you will wake up and find them sewn together with cat-hair. I swear. I swear to god, I will ruin you.
Breathe. Okay. Okay. Okay.
Mettaton holds out his hands, instructing the other not to come any closer as he steps back. He pushes himself away from the chair, away from the table, until there's a soft thunk of him hitting the wall.
Okay.
There's a hiss. On his torso, where a stomach should be, lies a chamber with a pink heart. The sides of it expand and open, hydraulics forcing them apart like a mouth opening to show a set of teeth. The glass in the way drops out and away.
Okay...
His joints of his fingers are squeaking with how hard he's curling them into fists. With another unnecessary breath, the heart, his core, leaves its chamber. It floats forward, to where Mettaton had been a moment ago. It slows, as if hesitant, before resuming its path.
Once it's halfway across the table, Mettaton's body shudders and his head lolls forward, deactivating.
Okay.
Closer, close enough to be in arm's reach. Then closer, floating up and toward Keats' face. It's pink and seemingly metal like the rest of him. There's rivets on each side and vents for steam. Unlike the rest of his body, though, this seems... life-like. Like some living spirit possessed some fancy metal-work and decided to call it home.
It floats forward again and presses itself against his cheek.
...it immediately draws back because what the hell-]
i thought your face would be softer, what the hell is that, [the core squeaks, the voice filtering out of it far softer and significantly less mechanized than any other time Mettaton's spoken. It's definitely him, just... not as loud. More wispy, almost echoing.
no subject
Breathe. Okay. Okay. Okay.
Mettaton holds out his hands, instructing the other not to come any closer as he steps back. He pushes himself away from the chair, away from the table, until there's a soft thunk of him hitting the wall.
Okay.
There's a hiss. On his torso, where a stomach should be, lies a chamber with a pink heart. The sides of it expand and open, hydraulics forcing them apart like a mouth opening to show a set of teeth. The glass in the way drops out and away.
Okay...
His joints of his fingers are squeaking with how hard he's curling them into fists. With another unnecessary breath, the heart, his core, leaves its chamber. It floats forward, to where Mettaton had been a moment ago. It slows, as if hesitant, before resuming its path.
Once it's halfway across the table, Mettaton's body shudders and his head lolls forward, deactivating.
Okay.
Closer, close enough to be in arm's reach. Then closer, floating up and toward Keats' face. It's pink and seemingly metal like the rest of him. There's rivets on each side and vents for steam. Unlike the rest of his body, though, this seems... life-like. Like some living spirit possessed some fancy metal-work and decided to call it home.
It floats forward again and presses itself against his cheek.
...it immediately draws back because what the hell-]
i thought your face would be softer, what the hell is that, [the core squeaks, the voice filtering out of it far softer and significantly less mechanized than any other time Mettaton's spoken. It's definitely him, just... not as loud. More wispy, almost echoing.
Like a ghost.]