[As always when it comes to Mettaton, Frisk is torn in three different directions - biting back a giggle, gaping in open awe, and desperately trying not to blush. Would you smooch a ghost. Like the twelve-year-old who flirts with jello-mold and skeletons wouldn't.]
S-sorry! Um, I didn't know you were, uh, here!
[They're starting to rival Alphys in levels of stuttering. Oh, dear. But he just keeps - and with his legs -
SCREAMING INTENSIFIES
S-sorry! Um, I didn't know you were, uh, here!
[They're starting to rival Alphys in levels of stuttering. Oh, dear. But he just keeps - and with his legs -
This is a mess. Frisk is a mess.]