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“Do you truly need to do tonight’s show, darling?”
Technically? Yes. It was customary back in the Dreemurr household and carried over into his current home: whenever a new Darkner arrived in TV World, Tenna introduced them to the locals via a talk show interview. Mettaton’s art supply purchase a month ago gradually manifested in the Dark World. Now Tenna had a dozen folks to interview, from fashion designers to models to budding painters.
But considering he was backstage in a dimly lit corner, crushing Mettaton against the wall and melting into his mouth? Yeah, canceling had crossed his mind at least twice. Never thought he’d see the day when he abandoned his duties mid-broadcast. Then again, Tenna also didn’t picture himself in that precise situation six months ago—becoming far too familiar and intimate with a Lightner. So what the hell did he know?
“Show’s gotta go on, doll,” he murmured. “More than halfway done, too.”
Mettaton huffed, coiling his elongated limbs around Tenna’s torso. Took a while for him to settle on a corporeal form whenever he visited the Dark World—perks of being a ghost; he simply bypassed the whole fountain ritual nonsense—but since Mettaton crafted a mechanical figure, he brimmed with confidence on and offstage.
Tenna certainly wasn’t complaining. He’d never turn down the attention. Well, except for... you know, right now. Because a transmission kept pinging him about commercials wrapping up. And as much as he wanted to sink his fangs into someone’s lovely shoulder and fuck him until he moaned his name, Tenna still had a show to host.
“Hey,” he said, nipping Mettaton’s jaw. “I’ll make it up to ya after, yeah?”
“After? You mean when credits roll?”
“Y-yeah...?”
Wrong answer, apparently.
“That isn’t for another half an hour, darling,” he pointed out.
“I-I know! But we’re fresh outta COMMERCIAL BREAKS, so whaddya expect me to do?!” TV snow sputtered across his screen as he regained composure. “The second we’re off air? I’m all yours, doll. Promise.”
Mettaton pouted. “I suppose I can wait.”
Okay, he needed to stop making that face; it was planting one too many ideas in Tenna’s mind, none of which were conducive to a live interview. He stole a kiss from the corner of his mouth, just to take the edge off. Mettaton cherished the attention, if his smirk meant anything.
“What’s gotten into ya lately, hmm?” he teased. “Whatever happened to that STAGE SHY CUTIE I had to sweet talk into giving live performances? Nothing shy about ya now, that’s for sure.”
Mettaton chuckled and unraveled himself to the ground. “I suppose I’m simply eager to catch up on everything I’ve missed. I finally have the body I’ve always desired.” His fingertips danced over Tenna while retracting his arms to their default length. “Might as well put it to good use, yes?”
No arguing there, especially when Mettaton traced his waistband. The fleeting touch brought a stir in his circuits. Seemed like he noticed, too.
“Are you still wearing that attachment, darling?” he asked, resting a cheek against his hip, and gave him that look that threatened to blow out his neck tube.
“Ah, y-yeah! Of course!” Tenna coughed up a laugh tinged in static. Figured that saves me a trip to my dressing room after the show. Time better spent with YOU, doll.”
“Sounds like my kind of night.”
“You and me both.” He kissed the top of his head. “I’ll see ya in thirty, alright?”
“If you say so.”
The hell did he mean by that?
Ah, he’d ask later—another minute before they were live again. Tenna marched off, adjusting his jacket and tie while rushing for the stage. Made it just in the nick of time, too. Once situated behind the talk show desk, the spotlights brightened, the band swelled alongside the audience’s applause, and the cameras rolled.
Thirty minutes and counting. Then he belonged to Mettaton. Simply needed to survive this. Easy. Tenna did interviews in his sleep at this point in his career. The index cards were mostly for show, too; no need to waste airtime referencing them when he could pluck out questions from his mental Rolodex of interview nuggets.
And that was fine and well up until nine minutes in when something nudged Tenna’s knee.
He shuddered and stiffened as a paintbrush Darkner spoke of her muse for her last mural. Not exactly the reaction his guests or audience anticipated, but Tenna rolled with the punches.
“A-ah! Ya don’t say?!” He coughed and shuffled his index cards. “And, uh... h-how did you FIND this muse of yours?”
Thankfully, she smiled and humored his question, unaware of his attention darting elsewhere. Most folks couldn’t tell where Tenna’s line of sight shot to, thanks to his screen forgoing visible eyes. He aimed himself at the guest couch, sure, but he focused on what was under his desk.
Because it wasn’t something that jostled him a second ago. It was someone. And Mettaton knelt before him, closing a trapdoor typically used for his musical performances, and winked.
What the FUCK do ya think you’re doing?!
Apparently nuzzling into the space between his legs and making it very, very, very hard to do his job. Also made him increasingly hard, too.
The Darkner rambled. Tenna glanced between her and Mettaton. Didn’t help when he connected the dots that her aforementioned muse was the one traveling up the inseam of his pants. Of course Mettaton’s Darkners adored him, idolized him. Tenna couldn’t deny his brilliance, either. Maybe that was why this predicament terrified, infuriated, and aroused him.
Could he seriously not wait? Was he really doing this now? While they were live?! Did he... think he could get away with it? Better yet, could Tenna get away with it? Make it appear as if nothing was out of the ordinary while Mettaton caressed his thigh? He lost track of how often he walked onstage with only the foundations of improv and his inability to shut up keeping the show afloat. This was no different. Except... you know, it also wasn’t. Hard to deceive a captive audience with this plot twist.
Perhaps the desk hid everything below his torso, but he couldn’t hide from Mettaton. Not when he wore those tailored pants.
“And you’ve been with Mettaton for—” Tenna fanned the index cards, mostly to distract himself as Mettaton glided over his bulge. The hint of friction roused several throbs. “—a month or so? Must be, uh... QUITE THE EXPERIENCE working with a guy like that! Walk me through what a typical day is like, will ya?”
Again, she answered. Again, he resisted the urge to scream. The Darkner deviated into multiple tangents about watercolors and life studies, but that was fine. Let her gab. Tenna nodded, pretending to listen while he bit his tongue hard enough to lose a steady signal. Because Mettaton grew bored of fondling him past his pants and proceeded to unbuckle his belt.
The mental image of what that implied surged through Tenna, but he swallowed the groan tickling his throat. He spun it into an enthusiastic mmhmm for his guest. Folks bought the facade. For now. Shit, he was kicking himself for having nothing jotted down on those cards, because someone was testing his concentration by rubbing it threadbare. Literally, too.
“So now that you’re—”
Words fizzled out. Mettaton made quick work of loosening his pants. Didn’t take long after that for him to nudge his cock out. Honestly, he appreciated the relief—no more straining against stiff fabric—but it left him vulnerable, left him utterly at Mettaton’s mercy. And with how he kissed him, branding every inch with freshly applied black lipstick, it seemed he intended to torture Tenna a little further.
“Y-you’re settling in, both in the Light World and the Dark World—”
Lips brushed the underside of his head until he shivered. A tongue poked out, dragging over the blend of silicone and metal comprising that attachment. One of Mettaton’s favorites, if he wasn’t mistaken. Said something about loving the ridges and bumps, how the mechanical components shifted whenever he swelled, just to accommodate the girth.
“Do ya have any—”
A hand gripped the base of the shaft. Tenna tried not to wince. Or squirm. Or groan. Easier said than done when wet heat slicked him. Each lick teased another sensitive spot. All the better to lap up the slippery liquid leaking out.
“Any PLANS—” Static shocks sent his antennas into spasm for a split second. “—to debut your works? Can’t say we’ve done an art exhibit before, but—”
Lips parted against the tip. His free hand settled on a thigh, giving Tenna a firm grope.
A sound erupted from his speakers. Tenna hoped everyone present wrote it off as one of his mania-induced laughs and not... anything that conveyed how he savored squeezing past Mettaton’s mouth.
“First time for EVERYTHING!” he said, shaking slightly in his seat.
The Darkners on the guest couch exchanged glances.
“Is that alright, Mr. Tenna?” one of them asked. “We don’t mean to overstep boundaries in your studio.”
“We’d love to bring something new to your program,” another added.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with it!” a third rushed out.
“Right! But if you’re offering a chance for us to showcase our art, then... perhaps we could air a special?”
“Oh, a gallery tour! That would be wonderful!”
“Y-yeah!” Tenna leaned back in his seat—enough to slide closer to the edge and stay concealed under the desk. That and drive deeper into Mettaton, whose content coo vibrated through his cock and... fuck, he really was trying to kill him, huh? At least the funeral would be televised. “That sounds... wonderful! Truly!” He chucked his index cards over his shoulder. “LET’S DO IT!”
The audience laughed while Tenna clapped his hands and held them like a prayer to his mouth. Maybe they believed the host was deep in contemplation over this proposed broadcast segment. So long as it wasn’t obvious that he was smothering the desire to latch onto Mettaton’s hair and fuck his face, then Tenna didn’t give a shit.
“Tell ya what,” he continued upon grasping a shred of sanity. “How about ya pitch this ART SPECIAL to me—” Never mind. He bumped the back of Mettaton’s throat. Sanity was a lie. “—but w-we’ll leave it to—” Another moan, and Mettaton welcomed more past his plush lips. And that was new. And also sparking white-hot pleasure in his wires. “—the AUDIENCE’S APPROVAL on what gets greenlit!”
Applause overwhelmed the studio. Tenna hoped it drowned out the soft groan that escaped his pursed lips. And he clenched his jaw shut while his guests bounced ideas amongst themselves. Good. Let them do the talking. This kind of script wrote itself. Gave him the chance to be silent for once in his damn career. Not his first choice, though. Under ideal circumstances, Tenna would’ve gladly informed Mettaton of how well-received this performance was.
The conversation on the guest couch became a distant echo. Even the occasional cheers and cues via talkback were muted. What coveted his attention was the one hiding under his desk, kneeling before him, and sucking him off on-air. Every bob, Mettaton plunged further, lips pulled taut and trembling—definitely intensified the bouts of suction when reeling back. A warm tongue stroked his length, evoking throbs as well as those whimpers. He never slowed down, let alone stop. If anything, he gained momentum while stuffing his throat.
Tenna’s internal temperature spiked. He emitted a high-frequency whine, despite his efforts. Also couldn’t control the persistent twitch in his antennas. Just as he couldn’t help but sneak a peek underneath. That alone nearly throttled him towards a climax. Did he disable his gag reflexes? Or tinker with hinges to extend his jaw without snapping it clean off? The answer was apparently yes, because Mettaton relocated the one hand holding his hard-on to a thigh, then consumed the rest in one fluid motion to the hilt.
But that wasn’t what tipped Tenna over the edge, decadent as the lush warmth devouring his cock was. No, it was the glimpse of Mettaton peering up at him—a heady gaze from that gorgeous eye.
Electricity sputtered in his core and rippled from the epicenter. How the hell was he to resist the convulsions? That was an impossible task. And he didn’t want to deny the raw sensation searing wires. Shuddering, his screen flickered with interference. He darted a hand underneath, clutching Mettaton’s scalp and pinning him in place. A muffled whine surfaced as Mettaton’s nose crushed against his groin. And Tenna slammed a fist and his face into the desk.
“FUCK!”
Okay, well... at least nobody could claim they hadn’t seen him lose his shit during a live broadcast before, but even this outburst was rare form for Tenna.
The audience shared a collective gasp, then fell silent. Trembles inundated him. Fresh static popped like firecrackers within. Pressing his screen into the surface, Tenna choked on blissful cries. Mettaton swallowed each load, not a drop wasted. He would’ve been lying if he said he hated it. Quite the opposite. The added thrill of folks unknowingly watching the whole time? Yeah, the adrenaline rush coating his orgasm struck hard enough to warrant cartoon stars orbiting his head.
It didn’t help to hear—no, feel—a stifled whine as he finished. Not to mention those delicate fingers drawing random shapes into his inner thighs, as if to soothe the twitches there, it just... FUCKING! HELL! He yearned to snap his fingers and transport them elsewhere to bask in the afterglow. Maybe return the favor to Mettaton. Tempting. Very tempting. But this show wouldn’t run itself, and he had an interview to wrap up.
Hissing in a breath, Tenna bolted upright and tossed his hands overhead. “FALSE ALARM, folks! Thought I spotted A BEE buzzing around here! H-ha ha!” He laughed it off as—oh fuck, his damn nose. Swatting away the flower blossom there, and the three crushed ones on his desk, Tenna applauded. “But I’ve gotta hand it to ya: this PITCH OF YOURS is MARVELOUS! So, whaddya say, audience? Should we host this art special with our lovely GUEST STARS?”
A single viewer in the back row whooped and clapped. That didn’t break the awkward silence; it made it worse. After a moment, others joined in, albeit hesitant. Once the applause boomed in the sound stage, Tenna remembered to breathe. That was close. Too damn clo—
Movement teased his legs. Flinching, he glanced below. Mettaton withdrew, to his dismay. Licking his lips like a cat who caught plenty of cream, he winked at Tenna and vanished beneath the trapdoor.
Oh, FUCK YOU.
The remainder of the show stayed on schedule. Thank everything that was sacred and holy for that. One more curveball and Tenna couldn’t be held responsible for his actions.
When the credits played, he thanked his guests for joining him that lovely evening, then booked it backstage. Doors opened and shut as he bolted in and out of dressing rooms. Where the hell was Mettaton?! Two rooms away from having a meltdown, Tenna located his elusive star reclining on a chaise lounge expectantly.
“Ah, there you are, darling,” he said. “How did the rest of the broadcast go?”
Tenna stared for a hot minute. “Seriously?” Almost tore the doorknob off from his vice-grip hold. “SERIOUSLY?!” Barking out a laugh, he slammed the door shut behind him. “THAT’S all ya got to SAY FOR YOURSELF?!”
Mettaton didn’t blink while grinning. “And what could possibly have you so riled up this evening?”
“Funny you should ask!” He bared fangs and stormed towards him. “Because everything was going REAL SWELL tonight up until oh, I dunno, SOMEBODY—” Tenna loomed above Mettaton as his speakers peaked. “—decided to make my job EXTRA HARD.”
“Well, we can agree on that. You were extra ha—”
“Oh, SHUT UP.”
“Mmm, yes, it was rather difficult to say anything while I was—”
“Ya really couldn’t wait, could ya?!”
“I’m sorry, but what’s the problem, darling? You could’ve closed your legs or kicked me aside, but you and I both know that wasn’t the case.” He lifted an eyebrow. “And if I was a betting man, I’d wager that’s the best you’ve felt in a long time. Even took me by surprise once you finally got off. Did it help to have an audience for your outstanding performance?”
Tenna stood there, nothing but snow flooding his face. Mettaton laughed. Of course he fucking laughed.
“Oh my! Hit the nail right on the head, didn’t I?” Mettaton sat up, chewing his bottom lip. “You’re more insatiable than I thought. What a filthy mind you have, Mr. Tenna.”
Nope. Not answering.
Mettaton extended an arm to stroke his tie. “Admit it, darling: you love it. Having so many people watch while you’re—”
“I’m LEAVING.”
Barely took two steps before Mettaton seized his tie. A yelp exploded from his speakers. Tripping and crashing into the chaise lounge, Tenna managed to break his fall and prevent himself from crushing Mettaton. Moments like these made it evident how much smaller his beloved Lightner was. Kind of added to the allure, too. Certainly never hindered Mettaton from pouncing a guy twice his size, treating it more as a challenge than a deterrent. Case and point: that mind-blowing stunt he pulled off on-air.
As for the devious little criminal himself? He wrapped that tie around his hand, similar to how Tenna figuratively wrapped around his finger, and refused to let go.
“Perhaps I should interview you,” Mettaton purred, “and get a better sense of how much you enjoyed yourself.”
Hovering over him, Tenna let out a tired laugh and smiled. “Gotta book that in advance, doll. Ya know I keep a tight schedule.”
“Is that so?” He pouted. “When do you think you can squeeze me in?”
“Depends.” Curious fingers wandered up Mettaton’s thigh and found a home between his legs. “How long’s this interview of yours, hmm?”
Breath hitched in his vocal box. He rocked into Tenna’s hand, inviting him to dive deeper. “I was hoping for an hour-long special.”
“Oh yeah?” Tenna leaned in to bite his neck, curling a finger until Mettaton quivered and gasped and groaned. “Luckily for YOU, I just got a time slot that opened.”
At least this kind of interview was interruption-free. Definitely ran over on that hour limit, though. No breaks for commercials, either. That was fine by Tenna. He gladly indulged Mettaton and each of his requests, so long as it resulted in another moan, another arch in his back. And for all the programs he hosted and all the performances he watched grace the stage, Tenna’s favorites were in those lulls during the after hours, where Mettaton spoiled him with a private show, night after night.