Work Text:
Nothing lasted forever. Anyone dipping their toes into the industry knew that. Just a fact of life, right up there with death and taxes. Actors rose and fell. Serialized programs began and ended. And sometimes, no amount of hard, honest work made a difference when it boiled down to knowing the right people, being in the right place and time, and catching a bit of luck.
Tenna never truly felt the weight of that last part until he hit rock bottom.
In truth, his show was on the chopping block. Nobody gave a shit about some washed-up television host trying to stay relevant in a modern age. Why tune into a show grandparents spoke fondly of when there were hundreds, if not thousands, of free videos to watch online? Ratings tanked, producers threatened to pull funding, and Tenna nearly accepted a mid-season cancellation. Just when he couldn’t imagine life getting any worse, things took a sharp U-turn—started to look up, look brighter.
Sure, he heard the news regarding the monsters emerging onto the surface. Even ran a segment about it during an episode. And yeah, he vaguely recalled seeing interviews on daytime television with someone hailing from the Underground—something about a robot with a soul?—but Tenna never paid much attention beyond that. He had bigger fish to fry, like keeping the damn ship that was his program afloat.
Funny how things worked out. One day, he arrived to the studio and discovered his voicemail was full, thanks to a single individual. The next, he scheduled an interview with the overnight sensation himself. A week later, Tenna welcomed Mettaton onto his show, and....
Wow, where the hell was he to start? Better yet, could he stop once he got going? Because everything about Mettaton was flawless.
Charismatic? He gave Tenna a run for his money. Witty? They didn’t need a laugh track to fill in the silence. Talented? Come on, what couldn’t he do? Attractive? Yes. Definitely. Very much so, and that was putting it lightly. But what struck Tenna like lightning wasn’t any of that; it was when he asked a mundane question and received a sucker punch of an answer.
“For a guy who’s self-taught,” Tenna mentioned during the interview, “you’re making some of us in the business look bad! So what’s your secret? What INSPIRED you to rise to stardom?”
The fill lights reflected in his iris. Mettaton smiled, perched his chin upon a loose fist, and said, “I grew up watching your show, darling.”
How Tenna survived the remainder of the broadcast without combusting via an arc flash was beyond him.
He... he watched his show? His show? The one that—whoa whoa whoa, how did a signal reach the Underground, of all places? Probably didn’t have much for options, if he ended up—wait.
Wait a damn minute.
He...? Grew up? Watching it?!
The robotic model made it tricky to pinpoint his age one first glance, but Mettaton’s components were state-of-the-art. Nothing retro about him, so... that meant.... Well, it meant Tenna had a genuine fan. A rather enthusiastic one, if Mettaton’s accurate recollections of his favorite episodes were any indication. And said fan wasn’t an old timer, but young. Quite young. Just as said fan was looking at him the entire interview with a stare that would’ve risked a higher rating from the censors.
Surely this was a fever dream, right? No way someone like Mettaton credited a guy in his twilight years of his career as his muse. But pride swelled inside Tenna. Somebody liked him, admired him, begged to be on his show and take photos together during commercial breaks, and thanked him for being a light in the dark, so to speak. That very someone also helped his show set new records with ratings, enough to dodge cancellation. Definitely one way to stroke his ego: literally and figuratively.
Only thing that would’ve improved the sentiment was if Mettaton’s hand was also involved with—
No no no. Absolutely not. Tenna had a messy history with his career; he already made the mistake of mixing business with pleasure once, and that was one time too many. And sure, he had stooped pretty low now and then to stay relevant, all out of desperation. But he was not graduating from pursuing workplace relationships to fucking his devoted fan. A younger fan, too! A remarkable fan who boosted his ratings as well as his... nope, forget it. Not thinking about it. The point was that regardless of the temptations, Tenna needed to maintain that boundary.
That... thinly veiled and threadbare boundary.
But it was fine, so long as he stuck to fantasies, yeah? What nobody knew couldn’t hurt them. Tenna survived on less for years, so he could get by on post-production clips to jerk off to in his downtime. Problem solved. Nothing to worry about.
Except whenever Mettaton agreed to another guest appearance—wow, it took minimal effort to convince him to come back—each visit strummed his wires and tested the threshold of his wattage. Tenna smothered those wanton urges. Best to stick to the sidelines and enjoy the show. See? The crowd adored him. Made for excellent live television, which led to higher ratings, more celebrities agreeing to come onto his show, and a unanimous vote from the producers to renew him for one more season.
Then Tenna found himself watching the audience more than his coveted fan-turned-superstar.
Initially, he didn’t blame them; Tenna wouldn’t have been any less insane if he was in the crowd. Who wouldn’t want to reach for Mettaton, to scream their devotion in hopes of meeting his gaze for two seconds? And anyone who scored VIP passes for a post-performance meet-and-greet was always in for a real treat; Mettaton always spent quality time with each fan. Tenna witnessed multiple people faint at those sessions, before and after taking photos with him.
But he also witnessed other behavior, something surpassing obsession that festered into delusional. It was in the lingerie chucked onto the stage. It was in the steamy confessions during VIP meetings. It was in the bold attempts to lean into Mettaton when posing for photos. The last straw, however, was when a fan held hands with Mettaton mid-performance—that at least wasn’t uncommon—and began to reach for his thigh with the other hand.
What blitzed through Tenna eclipsed hatred. The glimpse of someone who had the audacity to assume their worthless, grubby, fucking mortal hands were worthy of Mettaton? Everyone in a ten-mile radius was lucky the studio paid the security team well, for they dealt with that nuisance before fingertips grazed Mettaton’s body. If not for them, Tenna would’ve handled it—and that filth wouldn’t have arms left, let alone fingers, by the time he was through with them.
Tenna cut the show short, however. Canceled the VIP session and refunded folks who had camped outside since morning to see their precious idol. He ignored the incoming transmissions from producers demanding to know what the hell happened. Even flipped off the chatter on the talkback—a first in his career, really. Tenna’s focus narrowed, blurring out everyone to retreat to his dressing room.
Calm down.
Clutching his head, the darkened screen of his face lit up in spurts, replaying footage of what happened.
You NEED to calm down.
It repeated on a vicious loop. The camera zoomed in, sometimes pausing at the exact frame the fan was on the verge of—
Don’t you DARE do anything stupid.
Why did Mettaton have to be so kind to his fans? Why did he always smile at them, always agreed to let them wrap arms around his waist when they took pictures together? Why did he give them winks mid-performance and listen to their ludicrous marriage proposals?
Don’t give him A FUCKING REASON to leave.
Or maybe this was his own fault. Maybe he should’ve been stricter about security, about the seating capacity, about the rules and etiquette during VIP sessions, about even having them at all, about a million and one things he hadn’t considered until right now while inflicting burn-in on himself as he watched the recent footage and wondered how Mettaton would’ve reacted if it had been him instead of—
Tenna bellowed a curse. The heel of his palm pummeled the CRT frame until his face zipped back. Static continued to garble the screen and speakers. It abated once he chucked a couch across the dressing room. A mirror shattered. So did light bulbs and a dozen other items that meant nothing to him in the moment.
Alright, well.... He heaved out a breath, collapsing to the floor. Better to break ALL THAT than break some FUCKING IDIOT’S BONES. A frail laugh sputtered out as he clung to himself, shrinking to a quarter of his maximum size. I can fix this. Yeah. That’s what I’ll do. Toss money at it, and VOILA! Problem solved! Just... need to cool off, clean myself up, go check on TODAY’S GUEST PERFORMER, and—
A knock jostled the door. It could’ve been a gunshot for all Tenna knew. The soft rapt, however, yielded to a voice from the opposite side.
“Mr. Tenna? Are you in there?”
He went rigid.
“Forgive me if I’m interrupting anything, but do you happen to have a moment to spare?”
His screen featured a test card, including a high-pitched whine.
“I’d like to... well, have a little chat regarding what happened on-air this evening. That is, if it’s alright with you, darling.”
Shit.
Tenna launched to his feet and sprang back to his full height. “A-ah, gimme ONE MINUTE!”
Shit shit shit shit SHIT SHIT—
“Gotta—” He hauled the couch back and rearranged the cushions. “—tidy up in here!”
Alright. Okay. FOCUS! Don’t panic. Don’t scare him off. Don’t do A DAMN THING OTHER THAN CHITCHAT.
“WOW, who snuck in here and wrecked this place?!” Sweeping an arm down the vanity counter, he gathered the clutter and glass shards into a trash bin. “Yeesh, you aren’t the only one needing EXTRA SECURITY, lemme tell ya!”
It’s nothing more than that. Just a quick talk. Yeah, simple. No problem.
“Not to worry, SUPERSTAR!” He sucked on his teeth. No time to pluck out the broken glass bits lodged in his sleeve. Tenna tore off his jacket, whipped it across the room, and swiped a new one from an outfit rack. “I’ll sort it out by the next episode you appear on!”
I can handle this, he mentally chanted, tugging on the jacket’s lapels while approaching the door.
Upon opening it and finding the one and only Mettaton patiently waiting for him... yeah, maybe Tenna couldn’t handle this.
Mettaton hadn’t changed out of his performance attire: an urban streetwear aesthetic comprised of a black tank top, a pink bomber jacket, skintight black pants, and pink ankle boots with impressive heels. His midriff peeked through, showcasing the SOUL he was renowned for. Fresh memories of his performance slammed into Tenna: of how the fabric accentuated his flexibility and robotic figure. Not to mention how dangerously close his mouth skimmed the microphone as he dropped to his knees and rocked his hips while belting out—
“Is this... a bad time?” Mettaton tilted his head, the one visible eye flicking over him. “I can come back later if—”
“What?! NO! Now’s a GREAT TIME!” He shook slightly and swallowed a scream. “Please, come inside!” And another one. “Make yourself at home!”
Mettaton peered past him, no doubt scrutinizing the room. Once he entered, Tenna closed the door behind him. How many times had Mettaton visited the studio to appear on his show? Six times? Maybe seven? And yet this was the first instance they were alone together—in private.
“So, uh—” Coughing, Tenna spun around. “You said ya wanted to talk, yeah?”
Silence thickened in the dressing room. Mettaton scanned the mess, lingering at his splintered reflection in the mirror. He pivoted to the couch—custom-built to accommodate Tenna’s stature—and hopped up to perch on the armrest.
“I understand that security removed a particular individual after that disruption?” he said, more of a statement than an inquiry.
“ABSOLUTELY. That CREEP was thrown off the premises. I’ll make sure they’re BANNED FOR LIFE, don’t you worry.”
His dangling legs swayed. “And what of the remaining audience?”
“The... audience? What about ‘em?”
“Was everyone alright?” That frown didn’t suit his lovely features. “I was ushered offstage immediately. No one gave me a clue as to what was going on outside of that one idiot.” He rolled his eye. “But I heard you from backstage. Something about the episode being... canceled? Same with the meet-and-greet?”
“Yeah?”
“So then... were they simply told to leave? That the show they anticipated was over?”
Tenna lost several feet of height. “Y-yeah.”
Mettaton pursed his lips and hung his head. “I wish I could’ve spoken to them before they left. At least apologize for—”
“Hey, WAIT A MINUTE. What the hell do YOU hafta apologize for?!”
“For ruining their plans. I owe them that.”
“They’ll be FINE. Already handed out refunds to everybody.”
He glared at him. “Do you truly believe that will comfort anyone eager to see me?” A curt laugh gurgled out. “Yes, of course, throw money at them. That will replace the once-in-a-lifetime chance to see their favorite star perform—”
“Need I REMIND YOU,” Tenna growled as he grew in size, “that one of your SO-CALLED FANS tried to cop a feel while you were live!”
“And?”
“And...? AND?!” He flailed at Mettaton. “And don’t ya think that warrants some CAUTION?!”
His eye narrowed. “Are you saying it’s my fault?”
“WHAT?!” Nope. Forget it. Knocked down to half his height. “N-no! I-I’d NEVER say—”
“Look. Mr. Tenna, I understand it was an alarming incident for everyone involved, myself included. I also understand you have a show to run, darling, and are well-versed in these matters. I am but a guest on your sound stage, thus it isn’t my responsibility to tell you how to operate... but wouldn’t you agree that you were overreacting back there?”
“I don’t—”
Hold on. Timeout. Cut the damn cameras.
What the hell did he JUST SAY?
“True, everyone deserved a quick break after that,” Mettaton continued, “but I was perfectly fine with resuming my performance. Why, I could’ve done an extra song, just to make it up to my fans!” He smiled amidst his musings. “I don’t know what your schedule is like next week, but I’d be happy to return and—”
“Are you LISTENING to yourself?!” Tenna blurted out. “How can ya COMPLETELY DISMISS what happened?! Somebody tried to take advantage of you! Didn’t GIVE A SHIT if cameras were rolling! A-and you’re telling me... that ya still wanted to KEEP GOING?”
He squinted. “It was one person. They were taken care of. No need to ruin everyone’s fun because that, yes?”
“That ONE PERSON crossed the line!”
“Okay...? And they’re gone now.”
“And who’s to say someone else LIKE THAT wasn’t also in the audience?!”
Mettaton blew out a mechanical sigh. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Tenna, but I’m fine. This type of behavior... it comes with the territory. You understand that, yes? I doubt I’m your first guest who has dealt with this. I can’t predict what my fans will do, nor can I control them. That’s the beauty with humans, though. Always unpredictable, even with their kindness. I’d hate to assume the worst in them.”
Fists formed at his side, claws threatening to puncture the metal plates beneath his gloves. Static no doubt flashed across his face. Every inch of Tenna quaked while he looked nowhere but at Mettaton.
“Besides,” he continued, “it was nothing serious, in the grand scheme of things. They view me through the lens of a fantasy, which I gladly provide from a safe distance. The confessions and tokens of affection and attempts to get closer? I’m flattered by them, truly, but that’s all it is. A fantasy. They can never have me like that. My sleep mode functions smoother knowing that.” Mettaton chuckled. “So let them have their fun, fleeting as it is, yes? For every handsy fan in the crowd, there are a hundred more at home getting off to photos and videos of me.”
His voice, gentle and entrancing, plucked Tenna’s wires until a discordant melody vibrated in his chassis.
“It’s not like I can stop them from doing as they please in private,” Mettaton added, “so there’s no harm in—”
“They don’t DESERVE to do a FUCKING THING involving you.”
Mettaton flinched as Tenna towered over him. Bouts of TV snow marred his screen, yet it remained pitch black.
“Ya say it isn’t serious,” he pressed on, each word cracking, “but YOU aren’t a CHEAP DOLL for ‘em to FUCK AROUND WITH. The least they can do is show ya some RESPECT.”
“What are you talking about?” Mettaton asked, more incredulous than confused. “I won’t tell my fans how to live their lives, especially behind closed doors.”
“Well, when they’re out in the open?” He stepped closer. “And in MY STUDIO?” Seized the armrest, boxing Mettaton in. “During MY SHOW?!” And leaned in dangerously close, a wide grin emerging on his blank screen. “Ya better believe I’m not letting anyone stick around or come near ya. They do so much as LOOK AT YA the wrong way?” Claws dug into the upholstery. “I’LL take care of ‘em MYSELF, remind ‘em they’re NOT ALLOWED to see you perform, because they’re UNWORTHY of being in your presence. Not with THAT attitude.”
Mettaton blinked and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so you know what’s best for me then? What was your plan all along? To keep me to yourself? Never allow anyone else to have me but you?” He scoffed. “Quit being jealous, darling; green isn’t a color that suits you.”
The shaky train of thought crumbled. His face returned, aghast and speechless.
“Wait. You....” Mettaton’s stern expression faded. “You’re not...?”
Both antennas went ramrod straight. Tenna willed himself to move away, yet not a gear twitched. Mettaton held his stare. Another moment, and realization glimmered in that eye, accompanied by a gasp, a grin.
“You are jealous,” he said.
Hissing a curse, Tenna shoved off the couch and shuffled backwards. Didn’t make it far, though. Not on those shaky legs. And Mettaton contemplated him like a cat cornering a mouse.
“Oh my,” he said. “What a fascinating development! And here I thought your behavior around me whenever I visited was merely an eccentric quirk. Part of the act and what not.”
“That’s not—”
“But it makes sense now, because you are also a fan.” Mettaton averted his gaze to pout. Oh, he wasn’t fooling anybody with that sheepish charade. “Darling, if you are that desperate to spend a moment with me—”
“I-I didn’t say—”
“—then you best get in line and wait your turn, because you’re one of many who worship me. And believe me, I’m flattered you want your own VIP experience with yours truly, but I treat my fans equally. No special treatment for any—”
“Oh, so letting your fans cozy up with ya for personal photos isn’t SPECIAL TREATMENT?!”
Mettaton cackled, the outburst ricocheting within Tenna. Well, that quip had sounded better in his head. Usually did.
“Oh, how delightful!” he said, a devious glint in his eye. “What an absolute treat this is, indeed! For someone as competent and seasoned as you, Mr. Tenna, I never would’ve guessed that you were capable of being so unprofessional.”
“I dunno what you’re—”
“No no no. I believe you do. You construct these stipulations for my fans, but you’re the sole exception? Quite the power play on your part, though you’ll need to try much harder to earn my approval, let alone my attention.”
“LISTEN, I wasn’t trying to—”
Tenna winced, biting his tongue before those loose lips landed him in worse trouble than the booted attendee.
“To what?” Mettaton leaned forward, smirking. “What do you possibly have to hide from me?”
Fuck, if he kept talking like that, smooth and sultry, then—
“Surely you aren’t like them, yes? Nothing lewd or untoward in those circuit boards of yours, correct?” His lips curled further. “Or are you, in fact, my filthiest fan?”
“Don’t SAY IT like—”
“Would it help to know the feeling is mutual?”
“I—”
Wait.
Pause. Rewind.
Fucking what?
“You think that I, a fan of your show, just lounged about and simply watched your episodes, Mr. Tenna?”
Um.
Well.
Yes? Actually?
“It never occurred to you—” He swiped his tongue along his lips. “—that I got off to watching you?”
Short answer? Nope. Sure as hell didn’t blip on his radar.
Long answer? That ignited fifty fires in him. Hard to conceal anything while Mettaton was more or less sitting at crotch height. Maybe if he kept his sights on Tenna’s screen, then... nope. Wishful thinking. Of course he noticed. Of course he stared. Of course he grinned.
“You dastardly old cad,” Mettaton teased. “You really do want to be the only one touching me.”
Quaking from head to toe, Tenna whirled away. Anything to separate himself from whatever the hell was spiraling out of control, because it wouldn’t be long before he did something utterly stupid—well, more stupid than everything else leading up to now.
Easier said than done when Mettaton launched a lengthened arm, snatched his tie, and reeled Tenna back in.
“Look at you,” he purred. “Too embarrassed to admit the truth? To look at me and confront the fact that neither of us is any better than that alleged creep you took care of?” He wound the tie around his fist, reeling Tenna in closer. “I’ll give you credit for trying to keep this—”
Mettaton’s eye darted down. He couldn’t hide that, even if he tried. Not while pitching that tent.
“—not-so-little secret of yours off-screen, but did that ever sate you? Were you content with jerking off to replays and never pursuing me? Did you get your kicks from fantasies about seducing someone younger and inexperienced, someone you could lure onto your casting couch? Did it thrill you whenever I performed on your show? Did you love it when I looked directly into the camera? Did you pretend I was gazing at you while you got off?”
Another tug, another spark amidst the thick lust coating his internal components. Mettaton stayed out of reach, though, reveling in his misery.
“Did you ever realize,” he added, “that I was? That I would’ve agreed to any request of yours, had you asked from the start?”
That mustered enough courage for him to react. Tenna dipped in. The distance between them shrank, only to widen tenfold.
“Ah ah ah!” Mettaton sank a heel into Tenna’s chest, released his tie, and shoved him away. “That’s not how this works, darling! You said it yourself, yes? My fans should know better than to treat me like a doll. I’m afraid that includes you, by that logic.”
A painful shudder tore through him. “You think this is a FUCKING GAME?!”
“Oh, it most definitely can be.”
Tenna’s jaw dropped. “What...?”
“A game, darling. I know you love those.”
The mention of it brought a swell beneath his pants—then another when Mettaton noticed and hummed.
“Do you want to play, Mr. Tenna?” he asked. “The rules are simple. Don’t touch me while you touch yourself. If you can last five minutes without blowing your load....” Again, his gaze lingered on the bulge straining against those blasted tight pants. “Then I’ll dub you my biggest fan. An honor such as that deserves its own VIP treatment, don’t you agree?”
Was he serious? No, surely this was a joke. There had to be cameras hidden in his room filming this—as blackmail, as sabotage, as literally anything other than his deepest desire finally manifesting.
“Mr. Tenna?” Mettaton spoke in a sing-song tone. “Did you lose signal?”
Huffing, Tenna fiddled with his tie, pushing the knot back in place. “Whaddya mean by VIP TREATMENT?”
“Is it not obvious? I’d never allow just anyone the opportunity to touch me like that, never mind be intimate. Such an exclusive deal must meet my standards. Consider it a quality control check. Need to ensure a man of your caliber hasn’t, in fact, gone past his prime; I won’t slow down for you to catch up with me. And if you’re adamant on keeping me to yourself, then here’s your chance, darling.”
Oh. Oh, he was serious. Dead serious.
“You... you’ve NEVER let anybody...?” The words lumped in his throat, daring to strangle him.
But Mettaton connected the dots and smiled. “As I said, no one’s met my standards. Why settle for subpar? I deserve the best.” A beat, then, “And you may very well have exclusive rights to that, too, should you win.”
The promise of sex was one matter, one that already enticed Tenna plenty. But knowing he could be the first to share that with Mettaton? Well, limited-time offers had an allure for a reason. Oh, and that temptation was doing a number on his patience.
“So what shall it be?” Mettaton asked. “Are you playing or not?”
Maybe this was a bad idea. No, a horrendous one. Because the second he tasted the real deal? Might as well kiss his former habits goodbye. Why settle for lousy thrills when he could have something superior, something he yearned for night after night after lonely fucking night? That on its own made this a dangerous game. Only a matter of time before someone discovered where the dated TV host led an A-list celebrity once credits rolled.
But the logic paled in comparison to the obnoxious voice bellowing amidst his thoughts. So Tenna focused on Mettaton, released a vast sigh, and brought his hands to his belt.
He hated how familiar the motions were—automatic and efficient. The slide of his fingers, the flip of his thumb, a tug and nudge here and there. Nothing out of the ordinary. Could’ve been any old evening spent lounging on the couch, unwinding solo after a long day with a highlights reel of a certain someone’s performance keeping him company. Except now, Tenna didn’t need a clip to loop on his screen, either. Not when Mettaton was present and watching him free his cock.
The air felt cool against his arousal, twitching from the lack of attention. He took a moment to steady his breaths, his hands, his damn cables buzzing with desire. Mettaton regarded him with... well, he hoped it was awe. Kind of looked scared for a split second. Honestly, Tenna couldn’t blame him. Everyone was at least half his size. Just, uh... you know, didn’t become that obvious until now—with how much smaller Mettaton was and how much... he wasn’t. Like, at all.
“Go on,” Mettaton said, peering up at him. “No need to be shy.”
A chill washed over Tenna, rousing extra throbs. Metal plates sifted to accommodate the expanding synthetic flesh. At least Mettaton smirked.
“What’s the matter?” he teased. “Are you having stage fright now, of all times?”
“SHUT UP.”
Wow. Smooth. Real smooth.
Mettaton bit his lip, but a giggle fluttered out. “I thought you liked the sound of my voice, Mr. Tenna. That’s what you always told me after every single show.”
He did. Quite a lot. And the proof was right in front of Mettaton, close enough to touch, if he so desired. Instead, he sat there—watching and waiting. Not the type of audience Tenna was accustomed to.
“Is this a factory default feature?” he asked. “Or did you have it custom-made?”
Tenna swiveled an antenna. “What?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“I—” Tenna winced. He longed to shrink, but his body resisted, beyond aroused to comply. “WHY do you care?!”
“Don’t blame me for being curious.” The way his eye passed over his cock... it was almost palpable. “It’s not every day I meet a fellow robot, let alone discuss hardware.”
“Oh, for the LOVE OF—” Tenna sucked on his teeth as his screen glitched. “It’s... custom.”
Mettaton’s eye lit up. “Is it now?”
“Yes.”
“Impressive.” His tongue poking out ever-so-slightly to wet his lip was not helping. “Do you always have it attached during your shows?”
“No.”
“Just when I’m a guest?”
Fucking hell, he didn’t want to answer that, never mind admit it. Then again, his silence satisfied Mettaton, if that grin was any indication.
“You do, don’t you? How scandalous. Can’t wait to install it offstage, hmm? You simply have to be ready the moment you’re behind closed doors? Or do you not even make it to your dressing room?” Mettaton gasped, as if an idea dawned on him. “You’ve been turned on when interviewing me, haven’t you?”
At this rate, Tenna was bound to get off untouched, thanks to Mettaton’s silky voice doing things to him, per usual. Proof was in the throb he couldn’t suppress.
“Oh my. You can’t help yourself, can you? What a mess you are, Mr. Tenna. An absolutely depraved and gorgeous mess. The tabloids would have a field day with—“
“Don’t you DARE.”
“Relax, darling!” he laughed out. “Good heavens, such a short temper. What a thrill! Can’t fault me for pressing your buttons, but rest assured it’s all in good fun. Your secret is safe with me.”
His amusement died out, yet his attention remained on that custom-made attachment. It would’ve been easy, as well, to step closer and nudge against Mettaton’s mouth. Maybe past them. A sight like that—taut lips straining against his cock—would’ve guaranteed he lost this game.
“Show me, darling.”
Tenna froze at the gentle request.
And Mettaton looked at him—eager, yet somehow bashful. “What exactly is it you do after my performances?”
Tension lifted, thanks to his tender timbre. Not enough to rid himself of anxiety, but it sufficed. Just five minutes, yeah? Barely the length of their commercial breaks. He could manage that. Maybe. Hopefully? In theory, anyways. Exhaling, Tenna gazed at Mettaton and began this game of theirs.
Heat penetrated the glove and warmed his palm. Fingers curled, gliding over ridges and embedded wires. Tenna settled into his usual rhythm after several hesitant strokes. Slowing down wasn’t an option; it was difficult to ignore that hunger. Having new material to watch accentuated the craving.
Mettaton was an exemplary spectator: quiet, still, and very attentive. Only the heavy breaths skipping in Tenna’s speakers interrupted the silence. Sometimes a groan he partially swallowed back bloomed to life, and he swore Mettaton perked up each time it happened. But no, he couldn’t get carried away. Not yet. He needed to pace himself, painful as that was.
That proved to get harder—the whole controlling himself part and also... yeah—when Mettaton shifted, undid his own pants, and snaked a hand between his legs.
Tenna flinched. “WHAT ARE YOU—”
“What do you think?” That one eye flicked to his screen. “I wasn’t lying when I said I had fun watching your shows.”
He couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t help but be mesmerized by fingers concealed beneath a thin layer of fabric while sliding over—
“Keep going,” he cooed.
Mettaton didn’t need to ask twice. Tenna made sure of that.
Because despite the novelty of this predicament, he never refused a fan. Didn’t hurt that said fan also captivated him better than every guest he welcomed onto his show. There was a refreshing quality to Mettaton, whether it was in his attitude or his dance maneuvers or a hundred other aspects Tenna struggled to focus on while stroking his hard-on. All he knew was that he’d do anything Mettaton asked, even if it meant sacrificing his decency. It helped to have a live performance as a visual aid in lieu of recordings.
And what a show Mettaton put on, too. What wasn’t there to love? His lips parted to release something lovelier than his songs. His eyelid grew heavy, marveling at every throb and twitch before him. His hips rocked, almost in sync with the fingers working over a sweet spot. His jacket slipped off when he reclined, using a free hand to brace on the seat cushion, thus showing off his SOUL that quivered alongside the rest of his body. Such a sight nudged Tenna closer to a ledge he wasn’t prepared to dive off. Not until he won their bet and slammed him against some surface that would support their combined weight and plunge inside and see if it was possible to rub against his—
“Stop.”
—and that wasn’t the smash cut he was expecting.
Interference prickled his face. Whipping his hand away, he spat out a curse and succumbed to a terrible shudder. Nothing pleasant, but... wait, were they done? Was that it? Five minutes over in a flash? Time really did fly by while having fun.
Retracting his hand, Mettaton wrinkled his nose and whined. An oily substance saturated his gloved fingers, glistening in the lights. He flexed the digits, staring at Tenna’s disheveled and exposed state.
“Congratulations, darling. You are officially my biggest fan.”
Under different circumstances, Tenna would’ve bounced off the walls, laughed until it hurt, flailed without a care in the world, and everything in between to celebrate his victory. Instead, he stood there, flabbergasted by the sheer dumb luck he tripped his way into after falling down ten flights of figurative stairs. Because the whole age thing conflicted with his CRT capacitor, which didn’t always play in his favor. Sometimes he was spent in mere minutes. Other times... uh, not minutes. Fifty-fifty shot, either way.
Tenna prayed he didn’t obliterate Mettaton in the process.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind.”
Mettaton sat upright and leaned in, sliding a hand underneath his cock.
“You still want no one else laying a finger on me, yes?”
Those lips ghosted over his swollen head.
“Consider it done. I’m yours. Nobody can have me like this.”
Mettaton peeked up, twirling his tongue around the tip to catch beads of lubricant forming there.
“Only you,” he purred. “Always yo—”
It wasn’t his intention to shove him that hard. It just happened. Mettaton yelped, toppling onto the couch. With each passing second, a nerve snapped and the sanity restraining Tenna unraveled.
“Was THIS what ya hoped for when you agreed to be a guest?” He latched onto his hips, claws sinking deep. “Make your way back here for your own kinda fun?”
Of course Mettaton grinned. “So impatient, so demanding. Quite the departure from your demeanor onstage.” A moan laced a chuckle, mimicking a drunken stupar. “I’m glad no one gets the privilege of seeing this side of you but me.”
If he was keen on dancing around the question, then he might as well cut to the chase. One swift yank brought his pants mid-thigh. Also roused a lovely gasp out of Mettaton. Seeing him like that—sprawled out on his back, tousled and irresistible—gave Tenna pause. Shit, could’ve blown through ten film reels just recording that shot.
“What’s the matter?” Mettaton’s playful voice knocked him out of his reverie. “Don’t tell me you’re reconsidering. Or having technical difficult—”
The words hitched into a whine as Tenna dragged him back. One fluid motion flipped and bent him over the armrest. Oh yeah, enjoyed that view just as much. Also enjoyed pinning him down and rubbing against the alluring warmth now exposed.
“Shut up,” he snarled.
“Oh? This empty threat again?” He giggled, and that turned on Tenna more. “Because that worked so well the first time—”
“SHUT UP.”
“Or what?” Mettaton peered over his shoulder. “Will you ban me? Tell security to throw me out? Before you get what you want? They’ll need to touch me to do so, darling.”
Tenna secured the vice-grip hold on his waist. “You’re not going ANYWHERE. Not until I’m done with you.”
He smirked. “Is that a promise?”
Well, once he stopped internally shrieking, then yeah. He’d get right on that. But it was kind of difficult to concentrate and—
“Then what are you waiting for?”
The subtle motion jostled Tenna. All thanks to Mettaton tilting his hips to him, as if inviting Tenna to do more than grind.
“This is what you hoped for, yes? Or should I say... dreamed of?”
He shuddered, despite his efforts. Mettaton had that effect on him. Always did. One look rendered him useless.
“To quit being polite, for the sake of the cameras? To use me like that cheap doll you claim to abhor, yet cannot admit it’s what you want the most out of—”
“You don’t know a DAMN THING.”
“No? So it isn’t true?” Another shift of his hips. Tenna couldn’t stop himself from throbbing. “You don’t wish to fuck me senseless? What a shame. I was looking forward to that.”
Tenna choked on a laugh like a mouthful of rusty nails was shoved down his throat. “Were you?” His screen turned black, leaving behind a wide grin. “Careful. Talk like THAT could get ya on the wrong side of the tabloids. Might even ruin your career. Wonder what YOUR FANS will think if they ever find out.”
“Is that supposed to intimidate me, Mr. Tenna?” Mettaton clicked his tongue and grinned. “How precious. All bark and zero bite. I believe you can do much, much better than—”
Whatever else Mettaton wanted to say shot up an octave and warped into a cry. Quakes rippled across Tenna as he eased in. Had to crush him against the armrest to prevent him from squirming too, but the lovely moans seduced him to fucking let go already—a constant reminder that he was allowed to indulge in Mettaton. No one else. Just him. Tenna.
And he did.
He loved the fine mesh caressing him the deeper he pumped. He loved the dozens upon dozens of new sounds each thrust coaxed out of Mettaton. He loved seeing him brace against the cushions, claw at them, even bite a corner at one point. He loved Mettaton’s fractured remarks, praising his advances and demanding more: to stop holding back and definitely go harder than that. He loved discovering that yes, he could reach Mettaton’s SOUL, each bump shocking Tenna and stroking his cock with electrical currents. He loved how fucking him upstaged every night spent devising another lewd fantasy, another lie spun to convince himself he could survive without Mettaton. He loved the fire licking his cables, the crackle of groans in his speakers, the unfettered and insatiable motions—all in a desperate attempt to grasp something divine.
And he especially loved knowing this was his, that no one could ever have Mettaton, that only he was able to make him convulse and moan and squeak out his name like a prayer. That launched Tenna off a cliff to come undone.
Blissful cries peaked and skipped in both of their audio outputs. Electricity escaped Mettaton’s SOUL tank and enveloped Tenna, much like the mesh conduit squeezing and spurring him to orgasm. Definitely helped to witness—to feel—a certain someone basking in pure pleasure. No acting necessary with that performance. Thankfully didn’t break him, either. Or the couch—just moved it by a foot from their romp. Stilling his crushed hips against Mettaton, he twitched his antennas until a mildly coherent thought formed for him to—
“FUCKING... FUCK.”
You know what? Sure. Close enough. Not the dumbest thing he had done today.
A weary chuckle sounded from below. “Bravo, Mr. Tenna. Quite the overachiever, aren’t you? Or was it merely desperation?”
Did he seriously expect a response? Tenna barely established a steady signal to see straight, let alone answer.
“You needed that, didn’t you? How long has it been?”
Even if Tenna wasn’t keeled forward, arms shaking to prevent himself from squashing Mettaton, the precise answer was unknown to him.
“That long, hmm?” Mettaton teased. “Then I hope it surpassed your dreams, darling. It certainly did for me.”
If he wasn’t overheating already, he sure was now.
“Though I’m afraid—” He shifted, his arms sputtering like actuators were stuck. “—it’s best if I leave before my agent starts blowing up my messages about where I—”
Sweeping an arm under his torso, Tenna held Mettaton close and joined him on the couch. A bit awkward—tricky to do anything when he refused to pull out—but Mettaton didn’t occupy too much space. Fit perfectly against him, back resting upon Tenna’s chest as he situated himself on his side.
“Not yet,” he said, hugging Mettaton.
“Oh? Then when do you plan on—”
“NOT—” Tenna squeezed, his claws scratching metal. “—YET.”
“Alright, you win, darling.” Mettaton chuckled. “I’d say you don’t have to twist my arm to convince me, but my arms... well, need a minute before resuming full functionality.”
“Wait, what?” His antennas shot up. “You’re not hurt, are ya?”
“It’s fine. Just a pesky symptom with my model.” Craning his head, Mettaton managed to stare at Tenna. “So trust me when I say you did no harm. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“Careful.” He loosened enough for Mettaton to turn into him, cupping his chin to bring that gorgeous face level with his own. “Keep spouting SWEET NOTHINGS and you’ll NEVER LEAVE THIS ROOM.”
Mettaton blew away the flower that bloomed on his nose, then nuzzled into him, lips barely in reach. “And you will have to deal with my agent, in that case.”
“I think I can handle that,” Tenna murmured and closed the distance.
Sealing his mouth over Mettaton’s evoked chills and coos. Those thrums joined the persistent whirs in both of their warm bodies. Something slower than their recent tryst. Tender, too. Less about engorging for the sake of sustenance and more about savoring the subtleties. He burned those details into his memory, never wanting to forget the teeth tugging his lip or the drawn-out whimpers and what roused them or the ebb and flow of a curious tongue.
“I meant it.”
Tenna paused. “What?”
Mettaton brushed parted lips over him, trembling with each pass. “This... you were everything I wanted and more.”
Those words didn’t balance on a razor’s edge. No, something softer resided there. Nothing chiding or beguiling. Just... honesty. Raw honesty. Quite the rare form for anyone in their line of business. And yet Tenna believed him. Maybe he shouldn’t have—being this vulnerable was how people got hurt, yeah?—but he trusted Mettaton more after that moment than most people he had known his entire career.
“Thank you,” he whispered into Tenna and sealed it with a fervent kiss.
For what, exactly? Tricky to ask when someone was keeping his mouth preoccupied. And fondling an antenna—oh, okay, good to know those arms were up and running again. That was fine. He could play that game, too. All the better to feel Mettaton purr and shiver in between gropes and bites.
As nice as it was to pretend they could stay there forever, savoring each other, they needed to unravel eventually. Mettaton had places to be. Typical celebrity agenda.
But they didn’t have to keep pretending after that. Because Tenna pulled some strings and scheduled a follow-up appearance from Mettaton the next week. Gleeful fans crowded the sound stage to scream for their idol. No incidents that time; no stray hands reaching for him mid-performance.
After that, though? Back in Tenna’s dressing room? Well, he couldn’t confirm or deny any incidents there. Hard to make such a bold claim when every grope and bite and undulation was done on purpose. That and his mouth was busy. Both of theirs were. So no room for further comments, really. But hey, if he saw anyone acting suspicious? Yeah, he’d let security know. Eventually. Had to see to it himself that his biggest fan was taken care of first.