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Stars don’t shine forever.
Tenna knows this. Tenna has always known this. And yet, as he stares his own warped reflection in the mirror of his dusty vanity, he realises just how dull this particular star has become.
He’s not old, he’s always tried to tell himself. Sure, his screen has some burn-in, and his wiring’s a little faulty, and his joints don’t always click in just right. But he’s always had his charm, and while he certainly can’t be considered fresh any more, he’s still a classic! There’s no way they’d ever trade him in for something new!
At least, that was what he thought until a certain shiny new robot came on the scene.
Tenna had heard of Mettaton, of course. There probably wasn’t a person alive who hadn’t - recent as his meteoric rise to fame was, he was already a household name. At times it felt as though he was on practically every screen, every billboard, every magazine cover. Everywhere Tenna himself had once been.
He’d initially been able to dismiss him as a fad, just another bright star who would burn out as quickly as he came (not like him, he has staying power, he’s been on air for over twenty years, after all). Nothing to worry about.
Until his producer called to tell him they’d booked Mettaton for his show.
From a pure business standpoint, it made perfect sense. TV Time, while generally still receiving decent viewership, has been slowly sliding down in the ratings for years, and at this point it’s undeniably past its prime. Getting on someone like Mettaton, someone who’d sold out his last tour in less than an hour, whose screaming fans accost him wherever he goes (who might just be more famous than Tenna ever was?) Obviously it’s just what the show needs. But that doesn't mean he needs to feel good about it.
It bothers him, really, more than he’d like to admit. He’s done his fair share of collaborations in the past, but that had usually been on his own terms, with people he’d at least had a hand in choosing, not just whoever the network thinks will sell best. The thought that he isn’t relevant enough any more, that he needs someone else’s help promoting his own show? It burrows its way deep inside his circuits and stays there, wriggling unpleasantly whenever he has an idle moment.
Like now, for example.
A soft knock at the door prompts Tenna to finally turn away from that battered old CRT in the mirror. Right. He needs to focus.
“Who is it?” He calls out, doing his attempt at his usual showbiz bravado and wincing at the result. He can do better than that, surely.
“Just Ramb, sir. Are you going to be much longer?”
Thank goodness. That poor plug usually looks about as tired as Tenna feels.
“Ah, Ramb! I have to apologise for my tardiness, but perfection does take its time! Did you need something?” This attempt doesn't exactly come in the booming voice everyone’s used to, but today’s only the rehearsal, after all. He at least has a moment to collect himself.
“Your guest’s arrived.”
…Maybe not.
-
Mr. (Ant) Tenna is quite literally larger than life.
It’s the first thought Mettaton has when the TV host comes barrelling into the main studio through a door that he barely fits through, cheerfully calling out to his staff as they greet him. Halfway through unbuttoning his overcoat, Mettaton turns to flash his usual easy smile at the man he’ll be working with for the next few hours and finds himself looking up… and up… and up.
Granted, he’s always looked tall beside his guests on the screen, but it turns out cleverly designed sets and staging were hiding just how enormous Mr. Tenna really is. Easily fifteen feet tall, he towers over most of the station employees bustling around the backstage, who just seem to weave around him with the endless diligence of an ant colony. Mettaton’s own robot body isn’t exactly small, but Mr. Tenna dwarfs him in every imaginable way.
Greeting a well-dressed, handsome and absolutely gigantic television personality would be intimidating even if he wasn’t already starstruck, but Mettaton’s not about to let anyone catch onto that. So he plasters a grin on his face and holds out his hand with as much nonchalance as he can muster. As if he isn’t greeting the man who literally inspired his entire career. Mr. Tenna is probably no stranger to swooning fans (just look at him, how could he not be?), but the last thing Mettaton wants is to look like some besotted fanboy. He’ll keep it professional if it kills him.
At least, for now.
“Mr. Tenna, I presume?” He begins smoothly, though his voice catches as the older man comes to a stop beside him and Mettaton has to crane his neck to maintain eye contact. To his credit, at least, Mr. Tenna seems used to such things. He bends down to Mettaton’s level immediately, his blinding smile blasting away any lingering nerves.
“Mettaton! It’s great to meet you!” Mettaton prays to all that is holy that Mr. Tenna can’t hear how his fans are whirring as his hand grips Mettaton’s own. Mostly because it’s that moment he realises not only is his idol actually touching him, but that he could easily circle his waist with a single hand.
Perhaps the TV host mistakes his shocked silence for discomfort, as he lets go rather quickly, screen dimming as his smile fades slightly. He straightens up, adjusting his tie as he clears his throat. If Mettaton didn’t know any better, he’d say he actually looks slightly annoyed.
“Shall we begin, then?” He asks rather quickly, before Mettaton can return the greeting. It comes through clipped, businesslike, Mr. Tenna’s cheeriness seemingly leaving as fast as it came.
“Of course.” Mettaton does his best to hide his disappointment as the TV host flags down a member of his staff, asking about some sort of script.
He didn’t say anything wrong, did he?
-
Mettaton is every bit the star Tenna feared he’d be.
He’s gracious, elegant, and unbearably handsome. And to top it all off, he doesn’t seem to like him one bit.
Oh, he’s been the very picture of civility, of course. Perfectly polite, listening intently to Tenna’s increasingly-shaky explanations of what to do and where to stand, asking all the right questions at all the right times. But every so often he catches him staring at him, magenta eyes raking up and down his body as if scanning every inch of him, his expression utterly inscrutable. He wouldn’t dare admit it, of course, but it feels pointed, almost challenging, as if he’s sizing up the competition.
And judging from the way his gaze flicks away every time their eyes meet, he doesn’t seem to think much of it.
Not to mention the way everyone else looks at him. The Shadowguys are practically all over him, the Pippinses whisper among themselves every time he glances at them, and even the impassive Zappers seem impressed. The crew seem to look upon him with the kind of adoration Tenna has always sought and, as he often fears, has not truly received in years.
His own crew, in his own studio. It’s agonising.
Tenna’s beyond grateful when he flips to the next page of the script and realises he’s landed back at the beginning. At least he can make his excuses and leave, go back to his lonely little dressing room and pretend none of this ever happened. He’ll do his best to get through the liveshow tomorrow (he’s a professional, after all, he’s pushed himself through worse), and then with any luck he and this irritatingly charismatic robot will never have to speak again.
He can only hope.
“Well, I hope that settles everything for you,” he mumbles. He’s fully aware of the fact he’s been rapidly losing steam throughout this entire rehearsal, and if Mettaton’s expression is anything to go off, he feels the same way. At least they have that much in common.
“Ah, yes, thank you for… being so thorough.” Tenna winces at Mettaton’s weary tone. Surely that must’ve been a backhanded compliment. Is he really so exhausting? He’s talkative, sure, and being so big he can’t really help his volume, but he’d always thought people found it charming.
Unless they’ve all just been pretending, too. His ego deflates a little more.
“Right, well, if there are no further questions, then–”
“Oh, just a moment, Mr. Tenna!”
He pauses, looking down from where he was attempting to busy himself with the papers in his hands and over to Mettaton, who lingers beside him, hands twisting together in an uncharacteristic display of… apprehension?
He can’t fathom why, but the look on his perfectly made up face is so tender that for a moment Tenna forgets himself, forgets the last three excruciating hours, and kneels down beside him.
“Did… you have a question for me?” He tries to ignore how Mettaton stiffens up as he draws closer. Just because he’s rude, doesn’t mean he has to be. If twenty years in television have taught him anything, it’s how to be polite.
“Not exactly, but I…” Mettaton lets the air rush through his fans and stares up at him with such intensity that Tenna has to do everything in his power not to look away. “I almost forgot your gift!”
“My… gift?” He shouldn’t be this taken aback, really – it’s common courtesy for guests of all persuasions to bring a gift, but frankly his opinion of this particular diva has sunk so low he just assumed he’d neglected to bring one.
“Yes! Oh, I’m terribly sorry, darling, it completely slipped my mind!” Tenna’s screen turns a deep pink, crackling with static as he does his best to ignore the feelings his words stir up, but the idea of such a beautiful young man calling him darling has him mortifyingly flustered. And after Mettaton spent the whole afternoon showing how utterly he detested him? He really ought to have some self respect.
It’s fortunate, then, that Mettaton misses the whole thing, rooting around amongst his things for a moment and only turning back around when Tenna has finally gotten his blushing screen back under control.
At least, until he sees the bunch of roses he’s holding.
“O-Oh! Thank you, I-I…” Tenna stammers out the beginning of a platitude (anything to escape this embarrassment), well aware he’s burning hot once more, but Mettaton ploughs through his words before he can put much of anything together.
“I’m sorry, I’ve been so dreadfully awkward this entire time, but truthfully I’ve always been a fan of yours, and… I think I must have been quite starstruck!” He laughs a little bashfully, offering up the flowers to him. “I almost forgot your gift, I’ve been acting strange all day, and I’ve hardly even looked you in the eye!” He pauses. “Although, I must say, your height does make that last one a bit difficult.”
If Tenna was a crueler man, a more self-centred man (at least, more than he already is), he could have almost dismissed that whole speech. Written off whatever this was as nothing more than another blow to his ego, a way for Mettaton to poke fun at him after three hours of his apparently unpleasant company. But his expression is so earnest, his words so sincere, that he can’t help but believe him, ludicrous as it sounds.
Could he really have been wrong about Mettaton? All this time, his odd behaviour wasn’t due to a sense of superiority, but simply… nerves? His face is certainly convincing enough.
“It’s all right!” He finds himself saying, finds himself smiling down at the man he was so sure despised him. “Hey, it wouldn’t be the first time!” As he takes the roses (red roses, he notes, with little yellow carnations mixed in – did he try to match the TV Time logo?) he notices Mettaton gazing at him with that same intensity, and swears he feels his circuits begin to heat up as he realises whatever’s behind that look, it certainly isn’t malice.
“Thank you, I just… I was worried we’d gotten off on the wrong foot, so to speak.”
“No, not at all! To be quite honest, I was a little nervous myself.” He laughs softly, scratching at that loose wire around the back of his neck. “It’s not every day we have such a big name on our show!”
“Apart from you, of course,” Mettaton replies with another one of those dazzling smiles, one Tenna knows now that he means. To think he ever believed his man might dislike him! What on earth was he thinking?
“Ahah, yes, well, thank you!” He stutters. He’s blushing far too much to even consider looking him in the eye, and with nothing else to distract him he does his best to focus on those lovely flowers instead. “I’ll have to get someone to arrange these properly. I’m not sure I can do them justice!”
“You know…” Mettaton begins. “I’m not too bad at that myself.”
Tenna hardly dares to breathe as he feels a small, slim hand slip into his own, sees Mettaton’s eyes crinkle into a smile as they take him in. For the first time in what feels like forever, someone is really, truly looking at him, and they don’t just like him.
They want him.
“Perhaps, if we went to your dressing room, I could show you?”
-
Mettaton is doing his best not to show how utterly elated he is.
After a fairly rocky start, he’d managed to bring it back with the flowers, so much so that he’s actually being invited into Mr. Tenna’s dressing room. He does his best not to feel giddy as his idol leads him down winding corridors, past break rooms and sound stages and equipment cupboards, walking even faster than usual. Mettaton can hardly keep up with his strides, but that only serves to excite him more.
They reach a door emblazoned with the star’s name in no time at all. Mr. Tenna hardly even pauses before pushing it open and whisking him inside.
It’s a big place, of course, tastefully decorated with gold and red accents. Perhaps a few of the furnishings are a little outdated, and there’s no small amount of clutter, but having seen so much use it’s hardly surprising. A large vanity is pushed against one wall, an equally huge sofa against the other, with a few houseplants scattered around to give the place a touch of class. Standing here in this enormous room, among all this giant furniture, with Mr. Tenna himself gazing down expectantly at him, anyone else might feel rather small.
Not Mettaton.
He takes the flowers from him quite cheerfully and busies himself with finding a suitable receptacle for them, opening all sorts of cupboards and drawers as the wholly unnecessary pretext for bending over and giving his companion a good eyeful. He only has to glance back once to see that Mr. Tenna is still watching him with that same flustered expression, screen flushed a deep rosy pink. He doesn’t have visible eyes, of course, but his mouth is arranged in an adorably wobbly smile, and his antennae are twitching like mad.
Poor thing.
“I don’t suppose you have a vase for this, Mr. Tenna?” He asks, glancing back as coyly as he can. He could swear that big old CRT actually whimpers for a moment, his screen turning a deeper red as he realises Mettaton’s caught him ogling.
“O-Oh, um, I should have one somewhere!” He rushes forward, kneeling down and burying his face in one of the cupboards. To find what Mettaton asked for, of course, but he’s quite transparently attempting to hide his shame too. Luckily, all it really does is give Mettaton an eyeful all of his own.
And truly, that ass does not disappoint.
“Here!” Mettaton carefully averts his gaze as Mr. Tenna produces a small, slightly dusty-looking glass vase from the back of the cupboard underneath the vanity and holds it out to him with an apologetic smile.
Cliche be damned. He might as well try his luck.
Mettaton takes the vase, making sure to brush his hand against Mr. Tenna’s as he bats his eyelashes at him. The effect is immediate; the TV’s screen turns scarlet once more and jumps back, almost dropping the vase (which Mettaton thankfully has a much better grip on) and wringing his hands in apology.
“Are you alright, Mr. Tenna?” He asks sweetly.
“Sorry, I…!” Mr. Tenna coughs, tugging at his collar in a move so cartoonish Mettaton almost laughs out loud. “Just… wasn’t expecting that.” There’s an awkward pause, only filled by the soft whine of a mildly overheating CRT, before he adds:
“You can just call me Tenna, you know.”
“I think I’ll take you up on that.” Mettaton winks and fills up the vase at the water cooler beside the vanity (all the others around the building had large warning signs taped to them – he hasn’t a clue why, but this one seems to be designated “safe”) before beginning the delicate process of arranging the flowers. Tenna’s still kneeling on the floor where he left him, seemingly frozen in place, and Mettaton takes pity on him.
“Why don’t you sit there?” He gestures to the sofa, as if this is his dressing room. “That can’t be comfortable.”
“Right!” Tenna stands up so quickly he almost hits his head on the ceiling, and laughs softly as he flops down on the soft cushions. “All this space and it still isn’t big enough, huh?” He grins.
“You ought to take it up with your producers. The least you deserve is a dressing room you can fit in.”
“Ah, it isn’t all that bad! Just not used to sharing it. Not that I haven’t had visitors, of course!” He adds rather quickly. “It’s… been a while, that’s all.”
“I have to say, that’s quite a surprise.” Tenna glances down at him, confused, and Mettaton smirks, placing the last rose and smoothly crossing the room to continue his line of attack. “A tall, handsome man like yourself? I thought you’d be inundated, frankly.”
Tenna’s laugh is a little too loud to be entirely casual, but it peters out as he realises Mettaton’s climbed up onto the sofa to sit beside him. All of a sudden he seems to have no idea what to do with his hands, or indeed, where to look.
“W-Well, I mean, I usually am, but I suppose today is just… a little quiet!” His voice pitches into a whine as Mettaton leans forward, wrapping one hand around his tie.
“Then I really am lucky.” He tugs on it gently, just enough to pull Tenna down to his level without yanking on it, but the bigger man gasps all the same.
“M-Mettaton, I…” When they’re this close Mettaton can feel the heat rolling off this old machine in waves, hear the light hum of static from his screen. It’s intoxicating.
“I can go, if you’d prefer?” Though the offer is genuine Tenna doesn’t even begin to entertain it, shaking his head and grabbing his waist almost desperately.
God, his hands are enormous.
“No! I mean… if you want to stay, I… I’d like that.” He doesn’t even wait for a reply before adding, in a tiny voice:
“Please.”
If he had a heart it would’ve melted. Mettaton smiles as he shimmies a little closer, and Tenna, endlessly obliging, pulls him onto his lap right away. He might feel quite vulnerable sitting there, almost doll-sized in comparison to the giant looming over him. That is, if said giant wasn’t currently whimpering at the contact, his tie quite literally still wrapped around Mettaton’s finger.
“Good boy,” he murmurs, mostly just to try it out, but the effect is immediate; Tenna actually moans. He goes to cover his mouth with his hands, clearly mortified, but Mettaton gently takes him by the wrists before he can.
“I-I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me…” Tenna mumbles, gaze averted bashfully (at least, as far as he can tell). Mettaton just shakes his head.
“There’s no need to be embarrassed, darling. It was awfully cute.” He reaches up to pet his twitching antennae, enjoying the deep groan that rumbles through Tenna’s speakers as soon as his hand makes contact. “Oh, goodness, you did like that, didn’t you?”
“It’s… They’re… sensitive… Oh, god, M-Mettaton…!”
Mettaton giggles as the CRT trembles beneath him, using his temporary distraction to push him down into a lounging position. Despite being a great deal stronger Tenna doesn’t even try to resist, instead throwing his head back as Mettaton continues to rub at his antennae, climbing on top of his chest to better reach.
“I wonder what other surprises you’ve got for me…” He glances down, past his heaving chest and quivering stomach, to where a large tent is forming in his trousers. “Perhaps that’s not too surprising.” Mettaton glances back up to his face, which is still heavily flushed, staring straight at him. “Like what you see?” He strikes one of his famous poses, grinning down at him.
“I just… sorry… You’re…” Tenna bites his lip, reaching down to take one of Mettaton’s hands in his own. “You’re so beautiful.”
That’s surprisingly tender for a dressing room hookup, but Mettaton can’t complain when it’s coming from his idol. He smiles, leaning down to plant a kiss on Tenna’s screen. It’s strange, the way it tingles against his lips with soft, static-y pulses, but it’s not unpleasant. Especially when Tenna starts kissing him back.
“You’re quite easy on the eyes yourself,” Mettaton says as they break away for a moment, giving him one last peck on the cheek before he shuffles down and starts to undo his tie. “I don’t suppose I could have a closer look?”
“Y-Yes, just… be gentle…?”
“Of course.” Mettaton pulls the tie loose, glances at it in his hand for a moment and then loops it around his own neck with a grin. Tenna seems to like that too, reaching up and placing a massive hand on Mettaton’s waist, though it certainly doesn’t stay there. Mettaton sighs contentedly as Tenna starts groping his ass, teasingly wriggling in his grip for a moment before getting down to business and pushing the lapels of his blazer aside.
“You are eager,” he comments as he begins unbuttoning his shirt, still enjoying how perfectly his ass fits into the palm of Tenna’s hand.
“Can you blame me?”
“Certainly not.” Mettaton undoes the last button and tears Tenna’s shirt open with relish. It’s all smooth metal and plastic casing down there, with a few dials and buttons that he can’t wait to get his hands on, but he’s momentarily distracted as Tenna’s hand seems to grow tired of his ass and curls its fingers around to the front, lightly stroking the metal of his upper thigh. A shudder of pure delight runs up Mettaton’s carbon-fibre spine at the sensation, and almost without thinking he grinds up against his hand.
“Oh… Tenna, that’s…” He’s cut off by an embarrassingly loud moan as one of Tenna’s fingers brushes up against his vaginal opening’s latch. “Open it, if you would, I…”
His companion nods, obediently reaching down and thumbing the latch. It pops open eagerly, revealing the silicon slit hidden beneath, already dripping with lubricant. It was a later addition to his robotic body, not included in Alphys’ original plans, but after too many sexual encounters where he was literally incapable of getting off he practically begged her for its inclusion.
And he’s so glad he did. Tenna picks him up by the waist (with one hand; Mettaton quivers slightly at such a casual display of strength) and gently but firmly pulls him up his chest and onto his face. His hands are so big that he can keep a hold on his hips while rubbing circles on his clit with his thumb, his other hand still groping his ass.
“Is this all right?” Tenna asks a little nervously, glancing up at him. Mettaton just laughs, reaching down to pet at his antennae and sending a shudder down the old CRT’s spine. His hips buck desperately somewhere further along the sofa, and between that and his blushing screen Mettaton is struck with the thought that poor Mr. Tenna might not be far from finishing himself.
“Of course, darling. Now, would you be so kind–”
Mettaton doesn’t even get to finish his request before Tenna’s already upon him. Still massaging his clit, he licks one long stripe up his slit before diving in, eating him out like a man starved. Mettaton groans, throwing his head back as he fucks Tenna’s face, his screen’s static sending little tiny electric pulses of stimulation, only serving to further heighten his pleasure. It’s completely overwhelming, so much so that Mettaton loses his usual composure, hardly able to speak as this giant TV fucks him to within an inch of his life.
“Oh, god, Tenna, you’re so…!”
“Please…” Tenna whines, practically writhing beneath Mettaton as he sucks and bites at his clit – his teeth are a good deal sharper than he expected, though perhaps it’s just his imagination – “Please, tell me I’m… good, please…”
“Oh god, oh darling, Tenna, you’re so good, such a good boy, I’m…!”
Mettaton cries out as Tenna, seemingly motivated by this new line of praise, grabs his hips and pushes his tongue deep inside him. It’s too much, all at once, and it’s what finally sends Mettaton over the edge; his thighs tremble and he squeezes them together as he cums on Tenna’s face. Tenna, to his credit, doesn’t even seem to flinch as he’s almost choked by his lover’s thighs, instead eagerly lapping up the lubricant still oozing from his pussy.
“Oh, Tenna, that was…” Coming down from his high, Mettaton doesn’t even realise Tenna’s still clinging to him.
At least, not until Tenna grabs him by the waist, flips them over and starts humping his thigh.
He’s not too rough, of course, careful not to sink his claws in – even in his desperation Tenna is a gentleman, and Mettaton doubts anything could change that – but it’s still a shock to be picked up by something so massive and used like that, as if he’s nothing more than a toy. High above him Tenna’s screen is flushed a deep red, still wet with Mettaton’s slick, antennae twitching madly as his mouth hangs open (so he does have fangs after all).
Not one to allow anyone to get the upper hand (especially not a man so pathetic as to be dry humping his leg like a dog), Mettaton smirks and reaches up to the dials on Tenna’s chest, gently brushing them with his fingers before taking hold of one and giving it a quick turn.
The effect is immediate. Tenna goes from moaning to outright whimpering, his metal body growing hot as whatever systems are inside him begin to overheat.
“O-Oh god, M-Mettaton, p-please, I’m sorry, I just…!” He whines again as Mettaton turns the second dial, still pathetically grinding against his leg with sharp teeth gritted, so desperate to get off that tears begin to pool on his screen.
“It’s all right,” Mettaton soothes, stroking the side of his face as Tenna moans underneath him. Those sharp fangs and claws might be scary on someone else, but on Tenna they only serve to show how big of a pushover he really is. Emphasis on big. “Such a good boy, it’s all right, you’ve been so good…”
“P-Please…” Tenna whispers, frantically humping his leg. “Please, let me cum, please…”
Mettaton can hardly say no to that. He reaches up, fingers latching around the edge of his screen, cupping his face as he wipes his tears away with one gentle hand and with the other, twists the final dial.
“Cum for me, darling.”
It seems that was all Tenna needed. The older man keens and moans as his orgasm tears through him, his giant body racked with pleasure as he cums right there in his trousers, leaving a large wet spot pooling around his crotch as he collapses back on the sofa (thankfully not on top of him).
It takes a moment for Mettaton to recover, his whirring fans working overtime to cool his overheating core. Even once he’s caught his breath it takes him a moment to notice the long bleep from Tenna’s speakers, see the test pattern that has replaced Tenna’s usual features. He suppresses a giggle.
“Tenna?” No reply. He tries again, gently tapping at the side of his screen. “Tenna, darling?”
Poor old thing. Thankfully, Mettaton is well-versed in machine maintenance, and after climbing up on top of the bigger man it doesn’t take him long to locate the switch located at the back of Tenna’s head. He flips it off, waits a moment, and then turns it back on.
Tenna’s screen flickers to life with a gasp as he bolts upright, throwing Mettaton off his perch on his chest, though the CRT is quick enough to catch him before he hits the floor. He glances around wildly for a moment before his gaze falls on the robot in his arms, and below that, the damp spot in his trousers. His screen fuzzes pink once more.
“Sorry, I…” He laughs a little awkwardly, and Mettaton can’t help but laugh too, still cradled in this giant man’s arms. He snuggles into his chest, leaning up to plant a kiss on his cheek.
“Did you enjoy yourself, Mr. Tenna?” He asks sweetly, a teasing smile playing on his lips. Tenna scratches at the back of his head, clearly embarrassed, though he still keeps ahold of him as he settles back down onto the sofa.
“That might just be the most fun I’ve had in years,” he admits, one hand idly playing with Mettaton’s hair as he holds him close. Mettaton practically purrs, gazing up at him with hooded eyes.
“Then I’m sure you won’t object if we do it again tomorrow?” He chuckles at the look on Tenna’s face, reaching up to toy with his antennae.
“After all, this was only the rehearsal.”