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Spamton made no effort to hide that he was the jealous type. Whether it was flashy material goods, some sweet Kromer, or the thrill of attention, Spamton wanted it all. Since finding his benefactor, success seemed to simply fall into his lap, so when someone else got a taste of what he didn’t have, it fucking burned. It had become apparent as soon as he set foot on the TV Time set that nothing provoked this jealousy like his new business partner.
It may be due to the fact that Spamton had never had a true partner in, well, anything before he met Tenna. With each passing day, he found himself demanding more and more of the star’s time, drawing out every merchandising or advertising conversation over the course of hours, taking every post-show drink in their shared dressing room, and ensuring—on those all-too-rare nights when he was actually able to drag Tenna to one of the electrifying Cyber City clubs—that Tenna was never on the dance floor without Spamton by his side.
After all, what was the alternative? Allow other employees to worm their way into the soft spot that Tenna so clearly set aside for Spamton these past couple months? Worse, let another slimy salesman pitch their bright ideas to him, completely negating Spamton’s use? Ha. Like he’d ever let those ruthless Addisons near his partner.
All in the name of preserving their business arrangement, of course. He was the only thing Spamton had ever actually worked to get since making his deal, he wouldn’t lose him that easily. That’s all. His jealous streak rarely ever caused trouble, anyway. How could anything block him when these days, he slipped through conflict like water through a sieve?
Oh, but today. Today he may just have to start a problem.
Tenna’s guest star today was some eccentric Lightner that had apparently made it his personal mission to get under Spamton’s skin. Watching them from the wings now was bad enough, the small man crossing his arms and silently fuming as he stared at the metallic face beaming at Tenna’s screen. This new robot was apparently some sort of superstar where he came from, and damn if he didn’t accentuate and over-accentuate that point for his entire half-hour slot.
“Why, darling,” the guest—Mettaton (an uninspired name, if you asked Spamton)—leaned forward on the plush couch, reaching across to place a gloved hand on Tenna’s arm. Spamton rolled his eyes as the TV’s antennae stood straight up, a slight pink glow lighting Mettaton’s white face. God, his partner was easy. “Here I go on and on talking about my own business…you’re on the up-and-up as well, aren’t you? After all, you booked me!”
Ugh. He was worse than that forsaken twink from Card Castle. Every move was so clearly orchestrated, his genial grace obviously rehearsed. And to think that Tenna was really falling for it. The only person he ever got this flustered around was…
Are you sure no one’s looking, Spammy? This dance move is rather, hmm, well…
Nevermind.
“Well,” Tenna said, voice pinched ever so slightly. Spamton watched him shift as he crossed and uncrossed his legs, leaning forward as Mettaton withdrew his hand and leaned back, almost Tenna was chasing him, “With the help of our favorite mailman, we’ve been more tapped into the audience than ever! It’s all about giving these lovely folks what they want, right?”
A flicker of a grin crossed Spamton’s face at the mention, but it disappeared as soon as the other man opened his lip-glossed mouth.
“Drama, romance!” He exclaimed, tossing his glossy hair for dramatic effect. Spamton bet those strands felt like a cheap wig. Glaring openly now, he imagined pulling the hair straight out of his stupid head.
“And, of course,” Mettaton continued, dropping his voice and leaning in conspiratorially, “A little bloodshed, if the moment calls for it.”
Spamton froze.
“Ha!” Tenna laughed indulgently, “Mike, remind me not to get on this diva’s bad side!”
There was no mistaking it. That fucker—
Mettaton winked, directly past Tenna’s head as his posture eased once more. Spamton shivered. The guest star had been looking right at him.
“Fuck this,” he muttered, ignoring the sharp look he received from the closest Pippins. He stormed away from the set, a cigarette lit and placed between his lips by the time he made it to the green room.
___
He nursed a drink, ruminating there as he waited for shooting to wrap, and either robot to come out here where he could give them a piece of his mind. Better yet, he hoped they’d both come over, that way he could lay into them at once: Mettaton for being such an obvious, frustrating tryhard, and Tenna for having the audacity to actually buy into it.
Unfortunately, when the door opened, only the go-go boot wearing, pop-ballad singing, perfectly sculpted guest star walked through.
Spamton, who had spun around hopefully, deflated, sulking back down. Of course he’d get this one.
The robot, ignoring the silent wall of don’t fuck with me that Spamton had put up, helped himself to the barstool directly next to him. Naturally.
“Ramb, darling, was it? You wouldn’t happen to be able to make a mojito, or anything like that?” He asked in that voice, so low and warm and smooth that it had to have been practiced.
Ramb grinned, setting another double shot of acid in front of Spamton while keeping his full attention on the newcomer. “I can whip up somethin’ like that, luv.”
“Oh, you’re just delightful!” There was a pause, then, “I’m almost jealous. This place is so accommodating!”
Spamton kept his gaze fixed firmly away, hand wrapping around the glass Ramb had provided.
Mettaton continued undeterred, “I mean, besides the bar, the whole crew have been just fabulous to be around! How do you manage to get anything done with those Shadowmen around? I think I’d just invite them up on stage and have a party!”
He knew this type. It wasn’t so different from the Addisons, desperate for attention, approval, clicks. They put on their fake smiles to sell useless crap, and turned it off as soon as the deal was done. He even encroached on Spamton’s territory like the Addisons did, as though he didn’t believe someone like Spamton could actually land a deal like the one he had with Tenna.
“And that darling Ant,” he went on, blissfully unaware of the way Spamton tensed at hearing this stranger refer to his business partner by his first name. Like they were old friends. Talk about overstepping. “I’ve never worked with such a charming host! And so attentive too, did you know he’s there with the crew right now, giving notes? I hardly do that myself, he said he does it after every show. I may need to take a page from his book!”
Enough was enough. He’d given Tenna enough time to arrive and defuse, now he figured he had license to say or do whatever it took to shut this robot up.
“Hey [hot stuff], you ever try keeping it in your pants?”
He finally looked in the intruder’s eyes—well, eye, one was covered by a perfectly-coiffed swoop of hair. Fuck, it looked even softer up close, this man was impossible.
He’d been more than ready to challenge whatever expression he found there, but his confidence wavered as Mettaton’s shocked face shifted to a small, self-satisfied smile.
“What?” Spamton demanded.
Mettaton’s impish grin didn’t waver as he took a sip from the drink Ramb must have made for him, something fluorescent pink with a sprig of mint. “Hm?”
“That [fucking face on your face],” he answered, too frustrated to bother concealing the vocal intrusion, “Stop looking at me like that.”
In a move so smooth it could have been scripted, Mettaton set his drink down, brought his other hand to cup his own face, and batted his eyelashes, asking, “Like what?”
Smug son of a bitch.
“Forget it,” Spamton said, in a last-ditch effort to maintain the upper hand in this conversation, remembering his nearly-abandoned plan of ignoring the robot entirely. In the long pause that followed, he took the opportunity to slip off of the stool and make for the dressing room.
“You poor thing,” Mettaton’s voice followed him, stopping him, “I understand, of course. Ant is…quite the creature.”
Ant. Ant. Where did this guy get off? Spamton turned on his heel, marching right back and into Mettaton’s personal space, practically standing between the still-seated robot’s thighs.
“And what do you mean by that?”
Mettaton laughed in a gesture that was oddly reminiscent of Queen, bringing the back of his hand to barely conceal the open-o of his mouth. Spamton needed to stop staring.
“Darling,” Mettaton said, reaching out and laying a hand on Spamton’s shoulder, “I’ve only been here for one afternoon, and even I think I might be in love with him. You’ve been working for him for how long?”
He wasn’t sure if it was the hand on his shoulder, the way it was subtly shifting towards his neck, or the intense, genuine look in Mettaton’s eye that had struck him suddenly speechless and stupid. Spamton’s mouth hung open uselessly, not even knowing where to begin, before he finally managed, with far less heat than he’d wanted, “I work with him, not for him. We’re partners.” He realized too late that he’d put too much emphasis on the last word, and amended, “Business partners.”
Mettaton sat upright, as though genuinely surprised, removing his wandering hand. Spamton tried not to focus on the tingling ghost of sensation that remained.
“Really? Then why haven’t you made a move?”
Somehow, the genuine curiosity and the plainness with which Mettaton asked it pierced Spamton like a well-placed arrow, straight through his heart, and all pretense was gone.
“Honestly, [Featuring Specil Guest Star !]? I don’t know.”
Mettaton’s lips pulled into a small frown, and he inexplicably took the liberty of brushing a stray lock of hair behind Spamton’s ear. He flinched initially, but relaxed into the gesture slightly. God, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched gently. The closest he’d ever gotten was Tenna’s hands grasping his hips uncertainly as they grinded up against each other in the anonymity of a crowded dance floor, both too far gone to even register what they were doing.
Apparently personal space was a foreign concept to this man. Maybe he hadn’t been flirting with Tenna after all. Spamton felt a wash of relief over himself at that—of course, it was just this loser’s brand.
The gloved hand lingered in that spot, before reaching to grab his own drink.
“Come on, darling. Take me somewhere we can talk this nonsense out.”
Spamton scrunched his face in disapproval, even as he reached for his own glass. “I don’t want your pity.”
Mettaton giggled as his feet touched the ground, “Trust me, this is entirely selfish. I can’t stand watching people repress their feelings, and this is only the first day of the shoot. Complain if you like, beautiful, but we’re sorting this out one way or the other.”
He should still be annoyed, he knew he should still be annoyed. This was an insane overstep, and from a man he’d been torturing in his mind all day, no less. If Spamton had any good sense, he’d give Mettaton a true piece of his mind, tell him off for his grating affection, stake his claim over Tenna, kick this sorry excuse for a robot out of the studio, and convince Tenna to never invite him back.
On the other hand, he was tired. Tired of toeing the line, tired of waiting for Tenna to give him the okay, tired of being the only soul in the world that knew about his infatuation. And this stranger not only figured out his game in the span of only a few hours, he was showing him the affection he’d been lacking for so long, and he didn’t need to be drunk or shown a more vulnerable side to do it.
Mettaton had walked into the studio and seen him, and if this conversation was any indication, hadn’t stopped seeing him. And he wasn’t afraid, wasn’t running the other way, wasn’t taking Tenna for himself. Spamton may have been going crazy, because it seemed like this stranger actually cared. The only other person to do that, well, he may be seven feet of retro sex appeal, but he couldn’t take a hint if his life depended on it.
Heaven, he’d thought one attractive robot was bad enough. He must have some sort of weakness for them, these tall metal men, who for some reason kept smiling at him, leaning into him, showing him kindness. It was a concerning pattern, and he resolved to shut down any thoughts that Mettaton’s too-gentle hands had sparked. After all, there was still every chance that he was competition.
—
“I just, I don’t do the [How To Know You’ve Found Your Soulmate], you know?”
Spamton, despite his better instincts, had found himself on the couch in his and Tenna’s dressing room, leaning into the larger man’s side, under his outstretched arm. Maybe it was the liquor, their glasses refilled by the bottle he kept in here for special occasions, or maybe it was the desperation. Fuck, it felt good to finally talk about all of this, and it felt good to finally be embraced by a strong metal arm, and it felt good the way that Mettaton seemed to get him.
The gloved fingers brushed through his hair in movement as comforting as it was tantalizing. He’d been at it for quite some time now, and still Spamton shivered pleasantly each time it happened.
“You don’t need to, darling,” the performer reassured him, low and honeyed. The longer they sat in this room, the more he believed it, “I’m not saying what you and Ant have isn’t special—it certainly is—but, well, it’s ridiculous not to try because you’re scared of forever. You can start easy, fun. Casual, even!”
See, that’s what would always get him. On their more flirtatious nights, when the lines got blurrier, Tenna had tried talking to him about these things.
If only you could settle down, Spammy, he’d said, not so long ago, Maybe we could even, well, give it a go.
Spamton sighed, and reached for the cigarette box on the table. “He’s not the type to try casual, legs. Trust me, I know him.” He sat up straighter, flicking his lighter.
He turned in his spot on the couch, taking in Mettaton’s face for the first time since he’d been fuming jealously in the wings. It really was a thing of beauty, almost infuriatingly so. He was as mystified by each subtle movement as he was by the way Tenna’s face would materialize from his screen. He watched as that button nose scrunched, the tip of a fang gnawing into a lip too soft to be entirely artificial while he sat deep in thought.
He should kiss those lips.
“Darling, I…” Mettaton began, then paused, eyes dropping suddenly. “Is it alright if I confess something?”
Spamton raised a brow and took a drag. “Don’t see why not. Heaven knows I’ve been talking your ear off [For 1 night only!].”
Mettaton took a deep breath, worrying at the fingertips of his gloves, “I’ve, um, I’ve been a fan of your show for a while. Of Ant and yourself, more specifically.”
A grin broke across Spamton’s face, and he felt uncharacteristically genuine pride and gratitude as he said, “From a big shot like yourself? I’m flattered.”
The hint of a smile. “Why, that’s quite sweet. But! The important part is, darling, I’ll be frank, I’ve had a bit of a silly crush on the two of you. Your dynamic is intoxicating, you see, why, I’d normally never appear on a show like TV Time, but I just had to get a taste of it myself.”
He wasn’t sure how to answer that, except for the recurring thoughts that’d been racing through his mind since they’d snuck back here together. He was just, he seemed so similar to Spamton. His desire, no, desperation for greatness was almost parallel to his own. They both knew what they wanted, and they both had that spark, the same one that had drawn him to Tenna—they’d stop at nothing to get what they wanted.
It was almost offputting to hear someone speak so plainly of their desire in this way. Not that Spamton was a prude by any means, he had plenty of fun over in Cyber City, but he never told any of those people his true intentions. Mettaton, after only knowing him for a day, was confessing a level of interest that by all rights should be creeping him out.
He had to get a taste of Spamton and Tenna. Another shiver. He wouldn’t mind a taste himself.
“The thing is, dear, I did get a taste. Quite a bit of one.”
Wait. The fuck did that mean? “The fuck does that mean?”
Another deep breath. “Well, you were pretty closed off when I arrived, and it afforded Ant and I quite some time together. Our chemistry, it positively exploded, darling, from the moment he and I got to talking.”
Realization dawned, cigarette now hanging loosely from Spamton’s lips. This absolute asshole—he’d made it to Tenna first.
“All this to say, you really do have a delightful business partner, and we only shared one kiss in the green room, I promise, but, Spam, darling, it just goes to show that he isn’t quite as buttoned-up as you’ve managed to convince yourself.”
Spamton stared hollowly, unable to parse through the barrage of thoughts. He’d gotten to Tenna first. He’d convinced Tenna to kiss him. He wanted a taste of their dynamic. He’d been spending all night hyping Spamton up to make a move, why would he do that if he wanted Tenna for himself? Had he been flirting all this time then?
Loudest, though, was how do I get myself between these insane robots?
“Spamton, darling,” Mettaton spoke after a long pause, placing his index finger on Spamton’s jaw and guiding his gaze back to him, “Could you please say something?”
That last touch was all it took to send him over the edge. What did it matter, what did anything matter? He was Spamton G. Spamton, baby, and he didn’t get this far by turning down the offers that fell into his lap.
He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and crashed his way into Mettaton’s lips.
There was a small yelp of surprise, a precious thing, before the other man kissed back fervently, tangling his hands into Spamton’s hair.
It was electric, and not only because of the complex technology that fueled every one of the robot’s movements. Even with all his cavorting in the other dark world, Spamton hadn’t been kissed like this, well, as far back as he could remember.
He pushed further, blindly stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray so he could run both hands up and down Mettaton’s body. Underneath the fabric of the shimmering black suit, he could feel a prominent chest plate, the ridges of his impossibly-slim waist, and a curious pulsing warmth in his abdomen.
Mettaton leaned back obligingly, one hand traveling from Spamton’s hair to the nape of his neck, and then down his back, Spamton’s skin tingling under his dress shirt. He hummed in approval before separating briefly and focusing his attention on unbuttoning the suit jacket that Mettaton had, for some reason, not yet taken off.
“You still, ah, haven’t said anything,” Mettaton said, breathless.
“Didn’t think I needed to,” Spamton answered, before shirking the blazer off of Mettaton’s shoulders.
Mettaton sat up to pull the jacket the rest of the way off, tossing it to land on a nearby armchair. He pouted slightly, even as he began to undo Spamton’s tie with his deft fingers. Spamton might be obsessed with those fingers.
“I’d rather you did,” he said, discarding the yellow tie before pulling Spamton close by the long-since undone collar of his shirt. “It really gets me going when someone says how much they want me.”
Spamton’s breath hitched, mouth pulling into a wry smile as he dropped his head and chuckled.
“You’re insane.”
A shit-eating grin. “Like you?”
Spamton shrugged. “What can I say? I know what I am, and I know what I like.”
“So do I,” Mettaton said, smashing his lips back into Spamton’s just as the door banged open.
He froze in the larger man’s arms, hearing an unmistakable gasp, and the voice he’d so well memorized, Tenna’s uncomfortable voice, stammering out, “Oh, oh! My, I didn’t, my apologies to— I’ll, I’ll just—”
Spamton whipped his head around, caught between equally distasteful inclinations to apologize, run, and beg inexplicably for forgiveness, useless words caught in his throat. He took in the bright red flush of Tenna’s screen, brow raised and antennae standing straight in shock. Spamton’s mouth felt suddenly dry as it hung open, and he could do nothing but watch as Tenna took a half-step back, preparing to close the door even as he peered around it, eyes glued to the scene before him.
Luckily, their extroverted guest star seemed to be quicker on the draw, as he asked, low and seductive, “Ant, gorgeous, won’t you join us?”
There was a long, horrible moment where Spamton watched Tenna’s gaze shift between himself and Mettaton behind him. A moment where he realized his ambition, his impatience, may have ruined any shot there was of his fantasies with Tenna coming to fruition. He should have known better, shouldn’t have stepped away for a moment, never should have let this hunk of glittering metal be alone with his business partner, his conquest, his Tenna.
And then, there was a shift. Tenna stepped forward, and the shock on his face morphed in a way that Spamton had always imagined seeing. With a nervous, slow-spreading smile, he closed the door, locking it decisively.
“That’s it, darling,” Mettaton purred, reaching a hand out as Tenna approached, determination in his stride.
“I hope, I’ve never done anything—”
Spamton felt suddenly like a third wheel as Tenna held Mettaton’s gaze, walking straight past him to look at the other robot.
“Don’t worry, darling,” Mettaton smiled, and Spamton watched as he grabbed a firm hold on the yellow tie, “We’ll take it at our own pace, isn’t that right, Spamton?”
Still speechless, jealousy and arousal warring in his chest, Spamton nodded decisively.
Tenna, although not addressed, nodded as well, “Perfect!”
“Hmm,” Mettaton hummed, “Perfect indeed. May I?”
Tenna’s face glowed even brighter, and Spamton had to wince against it as the CRT nodded his head up and down in an enthusiastic yes.
Accepting the answer with a smile, Mettaton pulled Tenna down to meet him, and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. It was so different from what the two of them had shared earlier, and Spamton found himself picturing the stolen kiss in the greenroom that Mettaton had described, wondering if it was anything like this.
He didn’t care about the why of it anymore. Watching Mettaton kiss his TV, seeing the way Tenna leaned into it so smoothly, the latent intensity behind each press of the lips, Spamton burned.
He stood from the couch, catching a knowing wink from Mettaton in the process before his eye slid closed again, and came around the back, standing behind the arm where Mettaton lay. He battled his thoughts a moment longer. He’d had a goal, here, had been wearing Tenna down for months, slowly peeling back the layers to get into his arms, if not his pants.
The thing was, that hadn’t worked. It had gotten him close, but it had never worked. What did work, after all this time—this.
He grabbed a fistful of Mettaton’s hair and pulled hard.
The sound that left Mettaton’s throat was a deep, wanting thing, a moan that threatened to shake Spamton’s reason right out of his head, as blood immediately rushed to his crotch. Tenna, still clearly half-dazed from the kiss, finally held Spamton’s gaze. He took in his ruined appearance, his loosened tie and rumpled shirt, the sound of his internal cooling system whirring hard to keep up with the stimulation.
“Like what you see, Tens?” Spamton asked, imbued with confidence from the pure debauchery of it all.
Tenna bit his lip and nodded, antennae standing straight as rods. Spamton could hear his screen buzzing at this proximity, and in a different context, the sound may have lulled him to sleep.
“And you?” He asked, redirecting his gaze to Mettaton. Where his hair had been covering his face, Spamton could see a complex series of wires, and an LED light set in what looked to be a shell of an eyesocket. He leaned down, his lips nearly pressed to Mettaton’s forehead as he purred, “What do you want, [pretty little thing]?”
He pulled again, opting to make eye contact with Tenna as they listened to Mettaton’s sharp, whining inhalation.
Tenna’s mouth spread into a wicked smile. They’d functioned like this since they’d first shook hands, Spamton needing only to give a look for Tenna to understand what he was asking. It was, in part, what made their partnership so dangerous. As soon as deeper feelings had started to spread, and it hadn’t taken very long at all for that to happen, he had to be measured with what he shared. Careful and performative, keeping up the act so that Tenna couldn’t see his desperation.
That didn’t matter now. What mattered was that he was about to get what he wanted, and then some.
“What happened to our talkative guest star?” Tenna followed, perching himself on the couch, straddling Mettaton’s legs. “Think a bit more than just the cat got your tongue.”
He rolled his hips downwards, grinding against Mettaton’s crotch, and though Spamton wasn’t sure if either of them actually had anything as far as genitalia went, his breath hitched almost painfully in his chest, taking in the tableau in front of him.
“Goodness, I,” Mettaton gasped, lifting from the cushions as he struggled to meet Tenna’s pelvis, pressing for friction, “I want you both, I want you to…ah!”
Tenna had settled a hand on Mettaton’s slim waist, and Spamton noticed the shape of a heart glowing brightly beneath the white shirt.
Warmth flooded Spamton’s chest as Tenna startled, posture snapping upright and straight. “Was that alright?”
Mettaton responded by readjusting, breaking free from Spamton’s grasp and reaching out his hands to hold both men by the shoulders. He panted, “Both of you. Now. Fuck me.”
Tenna cast a glance at Spamton. He knew his TV would want to talk about this later, about what, if anything, it meant for the two of them as business partners. About if it meant anything to the three of them together.
For his part, Spamton was too fucking ready to care. He gave Tenna a curt nod, a concession, Sure, fine, after this, and wasted no more time in discarding his shirt and belt.
Tenna followed suit, removing his tailcoat and tie before Mettaton pulled him into another hungry kiss, fumbling blindly at the buttons on his crisp white shirt.
He watched hungrily as Tenna’s body was revealed to him, chest smooth silicone save for a metal plate on the front, with a small thumbprint indent on one side. Messy, complex wiring was visible at his joints, and Spamton wondered how much he could mess around in there before he broke something entirely.
“Move,” he commanded Mettaton, who obliged, sitting up and sliding back against the couch. He joined them, sitting on his haunches and devouring Tenna with his eyes.
Catching on, Tenna asked, “Feeling left out, Spammy?”
Spamton shook his head, reaching out and over Mettaton to place a hand firmly on the back of Tenna’s neck. He shivered. He’d been picturing this moment for months, but had never expected an audience.
Still, he thought, as he felt Mettaton unbutton his slacks, he and Tenna thrived on the stage.
“Just [Sick and Tired?] of waiting [my turn].”
Tenna kissed like a live wire, sending shocks through Spamton’s body as his hands roved over the Addison’s bare, softly glowing skin. He barely registered what the third man was doing until he felt lithe fingers sneak under the waistband of his boxers and wrap around his painfully hard cock. Driven in equal parts by electrical and carnal impulse, he rutted into Mettaton’s hand, chasing the static pleasure running through his body like a current. He broke the kiss involuntarily as Mettaton’s deft handiwork coaxed a loud groan from his throat.
Through his own pleasure, he heard Tenna whimpering, small oh’s escaping his throat. He opened his eyes to see the panel on Tenna’s chest swung open, Mettaton’s other hand combing gently through the mess of wires within.
The two turned to Mettaton. His eyes were half-lidded with lust as he looked at them, teeth digging into his own bottom lip as he continued to work diligently.
Spamton descended, swinging his leg around to sit in Mettaton’s lap, pants and boxers still settled at his thighs. He made quick work of the magenta bowtie and the buttons running down his shirt, reaching out to feel the warm metal of his chestplate once he was done. With the clothes (which really were more of a formality for Mettaton—he’d arrived to the studio in his pure EX form) gone, he could see the source of the light: his pulsating pink heart suspended in its clear glass chamber, stuttering with each touch of Spamton’s hands, shining brighter each time.
“Is that a—” he began to ask, but was cut off by Tenna.
“It’s beautiful,” the television spoke in admiration. He reached for the chamber, brushing Spamton’s erection in the process, and both he and Mettaton shivered, breath hitching together. “Could I…?”
Mettaton responded to the half-question by sliding open a side of the chamber, and removing the still-pulsing heart, passing it to Tenna. This close, Spamton could see it was slick with something viscous and pink. He felt himself twitch as he watched Tenna tenderly unplug a wire from his own chest and wrap it around the heart. The two robots sighed with pleasure, Mettaton beginning to vibrate beneath him and Tenna’s fans practically screaming as they worked to cool him down.
Fuck. Yeah, Spamton definitely had a type.
“Alright, [TwinkleToes],” Spamton said, voice sounding already ragged, “I need in. What are you working with downstairs?”
Mettaton answered through gasps as Tenna continued to methodically shock the heart, which was beginning to drip pink into his chest cavity, “I, oh, anything. Anything you, ah, want, darling—oh, Ant…”
Spamton stood aside to let Mettaton shimmy off his tight leather pants (which really were almost identical to his legs) and kicked off his own pants while he was at it. The robot reached between his own legs, and his long nails found a nearly imperceptible crevice at the juncture of his hip and thigh.
“Let’s try…” he muttered to himself, then gasped in delight as the smooth metal surface of his crotch parted to reveal his cunt, dripping with the same pink liquid that had been coming from the heart in Tenna’s hands. “Mm, will, ah, will this do, sweetheart?”
Spamton nodded dumbly, in awe of the machinery and magic that it must’ve taken to create something so impressive.
“Use your words, Spam,” Tenna managed, cupping Spamton’s face with one hand, prodding at his bottom lip with one slick, claw-tipped finger. He licked his lips, tasting the oddly sweet pink substance that was now undoubtedly covering his face.
He nodded again, vigorously this time. “Yeah. That’s— [HOT DAMN],” he shook off the advertisement, too ready and too riled up to pay it any mind, “Fucking perfect.”
He wasted no more time in stepping between Mettaton’s legs and entering him with a decisive thrust.
“Yes,” Mettaton cried out, his strong legs wrapping around Spamton’s waist and pulling him even closer, one arm flying up to grip the cushion behind him. He braced himself with his other hand as Spamton began thrusting with abandon, fucking into the robot’s mechanical heat, sharply aware of Tenna’s thumb slipping into his open, gasping mouth.
He felt a shock as he bit down, still keeping tempo with his hips, as though Tenna had transferred the arousal coursing through his own wires, still wrapped around and pulsing with Mettaton’s heart.
He moaned, as much at the pain as the pleasure, unsure where to direct his attention: Mettaton writhing under him, meeting each thrust and whimpering pornographically, or Tenna, recklessly taking himself apart in the pursuit of his own pleasure, meeting the other robot’s magic with his own, buzzing like he was about to explode.
It was all almost too much to bear. Spamton’s movements became sloppy as he struggled for control, closing his eyes with effort. It couldn’t be over already, no, not right at the good part. He didn’t care how high he’d climb, he’d never fucking come down if it meant he could stay here, between these two stars, clearly giving it their all. I’d burn up here, he thought, even as he continued chasing his rapidly approaching orgasm.
“Oh, darlings, I’m—” Mettaton began, cutting himself off with another wanton cry. Spamton’s eyes snapped open to watch the robot in front of him, and then to see the heart in Tenna’s hands begin to beat erratically, leaking so much it was almost concerning.
He took the opportunity to lean in close, catching Mettaton’s mouth with his own once more, his cock twitching, dangerously close to the precipice.
Sharp teeth punctured his bottom lip as Mettaton clenched around him, both hands coming to grab Spamton’s hips and hold him in place, deep inside him. He pulled back, gasping for air, just in time to meet Tenna’s gaze as the CRT went rigid.
“Fuck!”
Spamton watched, mesmerized, as the exposed wires sparked in Tenna’s chest, the sound zapping throughout the dressing room. Mettaton convulsed underneath him, as though run through by the same electric pulse, and before he could process the rush of sensation, the shockwave finally hit him.
He’d never really taken the time to consider the implications of this, what electrocution would feel like to him—a denizen of Cyber World, sure, but made of far fewer ones and zeros than the other Darkners from his home.
Evidently, it felt amazing.
Spamton came, hard, shooting rather than spilling into Mettaton’s gushing cunt as a garbled, indecipherable sound tore out from his throat.
Panting, sparking, and vaguely aware of the fact that his hair was standing on end, he blindly reached out a hand for Tenna, landing in the still-open chest cavity.
The second shock was more violent than the first, an almost incomprehensible wave of pleasure, pain, and elation wracking Spamton’s body as the three yelped in unison. When the intensity subsided, he pulled out of both electrified men and collapsed bodily onto the couch beside them.
“Tens, that was,” he began.
“Spam, you were,” Mettaton started simultaneously.
Tenna chuckled, tenderly placing the steadying heart into its glass compartment. “I feel like I owe you both a meal,” he said, “Or a drink at least.” Somehow, even with his chest open, wires spilling out and dripping Mettaton’s pink cum, Tenna still managed to play the role of the gentleman.
Luckily, Spamton was nothing of the sort.
“Please,” he said, leaning for his box of cigarettes and his lighter on the coffee table. He placed one between his lips with practiced nonchalance and lit it. “You’ve already run up your tab with me. I’d say this makes us even.”
He took a long drag, allowing the act to calm his frayed nerves, worn down by the sex as much as the electricity. He exhaled, blowing smoke at Tenna over Mettaton, still reclined between them.
Mettaton let out a small hmph as the smoke passed over his face, but Spamton was quick to cut it off.
“You, on the other hand,” he directed his gaze toward the formerly illustrious guest star, now breathless and covered in cum, looking up at his hosts. He passed his cigarette to Tenna as he taunted, “Something’ll have to be done about you.”
“That so?” Mettaton asked, still panting, “What exactly do you propose?”
“No clue,” Spamton shrugged, turning his attention to his partner, “I’m not the boss.”
Tenna smiled, sitting upright in a trademark display of pride. It may have been the angle, but he seemed to grow a bit, preening under the attention of the two men in front of him.
“Whaddya say, [Cathode]?” Spamton continued, crossing his arms to make a show of egging Tenna on.
His chest bloomed with warmth again as Tenna’s expression shifted to something fonder, something Spamton was used to basking in. His partner leaned forward ever so slightly, and swiped across Spamton’s bottom lip with his thumb. It came away dark with blood that Spamton hadn’t even noticed was dripping. He caught a self-satisfied grin from the robot in his peripheral vision.
Tenna licked his thumb clean, then looked down at the mess of wires still tangled in his own chest. He laughed quietly to himself.
“I say we take care of this dreadful mess, get ourselves sorted, and then talk about this all after the break.”
“Sounds wonderful to me,” Mettaton said, “I think you two have plenty of talking to do.”
He stood and strutted to the nearest mirror, effortlessly fixing his hair so it once again covered the exposed panel on his face.
“Hey!” Spamton exclaimed, “Where do you think you’re running to?”
“A bathroom, hopefully,” he answered, snatching Tenna’s dressing gown from where it was left by the vanity and wrapping it around himself. “Ant, sweetheart, point me to the guest suite and I’ll be out of your way.”
Spamton saw his same confusion reflected in Tenna’s expression. Tenna shrugged slightly then tried to appeal, “You’re more than welcome to stay and talk with us. I’d actually prefer it.”
Mettaton laughed again, and while it sounded innocent enough, the smug grin on his face sold him out. “Please, darlings, you have far too much to sort out together, and the last thing I want to do is overcomplicate things. More than I have, that is.”
Spamton was about to complain—that would be overcomplicating? After this haughty, self-obsessed, overdramatic guest star had dropped a bomb of catastrophic proportions into his tenuous balance with his business partner, he really thought could get out of it that easily? Even worse, Mettaton had the two of them in the palm of his hand, and he was walking away before he closed the deal, cementing his importance to them? Come on, that was just bad business!
Before he could say any of that, though, Tenna spoke up, “You, ah, you’re not wrong there.”
“[Come again!]?”
Tenna gave him a pleading look, pulling at his heartstrings.”Please, Spammy, I know we’ve been avoiding this conversation, but it’s time.”
Heaven above, he’d never be free, not when these two robots were here, attacking him with emotional intelligence and clear communication. He plucked the forgotten cigarette from Tenna’s idle hand and took another drag as he beckoned Mettaton.
The latter came back over to the couch and gathered his clothes from the floor.
“You will be back tomorrow, though, won’t you?” Tenna asked softly, surprising even Spamton.
Mettaton smiled, sweet and genuine, and Spamton couldn’t help but smile as well, cigarette still between his lips. “‘Of course, beautiful.”
He leaned down to meet Tenna’s lips in a quick kiss, something less charged than what the three had been sharing earlier.
“And you,” he said, turning to Spamton, “Don’t sell yourself short, big shot.”
Spamton quirked an eyebrow as Mettaton plucked the cigarette from his mouth and pressed a kiss to it instead. It was softer than before, but still certain, and Spamton found himself lingering, butterflies fluttering within him.
“All I did was give you two a nudge,” he whispered, “You would’ve figured it out alone.”
In lieu of repeating Tenna’s question, finding himself suddenly on the wrong side of desperate, he cleared his throat and huffed, “Same time tomorrow?”
Mettaton gave a noncommittal shrug, popping the smoke back in Spamton’s mouth. “We’ll see where the night takes us!”
He waved coyly as he exited and closed the door behind him, leaving Tenna, Spamton, and more than one mess that needed cleaning.
The two shared a look, then an incredulous laugh, and Spamton stubbed out the remains of the cigarette butt.
He caught his reflection in the mirror as he stood, face flushed red, lip bleeding, and his body covered in glitter—whether it was from the lip gloss, cum, or something innate about Mettaton, he wasn't sure.
Tenna appeared to have the same realization, looking down at himself, and Spamton felt his heart swell yet again. He held out a hand, and Tenna took it gladly, pressing a kiss to Spamton’s smooth knuckles.
“Come on, beautiful,” Spamton said, taking a page from Mettaton’s book, “Show me how you take care of those wires.”
Tenna went to retrieve his maintenance kit, and Spamton took in the mess the three of them had made of the couch, another victim of the glitter that had covered apparently every surface.
He smirked to himself. Maybe, in this one specific area, he’d be willing to share.