Chapter Text
What a long day it had been.
Mettaton sighed as he slumped against the door to his home, all at once pulling his sweater over his head and tossing it into a random corner of his combination living/bedroom. He'd deal with it later. He was burning up in that thing. The trek from Snowdin to his home in Waterfall would have warmed a more fleshy monster a bit, sure, but a monster made of only magic and metal shouldn't have been anywhere near as overheated as he was at the moment. His internal fans were working overtime, whirring aggressively in an effort to keep his power supply from overheating.
Thing was, the only thing keeping him from going white-hot in Snowdin had been the cold. Had it not been for the snow covering the ground and the chilled air constantly keeping him cool, Mettaton wouldn't have been able to stay at Papyrus' house for long. (Of course it was Papyrus' house-- what other business could a man like Mettaton have in Snowdin? It wasn't exactly like Snowdin was the premier destination for those in the entertainment field.)
See, it had started as a simple visit. Mettaton had taken a bit of time out of his busy schedule to visit with a dear friend of his-- after all, it had been so long since they'd just been able to sit down and chat without being pestered by the ever-growing number of fans rising star had been accruing lately. It had been nice to just relax with Papyrus on his couch, eating his questionable cooking (and thanking dear Alphys for the fact he could easily turn off his taste sensors. Regrettably, this did not as easily apply to his ability to experience the texture of what Papyrus considered Al dente.) It had been nice to be alone with his friend for once, where they could both feel comfortable to let loose and just experience the time that they were spending together.
It had definitely been less nice to pretend to ignore the electric jolt that shot up his limbs wherever he'd made fleeting contact with Papyrus, and eventually to try and explain away the static electricity that the other had noticed occasionally pricking him as their meeting had continued. At first the disheveled robot had considered it to be some kind of issue with power usage -- maybe some of his circuitry had degraded or was malfunctioning -- but when he'd run a quick diagnostics check, it had come back completely fine. He was in superb condition, as always. Nothing to be concerned about. He trusted Alphys' ability to design a system that would be able to take care of and check itself for issues just fine, so what was going on? It wasn't like this was happening with any old surface he'd come in contact with. Only Papyrus.
The issue had continued to baffle him, and Mettaton had continued to find ways to excuse it, until very soon before he left to make the trek back to his own home. Papyrus was washing the dishes from their shared meal, bent over the tub that he used to pre-wash them for the dishwasher (he'd been using a ladder to reach their ridiculously tall sink until he'd fallen and hurt himself and Sans had forced him to switch to this much safer option), and Mettaton couldn't keep himself from staring.
Sure, Papyrus was attractive. He couldn't keep his eyes off of the other-- something about him was just so captivating. The way he exuded this air of confidence that even Mettaton himself struggled to emulate, how he managed to cheer on everyone surrounding him and his own self at the same time. It was magical. Not to mention the way his bones seemed to create such an aesthetically pleasing silhouette that he couldn't help but imagine how that silhouette would appear in all sorts of different positions and contexts... Mettaton felt himself overheating, his internal fans whirring louder than before, and it clicked. How stupid he had been. He was a sex symbol, how had he neglected to notice the fiery attraction that had been stirring up inside himself?
Of course, it was Papyrus, that dumb, innocent, adorable skeleton with a beautiful figure and a presence that never ceased to incite joy in dear fuck, it was love. Sure, he was turned on, but being turned on by some random cutie and being turned on by your dear friend that you just can’t seem to spend enough time around and that you would give anything to be able to just hold and that caused your servos lock up whenever near were two very different things. No wonder he’d been in whatever flavor of denial had him borderline bugging and sparking. He had to get out of here before things got ugly.
Now, Mettaton had been starting to overheat a little within the shelter and slight escape from the cold the skeleton brothers' home provided, though thankfully it wasn't heated (no need; skeletons weren't bothered by the cold) and allowed for him to maintain a temperature within his safe range regardless, but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t experience the effects of his CPU struggling to cope with his rising internal temperature. This would manifest in strange ways, but the most embarrassing of all crept up unexpectedly, and reared its ugly head when the disheveled robot opened his mouth to make an attempt at excusing himself from the situation.
“Oh, Papyrus, it’s becoming very late— you wouldn’t mind if- mind if—”
And then the most humiliating part; the skipping was annoying but not world-ending… The ear-piercing noise that came after could put a machine in an early grave due to the embarrassment. It was something comparable to an old CD getting stuck on a fraction of a particularly cacophonous note and skipping at a high speed. It was awful. At least it was in front of a dear friend and not on TV, but his metal carapace was still burning— only now with an added tinge of embarrassment.
That was just about it. The rest was a blur. He shut off his audio, covered his mouth and stood up. Out the door he was. He caught a glance of Sans exiting his room to inspect the commotion and felt the knowing look he was given like ashamed lightning up his endoskeleton. He was gone before Papyrus could even comprehend the situation, and was far beyond the other’s visibility in the heavy snow by the time he walked out the door to try and call for him.
To the riverboat it was, and then the walk of shame past Gerson’s (more of a mad dash, honestly) and finally, into his home.
Sweater on the floor. Slumped against the wall. Overtaxed fans working for an overclocked CPU the only sounds in the room. A sigh. Desperate.
Fuck, Papyrus.
Metal arms, extending. Wrapping around Mettaton’s own waist.
Hands, perpetually gloved and padded in thin silicone underneath for comfort, pressing their weight into his sides and pushing up to his waist.
Thighs, pushing together and shaking, struggling to maintain their strength.
SOUL, pulsing with need.
Mettaton gasped, audio processors going into efficiency mode finally and allowing a low-bitrate groan to exit his speakers as he traced outside the heart-shape of his SOUL with a finger, his entire system stuttering and freezing up for a fraction of a second as he teased himself. He dared to imagine skeletal fingers replacing his own as he gently brushed the surface of his SOUL, endoskeleton spasming at the sudden stimulation. His head fell back as he pushed his fingers in, finally, and he slipped down— slowly— to the floor. He couldn’t fight the visual that haunted him in place of being in the moment: Papyrus, his hands exploring and feeling Mettaton’s exoskeleton, his fingers gently teasing and then penetrating Mettaton’s very SOUL…
Mettaton's free hand slid up his thigh, heavy weight against his pressure sensors shooting a jolt of electricity up his body. Up it trailed, to his SOUL next to the other hand, where that not-quite-fluid mass of magic and sensation slowly began to morph to fit within it. He imagined the weight of his amorphous length within his hand being attached to Papyrus as he slicked his thumb over its tip, other hand skillfully working the puddle of magic behind it. His back arched, his hair standing on end as if about to be hit by lightning from the static energy building up. He'd shock a more fleshy monster if they were to touch him, but to him it felt like the pleasure was overtaking him, spreading to the furthest reaches of his being.
It was unbearable, it was overwhelming, it was wonderful to imagine that it wasn't his own robotic arm unable to resist itself and plunging its way through his disheveled SOUL, entire body shaking with need as he desperately raced towards the edge. It was Papyrus, his SOUL so deeply palpable in Mettaton's imagination that he could almost believe it. The imagery, bright orange on bright magenta, melding together into a dripping coral that the thought of nearly had Mettaton's knees locking up. His SOUL felt like it was going to melt away and drip onto the floor, his body following until he was nothing but a sopping, twitching puddle of liquid robot.
Mettaton's SOUL was pulsing, having trouble maintaining its form in his hand and around the hand-forearm he had massaging its insides. He rolled his hips up into the sensation of stroking himself and it sent a jolt from his SOUL to the back of his neck that electrified his processors, a high whine leaving him that made him realize somewhere in the back of his mind that his audio processors were in such disarray from his state that he couldn't do much more than such. He squirmed and his limbs writhed, hips bucking up into his hand one last time as the image of Papyrus' hips stuttering and burying his SOUL within Mettaton's, inundating his own with that wonderful orange hue graced his mind. His thighs tensed up and his entire endoskeleton froze, full body spasming as his SOUL pulsed and liquefied itself entirely, cracks of electricity apparent all over his body as he barreled over the edge.
The aftershocks ran through him for longer than he could ever recall them having done before (had this been the best orgasm he'd ever had? It certainly felt like it...), and he must have truly collapsed into a pile of liquid robot on the floor after all-- because at some point along the line, he'd automatically completely booted down to allow his processors and hardware to regain its composure and prevent any true damage from taking place. He definitely couldn't recall ever having to do such a thing before. That had just been his imagination, just the way that pretending Papyrus had been touching him had made him feel. This left a burning question:
What would the real thing feel like, then?