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The Late Late Show with Mettaton and Burgerpants

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“Oh, no.” 

The remark fell from Burgerpants’ mouth instinctively. Seeing that picture-perfect face, that crooked smile and that smarmy brow arching to the stratosphere never failed to inspire instant chagrin. A few years had passed since the Underground was liberated— and yet, the Pavlovian response was just as strong now as it was when Burgerpants still flipped burgers for this asshole. 

Burgerpants caught him on television every so often, so it’s not like he wasn’t still haunted by his old boss now and then. He had his own show again, apparently; a wildly popular, more flamboyant version of Oprah where he gave fantastically bad advice to interviewees in front of a studio audience. Seeing him here in the dingy hallway of Burgerpants’ apartment complex at midnight, though, was really a trip. A bad trip. The kind of weird-ass trip where you hallucinate the Real Actual Devil Incarnate standing at your door in an oversized faux fur stole and Gucci sunglasses, grinning at you with the obvious expectation of being let inside. Except it wasn’t a drug-induced trip at all— the Antichrist really did drop by for a visit. 

“Oh, yes,” Mettaton purred, pulling his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to give Burgerpants an exaggerated, open-mouthed wink. Before Burgerpants could respond, Mettaton ducked under the furry arm blocking the doorway and invited himself into the apartment. “What’s new, pussycat? How’s life?” 

“Uh…”

Life was actually pretty good for Burgerpants these days, relatively speaking. While Mettaton’s exotic look and infectious personality put him in the public eye almost immediately after monsterkind ascended to the Surface, Burgerpants’ acting career had a rather rough start. Mettaton cast him in his shows at first, but ditched him about a month in because, Burgerpants figured, Mettaton loved fucking him over and that had been no exception. Despite the major setback, however, he managed to nab an audition here, a commercial there, slowly but surely making himself known until, recently, he got some exciting news: he’d just been cast as a supporting character in a big-name film production. And a cereal ad to boot. Not bad. 

Shrugging off his stole and tossing it on a nearby recliner, Mettaton spied Burgerpants’ preliminary script for the movie on the kitchenette counter and made a beeline for it.

“Still going by ‘Burgerpants’, then?” he quipped as he surveyed the title page.

“I don’t know, it kinda just stuck,” Burgerpants sighed, resigning himself to Mettaton’s presence and shutting the door. “Nobody calls me my real name anyway, so I guess it’s my stage-name now.” 

“Ahh, smart move, sweetheart. Your old name was fucking gross. Worse than ‘Burgerpants’, which is really saying something.” 

“Thanks!” 

“Anytime…” Mettaton ditched his sunglasses on the counter and flipped the script open, his dark eyes scanning the page. “Wanna run lines?”

“Fuck no,” Burgerpants asserted with absolute certainty. “Wait— why are you here, again?”

“Turning down coaching from Mettaton?” Mettaton pretended to be shocked. “People pay out the ass for an acting lesson with me, you know.”

“Yeah! That’s before they know you’re a total dick.”

Mettaton scoffed and sucked blithely on his porcelain teeth— his classic expression of contempt that Burgerpants knew all too well. Hearing it again was like claws on a chalkboard. 

“Suit yourself.” Mettaton dropped the script on Burgerpants’ coffee table and stretched out stomach-down on the closest comfortable surface, which happened to be a loveseat. He propped his chin on his fist, playfully bending his legs at the knee and kicking his high-heeled feet. “Fetch me a drink, would you, honey bunch?” 

Burgerpants started to obey Mettaton’s command on autopilot, heading for the cabinet to get what he knew was the pompous robot’s equally pompous drink of choice— Disaronno almond liqueur— but he stopped himself after a few steps and turned back with an affronted look on his face. “Um? Why are you here?”

“Ooh, a commercial, too?” Mettaton lifted himself up on an elbow and plucked the one-page script off of the coffee table. “What’s this for... ‘Wheatie-Os’... fuck, that sounds revolting—” 

Burgerpants marched around the coffee table and pulled the paper roughly out of Mettaton’s hand. “Why? Are you? Here.” 

“I just dropped by to say hello, darling, no need for a tantrum.” Mettaton snatched it back with equal conviction. “Let’s see here… ‘I always want my breakfast to be healthy and nutritious, so that’s why I choose Wheatie-Os! It keeps me strong with eight essential vitamins—’”

"Eight essential vitamins? I’m sure it was five.” Burgerpants couldn’t decide what irked him more: forgetting how many vitamins there were in that nasty cereal, or Mettaton delivering his lines way better than he had in his audition. 

“Mm, no cigar, sweetheart, it says eight.”

“Aw, you gotta be fucking kidding me—” Burgerpants took the script back from Mettaton again. “I screwed that up in the audition then, why the hell did they cast— it says five right here.”

“I know,” Mettaton chirped, batting his fluffy eyelashes as he gazed up at Burgerpants, “I was fucking kidding you, darling.” 

Burgerpants rolled his eyes and made a face. “Did you come over just to harass me?” 

“I’m here because of the movie, idiot,” Mettaton retorted. “You landed yourself a goddamn good role if I’m hearing about it.” 

Evidently bored of lounging like a Playboy model, he sat up on the loveseat, tucked his exquisite legs under him, and leaned forward over the armrest toward Burgerpants with marked interest. “How does it feel, kitten? You like your little taste of fame? It’s only gonna get bigger post-production, and then you’ll have the girls all over you, and the boys, ooh la la, more Calvin Klein models than you’ll know what to do with. Hell, maybe even Bratty and Catty will finally wanna screw you. Worth a try! You know what they say, darling: you miss all the shots you don’t take!” 

Mettaton stuck out his tongue flirtatiously between his pearly teeth, finishing his monologue with an overly pronounced, salacious wink. “You’ll be livin’ la vida loca, baby. Meow.” 

Burgerpants stared back with a furrowed brow for a few moments, his expression a mix of bewilderment and concern. 

“Yeah… I’m gonna grab a beer.” 

Burgerpants shuffled to the refrigerator and took out a PBR. For a moment he considered ignoring Mettaton’s earlier demand for a drink, but it seemed like the robot and his weirdness were here to stay for a while so he figured he might as well. Why he even still had Mettaton's sticky almond shit in his liquor cabinet, though, was truly beyond him. He never drank it himself, he'd only bought it for when Mettaton used to come around and they would run lines together. He'd meant to get rid of it ages ago. 

“Ohh, you’re the best, gorgeous,” Mettaton remarked as Burgerpants returned with a glass of the amaretto in one furry hand and his beer in the other. Burgerpants gave Mettaton the glass, and then took a seat on the carpet and cracked open the can. 

“Come now, darling, it’s a loveseat,” Mettaton cooed, patting the cushion beside him.

“Yeah, that’s exactly why I’m not sitting there.” 

“Ah, so it’s the name that’s putting you off, then?” Mettaton gazed dramatically into the distance, eyes soft and unfocused, clutching his hands to his chest. “What’s in a name—"

“Nah, you’re putting me off.” 

Mettaton’s lips twisted slightly in amusement, quickly covered with a disdainful sneer. “Still a snarky little shit, I see. Some things never change.” 

Burgerpants watched as Mettaton raised his drink; swirled the golden-brown liquid in the glass, sniffed at it, took a sip and swished it around like mouthwash. 

“What?” Mettaton inquired once he’d swallowed, noticing Burgerpants’ perplexed look. 

“Why do you drink like a serial killer now?”

“I’m just tasting it, honey, it’s a human thing. God, you’re dramatic.” 

Mettaton swung his legs around and leaned back into the loveseat, his feet set slightly apart on the floor. He was wearing a black pencil skirt, paired with sheer pantyhose and red-bottomed heels. From where he was on the floor, Burgerpants just so happened to have a fantastic view up Mettaton’s skirt. He had to wonder if this was intentional. 

Burgerpants directed his eyes elsewhere, not wanting to give Mettaton the satisfaction of catching him ogling. He kind of had a thing for hosiery, and Mettaton’s legs really did those tight, glossy stockings justice. Not that he’d ever let that slip…

Mettaton hummed innocently above, opening his knees just a touch more. The action drew Burgerpants’ gaze back to Mettaton’s crotch at once and this time, he couldn’t convince himself to look away.

This thing had always been there— this sexual tension thing. They never acted on it, though, despite Burgerpants’ many nights contemplating it while jacking off. It had always been this way. The incessant banter between them starred the showman oscillating unpredictably between disparaging and flirtatious, with his line cook profoundly insolent at the former and begrudgingly aroused at the latter. It seemed to Burgerpants that, even after several years of not seeing each other, this odd facet of their… professional relationship… hadn’t faded with time. 

“It really has been a while, hasn’t it?” Mettaton drawled, as if reading Burgerpants’ mind. “I know I’ve changed a lot, physically that is... have you noticed?” 

“Uh— yeah!” Burgerpants tore his eyes away for a moment to survey the robot from head to toe. There were some definitive differences, some of which Burgerpants was already aware of from TV and billboards. For one, Mettaton had retired his chassis and pauldrons, outfitting himself with a new chest. His long-sleeved shirt was somewhat sheer, so Burgerpants could see how humanoid his chest looked through the mesh; his soul was also visible there, glowing behind a small window on his sternum that took the place of his old plexiglass torso. He had real hair now— before, his signature hairstyle was fashioned like a metal helmet to reliably cover his unfinished eye, which had also since been completed. There were his arms, no longer extendable but beautifully crafted out of silicone (with the correct amount of fingers this time!), and his dainty feet, outfitted with elegant patent leather pumps instead of built into clunky titanium go-go boots. 

The only aspect of him that stayed the same, really, was his legs. Those unbelievable legs, long and curvy in all the right places, that were always straining latex or fishnets or whatever too-tight thing Mettaton decided to wear that day. Oh, and that ass. No changes there, either. Still mind-blowing. 

“I got nails last month,” Mettaton said, holding up a hand and fanning his fingers so Burgerpants could see his shiny black acrylics. “I also had a lip injection, but don’t tell Alphys— by the way, you’ve changed a lot too, Burgy.” 

“Yeah?” said Burgerpants, reacting to the sudden change in subject by forcing himself to look up again. 

“Mm. You’re funny, darling. More… confident. Even wittier than you used to be.”

“I took a comedy seminar, maybe that did it?” 

“Huh. Well, now you’re even more of a smartass, but I kinda like it.” Mettaton narrowed his eyes as one corner of his mouth turned upward to form an ever-so-slight smirk. “You know… I think you and I are more alike than you think, darling.” 

To Burgerpants’ mild disappointment, Mettaton closed his legs and folded one over the other. He raised his eyes up to the ceiling, pouting his lips a little to appear deep in thought, as if he was trying to figure out what to say— but if Burgerpants knew anything about his old boss, it was that he was always calculating, and in Burgerpants’ personal experience this little facade was usually an indication of nefarious intent. 

“How do you figure?” Burgerpants prompted, feeling a bit wary. 

“Well… we’re both actors, of course.” Mettaton smiled down at him, except it wasn’t a very nice smile this time and it made Burgerpants’ apprehension skyrocket. “I’m older, more experienced… more skilled… more successful… but other than that, we’re birds of a feather. Don’t you agree?”

Burgerpants squinted, irritation creeping up on him and raising his hackles. Mettaton often made mean little jabs like this back Underground at seemingly random times, and Burgerpants always assumed it was to make him feel like garbage. Well, it wasn’t going to work anymore, because he was no longer just a sulky fry cook, he was a full-fledged working actor in Hollywood. No thanks to his lovely boss. 

“That’s why you applied to the resort, hmm?” Mettaton asked, his voice even and light, “So I could start your career for you?” 

“Oh, so you could start it for me, huh? Was that it?” 

Mettaton’s smile widened even more, allowing a few seconds of silence to sink in before speaking up again.

“Tell me, darling— when did you start trying to copy me? Was it when you got yourself that little rectangle kit?” Mettaton chuckled and continued on before an affronted Burgerpants could splutter out an answer. “You know what I love about that? It was my personality that made me so hot back then, sweetheart, not my looks. And here I was all this time, thinking you hated me.” 

Mettaton’s eyes widened, his voice innocent and yet extraordinarily mocking. “Oh, but you just wanted to be me, didn’t you?” 

Burgerpants glared at Mettaton, his tail twitching and his ears flattened against his head. There were a lot of questions floating through his head— how did Mettaton sniff out these old secrets of his? And why the hell did Mettaton come to his apartment after years of radio silence to bully him about it? 

Burgerpants scooped up his beer can and took a drink, stalling for a little time. Usually, he had some smart-aleck response for just about anything. Unfortunately, Mettaton clearly wasn’t planning on waiting patiently for an answer. He uncrossed his legs and sat all the way forward, his expression smug. 

“Are you mad?” 

“Of course I’m fucking mad, jackass.”

Mettaton’s eyes gleamed with sadistic excitement. “How mad are you?” 

“What are you talking about?” snapped Burgerpants, slamming his can down on the table as his temper flared. “You show up at my place in the middle of the night for the first time in years, literal years, totally uninvited; you order me around like I’m your fucking slave all over again, and then! Hah! You have the… the audacity to sit here and—”

“You wanna teach me a lesson?”

Burgerpants sighed impatiently, grinding his teeth in frustration. “What the hell does that even mean?” 

“Come fuck me, darling.” 

There was a long pause. Burgerpants gawked at Mettaton, his astonishment taking abrupt precedence over his rage. 

“Wh… what?”

Mettaton sat up straight on the loveseat, folding his hands daintily in his lap with an air of strange triumph. He looked at Burgerpants through lidded eyes, passed his gray tongue over his top lip; and when he spoke again, his tone was completely blasé.

“You can fuck me if you’d like,” he declared, lifting a hand to idly inspect his fingernails, “These tights I have on are a little small...”

God fucking dammit. 

Burgerpants closed his eyes and took a deep breath, internally cursing both his regrettably predictable boner and the stocking-clad asshole who gave it to him. He knew he was supposed to be angry with Mettaton, and that he certainly was, but the anger was diluted with long-standing lust, secret admiration, and a whole lot of unresolved hurt hidden behind bitter hatred. This bewildering phenomenon wasn’t anything new. Mettaton had evoked in Burgerpants a slew of very strong, conflicting feelings for as long as Burgerpants could remember. That deep-rooted emotional cocktail just amplified Burgerpants’ now fervent desire to fuck this son of a bitch raw; extra spice in an already palatable dish. 

God, and those pantyhose. His erection strained so hard it hurt, pressing uncomfortably through his boxers against the metal zipper of his jeans. 

“...Too tight, huh?” He couldn’t have stopped the words from leaving his mouth if he’d tried; so good thing he wasn’t trying. 

Mettaton returned his full attention to Burgerpants at once, his face twisting into a salacious sneer. 

Ohhh, yeah,” he breathed, slouching down in his seat and pulling his skirt up until it bunched at the hip. “God, it really feels like they’re on the verge of just... ripping apart…” 

He opened his legs properly this time, bringing his knees to his chest and spreading them wide in an impressive show of flexibility. The movement stretched his tights past their limit and they tore spectacularly, inspiring perhaps the fakest gasp and “oh no” uttered in history. 

Burgerpants heaved a great sigh of resignation, downed the rest of his beer, and got to his feet. 

“Stay here. Keep the tights on.” 

Mettaton clacked his high heels together dramatically, and then with both legs parallel he bent one at the knee while keeping the other extended. “Where ya goin’, gorgeous?” 

“Lube,” Burgerpants tossed over his shoulder as he disappeared into his bedroom. He found the bottle in question in his nightstand and returned to Mettaton, who was now sitting up on the loveseat with his legs crooked beside him like a sensual Greek goddess lounging on an Olympian settee. 

“How do you want me?” asked Mettaton coquettishly, biting down on his index fingernail. 

“Turn around and bend over,” Burgerpants suggested as he pulled his shirt off over his head. His soul thudded in his chest. He was having a very difficult time pretending to be nonplussed by the situation, but he didn’t want to give away how incredibly excited he was— Mettaton would be far too pleased to know that. As he fumbled with his belt buckle, quietly cursing under his breath, Mettaton climbed up on his knees, turning himself until he faced away, and draped his upper body over the backrest of the loveseat per Burgerpants’ request. He shoved his hips toward Burgerpants, which only ripped his stockings even more; a few seconds later, Burgerpants’ claws became a contributing factor, shredding the material until it hung off of Mettaton’s thighs in tatters.

 “Ah! Gimme your cock, hot stuff, come on—”

“Jesus, keep it down,” Burgerpants implored as he sliced Mettaton’s frilly underwear off with a claw, “My walls are kinda thin.” 

“Mmm, you wanna gag me then?” 

“Not particularly,” muttered Burgerpants as he applied a generous amount of lubricant, “Unless you start pissing me off.” 

Mettaton chuckled. “Oh, you can count on it.” 

His boss, Burgerpants discovered as he began to ease his cock into Mettaton, was warm and deliciously tight. He struggled to believe that this was actually happening— this was it, he was finally fucking the ass of his dreams— but if he was honest with himself, consummating this relationship had been so long in the making that he wasn’t as overwhelmed as he thought he might be. 

“Oh— oh, Burgy,” Mettaton moaned passionately as Burgerpants sank a little deeper into him, “Mmmm… you’ve always been my favorite, darling...”

“Your favorite employee?” grunted Burgerpants. “Are you fucking serious?” 

“Of course not, dumbass. My favorite student.” Mettaton pushed back against Burgerpants with incredible impatience. “Fuck me hard.” 

Burgerpants rolled his eyes and continued his forward journey until Mettaton’s ass was pressed to his groin. 

“Ahh, yeah. The good old days.” Burgerpants drew back and snapped his hips, relishing Mettaton’s cry of surprise. He began punctuating his words with those same hard thrusts. “It was so much fun—” thrust, “...rehearsing with you—” thrust, “...and then coming to work—” thrust, “...and getting treated like shit.” 

He emphasized the last word with a significantly harder thrust, jolting Mettaton’s whole body forward. “I never understood that.” 

Faster," Mettaton snarled, and Burgerpants happily obliged. He held Mettaton steady by the hips and picked up the pace until the sounds of rhythmic clapping and Mettaton’s colorful assortment of moans and expletives filled the room. 

“Isn’t it obvious, darling? You were so talented in our lessons,” gasped Mettaton unexpectedly, “and so terrible at food service—”

Don’t give me that.” Burgerpants stopped thrusting in annoyance. “You treating me like shit was not my fault and you know it.” 

“Alright, alright,” Mettaton grouched. “Shut up and plow me already.” 

“You know what?” Burgerpants pulled out and plopped himself down on the loveseat, opening his legs to make room for Mettaton in his lap. “You do the work, dickhead.” 

Mettaton silently obeyed and moved to straddle Burgerpants. Burgerpants took his cock in hand and poked around blindly until he found Mettaton’s entrance again, then pressed himself a little of the way in. Mettaton clung to Burgerpants’ shoulders and made a big show of sinking downwards with a long, low moan. 

Seeing Mettaton— Mettaton in particular— sitting on his dick like that began to really get Burgerpants excited. He grabbed Mettaton’s thick silicone thighs, ran his claws lightly all the way up the length of them, then down, then up again and around so he could squeeze the robot’s ass. Mettaton rode him slowly at first, and then established a good rhythm and sped up. 

“Ahh, yeah… ahh, yeah…” Mettaton’s beautiful head tipped backwards as he bounced on Burgerpants’ lap. “How does my ass feel? Is this a dream come true, darling? Mmm, of course it is, of course it is…”

Burgerpants gripped Mettaton’s waist, assisting him in the downward motion by pulling him onto his cock, using the robot’s sleek, synthetic body like an oversized fleshlight. This really was a dream come true, as much as he hated to admit it. 

After a minute or so of this, Mettaton ceased his bouncing and leaned down over Burgerpants to tuck his face into his employee’s soft shoulder. He rolled his hips with Burgerpants’ cock lodged deep inside him. Burgerpants noted that Mettaton still smelled like Mettaton— on-brand cologne, nauseatingly sweet and applied in excess, that used to linger on Burgerpants’ fur hours after he’d left work for the day, overpowering even the stench of fry oil and grease stuck to his uniform.  

“Look at you, sweetheart…” murmured Mettaton. Burgerpants could feel Mettaton’s hot, wet breath on his skin, even through his thick fur. “Finally brave enough to take me up on my advances. I wasn’t kidding when I said you’ve changed a lot.”

Before Burgerpants could inquire as to what this meant, Mettaton leaned back, holding himself in position by reaching behind him and gripping his employee’s skinny thighs. “Mmm… jack me off, Burgy.”

Burgerpants wrapped a hand around Mettaton’s shaft and did what he was told. Mettaton gasped, his ensuing exhale shuddering and broken in his bliss, and began to ride Burgerpants again with newfound verve. He pushed his cock upwards in Burgerpants’ fist, strangled sounds of ecstasy escaping his throat. Each time his ass slammed onto Burgerpants’ lap, it gave Burgerpants a new jolt of pleasure in his groin that made his jaw drop and hang open in awe. 

“Y-Your confidence… it’s a revelation,” Mettaton managed between sharp, whiny breaths, “No wonder… you’re finally… g-getting work... my little rising star...” 

Instantly irritable, Burgerpants’ jaw snapped closed at once. That moniker Mettaton gave him years ago, "rising star", was a sore spot for him. Hearing Mettaton say it again really hit a nerve, more so than he expected given the fact he hadn't associated with Mettaton in so long. 

He removed his hand from Mettaton’s dick and gripped the robot's fluffy thighs instead, kneading the false flesh with his claws as a warning. Mettaton winced and choked out a moan. Of course he likes that, the sick fuck. 

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” Mettaton protested.

"I don't like your nicknames." 

"And yet, you still go by 'Burgerpants?'"

Burgerpants rolled his hips under Mettaton, crushing his dick deep inside— a friendly little reminder of the task at hand that Mettaton was currently distracting from. “You’re trying to make me mad again.” 

“Oh, lighten up, gorgeous. I’m not trying to make you mad, you’re getting mad all on your own.” 

Burgerpants may have even believed it too, if it weren’t for Mettaton’s tone of voice: strained of course, due to the dick in his ass, but also completely and utterly dismissive with a touch of Mettaton-brand malice. 

No, android Satan was playing games again. Burgerpants was certain of it. He hadn’t figured out exactly what this particular game entailed— but something was afoot, and he really didn’t like it. 

“You’ve got no reason to be mad at me, do you?” Mettaton bit his lip and grinned, evidently relishing Burgerpants’ uneasiness before continuing. “After all, darling, you have me to thank for your new career—”

And that’s how Mettaton found himself on his back in a matter of seconds, his own wadded-up underwear shoved in his mouth, staring up at a now truly incensed Burgerpants. 

Burgerpants hoisted one of Mettaton’s legs onto his shoulder and shoved his hips forward as hard as he could. Mettaton cried out behind his makeshift gag, his body pretzeled below Burgerpants on the cushions. 

“Let’s get this straight, bitch— I have you to thank for jack shit." Burgerpants fisted Mettaton’s hair and shoved his pretty head back against the loveseat as he fucked him with brute force. “I did it all by myself, because you did what? You screwed me."

Burgerpants was enraged. Mettaton really made him hurt and seemed determined to make him keep hurting, like a deep tissue burn that peels and flakes with excruciating slowness and leaves a ghastly scar attesting to the futility of it healing. He desperately wished he didn’t care what Mettaton said, but that was impossible given his extensive and tumultuous history with his boss, his mentor, his idol.

“You made me wanna fucking die every goddamn fucking day.” The sweet sensation of Mettaton’s tight hole gripping Burgerpants’ cock blended with Burgerpants’ bitter hatred into a nasty sort of excitement, a powerful and sadistic arousal that fueled each savage thrust like coal shoveled into the boiler of a speeding locomotive. “You played with my feelings like the psychopath you are…”

Indeed, Mettaton’s behavior with his employee had been befuddling, to say the least. Burgerpants was obsessed with Mettaton when he first started his job, delighted and eager to impress when Mettaton offered acting lessons after work hours; feelings that were followed closely by bewilderment at how awfully he was treated the moment he clocked in the next day. Bitterness ensued when Mettaton ridiculed him at work, humiliated him, picked on him specifically for no discernible reason. But that wasn't all: Mettaton also loved to flirt with him, tease him, and Burgerpants couldn’t help but be enticed despite his resentment. Who could blame him? Those giant four-fingered hands, that smooth-talking mechanical voice, that screen lighting up like a heart when he was pleased, that magnetic personality, not to mention the popularity and recognition that came along with touting oneself as Mettaton's acting student and employee; it all tantalized Burgerpants to the point of masochistically returning to work every day regardless of how his boss treated him. Then there was the EX body, god, the EX body. It just made everything so, so much better— or, arguably, worse. 

Every so often, there was a glimmer of mutual fondness between the two of them where they’d laugh together, discuss their shared love of theatre, or just get on like aspiring actor and seasoned coach instead of loser employee and nightmare boss. These were the moments that reminded him of why he’d loved Mettaton so much in the first place… 

And then came the biggest mindfuck of them all— when Mettaton inexplicably abandoned him a mere month or so after the Underground was liberated. Burgerpants was putting all of his energy into acting; he worked his ass off in Mettaton’s shows, despite the treatment he got in return, and even got himself cast in a human show at a small theater outside of the city— a production of Twelfth Night. He was so excited for Mettaton to see that show and maybe, just maybe, be proud of his employee for once in his life...

But Mettaton didn’t even have the decency to fire him. He just ignored Burgerpants’ calls, like an absolute coward, and left his quote-on-quote "rising star" to fend for himself while he, the real star, took a several-million-dollar deal for a TV show. After that, Burgerpants really began to mean it when he told people he hated Mettaton so, so much. 

“You left.” You piece of shit. “You promised you were going to make me a star… and then you bullied me, and obliterated my self-esteem... and then you left. I almost gave up acting because of you. So don’t you dare tell me... I owe you a goddamn fucking thing..."  

The pain was all-encompassing now, as powerful as the day he realized Mettaton was never going to call him back. His throat felt as though it was swelling up like he was allergic to Mettaton's presence, forming a blistering lump in his trachea. His eyes began to water, and his vision blurred to the point where Mettaton became a nondescript smudge of silver and black below him that he was thrusting into, fucking ferociously. The masochistic pain-pleasure combination was amazing and awful at the same time— infuriatingly pleasurable— like picking relentlessly at a stubborn scab or scratching a mosquito bite until it bleeds. 

He angrily blinked the tears away and glared down at Mettaton, noting with a surge of vengeful glee how pathetic his boss looked with his legs splayed, with his mascara running down his face, with his pitiful moans muffled by the dirty panties wadded in his mouth. As the sensation in his groin intensified, Burgerpants decided on a whim to fish out Mettaton’s shoddy gag with a claw— he wanted that voice he knew so well, that famously golden voice he loved to hate and hated to love, to bring him to climax. He expected to be urged on with weird kinky shit only someone as perverted as Mettaton could possibly come up with, or perhaps another fucked up nasty thing to piss Burgerpants off more; either was fine, both were fine, because he was really getting close now...

All Mettaton said, though, was Burgerpants’ name. His real name, the name Mettaton hadn’t done him the courtesy of using since the day he was caught stealing Glamburgers behind the restaurant. Over and over again, an enraptured chant interspersed with hoarse cries of “fuck me!” and hiccuping gasps that clearly signaled the robot’s own impending orgasm. It shocked Burgerpants to the core, making him groan and shudder with astonished delight as he ravaged his boss. 

“Fuck me! Fuck me! O-h-h-h-h—!” 

Mettaton shoved a desperate hand between his legs and came, hard and sudden, with his cock in his fist. His body stiffened beneath Burgerpants as ropes of cum spurted from his dick and left a glittering trail like liquid crystal up the length of his stomach to his chest. 

Burgerpants was desperately, painfully close. He wanted to hold on as long as he could, savor the feeling of owning Mettaton’s limp body for just a few moments more; so he eased down to slow, stiff pushes of his hips, grinding his teeth and hissing with pleasure. Brutalizing his boss into orgasm like that excited him more than he cared to admit, and in that moment he couldn’t think of anything more appealing than finishing deep in Mettaton’s ass— 

“Mm, honey… I wanna… choke on your cock…”

Okay, he could think of one thing. 

Moments later, Burgerpants was sitting knees apart on the loveseat and, with Mettaton on all fours beside him sucking him off like it was their last day on Earth, he determined that this had ultimately been the best course of action. 

Mettaton was every bit as skilled at blowjobs as Burgerpants expected him to be. With each bob of his head, he took Burgerpants’ full length down his throat and Burgerpants swore unreservedly, toes curling, his body tensed and shaking from the overwhelming sensation. 

God, he’s blowing me… he’s blowing me, he’s… Mettaton is sucking my dick—

Burgerpants spasmed, crushing his pelvis against Mettaton’s mouth, and the gagging sounds that followed were what finally sent him over the edge. Relief flooded his body, quenching the aching and the burning in his groin, as he finally came in Mettaton’s throat. Mettaton moaned softly and swallowed once, twice, until Burgerpants was fully finished.

The two sat quietly for a while, slumped down beside one another on the loveseat. Burgerpants felt strangely tranquil, all traces of the emotional torture he'd gone through not a minute before completely goneor, perhaps, just hidden behind exhaustion and Burgerpants' staunch unwillingness to address it. He closed his eyes and listened idly to the languorous silence, which, ironically, was not silent at all. The floorboards creaked on their own, the refrigerator hummed in the kitchenette, the long wooden blades of the ceiling fan beat the surrounding air like cake batter. Corrupted silence. 

Eventually, Burgerpants heard Mettaton stir. He opened his eyes and watched as his boss wiggled his shiny skirt down over his hips again, and then peeled his tattered stockings away from his legs with some difficulty. Burgerpants lifted his torso off of the cushion below and yanked his boxers and pants back up  over his legs; although he couldn’t really be bothered with his shirt, it was so late at night anyway, he’d just end up taking it off soon enough—  

“Did you really want to give it up?” 

Burgerpants plopped back down on the loveseat, looking at Mettaton while he zipped up his pants. “Give up what?”

“Theatre.” 

Burgerpants averted his eyes at once. 

The obvious answer to that question was yes. Yes, there was a time when Burgerpants very seriously considered scrapping his acting dreams, and Mettaton had been the reason entirely. Something in Mettaton's voice, though, stopped him from confirming it. He couldn’t quite place what the emotion he was sensing from his boss was. With anyone else, he might have guessed… guilt? But this wasn’t anyone else, this was Mettaton. Burgerpants knew Mettaton was too much of a self-obsessed asshole for that. Mettaton really did deserve to have it rubbed in his face, yeah, you're the guy who ruined my life, and yet...

And yet.

“Nah. I just said it ‘cuz… heat of the moment.”

Burgerpants was immediately annoyed with himself. Why was he considering Mettaton’s feelings, or even entertaining the notion that Mettaton had any? It’s not like Mettaton had ever considered Burgerpants’ feelings for a single second. He wasn’t about to just let Mettaton off the hook like that— if Mettaton wanted to talk about it, then they were going to god damn talk about it. 

“I wish…” Burgerpants searched for his words, his mind still a bit cloudy from sex. “I do kinda wish you’d believed in me a little more. Or whatever.”  

“I always believed in you.” 

A second silence stretched between them again, yawning open like a massive sinkhole. It was a similarly loud silence. Burgerpants could hear a drunk guy down below on the street laughing uproariously, something that was quite common as a background sound for the neighborhood. Noises from outside like that were always there, but usually Burgerpants paid them no mind— now, for some reason, he was focused on it, listening to it, like it was the most odd and foreign sound in the world. 

“Why’d you abandon me?” asked Burgerpants, so quietly that his words almost integrated with the ambient noise. “Why’d you fuck me over, boss?” 

A car horn blared outside, and the drunk guy responded with a drawn-out cry of ‘watch where you’re goin’, asshole!’ . All muffled considerably through the windowpane, but audible nonetheless. 

“Oh, darling… you won’t understand.”

“Try me.” 

Mettaton sat still for a few moments, his expression a portrait of extreme focus. Then, he straightened up and turned his body on the loveseat so he was facing Burgerpants, sitting cross-legged, and rested one elbow casually on the backrest. He opened his mouth, paused, closed it again. After a slow, deep breath, he found his words and finally spoke. 

“I really did mean it when I said we have a lot alike, darling.” 

Burgerpants frowned. “That’s funny, ‘cuz I was pretty sure you just said that to piss me off.” 

Mettaton cracked a smile. “Well, partly. But I was still being truthful. I was also telling the truth when I said you were my best student. I loved— I loved coaching you.”

Mettaton hesitated, his eyes going somewhat unfocused, like he was reminiscing on something; sifting through the file cabinet of his memories to make sure everything was perfectly organized for his explanation. 

“You and I, we both feel things very strongly. I could tell from the day we met that you’re like me in this regard. But darling, you did seem to lack... hmm. You’d always... put up a front around me in our lessons. This kind of ‘Nihilistic funny guy’, ‘teenage angst’ thing—”

“That’s literally got nothing to do with anything.”

Mettaton shot Burgerpants a look. “Can you just listen and try not to be a dipshit for five seconds of your life?”

"Okay, fuck.”

Mettaton cleared his throat pointedly and continued. “I thought at the time that if I… well, to be frank, if I picked on you a little bit, you might actually, you know. Do something— no, shut up, I’m not finished.”

Burgerpants closed his mouth and held up his hands in passive-aggressive innocence. 

“None of it worked. You just got worse at your job and gave me a lot of grief. I tried to make you angry, I tried to embarrass you… I tried to get you in bed, for god’s sake, but you kept giving me back more of the same.”

“Okay…” Burgerpants laughed in a profoundly unamused sort of way. “So what you’re telling me is that you bullied me because… you wanted to see my emotions? Because that’s some Hannibal Lector shit if I’ve ever—”

“I wanted you to stand up to me.” Mettaton pinched the bridge of his sharp nose in frustration. “Really get angry. Quit your job, maybe, take me up on my sexual advances and hatefuck me into oblivion. Something drastic, something with real emotion— because acting requires more than just pretending, sweetheart, don’t you get it? You need to show everyone your heart.”

Burgerpants fell silent on his own volition this time, taken aback by the passion in Mettaton’s voice just then— bordering on agony. Mettaton bowed his head, his thick, soft forelock casting a deep shadow across his silver face and eclipsing his eyes. 

“The night I let you go…” 

Mettaton paused for what felt like a lifetime. 

“I was with Bratty and Catty that day. You came up in the conversation. They told me things about you— you know those girls, they’re like Sherlock and fucking Watson. The rectangle kit... the things you’d said about my work… how I inspired your love of theatre in the first place. I suppose I never realized…” 

Mettaton trailed off. Burgerpants looked away, staring down at the dark oak floorboards under his feet. 

“...I never realized how big of a fan you were of me. I always just assumed you found me insufferable, but now it made sense. Of course you’d put up a front for me. You were a teenager, taking acting lessons from your idol. And now your idol’s been treating you like trash, and you had no idea of my motive behind it other than… well, I don’t know. I don’t know what you thought.”

Burgerpants briefly considered attempting to provide a response, but that was a short-lived deliberation. When it had fully dawned on him that Mettaton abandoned him, he’d thought Mettaton hated him, maybe even built him up just to watch him fail for some sick entertainment— but Burgerpants couldn’t bring himself to say that aloud. He didn’t really know what to think about Mettaton now. This was a side of his boss that he’d never seen before. He didn’t really want to say that out loud, either. 

“I knew you could never succeed in show business if I stayed. So that’s why I fucked you over.” 

Burgerpants turned to look at his boss. Mettaton pushed his hair out of his face, threading the strands between his fingers, and in the moments before it flopped back into place Burgerpants could see tears sparkling in his heavy glass eyes. 

Mettaton let out a curt sigh and, when he raised his head, there wasn’t any trace of sadness; just his classic resting bitch face. “Don’t get me wrong, you’ve always been a meathead. But you were a meathead I believed could really go places— and I knew it was the right decision to cut ties when I saw your Twelfth Night—

“You… you went to that?”

“Malvolio was the perfect character for you, darling. Grouchy, pathetic, annoying—” 

“Oh, thanks,” Burgerpants snarked, though his tone was not nearly as dry as it normally would be— in fact, his ensuing eye roll even came with a small smile. Mettaton’s lips twisted into a smirk as well, just for a moment, before dropping away again. 

“He’s basically a caricature of a wet blanket… but you took it in a different direction. You made it clear that he wasn’t just unpleasant— he was in love, he was frustrated and scorned, he desperately wanted to please… and those last few lines of yours, we could all see that he felt… betrayed. And defeated.” 

Mettaton’s eyes were soft, which was a bit odd to see on such a severe face. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper. 

“You really showed everyone your heart.” 

Burgerpants stared at Mettaton for a long time. Mettaton gazed back, his face gentler than Burgerpants had ever seen it— eyes wide, brow lifted, lips slightly apart. Burgerpants didn’t quite know what to make of any of this, as his practical mind was now in direct contradiction with how Mettaton was making him feel. 

He didn’t forgive Mettaton, he knew that for a fact. He doubted he ever would. He and Mettaton always seemed to be on different fields, playing different ball games, and Burgerpants never felt he could truly just talk or be himself with Mettaton. But now, Burgerpants couldn’t deny there was some sort of difference, a tiny shift in the foundations of their relationship; a single brick pulled from an infallible wall, leaving a gap that— potentially— could be spoken through...

Mettaton laughed softly, clearly a little embarrassed, and looked away. “It’s late. I should go… congrats on the movie, sweetheart. And the Wheatie-Os.” 

He leaned down and pulled his high heels back onto his feet one at a time, and then wadded up his shredded panties and torn stockings. “Here, you can keep these.” 

Burgerpants caught the tossed undergarments out of the air. “I mean… okay? I’m just gonna throw them away—”

"Ha. No, you’re not.”

Burgerpants sighed and tucked the wad into his pants pocket.

“How did you find out about...that...anyway?” he inquired, tiptoeing delicately around having to provide added description or context. 

“Your stocking fetish?” clarified Mettaton with a dazzling grin. Burgerpants grimaced. “You can thank Catty for that, too. Something about a house party… Jell-O shots… digging through her laundry—”

“Aw, fuck.” Burgerpants screwed up his face, mortified. Of course she’d tell Mettaton that story. She liked to see him suffer almost as much as the robot himself did. 

Once Mettaton had collected all of his belongings, Burgerpants walked him to the door to see him out. It was ridiculously late at night at this point, and Burgerpants suspected he was going to have a hard time getting up for work tomorrow— but he would nonetheless, because he was a proper actor now with a real career. Mettaton was right, Burgerpants had changed a lot. But maybe, just maybe, Burgerpants wasn’t the only one. 

“Hey…” Mettaton paused in the doorway, half-turning his head back in Burgerpants’ direction. “Let’s do something together sometime.”

“You mean, like… bang?” 

No, idiot. Well… alright, fine, but that’s not what I meant.” Mettaton turned properly to face him. “Let’s work together. You and me. I’ve been talking to my producer about a gig to follow the Mettaton Show for this summer. We’ve got some good banter, we could make it a talk show.” 

Burgerpants momentarily forgot how to breathe. “T-this… this is for primetime television?”

Mettaton gave Burgerpants a pat on the shoulder. “We could call it… the Late Late Show with Mettaton and Burgerpants. Or something. I’ll be in touch.”

And just like that, with a wink and a grin, Mettaton swept off down the hallway. Burgerpants listened to the sound of Mettaton’s heels echoing on the floor, the sound getting quieter and quieter with each step.

“Hey, boss,” Burgerpants called out once he regained his ability to speak. The clicking noise stopped. “How about the Late Late Show with Burgerpants and Mettaton?” 

Mettaton’s laugh floated back to him from the far end of the hallway. 

“In your dreams, kid…”