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It was days like this where you were thankful the coffee shop you worked at had free ice water. The sweltering heat outside wasn’t enough to subdue the mass of customers you served on a daily basis - if anything, the call of icy cold drinks on a hot summer day brought more people in. The influx of customers meant more time manning the drive-through window and less time in the mercy of air conditioning. Luckily, your co-workers had agreed to switch every half an hour or so, if only to keep one of you from dying of heatstroke on the floor. When business slowed down, you used the opportunity to send out texts to other coworkers, frantically trying to find someone to cover your shift. Despite your efforts, it looked like you were stuck here for the rest of the day.
The upside was that your very lax manager was alright with you dicking around on your phone every once in a while. When things were quiet, you sent a snap about how someone asked for “three quarters of a Splenda” in her coffee to your friend and frequent customer, Alphys. She was one of the first few monsters to see the Surface, and the first one you’d ever met. You hit it off almost instantly, bonding over your love for anime and cartoons, and she showed you all the cool magic-powered gadgets monsters had.
Friendship with Alphys was essentially a package deal. Mettaton, one of her best friends, occasionally tagged along with her. It was a matter of time before the two of you ended up crossing paths, and you got along surprisingly well. Well enough that you’d developed a huge fucking boner for him. It was entirely out of your power. How could you not, when he had an ass like that? Not to mention his thighs, his waist, his lips, the way he cocked his head to the side when he asked a question, the way he laughed at your dumb jokes, his protectiveness over his friends… Ahh, shit.
So maybe it was a little more than just a boner.
Regardless, you tried to conceal it when you were around him. After all, who were you kidding? Lots of people liked Mettaton, and you were no different.
You capped the lid on a fresh latte (hot coffee on a day like this??) and called out for the name written on the side of the cup. One of the scattered few people sitting in the lounge area stood up and approached the bar, smiling as he took his drink. He was probably about 40 or so, and he slid his phone back into the Dad Phone Clip on his belt.
“Hot day, isn’t it?” he remarked, taking a sip from his steaming hot ass drink. Even though you sort of hated small talk with customers, it was part of your job to be polite, so you smiled back at him.
“Oh yeah. They say it’s actually gonna get hotter tomorrow, can you believe it?”
The guy grabs a napkin and pulls out a pen from somewhere on his person, and you hope to fucking god this complete stranger is not doing what you think he’s doing.
“I can’t imagine having to suffer through it in jeans and an apron!” he laughs.
He slides you the napkin, and lo and behold, it has his number on it. “How about you come to my place and take them off?”
Ha haaaa, what the fuck?????
You take a tentative step backward, laughing a bit defensively. “Ah, sorry, I have a boyfriend,” you lie. The guy snorts and gives you an incredulous look.
“Sweetheart, I’m a little smarter than boys your age, believe me,” he smiles, still trying to keep the atmosphere of light-hearted small talk. What a scumbag. “You don’t have to lie to me.”
You had heard a lot of stories of people dealing with guys like this, but you’d never dealt with one yourself. Your mind was scrambling for an answer, though it was mostly coming up short. “Really, I do,” you said, struggling to keep the awkward polite smile on your face. This was so unpleasant. “He’s picking me up after my shift ends.” Fuck!!!! Fuck!! Why did you say that?? You knew you couldn’t back up your story if you wanted to. And knowing from other people’s experiences, men like this would want irrefutable proof.
He raised his coffee to you and said, “We’ll see!” before sitting back down at the lounge, this time in a chair that was facing you. Despite the heat, you were praying it would be your turn to huddle in the drive-through area soon.
An hour had passed, and the guy was still sitting there, twiddling his thumbs and playing with his phone, all while shooting glances up at you from the lounge. He’d finished his coffee, and you were praying he didn’t order another.
Okay, okay. Think, (Y/N). You thought to yourself. What is the smartest thing to do in this situation?
An idea came to you. Not necessarily a good idea, but an idea nonetheless. It was a shot in the dark, but you whipped out your phone and scrolled down your contacts list to Mettaton’s name. Your finger hovered for a moment above the call button, and you shook your head at yourself. This was potentially a life or death situation, your dumb gay feelings boner for the sexy sex robot could be set aside for a second. You hit call, turning away from the lounge so nobody could hear you even if they wanted to.
For a moment, you heard the ringing of the phone trill in your ear as your call went through. You walked aimlessly to the other side of the bar, hoping the mediocre service in the coffee shop was good enough. After what felt like an eternity, there was finally an answer.
“I thought I told you I wanted the red outfit for this number! …Yes the second number! …No, no, no, the sequined one, darling. It needs to be flashier!”
“…Mettaton?”
“Oh— yes, sorry, hello! What did you need, hon?”
“Um, hey, are you busy with something? Cause, if you are, I can just leave you alone!”
“I’m a little tied up at the moment, but I can always make time. What’s the problem?”
Ahh, fuck. You feel bad calling him when he’s busy. “It’s not a big deal really, I could always handle it on my own if you need me to.”
“So there is a problem! Tell me what’s the matter, darling. There’s always another rehearsal.”
You sigh. “It’s just- I’m at work and there’s this guy, right…”
“Mhm.” He sounds a little perturbed.
“Well, I gave him his coffee and we were just talking about the weather and stuff, and out of the blue, this guy hits on me.”
“…Is he cute?”
You roll your eyes. “No, no, it’s not like that,” you say, lowering your voice to make absolutely sure Mettaton is the only one who can hear you. “The guy is like, twice my age, and he literally told me to ‘come over to his place’”.
“Yes, the red sequins for the second number. How many times must I say it??”
Rrrggh. “Mettaton..!”
“Yes, yes, sorry, darling, I’m listening, I promise. Did he really say that?”
“Not only that, but he told me to take my fuckin’ clothes off while I was at it.”
“Oh, goodness.” There’s a couple seconds of loud pop music playing on his end, but it stops abruptly after he yells at one of his sound technicians. “Did he leave you alone after that, at least?”
“That’s the problem. I told him I had a boyfriend, and now he’s literally sitting here, waiting for my shift to end. I told him my imaginary fake ass boyfriend would pick me up and now I’m fucked!! I’m such an idiot!!!”
“…I see.”
“Well… what should I do?”
There’s a couple moments of silence on the line.
“Just leave it to me, darling. Stay where you are.”
You breathe a huuuuge sigh of relief, and tentatively go back to making someone’s bubble tea.
When Mettaton had said to “leave it to him” you assumed he’d be sending one of his bodyguards over to rough this dude up. Maybe even the authorities, or Undyne or something. What you were not expecting was for him to show up, in person, to defend your honor.
And yet, here he was, walking through the front door.
You could tell it was Mettaton, the blinding, hot pink being a dead giveaway, but he looked different than from what you had ever seen. He was Mettaton, but he was… pointier? Pointier, and scarier, and not a side of him you’d ever seen before. Then, it hits you. This must be the NEO form he’s always talking about. You didn’t recognize it at first, as he’d always boasted about how huge the pauldrons were on his shoulders in this body. He could barely fit through doors in his EX form, so you figured he took them off just to get in the building. Even while being stalked by some creepy middle-aged dude, the thought of Mettaton getting caught in a doorway made you snort a little.
Mettaton scanned over the lounge area, while walking towards the bar, meeting eyes with you once he’d spotted the offender. The gleaming crosshair on the right side of his face took you by surprise. There were a lot of subtle differences in this body. He had actual sleeves over his arms. And they looked… beefy. If you had hit on someone, and found out this was their boyfriend?? Well, you’d be scared shitless yourself, quite frankly. You met him at the open side of the bar, glancing nervously at the guy in the lounge.
“Hello, gorgeous,” Mettaton said, pulling you in for a hug which you gladly accepted. Ughhhhhhh. These new, buff arms were perfect for hugging. You reminded yourself to focus on the task at hand, which seemed like it would be easy until Mettaton planted a big, fat kiss on your cheek. Oh, god. You’d be feeling these butterflies for weeks.
“Thank you so, so fucking much,” you practically weep into his ear before pulling away from the hug.
He took both of your hands, really putting effort into putting on a show for the guy to see. “It was no trouble at all, snookums,” Mettaton coos, looking down at you with all the fake, pretend love in the world. He snakes an arm around your waist (you’re still a little distracted by his biceps) and pulls you to his side, so you’re both facing the lounge.
“It’s him, right?” Mettaton asks, disguising his tone as if he was still being cutesy with you.
“The guy in the middle,” you confirm. “The Daniel-Craig-George-Clooney-lookin’ motherfucker.”
Mettaton leaves your side and heads towards the man you’d confirmed was the perpetrator. He stands up out of his chair, looking a little bit like he wants to run out building, but he attempts to reason with the seven-foot-tall cyborg who could crush him under the high-heel of his boot if he so pleased. The two of them go back and forth for a bit before Mettaton circles the guy, making him look very much like a field rat between the paws of a hot pink jaguar. As if your imagination had predicted his next move, Mettaton placed his hands on the man’s shoulders, his stiletto nails like the claws of some vicious creature. You don’t think you’d ever been more attracted to him in your life.
You can’t hear what Mettaton is saying, but from the look on the creep’s face after he said it, it was something terrifying. He lifted his right hand off the guy’s shoulder, and the metal shifted and spread into a giant, glowing cannon on the end of his arm. The people littered around the lounge took note and distanced themselves, some looking on in fear. Mettaton glowered, whispering something into the man’s ear (something petrifying, you’re sure), and the man ripped himself from his grip. He cowered, smacking his hand blindly on the table to grab his empty latte cup and scurried out of the door without even a scrap of dignity. You watched as he pulled his Bentley out of the parking lot, nearly wrecking as he turned off onto the main road, never to be seen again. You let out a long, relieving sigh, sinking down onto the nearest barstool.
The tranquility was short-lived, because Mettaton pulled you in for another overwhelming hug, squeezing you until you were about to pop.
“Oh, sweetheart! Are you alright??” he gushes, letting you go. You plop back onto the barstool and he pulls up the stool across from you.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you assure him. “Especially now that he’s gone.” You look up and the concern on Mettaton’s face all but melts you on the inside. Curse you and your gay little heart. “Thank you so much, Mettaton, really. You didn’t have to do this.” Mettaton rolls his eyes and takes your hands into his.
“Of course, I did! It was really the least I could do for you.” Even with the crosshair in place of one of his eyes, he looked at you with so much warmth. He may have acted like a bitch on camera, but it was astounding how sweet of a friend he was.
“I don’t want to keep you too long, I know rehearsal is important,” you say, looking away from him before your heart jumped out of your throat.
“Don’t worry about rehearsal, I gave the crew the rest of the day off. When does your shift end?”
“I still have a few hours left, I have to close today,” you sigh. Mettaton’s thumb is tracing a circle on the back of your hand. You gulp.
“In that case, I’m staying. If that’s alright with you, of course,” he says, waiting for an answer from you, but the gay in your throat makes you unable to respond. “He could always end up coming back, and I’d hate to see what would happen if I weren’t here to help.” As much as you hate to say it, Mettaton has a point. Though the guy didn’t seem too violent, you never know how someone could act after being humiliated in a coffee shop full of people.
After this entire fuckshow was over, you were happy to return to your normal work routine. It was actually kind of fun making a bunch of weird drinks, and instinctively knowing exactly how to make them with the experience you had. Mettaton sat near the window with a Strawberries and Cream frappucino that you practically poured your heart into while you made it. He was just in your view so you could glance up at him after handing someone their order.
The next few hours went by quietly, with no sign of the Bentley, or the guy, or any other general creepiness. When the customers started to thin out, you washed a few tables, glancing up at Mettaton while you did. He seemed quieter than normal. Concerned, you rung out your washcloth and slung it over the edge of your water bucket.
“Mettaton, is everything alright?” you asked gently, wondering if maybe he’d fallen asleep like an untouched computer. After a few seconds of unresponsiveness, he finally looked up at you.
“Oh… yes, darling I’m j-just absolutely peachy!” he said, his voice skipping like a scratched CD. Mettaton was definitely not himself. He must’ve noted the confusion growing on your face, because he attempts to wave you off. His hand falls limply onto the table. “This form j-just uses a whoooole fuckload-d of energy. Eve-e-en more than my EX body.” He puts his hands on the table, standing up with a lot more effort than normal. He makes it half a step before almost collapsing on the ground. You rush to help him, trying to hold him up but you’re too short to prop him up with your shoulder, so you instead push on his chest to get him standing upright. He puts his arms out and steadies himself as if he were walking on ice.
“Mettaton, you need to go home and charge,” you advise him, grabbing your keys out of your pocket. You assume his limo driver brought him here, so you decide to take him home in your car.
“No, you need to go h-home and charge,” he snorts. Even if he drove here, there’s no way he’d be able to get home like this.
“I’m gonna take him home,” you call to your manager behind the bar, who gives you the go-ahead.
You guide Mettaton outside as best you can, and he stumbles around a bit. It’s sorta cute, in a “baby deer learning to walk” kind of way. When you reach your car, you hold the passenger door open for him and he slumps into the seat, having difficulty holding his head up straight.
“Are you gonna make it home?” you ask, worried that you’re gonna have to lug a 300-pound, inoperative robot body into an elevator.
“I’ll be fi-ine as long as I don’t mov-move too much on the way there,” he assures you, staying absolutely still. You fight the urge to snicker at Mettaton’s obvious struggle to hold back his flamboyance.
You choose not to say anything for the rest of the car ride, letting Mettaton conserve as much of his battery as possible. To your surprise, it wasn’t awkward. The radio played quietly and the noise of the street was more like ambience to a peaceful silence between the two of you. While you drove, you thought more about what happened. Mettaton, this huge diva who was supposedly the most self-absorbed person you could ever meet and thought only in his best interest, cancelled his entire day just to make sure you were safe. This so-called conceited, self-centered brat held a gun up to someone’s head for you today. At the next stoplight, you looked over to Mettaton who was gazing perfectly still out of the car window, and knew if you were safe anywhere, it was with him.
When you arrive at the apartment complex, you do your best to help Mettaton out of the car, propping him up even though you can’t quite reach high enough. You manage to stagger your way through the front door and towards the elevators, but not without a few people noticing. A couple bystanders snapped pictures, and you knew you’d be on the cover of some shady tabloid in a few hours, but you couldn’t care less. All you cared about was getting Mettaton home safely.
All the way to the elevator, Mettaton is giggling at himself and being a dizzy idiot. He can barely keep himself up, and it takes all of your strength to keep him from falling face-first into the floor. Luckily you didn’t have to wait very long after pressing the elevator button, and you leaned him against the corner. The wall would do a better job of carrying his weight than you could. The doors closed and you felt his arm weakly fall around your shoulders. You figured he was too busy trying not to topple over to notice much, so you leaned in towards him, sighing serenely at his touch. This was the first time you’d been this close to him, and you sorely hoped it wouldn’t be the last.
You rode up to the top floor, but it seemed to go by in the blink of an eye. Mettaton directs you to his door (which, coincidentally, is the only door on this floor). He fumbles with his key, dropping it, attempting to pick it up, and ramming his head into the wall. You take the key off the ground and unlock the door while Mettaton continues to giggle on the floor. It’s contagious, as you find yourself laughing with him while you help him up.
His apartment is as expected, hot pink on every wall except for the north side of the room, which is a huge window with a fantastic view of the city. He has little heart-shaped string lights hung up around the perimeter of the roof, and with all of the other lights off, the place looks cute, almost romantic.
“Watch-ch your step,” Mettaton snorts, pointing towards the conversation pit vaulted in the floor. He then spins like a ballerina on his tip-toe, deliberately falling backwards onto the couch behind him. You follow suit, walking a little more delicately down the two steps. Mettaton is so damn tall that he takes up the whole couch, so you opt to sit on the shaggy white rug right beside him.
“I know there’s a charger here somewhere…” Mettaton says, drowsily shoving things aside on his coffee table. The charger is plugged into the outlet behind him and sits very obviously on the floor.
“It’s right here,” you say, grabbing it off the floor and showing him the cord.
“Ex-excellent!” He reaches for it, but ends up palming your face instead. Sigh.
“Sit up,” you instruct. His charger port is on the back of his neck. Sometimes when he went out with you he put his hair up in a cute little nugget ponytail, and you found yourself wondering what it felt like to have a charger cord jutting out of the back of your neck. You never did muster the courage to ask.
You hold his hair up despite not really needing to do so, and were pleasantly surprised by how warm and soft he felt. Your mind badly wanted to stray to another reality where your lips were pressed against his skin right now, but you stopped yourself. You stick the end of the charger into his port and he hums happily, falling back onto the couch and smiling.
“You good now?” you ask, not wanting to overstay your welcome.
“Couldn’t be bet-better, darling,” he sighs, looking very content and very relaxed. Owww, your heart. You could practically reach up and pet him he looked so cute. “I’ve only got a couple minutes left until I go into Sleep Mo-ode, but you’re welcome to stay, if you want. It’s a little da-ark out there for driving all the way to your place.” He boops you on the nose. How could you say no to that?
“I don’t know how I’m ever gonna repay you,” you confess, meeting eyes with him. His hand drunkenly pawed in the air before meeting your face, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone.
“You al-already have, sweetheart. You drove me home, you helped me insi-i-ide, you even stayed to make sure I plugged in,” he smiles at you so sweetly that you don’t even know what to do with yourself.
Yet, you find yourself moving closer to him, tilting your head opposite his. You hadn’t even registered what you were doing until your lips met, and it was just as good, no, better than you had imagined. At this distance you could really feel the warmth radiating off of him. He smelled like strawberries, and tasted like them too. The feeling of his plush lips was intoxicating and…
…What the fuck are you doing?
Mortified, you pull your head back, staring at Mettaton like a deer in the headlights. He mirrors your expression.
“Da-arling…” He blinks.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, Mettaton, I don’t know what came over me, I—“
Aaaaand, he’s asleep. UUUUuuugh.
What you just did was very not fucking okay. God, the guy can’t even walk in a straight line, almost headbutts a hole in the wall bending down for a key, and you thought it was sensible to kiss him??? To fucking KISS HIM??? You really ARE an idiot.
As much as you would love to sprint out the door, drive home, and never leave your room again, it’s against your better judgement. You grab a blanket from the back of a nearby loveseat and set up camp for the night. You’ll need to be there when he wakes up so you can apologize as soon as humanly possible.
You awake to the sound of Dr. Phil playing quietly on the TV behind you. It takes you a moment, but you remember where you are — laying on the floor of Mettaton’s apartment. You guess that explains why your back is so stiff, too. You stretch, sitting up and narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with the underside of the coffee table.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Mettaton greets you from the couch, back in his EX body. He’s snuggled up against one of the arms in a big, fluffy duvet he must’ve gotten after he woke up this morning.
“Morning,” you mumble, getting up to move next to him on the couch, which looked so much more inviting than the floor. You were about to sit on the spot right next to him, but suddenly remembered what you did before you fell asleep and decided to sit on the far left instead.
“…Listen, Mettaton, I-“
“Don’t say a word, darling,” Mettaton says, placing a finger to your lips. “You know, if you wanted to kiss me, you could’ve just asked,” he laughs.
“That’s the problem. I didn’t ask. And even if I did, you weren’t in a position to say yes, and I just… I’m sorry, Mettaton.”
“I accept your apology,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “If you want, you can always… rectify it. If you know what I mean.” Your face floods with heat. God, he is just too much for you. You lean in and kiss him again anyways. This time, he reciprocates. His lips close masterfully over yours, and his hand weaves into your hair. A gentle sigh escapes from your throat.
You could definitely get used to this.