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After twenty-four hours with his recently acquired television, Mettaton had seen enough scantily clad bodies to put an anatomy textbook to shame. Nothing explicit (boo), but his imagination generously filled in the blanks whenever fictional couples embraced while the screen faded to black. And he concocted countless spicy scenarios for his own entertainment before bedtime.
After a week straight of watching TV, Mettaton fell asleep with it on and had the wildest dream. Not only did he possess a corporeal body, but so did his television. Those teens weren’t joking when they called him Tenna, just as Tenna wasn’t joking when he said it wasn’t a dream, but a... Dark World?
The details eluded Mettaton. In his defense, focusing was impossible while the melodramatic, yet charming TV man danced with him before a live studio audience. Something about showing off his new figure (didn’t explain the hand caressing his lower back—NOT THAT HE WAS COMPLAINING). A shame that he woke up shortly after. And what a treat it was to dip into the Dark World the following night, almost as if he picked up where they left off.
After a month of visiting Tenna’s TV World, Mettaton not only adjusted to his robotic body, but thrived. Maybe he couldn’t be a performer in the Light World (a nobody from Hometown wasn’t anyone worth remembering), but at night? He was a star, basking in applause and chants. Each night, another full house. Each time, he sang and danced and played whatever role Tenna threw at him. Anything for the praise, the attention, the confirmation that he was worthwhile.
But out of everyone present, Mettaton yearned for the host’s approval the most. Something beyond the usual “good job!” or “excellent performance!” remarks. Preferably involving those hands that found a home against his shoulder or back during broadcasts. Tenna was welcome to wander further. God, it was tempting to lean into him, snatch his wrist, and lead his hand exactly where Mettaton needed him. But, you know, the cameras were rolling.
Which was why after another month of fleeting touches and lingering stares and lackluster attempts to pretend his pillow in the Light World was Tenna, Mettaton hyped himself up to take initiative. It was simple, yes? Find him alone after a performance, then wait for him to sit (Mettaton would’ve climbed him like a tree otherwise). Once ready, he’d slowly approach Tenna, brace his shoulders, and lean in to—
“H-hey, whoa, WHOA!”
—apparently scare the shit out of him and botch Mission: Make Out With My Extremely Pathetic And Hot TV.
“I... forgive me, but—” Mettaton recoiled. Had he misread Tenna’s advances? Was there nothing between the lines? “It’s just that... I-I thought—” Was Tenna simply nice to everyone? “Well, you made it seem as if you were waiting for me to make a move.”
Tenna, partially sunk into the couch cushions, froze. “Wait, what?”
The whiplash of emotions scorched his hardware. Mettaton pushed off Tenna’s shoulders (a little harder than necessary, for the dramatics) and towered over him.
“Is this a joke?” Mettaton asked. “Because I’m not laughing, darling.”
“What are you—”
“It’s been how long? A couple of months, give or take? And between the attention you shower upon me in the Dark World and the lewd music videos you cough up in the Light World, you expect me to believe that isn’t a hint? Oh, so what now? We pretend that doesn’t mean anything, that you aren’t interested in reenacting the clips you show me?”
“H-hang on, ya got it all mixed up.”
“Says the one who’s giving me mixed signals?” Scoffing (more at himself than at Tenna), he folded his arms. “Unbelievable. Of course this was too good to be true. I shouldn’t have—”
“Hey! PAUSE A DAMN MINUTE!” Tenna straightened his posture, albeit at half his full height. “L-lemme explain before ya call it quits, yeah? At least owe ya THAT.” He sighed and fussed with his tie knot. “Because it’s not like I don’t WANNA, but... h-ha, there’s, uh... A PROCESS to all that in this neck of the woods, so to speak.”
Mettaton raised an eyebrow. “What, like some ‘no premarital sex’ religious bullshit, but for Darkners? Can’t hold hands, but you know what? Go buckwild with the softcore videos! Tch, seems perfectly logical.”
But Tenna, for once, didn’t quip or laugh or say a single word; he gawked at Mettaton, emitting a high-pitched whine.
“Wait.” Mettaton’s jaw dropped. “That was my joke guess. Please tell me you’re joking.”
Well, it would make for a funny story in a year or two. For now, Tenna enlightened Mettaton on an alleged Darkner tradition. Which, to be honest, he trusted as far as he could throw it (and Mettaton hesitated to pick it up to begin with). Maybe it was less of an accepted tradition and more of an effect from living in his former household (definitely explained the spike in salacious content since he accepted Tenna). But regardless, Mettaton listened.
In the Light World, he had only attended a wedding once. Too formal and stuffy for his tastes, though it was gorgeous, nonetheless. Would’ve preferred if the DJ played real music to dance to, but whatever. Mettaton was mostly there for the ghost food. Still, it was a big deal for the wedded couple. And he liked to think if two individuals made a grandiose display in declaring their devotion, then it wasn’t just for show—it had to mean something.
According to Tenna, the Dark World (or his, anyways) was similar, albeit with a twist. If there was anyone he deemed worthy of being his co-host, it mimicked courtship in the Light World. Apparently, there had been someone previously, but... well, Tenna was flying solo now with his programs, so that explained his caution. And he did want to share that with Mettaton. Instead of romantic dinners and long walks on the beach, he played him music videos and welcomed Mettaton onto his show as a guest performer.
Until Tenna propositioned him about the whole co-host thing (which he swore he wanted to, but why rush things?), they needed to keep interactions professional, needed to hold out until their official pilot episode concluded.
Mettaton blinked. Slowly. “For the record? This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“HEY! I don’t make THE RULES!”
“But you are following them, darling. Crossing every T and dotting your Is quite nicely.” He leaned forward, mostly to watch Tenna cower. “You must understand by now that I don’t care for rules.”
“I’m aware.”
“But I suppose I can humor you, if it means you do, in fact, wish for something more than—” Mettaton stood upright and waved dismissively. “—whatever pleasantries we’ve been exchanging.”
“Wait, seriously?!” Tenna sprung back to maximum size. “Ya MEAN IT?!”
Oh my. That banished Mettaton’s doubts regarding Tenna’s advances. And it sure was tempting to push his buttons and discover where his breaking point was (if it existed), simply to witness him groveling. Besides, if Mettaton was playing along with this asinine tradition, he intended to craft his own fun.
“Under one condition,” he said.
“Done and DONE!”
Mettaton smirked. “I didn’t even tell you what it was.”
“Doesn’t matter! Whatever ya have in mind? You GOT IT!”
“Perfect. I’m holding you to that, darling.”
Because if Tenna was dead set on winning him over? On eventually dubbing Mettaton his co-host? And also refusing to give him so much as a kiss until the credits rolled for their first proper show together? Then so be it. The second Mettaton returned to the Light World, he enabled the television’s parental locks.
No more saucy music videos. No more swearing. No more cigarettes between commercial breaks. No stray touches or suggestive remarks or anything that wouldn’t fly under a household full of kids. Oh no, it didn’t matter if it wasn’t the real deal; if Tenna was intent on waiting, they were going to fucking wait.
And boy oh boy, was it a treat seeing him squirm.
After a day (not even; it was barely twenty-four hours), Tenna scrambled to replace each channel’s lineup. Of course the crew and cast were outraged by the breach in their contracts. Of course Mettaton watched from afar, delighted by Tenna’s attempts to explain why the late-night programs needed to be suited for all audiences.
After a week, Mettaton took to the stage for a rather tame performance. No dancing or revealing outfits or suggestive lyrics. And when he spotted Tenna backstage, riveted by his performance... which involved literally nothing, except clutching a standing microphone... Mettaton caressed the stand, lips brushing the satin chrome finish—that night and every damn night going forward.
Two weeks later, Mettaton relocated the CRT TV to his bedroom (Maddie and Blooky didn’t mind or watch a fraction of the television he consumed). There, he teased Tenna in the Light World. It started with amateur runway walks along his bed with whatever resided in his closet. Then, Mettaton purchased a fashion magazine, showing off advertisement spreads with shirtless male models and how he needed to save them for “later.” Empty threats, really. It spurred Tenna to have three meltdowns during that night’s talk show (okay, he did feel awful about that and apologized backstage), crying about how he needed to step up his game and somehow torch the print publishing industry (not that, though; that was actually hilarious).
A month after that (and plenty more tests to ensure his parental locks never granted him mercy), Mettaton arrived in the Dark World. Just a normal night. Nothing out of the ordinary... save for the stack of papers shoved into his face.
“Please.” That pathetic whine... oh wow. Such rare form for Tenna. He even knelt on one knee while presenting the contract. “I-I can’t keep this up any longer.”
Mettaton bit the corners of his mouth. “Keep what up, darling?”
Oh yes. Worth it to see him shrink and quake.
“I want—no, scratch that. I NEED you as my co-host. Just you. It can ONLY BE YOU.” His fingers curled into the edges, wrinkling the pages. “A-and I... ugh, C’MON! This is KILLING ME! Ya WIN, alright?! Happy?!” White noise crackled in his face and speakers. “I’ll make every second spent waiting WORTH IT. Whatever ya want? Consider it done. I’m YOURS! Truly! Just... wow, ya really gonna make me beg, huh? What else do I need to do? Kiss your boots? Let ya USE ME AS A THRONE? Fine! I-I’ll do it! Don’t needa ask ME TWICE. Just gotta... get your signature, h-ha! PLEASE!” He scooted closer, struggling to steady his hands. “P-please sign it, Mettaton. I mean it. No more horsing around.”
He couldn’t feign disinterest if he tried. Pouting, Mettaton swiped the contract, flipped through all eighty pages, and scribed his name on twenty agreements to exclusivity rights. Who the hell knew why it was that long? If it meant he could finally pounce Tenna and rock both their worlds? Done and done. And per their contractual agreement, they’d do that in seven business days.
Mettaton struggled to sleep since then. How would events unfold off-air? Would Tenna take the lead? A part of him hoped so, as his own “experience” stemmed from watching erotic videos of corporeal monsters and wishing that was him. He... hadn’t told Tenna about that (not the videos; the fact this was new to him). That was fine, right? Sure, Tenna always claimed he was a natural, but Mettaton doubted that would come naturally to him.
Ugh, now that he was thinking about it (which was silly, because he hadn’t not stopped thinking about any of this), Mettaton wallowed in doubt. Was this moving too quickly? But then what was he to do? Wait forever? Null their contract? No, he was overthinking matters. This wasn’t a one-to-one comparison to Light World unions. But if that was true, then why did page thirty-three of the contract state that co-hosts had to consummate their partnership and—
Okay. Stop. Mettaton slammed his face into a pillow during the eve of their co-host debut. It’ll be fine. Tenna wouldn’t let you make a fool out of yourself. He.... Peeking over his pillow, he gazed at the CRT TV situated in his room, currently playing a family-friendly game show. He’d tell know if you were doing something wrong. Or... something right, too.
Either way, there was no turning back.
The following evening, Mettaton retired to bed early, eager to prep for his late-night show with Tenna. Nothing was amiss in TV World until he reached his dressing room. Awaiting him on his vanity desk was an eclectic bouquet overflowing with pink flowers. Tenna signed the card attached to it (BREAK A LEG! it said). Mettaton stifled a squeal, remembering why he yearned for this ridiculous man to begin with.
He stepped out half an hour later, donning a black suit with pink accents and accessories, namely his stiletto boots, tie, dress shirt buttons, gloves, and belt. Two minutes before showtime, Mettaton spotted Tenna in complementary attire. His three-piece suit was also black, yet his accent color was white, evident in his dress shoes, gloves, jacket lining, cuff links, and waistcoat. A traditional look suited for a well-seasoned man such as Tenna. Quite the contrast to Mettaton, who opted for a modern spin with a cropped jacket and loose pants (because reasons).
But he loved Tenna’s outfit. Truly. All the better to tear it off like wrapping paper.
They filmed their pilot episode in front of a live studio audience for an entire hour, commercial breaks included. The variety show blended their areas of expertise, from Tenna’s crowd work to Mettaton’s performative prowess, across skits and interviews and challenges. The loose script allowed for superb improv and banter. If the crowd’s laughter was any indication (and the production crew’s), then the broadcast was a success. They’d have to check the rating after filming to find out.
But after filming... well, they had other plans.
Mettaton chewed his lip as credits rolled. He had stolen glances of Tenna throughout the broadcast, trying to be subtle. What was he supposed to do? Not appreciate that impeccable tailoring hugging his body? Only a matter of time before he explored with his hands instead of his eyes. Not to mention he noticed Tenna doing the same thing with him (oh, the lack of visible eyes wasn’t fooling him).
The credits ended, as did the music. The audience’s cheers faded to echoes. Even the backstage crew seemingly vanished. Silence thickened on set, save for the slight hum of light bulbs and random electronics.
And it was only them, center stage, along with a couch and anchor’s desk from the final interview.
“Ya did great tonight.”
He shivered at the compliment, at his smooth voice no longer assuming a role for the cameras. “You’re too kind, darling. I was simply following your lead.”
Tenna laughed and sat on the edge of the desk. “H-hey, give yourself some credit. Couldn’t have done it with YOU.”
Hearing that smoldered his hardware. Mettaton stared at his boots in silence, which apparently cued Tenna to keep monologuing.
“Look, I... WOW, didn’t think I’d ever find someone to share a broadcast with again. Not like THIS. And MOST DEFINITELY not with anyone as STUNNING and MAGNIFICENT and TALENTED and MESMERIZING as YOU, Mettaton. A-and I—” His voice warped alongside his screen, like he struggled to maintain a clear signal. Another moment, then it lifted. “I can’t say this is new to me—trust me, I WISH I could—but I also... wouldn’t... WELL, rusty is a STRONG WORD, though I—”
“Tenna.”
He stiffened as Mettaton ambled towards him. Even his antennas straightened.
“You don’t need to bend over backwards to impress me, darling.”
Tenna gripped the lip of the desk. “I mean... I-I WILL, if it’d—”
“And for what it’s worth, I’m just as nervous.”
Understatement of the century.
Lies hissed through his thoughts: of being inadequate, of being a cheap distraction, of making Tenna change his mind about him not only as a co-host, but him in general. That vanished when he leaned in to meet Mettaton’s gaze.
“You? NERVOUS?” His chuckle sputtered, but there was a rich quality to it that brought a skip in Mettaton’s hardware. “Well, ya do a SOLID JOB at convincing me otherwise.”
Mettaton pursed his lips, but a smile emerged.
“Hey,” Tenna continued. “Tonight? Why doncha mix it up, hmm?”
“Forgive me, but... mix up what, exactly?”
“Ya said you followed my lead tonight.” Even without eyes, there was no denying the obvious pass he made over Mettaton’s body. “How about I follow yours now?”
For all he knew, his components short-circuited and burned him alive. What other explanation was there for the spike in temperature?
“I don’t... this is new to me,” he quietly admitted.
“Then take it easy and take it slow. Makes no difference to me.” Tenna positioned his hands behind himself to lean back. “So long as it’s YOU? Ha! Game for anything ya got in store, so consider me ALL YOURS.”
Something different sparked within Mettaton upon hearing that. “You promise?”
“Y-yeah...? Wasn’t just... SAYING THAT for the heck of it. Which—” Grimacing, his speakers warbled and face flickered. “You’re gonna hafta unlock STUFF before we dive in.”
It didn’t click initially, but then, “You’re referring to the parental locks?”
Tenna snapped his fingers. “Precisely! The ONE AND ONLY! Kinda tricky to... y-ya know, DO ANYTHING for mature audiences until ya deal with that. Because I can’t switch it off, or else this conversation wouldn’t be HAPPENING, lemme tell ya!”
“And where exactly are these locks?”
“In here.” He rested a hand on his chest. “Works a bit differently than out in the Light World, I imagine, but should make sense once ya dive in.”
That meant stripping however many layers blocked the way. The mere thought thrummed within Mettaton. It also overrode his logic, because why wait? Why relocate behind closed doors when they could finalize their contract here and now? Besides, the sound stage was empty. Seemed like everyone anticipated what came next in the script, abandoning the premise to give them privacy.
Why not enjoy it?
Mettaton inched closer, the click of heels breaking the silence. Perhaps the desk wasn’t a feather bed, but it brought Tenna level with him as he sat there. The reminder of how much larger he was (at least twice Mettaton’s size on a good day) added fuel to his inner fire. Plus, Tenna only stayed at his maximum height when he was happy. Hopefully he stayed that way: massive and happy.
Gloved hands skimmed over kneecaps. Barely a touch, and Tenna parted his legs. Mettaton’s mouth twitched. Someone was eager, restraints be damned. He averted his shy gaze, torn between elation and embarrassment. Nerves getting the best of him, honestly; having a single audience member evoked more stage fright than a sold-out performance. Regardless, Mettaton slid his hands up each leg, taking his time to appreciate the warmth, the way the fabric puckered, the fact that Tenna did absolutely nothing in response to the advances.
“Can you feel that?” he asked, still avoiding his screen.
Tenna blew out a breath. “It’s muted, but... y-yeah.”
Moistening his lips, Mettaton trailed across the front of his pants, yet never reached the center. “And that?”
“And that.”
Huh. Certainly didn’t look or feel like that was the case. Interesting. Exciting, even.
“How about—” Mettaton stepped into him, dipped in, and pressed his lips against Tenna’s shirt collar. “—that?”
A vast inhale made him shake. So did his grip on the desk. “Yeah.”
He couldn’t help but smirk: at tormenting Tenna, at his surrender of control, at the dozens upon dozens of ideas bubbling forth, thanks to this discovery. So he clutched a shoulder and kissed his collar again (harder that time). The heel of a palm dug into his groin. Blistering heat and trembles greeted him. Tenna, of all people, remained silent.
That turned on Mettaton far more than he initially anticipated.
“Would you like more, darling?” he cooed into his neck.
A shudder came and went. “Ya gonna make me beg again, aren’t ya?”
“I haven’t decided.” Reeling back, Mettaton stroked his tie and gazed up. “I’m taking it slow, per your suggestion.”
One of his antennas (the undamaged one) twitched nonstop. The glow emitted from his face shifted, too—a subtle motion, but noticeable. Paired with the audio interference whenever he spoke, the man was an absolute mess. And they hadn’t even begun. Mettaton smiled. What a perfect incentive to leisurely unwrap this gift.
The tie loosened and dangled from Tenna’s neck. His jacket slid off and plopped onto the floor. Pesky buttons popped free: first, the waistcoat; then, the dress shirt. Tenna did nothing, much to Mettaton’s delight. Once he peeled back an undershirt to reveal a metal chassis, Tenna stirred beneath a wandering hand.
“Under the panel,” he said, choking on the words.
“Are you doing alright, darling?”
If Tenna clutched the desk any tighter, it was bound to snap. “Never felt BETTER.”
“Is that so? Hmm, then perhaps we should leave these locks just the way they—”
“WHAT?!”
Mettaton tossed his head and laughed. “I’m teasing! Relax!”
A growl filled Tenna’s speakers, but it died out when Mettaton crawled into his lap.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” he murmured, nudging Tenna to recline on his forearms. “Keep following my lead, yes?”
“YES.”
Smiling, Mettaton cracked open a panel. Bundles of multicolored wires crowded within. Nothing screamed parental locks at first glance. He bit off a glove and eased a bare hand inside. Navigating tendrils of heat, it eventually struck him. Found it.
Static popped behind his eyes. A digital overlay appeared before him, resembling an advanced settings menu. Mettaton wiggled his digits to navigate the tabs, then gasped.
The parental controls in the Light World were simple; they were either on or off, though had several additional parameters, such as blocks on specific channels and hours. What greeted him here? In the Dark World? To say it was complex was an understatement. This was like visiting a candy store and being told he could have whatever he wanted, as much as he wanted, and no one would stop him from basking in overindulgence.
A grin brightened his face. Threading fingers deep into those wires, Mettaton curled and tugged to fine-tune the settings. Tenna flinched, gasped, and let out a luscious groan. Mettaton did the same. Tough to avoid when someone was given permission to have a boner.
“And now?” Mettaton asked, inches from his mouth. “Did you feel that?”
Tenna struggled to breathe, never mind answer. “Y-yes.”
He tugged another wire, increasing sensitivity by fifty percent. “And that?”
“Yes,” he said, despite shuddering.
“What about—” Mettaton tilted his hips into Tenna’s, coiling a wire around a digit until sensitivity reached a hundred percent. “—now?”
Glitched static bombarded Tenna’s screen. A sound burst out, blending a moan with a yelp. Eventually, his face returned.
“YES,” he whined.
“Good boy,” Mettaton said. “Keep that up, and maybe I’ll allow you to feel more.”
If Tenna had fashioned retorts, each dissolving on his lips as Mettaton kissed him. Pleasant chills prickled his wires. A soft groan escaped him, too. No more daydreaming about this, about waiting for it. Not when he drowned in his mouth, in every nibble begging him to stay close and sink deeper.
Mettaton smirked. His fingers twitched. Wires pulled taut. Tenna moaned out a curse (ah, excellent; the coarse language filter was disabled), biting Mettaton’s lower lip when it strayed half an inch. That plus the bulge rubbing between his thighs, Mettaton didn’t need to ask Tenna how he was feeling.
And he savored the attention, wrapping an arm around his neck to draw him closer, to suffocate from Tenna’s kisses. The friction (from their lips and their hips) clouded his mind, but if it felt good, what difference did it make? When good teetered into insufficient, Mettaton huffed and withdrew.
Static flashed across Tenna’s face, as did his fangs. He calmed down, however, once Mettaton stood and latched onto his belt. The buckle loosened after several attempts (at least his fumbling brought a noticeable throb in Tenna). So did the rest of his pants. One last tug freed him, completely at Mettaton’s disposal.
He perched his forehead against Tenna’s screen, where TV fuzz tickled him. Breathe, he reminded himself. If he configured the settings correctly, then Tenna was allowed to be aroused, to feel everything twice as much. Paired with other physical restraints (no touching, no movements to assist Mettaton, and definitely no orgasms), this meant they could actually take their time.
Tenna did say he was game for anything, so long as it was with him.
His gloved hand brushed the length of his cock. A combination of robotic components and fleshy patches resided there. All swollen, all remarkably hot to the touch. He relished the sporadic swells as he wrapped around him, or tried to. One hand wasn’t going to cut it, but he glided over every inch, testing the limits of the enabled locks.
Shallow, distorted breaths sounded between them. Mettaton paid attention to the quakes in his body, then repeated motions to reproduce those reactions. What started as something curious and hesitant evolved into a firm grip paired with rapid strokes. Tenna labored to stay upright, claws scraping the desk. A curse peaked in his speakers, followed by ear-splitting feedback. Still rock hard, still unable to obtain any satisfaction.
Excellent.
Mettaton released him and walked backwards—just out of reach. “So far, so good, darling?”
“SERIOUSLY?” Tenna spat out, yet smirked. “Ya need to FUCKING ASK?”
He answered with a wink while undoing his own belt (that shut him up). And Mettaton did pick loose pants for a reason. Easier for them to plummet to the floor and kick them aside. He wore nothing but his boots underneath. Considering Tenna blared a test card for a solid fifteen seconds, Mettaton counted that as a success.
Swallowing his remaining nerves, he stood tall and uttered, “Sit back.”
Tenna’s face flashed back. “What?”
“I said—” Mettaton extended his arms to shove those shoulders. “—sit back.”
No reason to repeat himself a third time; Tenna pressed flush against the desk. Despite his efforts, Mettaton shook alongside Tenna while climbing on top. Just... you know, the anticipation of it all. The fact this was really happening. And also how Tenna substantially dwarfed him. That should’ve given Mettaton pause. Reconsider the logistics and viability of this. Instead, it ignited a wild sensation, pooling liquid heat in Mettaton’s core until all that mattered was mounting Tenna and turning himself into a sentient fleshlight.
Between the slim outlets and buttons, there was enough space to welcome his cock. A bit of synthetic flesh, also lined in circuits to enhance the experience, so to speak. Mettaton angled his hips and descended... and stopped to quiver and whimper. Fuck, barely a nudge drove him insane. At least the feeling was mutual; Tenna clawed the desk as he stayed motionless, thanks to the customized locks. Hopefully he enjoyed the view while TV snow blurred his screen.
Mettaton didn’t bother to ask, anyways.
Resting hands on Tenna’s thighs, he leaned back and sank down. Slow to start, to adjust accordingly. He winced whenever a throb emerged, straining to drive further (and fuck, he wanted that too). Maybe there was a setting to temporarily downsize Tenna, but Mettaton refused to tap out. Not when he was halfway there.
Patience paid off, though. It usually did. Once he accelerated the motions, nothing but bliss embraced him.
The residual anxiety melted elsewhere. Raw hunger fueled him, overriding inexperience to do as he desired. That meant straddling Tenna and stroking him with something superior to a hand. From how his audio output popped, offering the occasional moan or expletive, Mettaton took that as a good sign. Tenna would’ve said otherwise if it wasn’t to his liking, correct? And Mettaton certainly liked watching Tenna quake below—unable to do a damn thing (not even get off) but watch, as well—while he pleased himself.
The moment came to a halt, thanks to a sharp jolt. Mettaton hissed and froze. What the fuck? Shifting his hips, the sensation returned, albeit less intense. In its wake, he tasted something lavish, something intoxicating. Even if it was laced in agony, he risked it for an extra bite. So Mettaton rocked again, shuddered, and lolled his head to flood the sound stage with cries not safe for any broadcast.
“Are ya—” Tenna hissed, as if he too experienced the shocks. “You okay?”
“Oh yes,” he purred, making a show of licking his lips.
Just as he made a scene of ripping his dress shirt open, unfazed by the buttons flying off, and revealing his SOUL tank, which Tenna penetrated and bumped against a pulsing SOUL.
“I—” Mettaton strained to force himself down until their hips met. “—am excellent.”
He didn’t need to move; the occasional throb nudged Mettaton’s SOUL, akin to a thrust. Each time, electricity flashed inside and caressed Tenna, always coaxing another whine, another swell, another reason to stay still and watch him suffer. Absolutely worth the twinges of pain. Maybe it was possible to get off like that.
“I bet,” he struggled to say, his vocals skipping, “that your last co-host didn’t feel like this.”
Whenever Tenna parted his mouth (and when his screen wasn’t distorted), whimpers spilled out. And Mettaton didn’t have to do anything. Simply sit there, show off his cock rubbing his SOUL, and let the electricity stroke the rest.
“Does it—” He slid a hand down his torso and hitched his breath upon reaching exposed outlets. That too felt incredible. Hopefully it drove Tenna mad watching Mettaton masturbate while balls deep in him. “—feel better?”
Heat surged through him: from the constant jolts and from Tenna’s body temperature. A groan vibrated on his lips as he ground into the sensation. Not much. A little wiggle. God, it was rewarding to hear Tenna choke on half-formed words.
“Use your words, darling.” He stroked faster. It seemed his SOUL followed suit, for the arcs of electricity multiplied and sped up. “I know you love to—”
“YES!” Claws carved out canyons in the desk. “FUCKING YES! YA NEED TO ASK?! BECAUSE NO SHIT THIS IS BETTER!”
Several jolts kicked Mettaton in the teeth. Visual sensors glitched. What struck his quaking body started with pain, then rewarded him with utmost decadence. Only then did he belt out moans. So what if his echoes reached the distant corners of the Dark World? He didn’t care about anything except the pleasure overwhelming his hardware and software.
The high tapered off and rendered him dizzy. Mettaton toppled forward, yet braced against Tenna’s chest before he crashed. He blinked as the pixelated tears in his visuals realigned; hopefully he’d stop overheating and function somewhat properly again. Sighing out a curse, Mettaton gazed at his dedicated audience of one.
“That,” he groaned, dipping in for a bruising kiss, “was worth the wait, darling.”
If Tenna whined any louder, the sound barrier would shatter. “R-really?”
“Yes.” He kissed slowly that time. “I hope it is for you, as well.”
“Y-yeah, that—” A chill raced through him. “That SURE WOULD BE NICE. But, uh—” And again. “H-ha! Ya know, kinda difficult when ya can’t—” And again. “Not gonna mention any names, but SOMEONE—” He gritted his teeth and produced the most impatient noise while his face zipped through a dozen channels, revealing suggestive ads or movie clips meant for late-night slots. “—still has me LOCKED UP!”
Mettaton fought back a grin. “You think you’ve earned it, then? Being released from those pesky locks?”
Tenna froze. One antenna twitched. “I mean... maybe? HOPEFULLY? A-ah, you tell me?”
“Hmm.” Sitting up, he trailed bare fingertips along the exposed wires in Tenna’s chest cavity. “That’s a great question, isn’t it? I suppose it depends.”
“On... what?”
“How badly you want them off, darling.” Mettaton tilted his head. “Remember when you begged me to sign your contract?”
His antennas went rigid.
“If we’re to properly finalize it,” he teased, “perhaps you should beg for it—until I believe you.”
Snow marred his screen for a second. “Please.”
Mettaton feigned disinterest, tracing wires one by one.
“Please unlock ‘em. I-I’ll make it up to ya. I PROMISE.”
Several throbs nudged his SOUL. Sparks sputtered within, and Mettaton stifled a whimper.
“You CERTAINLY KNOW how to wind a guy up, then leave him HIGH AND DRY. H-ha, ya got me! Game over! Can ya... please, please, PLEASE do SOMETHING to take this edge off? This is killing me. Maybe literally. I-I dunno, just....”
Mettaton forced a sigh, withdrawing his hand to tap a finger against his pouting lips.
“Seriously? Not gonna budge, huh? Ya gonna sit there and... a-and—” Tenna’s speaker screeched with feedback as he bore fangs. “FUCKING HELL! You think I LIKED having to hold off until NOW to share this with ya? HUH?! I didn’t whip that BULLSHIT CONTRACT outta nowhere, just for FUN! Having to WAIT FOR YA has been more excruciating than every commercial break after a cliffhanger COMBINED! If I had it MY WAY?” Glitched laughter exploded out of him. “FUCK ME, ya wouldn’t be the one making the first move, that’s for DAMN SURE. Woulda been BEGGING YA from the beginning, you fucking KIDDING ME?! Guy like YOU shows up... HA, no shit heads were turning.” Despite the audio interference, his next words flowed without a hitch. “Of course I wanted ya all to myself. Didn’t give a fuck what it’d take, so long as I got your attention.”
Oh, he never grew tired of seeing Tenna lose his mind over the slightest inconveniences.
“In that case—” Mettaton secured his grip on the wires and navigated the settings. “—allow me to reward you for—”
That train of thought vanished when he disabled all parental locks. He blinked, and Tenna bolted upright. Mettaton keeled backwards, testing the integrity and flexibility of joints. His hand, still tangled in wires, yanked back with a fistful of them. Tenna snarled and cursed, but it didn’t hinder his advances. One massive hand darted underneath to seize his waist (because he did not require both hands to accomplish that). That alone summoned a moan.
And he sweetened the air with endless lewd cries while Tenna perched on the edge and guided him over his cock.
Nothing gentle resided in Tenna’s actions—just scratching a figurative itch, uncaring if he bled raw. In lieu of his glitched sensors (thanks to someone pumping furiously into his SOUL tank and slamming into said SOUL), Mettaton relished the moment, knowing he was responsible for rubbing Tenna’s wires threadbare and finally making him snap. What a delicious reward this was for himself, too: being used as a glorified sex toy to please the one who drove him to lust-filled insanity.
The sentiment was extremely mutual, considering Tenna didn’t last much longer. He relished the sight of sparks between his antennas, the sensation of sticky warmth drenching his SOUL, the sound of rapid-fire curses blowing out those speakers, the... okay, the flower blooming from Tenna’s nose wasn’t on Mettaton’s bingo card that year, but alright. All that paired with the overstimulation bestowed him a second taste of ecstasy. As abruptly as it hit him, he came crashing down from that high.
Like, literally. While Tenna grasped Mettaton single-handedly, he clutched the desk with the other—hard enough to, uh... split it. In half. Finally. At least Tenna reeled him in to cushion the fall.
“You okay?”
The flower floated to the splintered desk while Mettaton smooshed against Tenna. “Now that my sensors have stabilized, yes.” He snuggled into him, kissing the frame of his screen. “I’d ask if you were okay, darling, but you were anything but shy just now.”
“That’s, uh... ONE WAY to say it. I... a-ah, it’s BEEN AWHILE, but didn’t wanna mess it up.”
“Well, there was a mess alright, though I’m not complaining.”
“Seriously?”
“Absolutely. Top marks across the board, darling. And I look forward to co-hosting more broadcasts with you.” He smiled at the thought, kissed him, then sank in the delightful warmth pulsing in Tenna’s chassis. “It’ll be nothing short of fun.”
Breathing out a tired laugh, Tenna enveloped him and kissed the top of his head. “That makes TWO OF US, doll.”
What was that? A nickname from Tenna? He nearly squealed and kicked his feet. Nothing of the sort happened. Not when a glaring spotlight struck them, followed by raucous applause (from the audience and backstage).
Mettaton’s jaw dropped. What the fuck...?!
What unfolded was a blur, but all he knew was that they were no longer alone. And also Tenna seemed remarkably calm.
“WOW! Look at that!” He gestured to the panel downstage, revealing a scorecard (A WHAT?!) detailing their, um... recent performance. Which was a new high score, awaiting Mettaton’s initials. “Knew ya’d be A NATURAL. Definitely cleared THAT LAST HIGH SCORE by a—”
“WHAT IS GOING ON?!”
Tenna winced. “Uh... didn’t ya read the contract?”
“YES?!”
“So ya knew about the post-credits segment getting filmed, yeah?”
The mental record scratch in his head somehow didn’t brick his robot brain.
Tenna’s expression faltered. “You... you did read it... RIGHT?”
Okay, so... perhaps he skimmed the last page or two or twenty. Instead of replying, Mettaton flailed an arm to swipe Tenna’s discarded jacket. He burrowed inside of it and screamed.
“H-hey! WHOA!” Curse those stupid sexy large hands cradling him. “I-I figured ya READ IT before signing your life away! Kinda a BIG DEAL. Didn’t realize ya had NO CLUE about—”
“I thought—” Mettaton poked out of the jacket, pouting and glaring. “—we were alone?!”
“Well, TECHNICALLY we were. Everybody was sent elsewhere while we—”
“Oh. Okay.” He let out a massive sigh of relief. “I suppose that’s al—”
“But they DID have live footage from the—”
Never mind. Back to hiding and screaming and dying from the worst embarrassment he ever experienced. It didn’t help when Tenna chuckled. And... okay, maybe it helped when he massaged his back.
“Mettaton,” he purred, his volume low for only him. “Chin up, yeah? Ya hear ‘em out there? Crowd LOVES YA, doll. Can’t get THAT outta a cue card.”
Tenna had a point. The standing ovation, complete with whistles and chants, shook the Dark World’s foundations. Would’ve been nice if it the logistics weren’t tucked away between the fine print, but... ah, whatever. The show had to go on.
He huffed. “You’re lucky that I love you, darling, or else I’d void our contract.”
“A-ah, yeah. Don’t want any of—” A test card claimed Tenna’s face for five seconds. “WHAT?”
“I’m teasing. I won’t void—”
“NO NO NO! Before that! What did ya say?!”
Peeking out from Tenna’s jacket again, Mettaton chuckled, then crawled up to loom over him. “You think I signed those silly papers and agreed to this just because I love TV?” He clutched the outer edges of his monitor head, nuzzled against the fuzzy static, and murmured into his mouth, “I love you more.”
Tenna didn’t reply. Too busy returning every kiss in kind, each one more tender than the last. But that was enough of an answer. So were the six other flowers he sprouted in between kisses. No complaints from the audience; their cheers compelled the co-hosts to keep going, to never pry apart.
And to think that was their pilot episode—the first of many episodes, actually. Mettaton stopped keeping count after season three. He didn’t, however, stop pouncing Tenna the instant credits rolled. Sometimes they made it offstage to a dressing room or prop closet or whatever was closest room with a door. Not always. It didn’t really matter to Mettaton, so long as it was with Tenna. Thankfully for him, Tenna reminded him nightly that he felt the same way.