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When Mettaton typically woke up from his charging cycle, it was to a bed full of a certain CRT wrapped around his entire body. He’d try and greet the day, but his sleepy lover would keep him there as long as he could, all in a familiar routine he’d adapted to since moving in with Tenna.
This morning, in a rare instance of Tenna having gotten out of bed much earlier than him, broke that cycle, his needy 5-more-minutes self’s presence sorely missed from the moment he powered on.
It was strange, though. Tenna took off work today, he’d made such a point of that; there was, seemingly, no reason why Mettaton shouldn't wake up with his big, beautiful lover slotted behind him. It was making him feel a bit touchy already.
Sitting up and stretching, Mettaton is suddenly aware of a classic, familiar smell. He’d gotten well-acquainted with it with his affinity for theatrics, his overzealous use of bombs and flames in his performances. Burning. He muses about the familiarity of the scent for a moment before realizing he shouldn’t be smelling burning in his own home. He kicks his comforter off with much difficulty in his sudden panic and throws open the door.
A sleep-tossled and robe-adorned Mettaton practically sprints down the hall, feet tap-tapping rapidly against the stairs as he makes his quick descent. The closer he gets to the kitchen, the more commotion he can hear. A hushed voice repeatedly swearing, a noisy clattering of metal-to-metal.
“Tenna? Are you down here? What’s going on?” Mettaton calls, moments before he’d gotten to visibly take in the sight he’d been catastrophizing about. His jaw slackens in shock when he’s finally able to see what had apparently tossed him out of his morning routine.
Tenna, wearing a pink, MTT-brand apron, is fussing with the oven door as smoke leeches out the opening, grumbling angrily at the piece of equipment. He’s covered, head-to-toe, in flour — the kitchen counters appear the same, a thin film of powder covering every inch. Really, the entire kitchen is a mess. It looks like something out of a cartoon, like a brawl had broken out in the middle. Broken eggs resting on the floor and puddles of milk dripping off the counter, the sink stacked up teeteringly high with dirty dishes.
Mettaton’s panic subsides once he knows this is all in a classic case of Tenna’s silliness. He’s holding back laughter the longer Tenna tries to shove the door open. The hinge has been visibly broken, the oven stuck closed.
“Shit, shit, shit! Open, you…!”
Mettaton, trying to steady his face as much as possible, marches across the kitchen, avoiding as many spills along the floor as he can. Wordlessly, he stands right up next to Tenna and turns off the oven. The man startles, antennae perking up in surprise — he hadn’t even noticed he was being watched.
Mettaton crosses his arms. “Tenna, what are you doing?”
Tenna’s expression flies through a series of emotions. He opens his mouth to speak, only managing to make several flustered noises, until his shoulders sink, and his antennae droop appropriately low along with them.
“I was… baking you a cake. But it…” He gestures to the oven, pouting, which Mettaton can see inside, subtly, a cake that’s been burnt to a crisp. “…it didn’t… go very well.”
Mettaton muses at the idea. Bake him a cake? A sweet gesture, though the admission suddenly reminds him what today is, why he’d had that idea to begin with: their one-year anniversary.
“You’re sweet.” He smiles. He’s also still holding back laughter. This isn’t funny to Tenna, though. Laughing would probably only make him feel more humiliated, and there’s really no need for that glooby expression. His hand reaches below Tenna’s casing, tilting his head down to look at him. “What went wrong, sweetheart? The kitchen is… a piece of work. Walk me through it?”
Tenna gives him a dejected step-by-step of his cake baking process. Mettaton, who would like to think himself as somewhat of a baker, even if his crew would kindly steer him away from that label, elects to offer Tenna small suggestions.
“I would’ve subbed the baking powder for biodegradable glitter myself, darling…”
Tenna looks even gloobier by the second.
“Why were you baking me a cake so early in the morning? It’s hardly even 9.” Mettaton glances at the clock, wiping flour off Tenna’s casing as he speaks, on his tip-toes to clean him off as much as he can.
“I wanted to surprise you.” says Tenna. “I didn’t had time this week, so I thought it’d be okay before you woke up, but…”
He gestures to the entire kitchen. He doesn’t need to say another word.
Mettaton hums, putting aside the damp towel when he figures Tenna is sufficiently cleaned. He looks at him with that wobbly frown like a needy pet that wants to keep being stroked, so Mettaton continues, petting the side of his casing before stepping back to think up a plan.
“How’s this: I’ll get changed, you clean the kitchen, and…”
He looks over at the oven, the hinge that had come apart. He already detests the idea of trying to fix it himself, frowning at the very thought. He knows a few things about repairs — his present body had sort of forced his hand in that direction — but he’s very happy to outsource his maintenance needs. Tenna likely wouldn’t know what to do, either. He’d been shoving the thing around like that’d miraculously fix it, after all.
“…I’ll call over Alphys to fix the oven, and we’ll spend the day together?”
Tenna lights up a bit at the suggestion. He tries to step closer to Mettaton, presumably for a hug, but his shoe makes contact with one of the eggshells on the ground. He slips backwards, and, in a manner that Mettaton thinks would be very comedic if accompanied by a slide whistle performed on stage, he falls into a pile on the floor with a startled yell.
He can’t help it. After a moment of shock, Mettaton finally breaks, a cackling laugh bursting from his speakers, tears already welling up in his eyes. Oh, Tenna — what a ridiculous man. He cracks open his eyes amidst laughter to the sight of Tenna pouting up at him. Mettaton leans down and grabs his arm, gingerly helping him back up.
“Tenna!” He chuckles. “Are you okay?”
“I’m— I’m okay.” Tenna replies, once back on his feet, and he finally cracks a smile. Surely, the absurdity of this morning is finally dawning on him. “…Good plan, doll.”
——
After getting himself ready for the day, Mettaton had wandered back down the stairwell to a shining kitchen, and the sight of Tenna, arms covered in suds, elbows-deep in the pile of dishes. How domestic. And tantalizing. His sleeves rolled up, exposing his big, strong arms… Mettaton bites his lip.
Alphys had come over at Mettaton’s request, though unhappy and certainly crabby with him about how early it was (for her), especially once she’d shown him how simple of a fix the oven was. He was able to get her happy by getting her to chat his ear off, though, asking a few leading questions about what she’d been watching lately. She lit up from then, ranting with him animatedly until she’d eventually left to go home, leaving the two of them to themselves.
Coming up behind Tenna, Mettaton coils his arms around his torso, pressing kisses to the back of his shirt. He can feel the way the forwardness of his movements sends a shiver down the CRT’s spine, a small sigh leaving him.
“Don’t feel bad about the cake. You know I can’t eat it anyway,” Mettaton laughs, “I appreciate the thought. You’re very sweet, Tenna.”
Tenna turns himself in Mettaton’s arms, facing him, now, wrapping his arms around him in reciprocation. “I know. I just… thought you deserved something special.”
Mettaton leans up and kisses him as if to clear out any self-deprecating thoughts circling his beloved’s circuits. It’s slow and chaste, but they spend minutes there, lip-to-lip and humming happy, satisfied noises, gentle hands smoothing over fabric of clothing in sweet caresses.
Somewhat of a chaotic start to the morning of their anniversary. And though Mettaton would like to have said the rest of the day would be spent in idyllic, domestic bliss, the reality was certainly different.
Well into noon, Tenna informs Mettaton of another plan he’d made. Tickets to the local theatre for tonight, box seats, to a show Mettaton had loved since he was much younger. When Mettaton hears, he jumps from his perch atop Tenna’s chest off the couch and runs to their room to get ready. (Though not after many, many elated kisses that made Tenna’s screen warm to the touch of his lips).
While sitting at his vanity, brushing his synthetic hair with slow passes of his brush, he could’ve sworn he heard a droning noise below the 90’s pop blasting loudly from his boombox. He didn’t immediately pay it any mind, however. He simply hummed along the lyrics until the noise gradually amplified in volume, and then an unmistakable crash and boom shook the entire house. It’d been raining — and it had amplified itself into a thunderstorm.
It’s early enough. Surely, the storm will pass; at least to a drizzle, something more manageable for a night out.
It doesn’t. Half an hour before they ought to leave, Mettaton peeks out the living room curtains, dolled up and ready to go, Tenna anxiously fidgeting behind him.
A little bit of rain is fine. But, outdated (and he means that lovingly) as Tenna is, a storm is… a no-go. He’s not nearly as waterproofed as Mettaton is. Too much exposure could short circuit him, or make way for corrosion. Nope. He won’t take those chances.
“Oh, well…” Mettaton clicks his tongue in disappointment. He’ll call the theatre, make sure they can reschedule. “That’s too bad.”
He starts taking off his shoes, but Tenna grabs his arm briefly to stop him, grabbing his attention.
“Wait, wait! It’s okay, I’ll, ah…” Tenna whips his head around in desperate search for a solution, his gaze landing on a blanket draped across the couch. “I’ll wrap myself up and make sure not a drop of water gets on me! How about that, doll? We don’t need to cancel our plans!”
Mettaton shakes his head, peering back outside. Thunder loud enough to make Mettaton flinch suddenly booms, lightning striking outside the window like a warning. “Don’t worry about it, darling. I’m not fond of the idea of going out in this, either.”
His poor, beloved shoes, stomped around in all those dirty puddles… he cringes at the idea.
“But…”
“Why don’t we…” Mettaton places his hands on either side of Tenna’s arms. “Put on a movie and pour ourselves some drinks?”
His darling looks crushed. He grabs one of Mettaton’s hands and kisses it, sadly. “But it’s our anniversary, sweetheart…”
He’s sure Tenna had some grandiose visions of how this day would go. He’d probably had it planned in his head for days, if not weeks, knowing how high-strung he could be in situations like these. But…
“It’s okay. I just want to spend the day with you, sweetheart.”
…those words seem to put a pin in Tenna’s anxiety. Even if only temporarily.
Mettaton dresses down, acquiescing to a quiet night in by covering himself up in his robe. Tenna similarly follows, uncharacteristically silent as he takes off that gaudy black suit he’d put on in favor of an outfit more practical for couch-cuddling.
They settle in front of the TV, a romcom Mettaton had been meaning to watch illuminating the room, him and Tenna a tangle of robotic limbs. He ends up with his legs in Tenna’s lap, eventually, with a large hand holding his waist. Initially, Tenna is receptive to his chipper comments, as he typically is; quipping back along with Mettaton about specific scenes or awkward dialogue, pointing out things on his own. But his dialogue dies down to a simmer. If Tenna’s being quiet, something’s amiss.
It’s a sweet, but sometimes frustrating part of his Tenna. The man loves him beyond words, beyond explanation. He treats him like he’d hung the moon and stars, like he’d personally saved his life. To him, maybe that was more a reality. The man he’d only heard downtrodden stories of, that peeked through the cracks of Tenna’s soul in quiet, vulnerable moments, was insecure. Controlling, needy, demanding. Vices he’d never let get in the way of him and Mettaton’s relationship but he’d certainly let him witness, with much later great shame. Perhaps he really did believe he’d taken him out of that space and into a better one. But there was a vice he’d always cling to: his perfectionism.
Mettaton can relate to a need for perfection, but when it comes to Tenna, his simple presence makes his SOUL feel alight. All he needs is a warm hand and a staticky kiss from him and he’s satiated, nowhere near what Tenna must think he needs. Tenna’s tendency for perfection must lie in that insecurity, an inexplicable feeling of inadequacy. He needs to know Mettaton is happy. He needs to make him feel happy, if only to get him to stay. Showerings of gifts and kisses and hand-written notes, out of the overwhelming amount of love he’s had waiting in his wiring, but also the need to give, to be in service of, to be watched and held and loved. He’d given Mettaton everything. A place in his home, a spot in his bed. Himself, in every way.
It’s worrying to know so much about Tenna, and, within the context of such an important milestone of their relationship, recognize Tenna must feel like he’d failed some sort of benchmark with how despondent he’s become.
The movie ends. Mettaton hadn’t paid attention through the latter half, watching absently while absorbed in thought, gaze flickering occasionally towards Tenna.
He doesn’t speak immediately. It’s quiet, especially once the credits have rolled; dark where they’re sat, only a dim glow from the TV, accompanied by the one from Tenna’s screen. The rain outside stays pouring, droplets tapping repetitively against the windows, an occasional rumble of thunder making itself known out the window. Tenna doesn’t seem to notice Mettaton’s attention pointed towards him until he opens his mouth to speak.
“Tenna,” Mettaton murmurs. “What’s wrong?”
He watches Tenna’s expression turn from mild surprise back to forced neutrality. He shifts himself closer towards Mettaton but shakes his head. “Nothing, sweetheart.”
A small, sad smile. It gives away more than he means it to. Mettaton frowns in response.
“You can tell me.” He keeps his voice low. He leans up towards Tenna, wraps his arms around his shoulders to get him to confront him head-on. “You don’t have to withhold any fear, my dear. You know I’ll listen. Tell me what’s wrong?”
Tenna sighs. His shoulders slump, and he tries to turn his screen to the side to avoid eye contact. Mettaton guides his face back to point towards him with a gentle hand.
“You…” Tenna starts, “You deserve a man who can… give you the world. And I obviously don’t know how to do that.”
“Oh.” His SOUL feels like it’s being clenched. Tenna’s words are heavy, sighed too truthfully; he’s given him his honest thoughts, even if clouded by a lapse in judgement.
Tenna clings onto him, physically and emotionally. He’s often told Mettaton how much he’d loathe to let him go; he’s seen his fair share of Tenna’s possessiveness, in that regard. His words are upsetting, even still. Like he’d ever imply there’s another man for Mettaton, or, worse still, a man better for Mettaton. A man better than Tenna.
The thought is, frankly, revolting. He’s disgusted at the very idea of letting a different man into his life the way he’d let in Tenna.
“This, over a cake and some rain?” Mettaton’s voice is more stern than he wants it to be. He can’t level his tone, not if Tenna’s being this ridiculous. “You think you’re unworthy of my affection because of something so trivial, so out of your control? I know what I deserve. You’re more than the world. You’ve given me plenty, darling.”
“But—“
“Stop.” Mettaton presses his finger against Tenna’s lips. Momentarily, he almost melts in affection at how cute Tenna looks with his lips pressed together like that, smushed against his finger. He can’t get so sweet on him now — he’ll give that to him later.
“We’ve been together for a year today. Yes?” He waits for Tenna to catch on to the cue. He nods his head with Mettaton’s finger still on his face. “Do you take me as the type of man who would waste his time with some schmuck for an entire year? Hm?”
He moves his hand from his mouth for Tenna to respond. He, adorably, takes another moment to catch on. “N— No.”
Mettaton can’t help but smile. “Are you a schmuck, Mr. Tenna? Or are you my thoughtful, amazing, gorgeous partner?”
“Um, I— the- the other one.”
“Good.” Mettaton coos. Tenna blushes, little red circles at his cheeks displayed on his screen. “Stop feeling sorry, darling. I only want you. Haven’t I told you ninety-nine times already? I love watching TV.”
Tenna stares at him with that spacey look, mouth agape. Silently, suddenly, a flower blooms at the tip of his nose. Mettaton is shocked at the petals taking up his vision for only a moment before he bursts out laughing. Amidst laughter, eyes closed shut, he feels the press of Tenna’s lips all over his face, his chin. The tickly sensations of static make him laugh harder, squeezing his arms around Tenna’s shoulders tight.
“Oh, doll…!” Tenna’s grinning. He missed that big, toothy grin, even if it's only been hours since he’d last seen it. “You’re my star, my star! Oh, you always know what to say… you’re right! What am I doing, feeling sorry for myself, with such a beautiful man on top of me!?”
The innuendo in his phrasing does not go missed, and, knowing the incorrigible cad, it was probably intentional. Tenna’s sudden turns of his moods can be a bit jarring, but he’ll take ecstatic, energetic Tenna over glooby, mopey Tenna any day.
“Oooh, is this flower for me? You got me flowers, Mr. Tenna?” Mettaton teases, picking the petals off the top of his nose. He holds it in his palm and admires it like it’s his prize. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. How ridiculous can you be? You seem to outclass yourself each time.”
“Ehh, hehe, heh… very.”
He loves that wobbly smile more than anything. The tint of red taking over his entire screen, test pattern peeking through with how flustered he’s become. He casts the flower aside for later preservation. His SOUL feels soothed by seeing his partner so comforted by his words.
“I love you, Tenna. Don’t doubt it. If you do, I’ll find you. Got it?”
A little bit of vague, love-filled threatening never hurt anyone. Tenna nods vehemently. “Oh, I love you too, my darling…!”
Mettaton locks their lips together in a fit of overwhelming affection. He wants to clear out every single negative emotion, to purge and cleanse Tenna of his hurt, no matter how unrealistic a want it may be. He kisses Tenna until he’s breathless, an antenna askew, fanning himself off with his hand once they’ve parted like Mettaton is making him too hot.
“Tenna.” Mettaton breathes, the hot air against his beloved’s lips, peering up into his glowing screen with lidded eyes. “Why haven’t you taken me up to bed yet? It’s our anniversary, remember? Are you feeling shy?”
Watching Tenna’s expression shift gives Mettaton great, unfiltered joy. From confusion to flustered elation, Tenna’s hands go right to Mettaton’s ass, as if to prove how unshy he is. He urges him atop his lap, legs on either side of his, before standing up.
“Never, for this!”
Mettaton giggles the whole way up the stairs, wrapping his legs around his torso. Tenna’s technically wrong. There was a time when he was shy, when his shaky hands could hardly fit into the curve of Mettaton’s hips without an aroused exhale and a glance at his face, silently begging for permission to touch him so intimately. He’s still an obedient man, but his hesitation to take what he wants has been slowly eroded by Mettaton’s insatiable appetite.
He’s playfully thrown onto the bed and being kissed in moments. Tenna’s large frame boxes him in, keeping him pinned. Seeming unthinkingly. But it’s fatally arousing.
Luckily for Mettaton, though, his own frame does not come without its strength. He lets their lips part as he pushes Tenna back onto his knees, draping himself along the sheets, the pillows. He’s sure he’s making quite the pretty picture right now. Hair spread across his silk pillow case, chest heaving.
“Tenna.” He sighs. “Undo my robe. Slowly, darling.”
A gift for Tenna lies unwrapped beneath. He’s been thoroughly excited to finally show it off.
Tenna’s hands find the knot at the front of the robe, pulling at the strings with unsteady hands to undo it. With it open, his big hands smooth beneath the fabric at either side, resting against and caressing the plating of Mettaton’s chest. He’s taken the ‘slowly’ to heart. He spends his time simply feeling, surely catching onto the ‘gift’ Mettaton’s gotten him with the way his hands feel at delicate fabric rather than smooth, sleek metal.
Finally, he pushes the robe open. The fabric falls to either side of Mettaton, and Tenna heaves a loud, aroused sigh. Clung tight to Mettaton’s figure, a set of red lingerie, in Tenna’s iconic shade; sheer and lacey, hardly covering him much at all. Red panties cover the panelling between his thighs, attached to garters that dig into the silicone of his thighs. He can tell Tenna’s gaze first lands there. The slight pinch it gives, the supple curves of his legs tantalizingly disrupted; Tenna’s hand reaches out to touch.
But Mettaton doesn’t want him to touch. Not yet.
He gently shoos Tenna’s hand away before letting the rest of the robe fall away from his arms, perching himself atop the fabric to better seduce the whipped CRT gaping before him. His arms reach up and rest beneath his lead, laying back luxuriously against the pillows.
“What do you think, dear?”
Tenna’s speechless. Oh, Mettaton loves when he’s speechless, when a question gets answered with a series of noises and twitches rather than anything coherent, steam visibly letting off Tenna’s chassis.
“Ah, gah, um—“
Tenna’s pointed gaze goes next to his chest. It’s so cute; without eyes, it’d be hard to tell where he’s looking, but his long nose practically points right at it, a dead giveaway. The matching red bra to his set is, admittedly, a little ridiculous, though by design; the cups sit empty atop the flat covering of Mettaton’s chest, small, lacey mounds that Tenna also seemingly wants to touch with the twitches of his fingers, but doesn’t dare reach out after the last time he’d tried.
“Mettaton, gosh, th-this is…“
A pause.
“You’re perfect.”
Mettaton purrs. A long leg kicks out, finds its place at Tenna’s back to draw him in, keep him close. What a beautiful man. He’d do anything to please Mettaton, he’d made that abundantly, abundantly clear; but that’s not the point, tonight. He’s decided it so with the mood Tenna had gotten in earlier.
“Tenna.” Mettaton starts, “I want you to lay on your back. Can you do that, sweetie-pumpkin?”
He seems visibly excited by the ask, boldly grabbing hold of Mettaton’s waist to lift him as he turns onto his back to fully swap their positions. Mettaton makes a startled little noise as he’s lifted and settled atop Tenna, but he’s thoroughly aroused by the ordeal. Especially with the minute contact he’d made with his hardening cock in the process, the tent in his pants growing at the promise of Mettaton’s commandeering.
Tenna’s looking between Mettaton’s legs and whimpering. He knows what he wants. To pleasure, to be happily used. It gets him off to have his screen ridden by him — Mettaton’s learned as much. Tenna had managed to come untouched from it a number of times he’d be mortified for Mettaton to relay.
Mettaton hums. “I know what you want, sweet thing. It’s written all over your face.”
Tenna blushes, perhaps at being figured out so easily. So predictable, his Tenna.
“P…Please…” He begs.
“What is it, Tenna?” Mettaton breathes, climbing up Tenna’s body to rather straddle his chest. “You’d love nothing more than for me to squeeze your screen between my thighs and let you go to town. Isn’t that right?”
Tenna nods, mindlessly.
“You know how much I love that big tongue, your lips wrapped entirely around me, your entire mouth full of it. You know every spot that makes me tick, don’t you, darling?”
Another nod. This time, his antennae twitch.
“What if, Tenna…” Mettaton’s hand caresses the side of Tenna’s head. His beautiful Tenna, his selfless lover. Mettaton’s sure he would let him ride his screen to completion while Tenna got off with nothing but the palm of Mettaton’s hand pressed firmly against his boxers. But he deserves so much more. He deserves Mettaton’s devotion, for how much devotion he gives Mettaton — it’s only right. “...we swapped positions tonight?”
Tenna’s brows furrow in confusion.
“What if you let me pleasure you down to your very wiring, take you out of that big, overthinking head? Would you like that? To be made completely mine, to be the star of my show?”
It’s not like Mettaton hasn’t pleasured Tenna – very much so the opposite. He’s taken his front panelling off many times and tugged at his wires to watch him squirm, pinned beneath his thighs while Tenna tried to grind his hard cock against Mettaton’s ass left only a few tantalizing inches away. But there was always a bit of sadisticness, admittedly, on Mettaton’s part. A wish to see Tenna taken so far into lust that he’d beg and whine for it, hump any part of Mettaton’s body to prove the depth of his desire.
“M-Mettaton, I…” Tenna pants. “I, ah… more than anything. But I’m already– already yours, doll.”
A wide, pleased grin splits Mettaton’s face. His caresses to Tenna’s head turn more into petting. Slowly, he eases back down Tenna’s body.
He’s so handsome. He’d dressed down for their little cuddle-and-movie sesh in a TV Time! T-shirt that had seen much better days (which Tenna refuses to get rid of — ‘it’s from the first batch of printed merchandise!’). He wears small sleep shorts Mettaton remembers having devilishly impure thoughts about the first time he’d seen him in them. Mettaton simply couldn’t help himself when he’d seen them.
His figure is what draws Mettaton in. He’s bulky. Arms, legs, and torso filled out and thick with metal plating hiding his internal machinery, silicone padding atop his stomach, his thighs. His ass. The only sharp angles on this man are for the corners of his head; he’s otherwise plush and round, the plushest man he’d ever met. Not to mention just how big he is, aside from his build. Mettaton can barely straddle him. If he were less flexible in the legs, he’d probably find it a much more troublesome task to.
Mettaton’s fingers find the hem of Tenna’s shirt. He drags the garment off with the help of Tenna lifting his arms, watching how his now-bare chest rises and falls with a constant stream of ventilations. He’s warm to the touch, a thump-thump-thump of his mechanical heart felt where Mettaton places his hands.
“This is all mine.” Mettaton purrs, leaning down to kiss at his pecs. Tenna had initially been shy about his chassis (which is another counterargument to his earlier statement). He’s scuffed, despite the buffing Mike does for him on occasion. Some scratches are too deep to simply be buffed out. In other areas, his light purple coating is chipping or discolored. What Tenna had first thought of shameful, something to hide, was a neverending beauty to Mettaton; a visible mark of a life well-lived, a body well-used. It’s a reminder of that certain aspect of humanity he’s always loved. The visible process of aging, that he himself would not have gotten to experience had he never became corporeal and started gaining his own little imperfections.
“All yours, m-my star contestant’s. Your grand prize is the host himself, sweetheart.”
Mettaton laughs, kissing up his collarbone, his neck, his chin, until he’s face-to-face with the man. “My prize, hm… and what would my prize like me to do with him?”
Mettaton accompanies that quip with a squeeze to his pec. Tenna tilts his screen up like he wants a kiss. “A-Anything.”
Mettaton gives him the kiss he wants. Tenna’s hands slot at Mettaton’s waist to keep him steady as he eagerly reciprocates. Amidst the slotting of lips, Mettaton’s hands wander down the front of Tenna’s torso, to a maintenance latch he’d gotten familiar with opening. He’s quite proud of himself for being able to locate it and unclick it without looking, a quiet moan reverberating against Mettaton’s lips once his panel is opened and his internals are open to the air.
He pulls away and sits up to get a good look at what he’s doing. He couldn’t risk a sloppy action, can’t stand the possibility of breaking Tenna, so he gives him his full attention. Curious hands reach inside his beloved’s chest and smooth a single wire between two fingers.
“Look at all these wires...” He sighs, salivating at the sight. The attention he’s being given is obviously exciting Tenna. He curls his pointer finger beneath one and gives it a gentle tug, happily soaking in the little whimper he gets in response.
He takes his time attending to each one, sifting through the multitude of wires he knows makes Tenna keen, but pointedly avoiding his most sensitive bundle. He gently works out knots that had formed since their last bout, listening to the litany of noises Tenna makes at the pleasure and satisfaction. It’s nice, almost tranquil; the rain outside still patters, but it creates an atmosphere Mettaton can hardly say they’ve shared. A typical bout between them is energetic, loud, explosive. This tranquility is domestic, unexpectedly so. He’d be enthused to experience it with Tenna more.
Maintenance on him like this is intimate. He almost wishes he had his full toolkit. He’d fix up some of these loose screws and polish him to perfection, if he’d been more prepared.
“What do you need, baby?” Mettaton whispers, leaning down to kiss the wire in his palm before moving back. “Is this enough for you?”
“M-My…” Tenna’s hand grabs Mettaton’s and guides him to a particular bundle that rests below an array of dials. “My… these ones.”
“Oooh.” Mettaton coos. Right to it, then; the bundle of wires that makes Tenna come the quickest. He’d worked him up too much, it seemed. He needs release, and he’d been getting desperate for it.
It’d been a mutual discovery, just how much Tenna loves to have his wires played with. No one else before had cared enough to explore Tenna as thoroughly as Mettaton. To reach inside his body and work through the tangles and knots, familiarize themselves with the beauty that lies within.
He grabs three of Tenna’s most sensitive wires and pulls. Tenna’s back arches off the bed in an instant, a startled moan choking from him. “Yes, that—!”
Mettaton’s gently rocked by Tenna beginning to hump the air, whining out pleas. He doesn’t need to beg. Mettaton’s all his. The arch of Mettaton’s back deepens, bending down to let his ass make contact with the tent in Tenna’s pants. He moans in turn, grabbing onto Mettaton’s hip for leverage, and starts grinding his cock against him, between the curves of his ass.
Mettaton feels ravenous. The arousal between his legs burns, heightened by the sensation of being rhythmically jostled by Tenna’s mindless thrusts. He tugs the wires harder. With the shaking of Tenna’s legs, it’s clear he’d come in moments if left to continue.
“Hahh— l-let me, can I— I want to, ghhn, i-inside you, doll—!”
Well. If it’s what he wants, it’s what he’ll get. Nodding his head breathlessly, feeling close to an overheat, Mettaton briefly moves his hands out Tenna’s chest in order to slip his hand beneath his panties and rid himself of his covering. Slick lubricant already drips out and pools against lace. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to care about the lingerie.
He grabs Tenna out quickly from his pants and boxers, giving him a few strokes as he simply moves the fabric between his legs out the way, lining him up to start slowly sinking down on his length. Tenna chokes on air, groaning at the press of his hot arousal to his cock. Mettaton’s lips part as he pushes his way inside.
“Mmh, T-Tenna…” Mettaton moans, stabilizing himself with a hand against the bed. Without prep, the stretch of the silicone of his entrance is intense, his sensors alight with the overwhelmingly full feeling of just inches of Tenna’s cock. He’s sufficiently wet, however, able to sink down slowly as Tenna graciously stills his needy thrusts, letting him adjust to the length he’d become thoroughly acquainted with in the past year.
“Gosh, gosh, Metty, y-you—“ Tenna whimpers. “—you feel so good, don’t… don’t ever stop…!”
“I’m not going a-anywhere, Tenna.” Mettaton pants, beginning to bounce lightly on his cock. “You’re stuck with me for the— ahh, the rest of your life, my darling.”
A grin eases its way on Tenna’s face. Toothy, mindless. “Y-You mean it?”
“More than anything.”
This pleasure is insurmountable to Mettaton. He’d meant for this to be a night solely about Tenna, solely for him. He should have known Tenna would want to be buried within him, caressing the sensors that lie deepest within his body, brushing closer the casing to his SOUL the deeper Mettaton eases Tenna within himself. It brings him as much satisfaction as it does Mettaton, holding him, feeling him so intimately.
Once he’s settled to the hilt, he looks up into Tenna’s screen with an endlessly affectionate expression. “Go on.” Is his simple urgence.
Tenna grips both of Mettaton's hips. He, starting slowly, begins to gently thrust himself into the heat wrapped around him. But, as is typical for Tenna, his need for release supersedes his judgement, and he begins to fuck up into Mettaton at a desperate pace, panting moans leaving him with each movement.
“I love you, I love you,” Tenna’s whining, over and over. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”
If Mettaton weren’t being so thoroughly fucked out of his head, lips unable to wrap around and form words, he’d tell Tenna something like ‘nothing to thank me for, darling’. Unfortunately, he barely has the ability to reach back into Tenna’s chassis and start tugging on the wires that drives him crazy. He manages it, however, if only to soak in the way it turns Tenna’s mumbling into incoherent noise. There’s bunches of static in his moans, choppy, glitched noises interrupting him, his screen malfunctioning more and more with each overzealous tug.
With the pace Tenna’s at, it’s really no surprise that his upwards thrusts reach an eventual climax, barely minutes after he’d entered Mettaton. With short, quick movements, carrying him from base to tip each time in a way that has Mettaton clenching tight around him, he comes. The feeling of his staticky spend, warm and fluid within him, rushes to fill every corner, lighting up every sensor. Perfect. Perfection. Amidst Tenna’s orgasm, Mettaton’s greedy hand jerks away from wires and reaches between his own legs, slips beneath his panties to locate his swollen clit and rub it between two fingers.
It barely takes more than the initial press to get himself there. A few rubs is all it takes to make himself come, lubricant dripping out around Tenna’s cock, horribly pent up from the evening’s escapades.
His orgasm leaves him reeling. Coming around Tenna’s length is intense; it always is. He’s trying to catch his breath as he comes down from it when his gaze flicks up and catches sight of Tenna’s empty screen, his unmoving body laid on the bed.
“Tenna?” He calls, voice hoarse. No response. Had he rebooted?
He tracks his gaze down to Tenna’s internals. For a moment, it seems nothing's amiss. Until his eyes land on a wire that he’d very clearly, in his orgasmic ineptitude, tugged on too harshly and dislocated it from the socket.
“Oh! Oh, goodness!” Mettaton quickly corrects his mistake, plugging it back in and nervously biting his lip as he watches Tenna switch back on, lightly slapping his head when the static doesn’t immediately clear.
“Tenna, are you okay? Was I too rough? You’re not broken, right?” He fusses. It’s a bit ridiculous, cock still held deep inside him, leaning over to check him for signs of critical malfunction. Tenna looks dazed until he looks around and seems to realize what had happened. He barks out a laugh.
“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. That was a ride of a lifetime!”
Only Tenna could make such an awful quip post-coitally and have Mettaton still eagerly coming back for more. Smiling fondly, Mettaton makes sure the rest of his chest is in order before shutting it back closed. “Good. I’m glad you enjoyed it, Tenna.”
Mettaton slowly sits up off Tenna in order to lean forward for a kiss, luxuriating in the happy sigh Tenna breathes against him. Through the kiss, Tenna’s hands wander along Mettaton’s body, until it’s clear how tired he’s getting, kisses growing slow and lazy.
Mettaton takes the opportunity to part from Tenna’s lips and start slowly cleaning them up. Much to his detestment, he hops off Tenna to wander into their ensuite, dampening a towel to wipe both himself and Tenna off of their fluids. He cleans himself, first, of the spend dripping from his entrance and down his thighs, slipping off the uncomfortably damp lingerie and covering himself back in his plush, warm robe. Tenna is his next target. He sits on his knees next to him as he attends to his mess, tossing the towel aside for tomorrow’s problem when he’s done to lay down properly beside Tenna and cuddle.
Big arms wrap around him the moment he’s laid down. Tenna’s smiling down at him like a serenely lovestruck fool, until Mettaton reaches a hand up, smoothing an antenna against his palm.
“Antenna massage?” He asks. Tenna eagerly nods his head, already tilting his screen down to give Mettaton better access to them.
Mettaton gradually straightens out small kinks and knots in his antennae, listening to the sounds Tenna makes get gradually quieter and quieter, lulling him into powering off with his gentle, dutiful touch. His screen dims low. He seems to try and fight it, though unsuccessfully. His lover’s in sleep mode by the time he’s finished massaging his other antenna.
Tenna rarely falls asleep before Mettaton. He uses this opportunity to soak in sight of a comforted, satiated Tenna curled into him, finding the edge of the comforter to pull over the both of them.
A year with Tenna. He can imagine many, many more; in fact, he can’t seem to imagine one without. Perhaps a ring should be in order soon. Something big and gaudy that’ll twinkle in the studio lights, glint enough sparkles to let everyone know who the CRT belongs to. It’s genius, really. He’d ought to get on that as soon as he can.