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The room was perfect.
Castle Town's TV Studio was in no way inferior to the one that had been in TV World. Tenna had a whole suite of rooms to use as he pleased. He had spent the first few weeks just standing in the control room, running his hands over the consoles, relearning the feel of a space that was his.
Then he had discovered the customizable rooms.
The one they were in now had been designed for this weekend. A boat—wooden, slightly weathered—bobbed in two feet of clear water. Beyond it, an artificial island rose from the shallow sea, sand and rocks and a single palm tree that swayed in the carefully controlled breeze. The ceiling was painted to look like a sunny sky, a few clouds drifting across it, the walls curved to disappear into the horizon. Spamton had painted it himself, working for hours, easily reaching the ceiling in his Spamton NEO form, mixing the blues and whites until they were just right. Tenna had watched him work, and when Spamton had finished, Tenna had leaned up and kissed him.
Tenna had built the rest, for the two of them.
Spamton stood at the edge of the water, his puppet joints creaking softly as he shifted his weight. His reflection shimmered on the surface—the wooden face, the painted cheeks, the lenses that hid his dark eyes. His puppet appearance, once strange to Tenna, had become familiar. He had chosen this form for the weekend. Smaller. More vulnerable. Though he could always shift to NEO if he wanted to end their roleplay.
Tenna was behind him. Spamton could feel the weight of his gaze, the warmth of his presence. He didn't need to turn around to know that Tenna was looking at him with that particular expression—the one that said I want you.
"You ready?" Tenna asked.
Spamton nodded. "[[Ready]]."
They had discussed this for weeks. The scenario. The rules. The safewords. Tenna had been meticulous, as he always was, making sure Spamton understood every detail, every boundary, every way to stop if he needed to. Even though they had done this exact roleplay before.
Now they were here.
They got into the boat. Spamton sat in the front, Tenna behind him, and they pushed off from the shore. The water was clear and shallow, the bottom visible beneath them. The artificial island loomed ahead, peaceful and waiting.
Spamton rowed. Tenna watched the water ripple around the oars.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
The crash was reckless — a hard, deliberate bump against the island's shore. The hull splintered on impact.
"OOPS!!" said the sailor who held the oars.
Tenna felt the boat shudder, felt himself lurch forward, and then they were there. Stranded. Alone together. The boat was wedged against the sand, damaged.
The fantasy had begun.
—
"The boat is broken!" Tenna gasped, fearful and melodramatic. His arms were raised, clutching his screen-head. He marveled at how his arms didn't ache anymore—they used to, when he raised them like that, after they were reattached, post-Knight attack. "Now we're stranded! We've got no radio! No supplies! We'll STARVE!!"
Spamton looked around. The island was small—ten meters of sand, a palm tree, some rocks. No food. No water.
"NO. WE WON'T [Starve]," he said, playing his role. His voice was loud, confident. "I CAN [[Refresh CAPTCHA]]!"
"Refresh? How does that work?" Tenna asked, playing at curiosity. He sounded calmer too, in response to Spamton's confidence. He was playing his part.
"IT'S LIKE [[Photocopies]]. ALWAYS MORE. I'M [[SPAM]]. I'LL [Heal]. AND GROW BACK," Spamton said assuringly. "I'LL [Showtime!] YOU!!"
—
Tenna obeyed Spamton's instructions.
He revealed his claws, which emerged from his fingertips.
When Spamton said to cut, he cut.
Spamton lay on the sand, lying on top of his black jacket. He removed his shirt to expose his torso. His pants were also gone, revealing his puppet form’s lack of genitals. The wooden surface of his puppet body was smooth, seam-lined, not quite organic but not quite artificial either. Tenna's clawed hand was steady.
Spamton watched his face. Tenna was focused, intent, his screen flickering with a soft pink glow. He was already eager, blushing.
His claws pressed down.
The wooden surface yielded—not with a crack, but with a soft, tearing sound, like pulling apart cotton candy, like opening a package that had been sealed too long. Beneath the wood was something pale, almost translucent, with the texture of firm jelly. Tenna's fingers found the edge and pulled.
He extracted a piece of Spamton's liver.
The sensation was strange—not quite pain, not quite pressure. More like a dull, distant awareness that something was being removed. The wood reformed slowly, the edges of the wound beginning to knit together almost immediately.
Spamton recalled the taste from when he ate himself the last time they did this. Sweet. Sugary plastic. Soft. Like the softest fruit imaginable—but denser, more substantial. It dissolved on the tongue slowly, leaving a faint, creamy residue behind, like the ghost of a memory.
Tenna examined the piece in his hand, turning it over. He brought it to his mouth and bit down.
"Oh!" Tenna said, startled, surprised, as if this were his first time tasting Spamton’s flesh. "It's very good. Very sweet. And soft." He looked at Spamton, his screen brightening. "You're delicious."
Spamton felt a strange warmth spread through him. Pride. Tenna approved. Praised him.
He looked at Spamton's body, saw the organ grow back in real-time—the edges sealing, the missing mass slowly filling in. He smiled, relaxed, the tension draining from his body. "We're not going to starve!"
Tenna hand-fed Spamton the other piece. Spamton eagerly accepted it, parting his lips as Tenna placed the soft flesh on his tongue. The taste was as he remembered—sweet, strange, dissolving like confectionery. He kissed Tenna's claws that had torn him open.
—
Tenna cut out more chunks of him over the next hour.
Spamton's thighs were next. Tenna sliced away strips of the soft, pale flesh, and Spamton watched them visibly regenerate. The pain was present but subdued—a dull ache that faded almost immediately, replaced by the strange, tickling sensation of new tissue forming.
Spamton was lying on his stomach, on top of Tenna’s red suit jacket. Tenna had taken it off because of the heat, the hard work he had been doing, placing it on top of the sandy ground. He had picked Spamton up casually, removing him from his own jacket and placing him on Tenna’s. Spamton could not move anywhere himself once the flesh of his thighs had been cut off by Tenna’s claws. He pressed his nose against the jacket and sniffed Tenna’s scent.
He glanced back too. Tenna was pantsless as well. He had removed them and said he didn’t want Spamton to feel alone in his exposure and vulnerability. Tenna was sitting on his own dress shirt, and he was completely naked. Spamton could see his leaking, erect penis.
Spamton’s ass cheeks were next. Tenna was methodical, careful, taking pieces from each side. Spamton lay on his stomach, his puppet joints trembling, and felt Tenna's hands on him, felt his claws, felt the strange absence where flesh had been. Like the pieces of thigh, he split the ass equally—half for him and half for Spamton. This part of the roleplay script had been a pain to negotiate. Spamton had insisted Tenna receive more because he was the bigger guy. Tenna had countered it should be an even split because NEO was just as tall as him since Tenna was no longer as tall as he had been in his TV World domain.
And now Spamton was reminded of how that script detail had been resolved.
His thighs were gone—temporarily, but gone. He couldn't stand. Couldn't walk. He lay on Tenna’s red suit jacket, immobile, dependent. He watched Tenna eat half-ass when it could have been whole-ass.
The regeneration was slower this time. Spamton could feel his body working to repair itself, the spam-logic that governed his existence churning in the background. Copious. Duplicative. Always more.
But it took energy. Nutrients. He could feel himself growing weaker, the regeneration sapping something essential from him.
Tenna noticed the weakness. "You need nutrients. Protein," he said. Those were Spamton's lines—he should have been the one informing Tenna. But it seemed like Tenna was eager to restore him, and stole his lines to trigger the scene.
Spamton nodded. "YES. I NEED [[Restoration]]."
Tenna looked at him. He smiled—slow, predatory, knowing.
"I can give you nutrients."
Spamton was already aroused. His puppet body responded to Tenna's voice, to his presence, to what had already happened and the knowledge of what was coming.
Tenna moved. His hands found Spamton's hips, and he held him aloft.
He turned Spamton around to face him. The hole in Spamton's torso—where the liver and surrounding fat had been removed—was still healing, still open, a soft cavity lined with regenerating tissue.
Tenna pushed his cock in, enlarging the orifice with the bigger object he was stuffing into it.
Spamton gasped. The sensation was overwhelming—the heat of Tenna's dick inside of him, the strange pressure of the wound being filled, the knowledge that Tenna was using him, claiming him.
The hole was raw, sensitive, and Spamton could feel every inch of Tenna's shaft as it pressed into the cavity. The edges of the wound clung to him, soft and warm, and as Tenna thrust, Spamton could feel himself healing around him, the tissue closing and holding, trying to seal Tenna inside. The wound became a sheath, molded to Tenna's shape, holding him in a grip that was neither flesh nor wood but something in between.
Spamton trembled. His body was shaking, his lenses flickering, his puppet joints creaking with every motion. He felt Tenna's rhythm, felt the pressure building, felt the heat spreading through him.
Tenna came with a low groan, his hips pressing flush against Spamton's body. Spamton felt the warmth flood into him, felt the semen fill the cavity, felt his body absorb it.
The return of nutrients. Protein. Restoration.
He could feel his strength returning. The regeneration accelerated, the missing pieces filling in, the weakness fading. His thighs began to reform. His ass cheeks filled out again. The hole in his stomach closed completely, sealing Tenna's semen inside him, where it belonged.
Tenna had pulled out slowly. Spamton felt the loss, the emptiness, but his body was already whole.
—
Tenna stood up.
He walked to the water's edge, his bare feet sinking into the wet sand. He looked out at the shallow sea, his screen tilting as if scanning for something. Then he reached down, his hand plunging into the clear water, and pulled up—
A sealed bag.
Red. Shiny. Full of something soft and squishy.
"WHAT IS THAT??" Spamton said, though he knew what it was. It was a snack they both liked.
Tenna turned, holding the bag up triumphantly. "I've netted us some fish!" He walked back to Spamton, settling onto the sand beside him.
Spamton looked at the bag. The label read: *Red Gummy Fish. Net Weight: 16 oz.*
"WOW!! YOU’RE [[Hyperlink Blocked]]!!" Spamton tried to say “Amazing!” and failed. Nevertheless, Tenna understood.
Tenna's screen flushed with a pleased pink. He opened the bag with a soft crinkle, the smell of sweet artificial fruit wafting out. "Even if we have you, I still need to pull my weight. We’re partners after all!"
“GOOD JOB!!” Spamton patted Tenna’s head when he bowed.
Tenna's screen brightened. He plucked a red gummy fish from the bag and held it to Spamton's lips. Spamton opened his mouth and let Tenna feed it to him.
The taste was sweet. Not like his own flesh—that was sweet in a different way, soft and strange and dissolving. This was sharper. More artificial. Pure sugar and fruit and pleasure. As a bird-like Darkner, he enjoyed fish. He chewed slowly, savoring it, and felt Tenna's gaze on him the whole time.
"Good?" Tenna asked.
Spamton nodded. "GOOD."
Tenna took a gummy fish for himself, swallowed it whole, and chewed with obvious relish. His screen glowed with satisfaction—the satisfaction of a creature who loved sweets, who loved sugar, who loved feeding his partner and being fed in return. “It’s not as good as you Spammy,” he said.
Spamton leaned in to kiss him, to lick into Tenna’s mouth so he would know Spamton’s taste again. It was a while before they broke apart.
They ate the whole bag together. Piece by piece. Tenna feeding Spamton. Spamton feeding Tenna. Their fingers sticky with sugar, their mouths sweet with artificial fruit, the sun warm on their skin.
—
They repeated the cycle of spam consumption throughout the weekend, right at the proper meal times. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner.
Cut. Eat. Fuck. Restore.
Spamton lost count of how many times Tenna cut into him. His liver grew back, was cut out again, grew back again. His thighs regenerated, and Tenna sliced away fresh strips. His ass cheeks—the most frequently regenerated and consumed—were a constant source of nourishment.
And each time, after they had eaten, after Spamton had grown weak, Tenna would fuck the hole he made in Spamton’s body and fill him with semen.
The restoration was always immediate. Spamton could feel his body absorbing the nutrients, the protein, the essences of Tenna's seed. He healed faster, grew stronger, was ready to be cut again.
It was a perfect cycle.
—
Tenna also played his part. The Lord of Screens—a skilled set designer and constructor—had felled the island's single palm tree with his claws, the wood splintering under his sharp fingers. He had processed it into material to repair the boat with, working through the afternoons while Spamton rested and regenerated. Spamton watched him from the sand, watched his partner work, watched the boat slowly become sea-worthy again.
By Sunday night, when Tenna had finished restoring the boat, Spamton was exhausted but satisfied. His body was intact—every piece had regenerated—but he was still full of Tenna's semen, belly swollen from the repeated deposits.
Tenna lay beside him on the sand, his chest heaving, his screen dark with contentment.
Spamton had praised him for his hard work, just as he had been praised for being their source of food while they were stranded on the island.
He carried Spamton in his arms and settled him on the boat. Spamton curled against Tenna's chest as the boat glided across the shallow water. He could feel Tenna's heartbeat, could feel the warmth of his body, could feel his semen that was still inside. Tenna's hand was in his hair, stroking slowly.
Tenna rowed them to the door that would take them out of the room and back into the larger TV Studio.
—
When they returned, Battat—ever curious, ever nosy—asked how their weekend was.
Spamton looked at Tenna. Tenna looked at Spamton.
"Great," Tenna said. "We had a great time."
Spamton nodded. "[[Best Vacation Ever]]."