Chapter Nine
🔞This chapter contains sexually explicit content.🔞
When they finally talk about it, Tenna can’t hide the shame. He can’t hide that he keeps thinking of how nice it was. That, in both of their right minds, it could be even better. Spamton seemingly calls his bluff, teasing him by forcing their faces together to light Tenna’s cigarette with his own. The proximity is too much; he wants more. “Hey, nothing to be ashamed about, [[CRT]],” Spamton coos when Tenna rests his head in his lap, unable to deny that, even without the help of battery acid, he wants him. “You’re [Large and In Charge] of this whole place,” the salesman continues. “You make [The] rules here. There’s nothing wrong with a nice [Splurge] once in a while.”
Something about the way Spamton says that, though, makes Tenna’s hackles rise. He sounds… smug. Does he think that he has Tenna under his thumb? That simply won’t do! Tenna thinks back to that fateful night, the way Spamton effortlessly took control of the situation. There’s no reason he couldn’t do that, right? “…You’re right,” Tenna agrees, steeling himself as he lifts his head. “TV World is mine. It doesn’t really matter what anyone thinks about how I run things, does it? I’m in charge.” Spamton nods, seemingly none the wiser to Tenna’s epiphany. So the TV host leans back, letting his screen turn to static. He’s going to need some room for this. “And I think… you need that reminder just as much as I do.”
Spamton’s eyes widen, his smile freezing on his face. That’s what Tenna wants to see. “Wait—”
Tenna leans further in, forcing Spamton’s knees apart to nestle between his legs. “Going around, yanking me by the tie like I’m a dog on a leash! Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners, Mr. Big Shot?” When Spamton says nothing, mouth dropping open silently in surprise, Tenna can’t hide his grin, making sure to bare his fangs. “Lucky for you, that’s a lesson I’m willing to give.”
He rests a hand on Spamton’s knee and drifts up his thigh, watching the businessman suck in a breath. He wants to stop and ask if this is okay first, but he pushes it down. This is his world, his set. He needs to assert himself. So he tilts his head and captures Spamton’s mouth in a fierce kiss, barely waiting for his cohost to reciprocate before wedging his mouth open. The feeling of fingers digging into the shoulders of his blazer emboldens him to dig his fingers into Spamton’s hair, loosening the gentle waves underneath. “You’re lucky [noone] else is gonna see me like this,” Spamton grumbles when he pulls back for air.
“Aww,” Tenna coos, squeezing Spamton’s hair gently. “Your poor image! How dare the world see you dressed down.” He adds a little spark to the phrase, the words literally dripping with insincerity. Spamton’s mouth screws up in an embarrassed scowl, and a flash of something vulnerable in his eyes gives Tenna some pause. “…Okay. Quick break. Is this not working for you?”
Spamton stares at him for a second, his expression slowly shifting into something suspicious. “Just didn’t think you had [This] in you,” he replies with a bit of a cheeky edge.
“Well, here’s a free trick of the trade for you.” Tenna leans in. “I didn’t get to where I am by being a pushover.” He lowers his hands to thumb at Spamton’s collar. “Green light?”
The corner of Spamton’s lip draws up in a one-sided smile. “…Okay, [Big Shot]. Do your worst.”
Tenna grins again. “Famous last words.” With that, he lowers his hand and pops open the buttons on Spamton’s shirt. Something clatters on the floor behind them, but Tenna ignores it to push his cohost's shirt and undershirt aside. Then, he leans in, takes Spamton’s entire shoulder in his mouth, and bites down. Spamton yelps, gripping fistfuls of Tenna’s blazer and throwing his head back. When Tenna pulls back, he sees red teeth marks left behind in his wake, and a strange sense of satisfaction fills him. “Do me a favor,” he purrs as he shuffles back, settling his hands on his lap with a grin. “Get on the arm of the couch for me.”
Spamton blinks at him, taking a second to make the connection after the bite. “Uh…” He shifts up to sit on the arm of the couch, and Tenna moves right along with him. Spamton’s legs dangle as he raises a brow at his cohost. “Like [This]?”
“Perfect. Much easier on my neck if I don’t have to keep leaning down.” A bit of a cheeky comment, sure, but he’s deserved the opportunity to be cheeky. He carefully wraps his hands around Spamton’s waist and leans in to kiss him again.
“Lucky you’re a decent [Layoff]—lay,” Spamton grumbles with a small grimace at the slip.
Tenna doesn’t mind it. Instead, he raises one hand to squeeze the bite mark, earning a hiss of pain. “You’re really not in a position to be such a brat.” The word drips from his screen in a sparkly pink bubble.
“You’ve got a mean [Hot Streak!], don’t ya?” Spamton breathes, face burning brighter when Tenna nudges his legs apart again.
“You did tell me to do my worst.” When his only response is a little eyeroll, Tenna takes that as the go-ahead to pull his cohost’s shirt off all the way, tossing it to the floor. While he leans back in for an open-mouthed kiss, he also nudges Spamton’s undershirt out of his pants, daring to slide his hand underneath. His cohost’s body is plush under his fingers.
Spamton actually jolts a little at the feeling, clinging to him and laughing almost nervously. He cuts off with a strangled noise when Tenna shifts to pull his undershirt clean off. “Easy, tiger.”
Undressed from the waist up, Tenna can now run his fingers through the little patch of downy feathers (seeing it in the light like this, he decides that they are indeed feathers, not fur) centered on Spamton’s chest. “Oh, relax. There’s nothing wrong with really seeing what I’m working with, is there?” Spamton looks away, still with that embarrassed scowl, but says nothing to dissuade his cohost from leaning in to kiss the still-angry bite mark—and then, go lower than that.
For maneuverability, he pauses to shrink just by a foot or so, letting Spamton adjust before dragging his tongue against his skin. It tingles like static electricity. He rears back at the feeling of a hand on his antennae, drawing away to make direct eye contact with Spamton, who is practically turning pink. “[Off-limits!]?” Spamton asks after a second, sounding breathless.
“They’re sensitive,” Tenna replies after taking a moment to compose himself. “So no, just, ah… be gentle.”
“Bold request from someone whose treating me like a [Ragdoll].”
Tenna raises his hand and boops Spamton’s nose three times, punctuating each word as he says, “I’m. In. Charge.” The words reignite the fire in his chest when he leans back in to drag his tongue up Spamton’s stomach. He has a wonderful idea, but it’s better if he keeps his cohost guessing. So, while he lowers his hands and blindly fumbles with Spamton’s belt, he also drags his fangs against his stomach, listening to him try to suppress a thick groan.
However, the distraction isn’t enough to cloak the sound of his zipper, and the salesman laughs, reaching up to dig his fingers into Tenna’s shoulders again. “Whoa! Straight to [You won’t want to miss the Main Event!]?”
“Have a little faith, Spammy. Honestly.” Tenna lowers his hand further, dipping into the waistband and watching his cohost squirm a little at the feeling. “I never got a proper introduction.” Spamton curses quietly under his breath, resting his hand on Tenna’s head but avoiding the antennae. Tenna rewards that thoughtfulness by sliding him forward just enough to worm his pants down to his thighs. He has a cute little trail of down that disappears under his dollar-sign-printed briefs. Which, right now, are leaving nothing to the imagination, so Tenna quickly pulls those down, too. Spamton’s cock flops out, only half-hard so far despite the effort.
And, well, that just won’t do. Without a second thought, Tenna grabs Spamton’s thighs, leans in, and presses his tongue against it. He doesn’t need to move, really; his cohost’s cock is almost half the length of his tongue. “Fuck,” Spamton swears with a groan. Tenna grins and drags his tongue up, licking at him contentedly. Fingers dig into his head casing, and the sounds that come out from above him… the way Spamton whines and huffs gets air flowing to all the right places, his own cock starting to pressurize, but Tenna ignores it for now, focusing on getting his cohost right where he wants him.
At some point, Spamton leans forward, resting his chin on Tenna’s head. His body’s surprisingly human-like aside from the spot of feathers on his chest and the weird way his body buzzes—data and all that. But when Tenna drifts even lower—more out of curiosity, just to see what fun new sounds he can get out of Spamton—the salesman… well. The way his body starts to tremble is deliciously vulnerable. So Tenna draws back up, his mouth returning to Spamton’s cock, but he slides a hand back towards…
“Ant,” Spamton says breathlessly, but also as a warning. And the warning… there’s something desperate behind it. Not desperate for more (okay, maybe there’s a little of that), but desperately embarrassed. Tenna pulls back to see Spamton staring at him, his face beet red and his eyes horribly conflicted. They stare at each other for a long second, and Spamton seems to struggle with his words before finally settling on, “Be… really. Fucking. Careful.”
Right. The size difference. Tenna smiles again and, with his free hand, pushes loose bits of his cohost’s hair back. “I’ll be nothing but.” Only once Spamton nods, a small, sharp gesture, does Tenna rise to gently push him back so he’s lying on the couch, his hips propped up on the arm. He waits again for Spamton to nod before yanking his pants down to his ankles and dipping his head back down, swirling his tongue around Spamton’s cock in gentle licks while his hand finally finds what it’s looking for. A slit, wet and pliable against the finger that he presses against it, leading Spamton to hiss out another curse. He doesn’t linger long, though; this is just a preliminary, so he can know what he’s dealing with.
He leans back, unzipping his pants so he doesn’t risk coming in them, and then pulls his gloves off. He has half a thought to shove his fingers in Spamton’s mouth, but the way Spamton tilts his head to look away from him, eyes shut and brows furrowed still in that embarrassed way… well, maybe this is already a bridge too far. So instead, he reaches back down, fingers sliding against slick heat. Spamton’s breath hitches, and he bites back a high whine, encouraging Tenna to dip a single finger in. Under him, he sees Spamton open his mouth to bite down on his knuckles, another strangled whine escaping his throat.
It’s perfection, and a warm sense of satisfaction fills Tenna’s chest. “Easy now,” he teases, pulling back before sliding even more of his finger inside. And wow, he understands why Spamton told him to be careful. Tenna doesn’t have big hands, exactly, but he’s only worked halfway in, and it’s so tight. He moves carefully, gently swirling his finger around in the heat and smiling to himself when Spamton’s breath shakes. He pulls back, then pushes back in, delighting in the way the heat parts for him, welcoming more of his finger inside. Finally, he manages to slip his finger in entirely, suppressing a groan at the way the wet heat squeezes him.
“Fuck, Ant,” Spamton outright moans now, eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted. His cock bobs lazily in the air, starting to drip precome on his stomach, almost in protest of being forgotten. He’s coming undone right before Tenna’s eyes, and it reminds him viciously of the way Spamton ground on his thigh that night in Cyber City, losing himself to pleasure so thoroughly that he forgets he’s being watched.
“Language,” Tenna says, then scrambles for anything else to add on. He can’t let up now. He’s in control. “Unless you want me to get Mike in here and turn the censors on.” He draws his finger almost completely out, teasing the slit. “Oh, but then… he’d see you like this—”
“Don’t you fucking [D.A.R.E].” Spamton finally opens his eyes, digging his fingers into the couch cushions. “You’re [Killing] me here, [[CRT]].”
“Oh, alright. I won’t make you wait.” Tenna leans forward to kiss his cohost on the forehead before settling back on his knees. He keeps teasing Spamton, shallowly thrusting his finger in while his other hand drifts down to attend to his own cock. He can’t stifle a quiet gasp; he’s been neglecting himself in his desire to turn Spamton on, but touching himself now, his cock twitches in his hand, slick with pre and aching to be touched. He can’t resist, wrapping his hand around it, stroking himself slowly to start. He can go wild once he’s sure Spamton’s properly tended to. He thrusts his finger in time with his strokes; for a brief moment, he contemplates shrinking down and fucking his cohost properly, but seeing how worked up Spamton is just from this, he can’t bring himself to stop.
But he can up the ante. He leans in, craning his neck at an admittedly awkward angle to envelope Spamton’s cock with his tongue, pressing it against his stomach. “Fffffuck, Ant, fuckfuckfuck!” Spamton reaches down, grabbing the base of his antennae with one hand, and Tenna can’t hold back the whine that rips free from his vents. Coolant drips from between his fingers, and he pulls back just enough to properly take Spamton into his mouth. Spamton cries out his name, bucking his hips. The couch cushions scrape under Spamton’s free hand as he digs his nails into the fabric.
A slew of strange, garbled noise that vaguely sounds like words escapes Spamton’s mouth as Tenna drills his finger as deeply as it can. When he dares to scrape his fangs against his cohost’s cock, the salesman goes entirely still, his body trembling before he cries out, coming hard around Tenna’s finger and into his mouth. The hand around his antennae jerks slightly, sending a sharp current of pleasurable pain through Tenna’s body, and he whines again, his screen turning black as he loses the ability to keep anything on it. Aftershocks ripple through Spamton’s body even as he comes down, but the second his cock goes still, Tenna pulls back to focus on himself, fisting his cock with wild abandon until he spills coolant all over the tile floor.
His cohost gasps quietly, still pulsing around his finger in little aftershocks, and Tenna leans in to nuzzle his thigh affectionately. “Mm.” Tenna pauses, then, still in a daze, asks, “And how would you rate your satisfaction with tonight’s program?”
Spamton snorts, lazily swatting him away. “[Rated R, Starts Friday].”
Tenna laughs. “Well, I’d say you’re sufficiently put in your place.” Carefully, he draws his finger out, clear fluid dripping from it. He eyes it for a moment, then glances back down. He has one more horrible idea.
“A-Ant!” Spamton gasps when Tenna presses his tongue against his slit, pushing him into an awkward right angle in order to reach. Tenna hums and gets to work, his original intent—helping clean up so as not to stain the couch—immediately abandoned in favor of eating his cohost out. Spamton moans again, squirming under the attention but still spreading his thighs a bit wider, welcoming the attention. “Aah, [[Ten Out of Ten]]!”
Tenna pulls back after a few seconds to say, “Damn right.” Then, he’s right back in there, uncaring if he smears cum on Spamton’s thighs as he holds onto them. He dares to try and press his tongue inside, pressing carefully and managing to get the tip in before Spamton comes again, weaker this time, garbled noises coming from his throat. Tenna pulls back, only licking enough to actually clean him up this time. “There you go,” he breathes, taking a second to catch his breath. “I think… heh… you know who’s boss now, right?”
Spamton just groans, pushing his hair out of his face. Tenna takes that as agreement and stands, wincing at the way his knees crack. God, he’s getting old. He hums idly to himself as he gets to cleaning up, thanking his past self for making sure the VIP dressing rooms have attached bathrooms. Still, even once he’s wiped up the floor, cleaned off his soiled hands, and fixed his pants, Spamton hasn’t moved from his position on the couch aside from getting in a more comfortable position.
Tenna sighs, reaching out to him. “Here.” Spamton lazily glances over at him, taking his hand and not fighting when Tenna pulls him up. Tenna shrinks down to settle on the couch, pulling Spamton up to lie on top of him. The salesman practically melts against him, resting his head on a hand with a heaving sigh. “So it’ll just a be a mild contract change, I think,” Tenna says eventually, kicking his legs over the arm of the couch—he made sure that it was clean, that there wasn’t any evidence of their coupling.
It takes him a shameful amount of time to realize Spamton’s… well, he’s okay, but he’s definitely out of it. After a bit more teasing, Tenna properly helps him undress and settle down, letting the salesman drift off on his chest. He shuts off his screen and follows suit, cuddled together on the couch.
It turns out that the sound when Tenna popped his shirt off was a button that he’d accidentally cut loose in his eagerness, and Spamton isn’t too amused by it when he wakes up early the next morning. However, while he grabs a sewing kit and fixes it back up, he hums quietly, and while Tenna preens at the vanity, he occasionally stops to watch, unable to hold back a smile.