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Nothing short of six Pippinses come up to Spamton to complain that day before he decides it’s time to do something. Tenna’s employees use him like some sort of complaint box, like he’s the guy they can send out to deal with Tenna when he’s being unreasonable because they’re too scared to do it themselves.
Which is admittedly true. That’s exactly what he does, and he quite likes being the one that Tenna doesn’t immediately scream at and send away. Still. He maintains that he doesn’t appreciate it, just for his reputation.
But this time is a real complaint, apparently, because even Spamton can sense it. The general tense gloom over the stage, the nervous way everybody moves to divert around halls, irritated and anxious. He catches two separate occasions of Tenna yelling at a mystery employee before slinking offstage, grumbling to himself about doing everything, undeniably irate about relatively small infractions.
There’s no doubt about it.
Tenna’s pissy.
And, unfortunately, that makes it Spamton’s job to deal with him.
He rakes a hand through his already sweated-through slickback, grumbling to himself. Their latest ad break had been finalized an hour ago, and Tenna's only stopped snapping at the lighting crew to storm off for a cup of coffee. He's never outright mean, but certainly tense, jumpy like he's expecting something to snap at his heels when he's not looking.
He catches Tenna in the break room, just the full red expanse of his back as he pours coffee from the pot into his enormous mug. His hands shake where they’re tightly clenched around the handle.
“What is your problem?” Spamton presses, still standing in the door.
Tenna, with his back still turned, straightens up, tugging and pretending to adjust his tie with intense focus. “Aha. What-ever could you be asking me that for, Spamton.”
“Um? Cause you’re being the world’s biggest asshole?” Spamton says rhetorically, making his way closer. “Somehow more so than usual?”
Being too close to Tenna smells like burning. He rotates toward him, one leg bouncing with restless energy. A massive hand clenches his coffee mug (#1 SHOWHOST!, it says on the side) hard enough to threaten hairline fractures. “I’m peachy keen. Peachiest keen.”
“You sure, big guy?” Spamton glances at his balled-up hand, just shy of shattering his favorite mug into a million pieces. It's a fan-made mug, too. Something's definitely up. “‘Cause you’re looking kinda — "
“I’M FINE.”
Maybe it’s a curse of being a performer, but Spamton suspects Tenna couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. Even his best efforts at pretending come out exaggerated, like he’s always trying to clue in an invisible audience to his true intentions.
Spamton crosses his arms, already way over it. “Come on. Tenna. You’re the shittiest liar I’ve ever met."
He crosses and then uncrosses his legs, leans his elbow on the counter and decides against it, like he's trying to go for a casual look but is not quite sure what to do with his limbs. It's perplexing. "I'm not lying," he insists, and he really tries to push it that time. His coffee cup squeaks.
"You’re telling me you’ve got a stick up your ass for no reason?”
“I have a reason, it’s just — !” Tenna’s screen flashes, irate. “None of your business!”
“It’s my business if you’re biting off all our employee’s heads,” Spamton snits, stealing the mug straight out of Tenna’s clenched hand to sip at his coffee. Eugh, there has to be seven teaspoons of sugar in there.
Tenna hunches over the table, staring at the wood grain like he’s trying to will an answer out of it. “It’s complicated,” he finally gets out, his shoulders hunching severely. “It’s complicated, and also none of your business.”
“Aw, c’mon, Mr. Tenna.” The nickname mollifies him like liquid — Spamton oozes his way toward Tenna, putting on his best boss-pleasing act he can. This isn’t Tenna being pissy anymore. This is Tenna being evasive, an even greater mystery. “I’m your business partner, everything’s my business.”
Usually, just a little bit of prodding will get Tenna to spill, with an almost legendary inability to keep anything to himself. It’s actually surprising how long it’s taken Spamton to get anywhere so far. What, did he lose money gambling or something? Get blackmailed? He’s never quite seen the animated host this cryptic.
Feeling the pressure, Tenna sinks lower, screen resting against his forearms. Not quite shrinking, but more like he’s being compressed. Vertically. He seems to stew in his own thoughts for almost a minute straight, expression stormy and frustrated.
“Tenna,” Spamton presses, annoyed and just the slightest bit curious.
His left antenna twitches, like an irritated eyelid.
“I’m,” he says slowly, picking his words with bomb-defusal levels of care. “Feeling something.”
…this is going to be like pulling teeth.
“Feeling what.” Spamton stares at him, dumbfounded at how obtuse one person can be. Tenna grips at his face, gloved fingers scratching at his screen as if he’s being put through unbearable torture and not a normal conversation about why he’s being pissy.
“Things! You know.” His showmanship makes a brief reappearance, antennas jutting out straight as he sits up and wrings his hands together, mysteriously antsy. “Stuff! Haha! Weird… personal. Stuff.”
His legs shift restlessly, one crossing over the other, changing each one repeatedly. Spamton watches his strange shuffling act.
There’s no way…
“No, I have no idea, Mr. Tenna,” he says, scooting slightly closer across the break room table toward him. Just to test a theory. “Please enlighten me.”
“Aha, um, well.” Tenna’s head rotates between the steadily shrinking distance between them and back at Spamton frantically. “You know, CRT maintenance stuff and all that. I’m — really, really sorry about my behavior! I’ll try to fix it up, if, if that’s what it takes to get my crew back on track! Hahaha.”
There. His thighs press together, tightly, before he starts to rattle one leg, immediately attempting to draw his attention away.
Oh. It’s exactly what he thinks it is. And he’s trying to worm his way out of this with an apology.
Spamton grins, like the cat that’s got the cream.
“I’m sure they’d appreciate that, Tens, but we should really fix the root of the problem,” he says, leaning in. Right on the money. “You said it’s a maintenance issue?” Tenna’s head shoots upward, an anxiously anticipatory shiver traveling up his shoulders.
“It’s. Not something you should be worried about.”
He cocks his head sideways, playing his obliviousness up to the max. “Why not?”
Tenna’s speakers start to whine. “It’s a sensitive topic,” he fumes, a frustrated burst of heated air escaping from between his teeth. His hands go everywhere at once, full of nervous energy, before they fly up to yank at his antennas. “It’s — it’s. Personal.”
Maybe Spamton is a bad person for finding this much gratification out of Tenna losing his composure.
“Even if it’s that sensitive,” he drawls, turning one dress shoe to tap at the edge of Tenna’s gaudy yellow loafers; it’s barely anything, but he still watches him flinch at the slight contact. “I’m sure I could help. We’re co-hosts, Mr. Tenna.”
“Haaaaa. Hahaha. I appreciate the sentiment,” he gets out, a drop of sweat darting past the display of his face, “But you, um, can’t help with this one. It’s. Specific. K-kind of related to my body. You know! Complicated… robot stuff…”
“And I’m TV World’s best mechanic, Tenna!” He grins, laying it on thick. “Mascot of Big Shot Autos! What, you think it’s all for show?" He pats Tenna’s chest, listening to the dull thunk of metal through his dress shirt, and registering how he flinches at the movement. "I’ve read the manuals, too. I know my way around a guy like you.”
“WELL,” comes Tenna’s shrill voice, suddenly taking on a slightly manic edge. “THIS MIGHT BE A PROBLEM. YOU. CAN’T FIX. IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.”
“Not possible,” he insists, putting on his best poker face to lean into Tenna’s personal space. “If there’s any problem with you, I can fix it. I should know — “
He’s suddenly being dragged into the air. Tenna grabs the collar of his shirt with shaky hands, pulling him up until their noses are centimeters apart, his screen fuzzing at the corners with desperation. “SPAMTON.” His claws poke out of the tips of his gloves, creating pinpricks in the collar of his shirt, a flush of pixelated pink high on his face. “YOU DON’T GET IT.”
Oh, he’s so easy to rile up. Spamton grins, tilts his head back to expose his neck. One hand comes up to rest on top of the one Tenna has bunched around his shirt. “You wound me. You think I don’t?”
Tenna shakes him slightly, like a ragdoll, antennas twisting together furiously. “NO. Because, because if you did…”
He trails off, staring at him.
“…you wouldn’t be, um."
His claws disappear, antennas twirling apart and slowly drooping down with realization.
"Looking at me. Like that.”
The hand he has on Tenna’s glove walks itself down the length of his forearm, to as far as Spamton can reach (only about his bicep, because of how stupidly long Tenna’s arms are). He glances up at his screen, and then down at his pants, meaningfully. “I wouldn’t?”
“Stop answering everything I say with questions!!” he shouts, before the motion clicks in his head. “…!”
Instantly, he’s dropped onto the floor again, Tenna shrinking by a foot as he thuds down next to him with his hands balled over his face. Spamton laughs awkwardly, out of an absence of anything else to do.
“Ye-eah, big guy, you’re not exactly subtle.”
Tenna presses his screen into his hands aggressively, like he’s trying to will himself out of existence. “Can we have this conversation,” he strains out. “Somewhere else.”
As much as Spamton wants to keep pushing him, just to see how far he can go before Tenna loses it again, he is unfortunately correct. They are in the public break room. Spamton rolls his eyes and lets Tenna anxiously walk him to his dressing room, the closer one. A Pippins passes them in the hall and Spamton winks at him, mouthing a Problem solved! as he walks by.
Reaching the room, Tenna immediately slams the door shut and presses his whole body against the back, sealing himself off from the outside world. It’s a predictable set of theatrics. Spamton huffs out a laugh as he makes his way to the couch, having to scramble slightly to get all the way up Tenna’s stupid tall furniture.
A moment later, after double-triple ensuring that all the locks on his door are in fact locked, Tenna follows behind him, displacing the couch cushions and Spamton six inches into the air as he hefts his whole heavy-ass metal body down. For a few seconds he just sits there pensively, antennas knotted, hands clasped and scratching at each other.
“S-so. Um. You know. It’s about…?”
He does a frustrated, clenched hands gesture at his legs, the way someone would gesture toward a faulty car part.
Spamton smooths his ruffled hair back, straightening out his shirt slightly from where it had been tugged. “I figured that out about six questions ago, Tenna. I get it. You’re horny.”
Tenna groans, coming sharp out of his speakers, both arms thrown up in the air with anguish. They immediately drag down to claw at his face despairingly. Drama queen. “Uuuurrrghhhh. Of course. Of COURSE you knew! Everyone probably knows! Everyone knows that I’m a freak and a pervert. I may as well just throw my reputation in the garbage. I’m going to be taken off of air! The censors may as well just kill me now, shoot me in the head — "
“Woah, woah! Cathode!” Tenna’s prone to spiraling, but that was a speedy descent, even for him. Spamton thuds his knuckles against his shoulders, trying hard to not let any startled alarm show on his face. “Nobody is getting shot in the head!”
He tugs ineffectively at Tenna’s elbow, still wrapped around the entirety of his head. Teasing aside, Tenna's practically eating himself alive with distress, clawing at the top of his casing like he can manually scrape any evidence of sexual activity out of his body forever. It's funny, but a little concerning.
"I'm a freak!" He plasters his hands to his face, agonized, almost close to tears. "I can't perform like this, I can't do anything, I can't believe I feel like this — "
Spamton smacks him in the shoulder. Hard. "TENNA."
Tenna jolts, temporarily taken out of his spiral, where he was undoubtedly imagining an eternity of public humiliation and being thrown away in the trash for the unforgivable sin of being a little bit horny. "H-huh?"
"You," Spamton jabs his finger against his dumb, broad chest. "Are being dramatic. This is hardly a problem. Like, 3/4ths of a problem, at best. You can fix this one."
Tenna sinks down, fingers digging into his bottom lip with despair. "But... I can't do anything about it," he whines. "There's something wrong with me."
“Tell me what's wrong, how about that. I wasn’t exaggerating about the mechanic thing. Lemme see if I can fix anything.”
Tenna drops his arms into his lap, but hangs his head with his shoulders hunched so he’s still hiding.
“It’s not,” he gets out, thin and squeaked. “Quite a mechanical problem. It’s.”
His hands scrabble across his screen to cover where his eyes would be, overwhelmed with shame.
“Um.”
Something comes out of his speakers, so static-laden that it’s incomprehensible. Spamton pulls at his sleeve, yanking his head closer.
“Gonna have to speak up, Tens.”
A gap in his fingers appears to accommodate his mouth, twisted anxiously with his teeth slightly bared.
"...it's locked."
His other hand digs into his thigh, pulling up a fistful of shiny faux leather.
"I'm sorry?" Spamton blinks. Repeatedly. "Locked?"
Tenna's hand crawls up the front of his screen to scratch at the top of his casing. “I can’t do it on my own,” he whispers, sounding so genuinely agonizingly ashamed that Spamton can’t help but feel bad for him. “I can’t — " He reaches down toward his body, hand clenching furiously in the air, before his screen goes red and he refuses to continue. He has to get the rest of his confession out in stuttered bursts. “O-other people can help. Sometimes. But it. Doesn’t let me…myself.”
“Doesn’t let you what?” Spamton asks. “Cum?”
The luminosity of his screen increases sharply, shoulders spiking. “Do you have to be so blunt — !”
“Hey, I’m just trying to figure out what’s wrong!” Tenna has a vice grip on his forearm, claws massaging into the flexible metal underneath in what looks to be a mildly painful self-soothing measure. “So, what? You’re too pent up and can’t think straight?”
Pensively, Tenna nods.
“But you can cum if someone else is touching you.”
Tenna nods again, shrinking until he’s barely a head taller, the absolute picture of disgrace.
It’s probably unethical how much Spamton likes seeing him struggle. He leans in, sporting the sleaziest grin he can manage, unabashedly delighted by the implications. “How’d you figure that one out, Ant?”
“I-it was an experiment! A long time ago!! I have a reputation now!” Tenna’s screen heats up again at the implication he could possibly have ever had sex before the age of 50. His hand lets go of his arm to yank at an antenna, trying to straighten out the crinkle in it, or maybe just pull it straight off of his head. “I can’t just go waltzing around town asking someone to fix this for me anymore!”
He waves madly at his crotch again, like it’s a foreign object or a nuclear bomb about to detonate. Thoroughly humiliated, he gives up and slams his chin onto his hand and covers his mouth with his fingers, digging into the glass of his screen murderously. “It’s embarrassing!!”
Spamton laughs. He's making such a big fuss. “That’s it, cathode? Come on!”
Tenna shrinks even further, practically sizzling with self-consciousness, a whine escaping him. "Don't laugh at me...!"
“This is show business, big guy.” He taps his knuckle against the side of Tenna’s (now much easier to reach) head, one arm draping easily over his shoulder. “Everyone gets their rocks off somehow.”
He’s close enough that the grit of Tenna’s teeth grinding together is audible. “Not me,” he stresses, wiggling his banana-yellow shoe to work some of his antsy energy out. “Never. Ever ever ever ever! Haha!!! EVER.”
Yeesh. “No wonder you’re like this.” High-strung, restless, practically bursting at the seams.
"Ye-ah, but that's. Life of a performer!" His hands scratch up and down his abdomen, stopping to dig into his knees, as a way of gesturing to his whole body. "This old thing isn't, uh, really mine, you know?"
That has got to be the saddest, most pathetic thing Spamton has ever heard come from his mouth, and he's heard a lot.
"It's yours, Tenna," he scoffs, patting the side of his head and silently pinning that to his to-do list. Getting the content lock off of Tenna. “And I could definitely still help.”
Tenna’s screen goes black.
“What.”
“What?" Spamton puffs up, putting on all his bravado and injecting as much casual confidence as he can into his pose. He's 90% sure this will work, but still, don't fuck this up, don't fuck this up... "What about it?"
"You...? Helping me with... uh..." Tenna points to him, and then points to himself, up and down, utterly flabbergasted.
"Well, yeah. It’s just business! Keeps the old system rolling.” As if to demonstrate, Spamton rolls up his sleeves up to his elbows, cracking his knuckles like he’s preparing to do an oil change. “I mean, you should see the stuff other partners get up to. You think doing crack together is any less weird?”
Tenna — extremely familiar with the world of hosting and hard drugs but too perpetually family friendly to do more than offer Spamton tissues from time to time — makes a face. At least he’s suddenly looking morally uptight enough to forget about the other thing he’s being morally uptight about. “Yes,” he says flatly. And then, more strained, “Yes? Of course??”
One of his legs has started to bounce violently, suddenly jittery and out of his element.
“Come on,” Spamton drawls, walking closer and closer to Tenna, almost close enough to stand in between his legs. In response, Tenna pinches his knees together, his hands going around, crossing in front of his body as if to cover himself before flying up to his face. “Promise it won’t be weird.”
Tenna mumbles something humiliated and unintelligible into his palms that sounds like ‘but it’s already weird’.
“Tenna.” He raps the ball of his palm against the side of his head. Miserably, Tenna looks up at him. Spamton’s never seen anyone in the universe look sadder to have a boner. “Listen. You can either spend the rest of time being the horniest person to ever show up on live television — " That earns him an indignant noise, the plastic under his knuckles heating up, " — Or I can fix it for you. No strings attached.”
A burst of stinging-hot air escaping from Tenna’s vents tells Spamton exactly how he feels about that.
He takes a deep breath. Another one.
"I, um," he says faintly, twisting the bottom of his dress shirt into knots. "I don't think you want this."
"Oh, be serious, Tenna." Spamton scoffs as he leers closer, close enough that the glow from Tenna's screen forces him to squint. "You think I don't know what I want?"
That does something to him. Tenna's breath goes unsteady for a second, loosening his death grip on the wire of his antenna. Visibly attempting to calm himself down from whatever massive moral tar pit he's worked himself into. And then, buried under his hands, “...okay.”
It’s quiet, so quiet that it’s almost obscured by how loud the ambient noise of his heated body is, his screen crunched like a massive burden is being hoisted onto him. Shakily, Tenna lets go of where he’s still trying to rip his antenna straight off of his head, letting it bounce crinkled in front of his face. His gaze finds Spamton’s, screen still tinged pink, spreading his arms apart in a weak attempt at theatrics. “Fix me, Spamton.”
Okay. Okay. Why the hell did he have to say it like that. Spamton hopes his arm isn’t trembling with excitement. That would ruin his cool-guy demeanor. “Got it, big guy. Lay back.”
Tenna lowers himself backward onto the couch, grumbling to himself the whole time, both hands coming up to cover his face. As soon as his back hits the couch, his legs pull up reflexively, knees tucked to his chest to cover his groin.
"What am I working with here, huh?" Spamton shuffles down the end of the couch to stand over Tenna, examining him head to toe like he's a patient on a stretcher he's trying to triage. His gaze rakes down him before landing square between his legs, where Tenna's still trying to coyly hide himself.
"Ugh." Tenna's screen twitches. "It's, um. I've been. Kind of hiding it."
There's a quiet pneumatic hiss of something releasing in Tenna's casing. He winces, his expression visibly distraught for a second, before he manages to gain control over his senses again and rips his hands away from his body.
Oh, holy shit. Holy shit.
The tent in his pants stands out starkly against the stupid faux leather, tight enough that it leaves absolutely nothing left to the imagination, clinging to the ridiculous length of Tenna's cock. Spamton has to actively remember to blink as he stares at it top to bottom. That thing can probably kill people.
No wonder he carries himself with all that pomp and pretentiousness. He's actually got the means to back it up.
"Spamton," Tenna groans, already self-consciously folding himself in half, ten seconds away from curling into a ball and trying to die of embarrassment.
"Right, right," Spamton says, swallowing drily. Holy shit. “First things first. Hands to yourself.”
“What?” With an expression close to a pout and temporarily forgetting about dying of humiliation, Tenna’s hands go up, fingers bunched to his palm. “You don’t want me to — ?”
“Ha. No.” He appreciates Tenna’s eagerness to please, but that is going squarely another day. When he has more time for explanations and a better excuse. If he gets another day. He’s determined to get another day, actually.
Irate but ever obedient, Tenna holds both his hands up in the air and pointedly sets them down next on the couch cushions. In contrast to his huffy attitude, his legs curl over each other, ankles twisting together demurely like he’s trying to preserve his modesty. Bit of a lost cause, at this point.
Spamton watches his display, unimpressed (and turned on). “Tens, you don’t have nearly enough self-control for that.” And before Tenna can open his mouth, scowling, he holds his hand up. “Hold on. Better idea incoming.”
“I don’t like most of your better ideas,” Tenna complains, but stays still as Spamton hops off the couch to the cardboard box of stagehand supplies that had been left there the last time they’d met. Excessively long, worn-out lengths of extension cable that tend to stretch the length of TV World and back during their performances.
Rotating on his heel, he's met with the charming visual of Tenna shucking off his red tailcoat, carefully folding it so that the lining doesn't wrinkle and setting it on the nightstand. His fat, bulletproof tie goes next, wrapped in a smooth coil and set aside. At least his height is starting to return; the ends of his shoes sprawl over the armrest of his couch when he tries to put them up now, so he settles for leaving his legs askew in a painfully attractive way. With nothing left to do, he just sits there anxiously, in his shirt and slacks, hands folded politely and fidgeting in his lap.
“Alright,” Spamton says definitively, snapping the cord like a belt and watching with gratification as Tenna jumps. “Hands behind your back.”
"What," Tenna says indignantly. "Are you serious?"
“Behind you,” Spamton tells him, again cocking his head. "Come on, I'm the mechanic here. It's my call."
A puff of exhaust escapes from the joint of Tenna’s neck as his shoulders hike up and he silently turns his back to offer his arms, one forearm on top of the other. Spamton snakes the cable between his elbows, watching with amusement as Tenna’s head drops even lower with an irate huff.
He’s, uh… not exactly sure how it works, actually. He would pull up an online guide or something on how to properly tie your partner’s arms together, but it’s probably also going to tell him not to use an extension cord.
"You know, we should probably have a word," he muses, after a few seconds, trying to buy himself some time.
Tenna's head lolls back slightly, trying to catch him in the corner of his vision. "A what?"
"A tap-out word. You know. In case I break your dick, or something."
The top of his screen furrows, put-off by the blunt wording and confused. "Won't you know if I just start screaming?"
Spamton scowls at him. "Tenna. You'll scream about anything."
At that, Tenna goes silent, appearing to genuinely consider it. "Fine," he grumbles. "Um... I don't know. I don't know how any of this works." His voice peters off into a frustrated low tone at the end, already working himself up into a froth about it. "You pick one."
"I was gonna recommend 'pineapple juice'."
"What??"
Spamton shrugs, although Tenna can't see it, still tangling the end of the cord through an infinite amount of loops. "That's the one I usually use, anyway."
Tenna's screen twitches, expression going blank, like he can't quite grasp how he feels about Spamton having a safe-word just on the ready, as if this kind of situation happens to him on the regular.
"Fine," he concludes peevishly. "I'll say 'pineapple juice' and then scream my whole head off."
He's so dramatic, but it comes with the territory. Besides, it makes Spamton feel just the slightest bit better to have the safety net, even if he's not really sure what he could do to get there.
“Doing alright?” Spamton asks, slightly amused. Something in the back of Tenna’s body clicks as he rolls his shoulders against the binds, left antenna tweaking when he realizes his arms can no longer shift all the way.
“Fine,” he seethes, jittering his leg impatiently. “Would you hurry up?”
Whatever. It’s not like Tenna has circulation to cut off, anyway. He clamps down the end of the cord and yanks it taut with his teeth, producing some bullshit, impossibly tangled knot that could be held together by friction alone. Satisfied with his rush job, he slips off the couch, tilting Tenna’s shoulder so he’s facing forward again.
He’s greeted with Tenna’s irritated face, knees still bent upward to his chest.
“Are these — " he strains, and the rubber of the cable squeaks as they rub against each other. “ — really necessary?”
Spamton taps his shoe between Tenna’s sprawled-out legs, dangerously close to where he’s needed, just to appreciate the way his antennas jump as he jolts to attention. “Next you’re gonna tell me to work on a car with no jack stands. I dunno if you know this, Tenna, but you’re sort of grabby.” He flares out the collar of his shirt pointedly, to demonstrate where Tenna had sunk his claws 10 minutes earlier.
Tenna pouts. Despite his complaints, it’s not doing anything to damper his hard-on. He flexes his arms experimentally, against the tight binds, shoulder actuators clicking as he pushes his chest out to strain them as far as they’ll go.
Okay, now he’s just showing off.
Spamton slips one hand under his knee to encourage his leg up, puts the other one against his inner thigh as he tries to arrange himself comfortably between his legs. Not even approaching the tent in his stupidly tight pants, but the change in tension is apparently enough to make Tenna flinch, hips pushing up slightly. Pent up, in-fucking-deed.
“You're sensitive,” Spamton breathes, halfway to Tenna, mostly as an awed note to himself. Because of course he is. Desperate, shaky, touch-starved Tenna is sensitive.
Tenna mutters something censored under his breath, losing yet another internal war with his shameful conscience. “Get on with it,” he barks, his leg twitching restlessly. The white glow of his screen tinges red on the edges.
Spamton rolls his eyes as he palms Tenna through his slacks, watching his legs jolt around him. He’s so worked up, Spamton can smell it — overheating copper and hot air.
He’s not going to last a second, he thinks, unsympathetically.
Trying to stave off what is likely going to be an impending orgasm, he lifts his hand up, and is greeted by the charming sight of Tenna’s hips trying and failing to buck up and chase his touch. Aw. The minute he notices, though, Tenna locks his movements again, the hands behind his back balling into fists.
“Needy,” Spamton comments, smoothing his palms over Tenna’s shivering abdomen instead. His shirt comes untucked from his slacks, and Spamton takes his sweet time unbuttoning the last three buttons, so that it splays out and reveals the clenching silicone of his stomach. Even his ridiculous belt buckle doesn’t detract from the sight he makes. “And dramatic.”
Tenna shifts uncomfortably, for once unused to the attention. It’s unlike him to have stage fright. “Just touch me,” he snaps, always one to explode over being made to wait for anything, clawing at the vestiges of his control. “Don’t tease, just get this over with.”
"‘Just get this over with’,” Spamton mocks, shifting his weight to bump his knee against the bulge in his pants, just to hear Tenna’s audible voice hitch. “You’re such a romantic lay, Tens, anyone ever tell you that?"
His bottom jaw grinds, the metal of his thighs steadily warming up, heat seeping through the plastic of his stupid tight pants. He’s just so easy to get huffy and high-strung, especially when he’s like this. At Spamton’s mercy, depending on him to fix this problem of his. “This is humiliating,” he groans, leaning back onto his bound arms and inadvertently pushing his chest up and out. One of his knees has started its anxious bouncing again, restless and squirmy under the scrutiny of an unexpected audience.
“Oh yeah, I bet.” Spamton rocks his knee against Tenna’s bulge, watching his legs shudder around him, his shoulders jumping and jolting with even the slightest movements. His cock twitches helplessly in his slacks, betraying his interest even as he huffs a frustrated breath and clenches his jaw, determined to pretend he’s unmoved.
It’s like everything gets to him. Spamton passes his palms over his chest, and his legs twitch. Touches his stomach, and he bucks, just slightly, the top of his screen crunching. Puts his hand on his inner thigh, and he moans, a quiet, choked noise, not even being touched properly and already close. It’s insane. Underneath his weird repressed faux-shy jitters, he’s desperate.
“You’re gonna shoot off as soon as I get my hands on you,” Spamton mutters, transfixed. If he even gets the chance. Poor guy’s so high strung he could probably get off from grinding against the fabric of his pants, already halfway there on foreplay and tension alone.
“Shut up,” Tenna hisses, through gritted teeth, his hips rutting forward in pathetic little thrusts. Spamton rolls his knuckles against his bulge and he cries out, choked and guttural, already so close. “Haaa — "
There’s a high-pitched sound trying to escape from his speakers that Tenna is doggedly tamping down into a strained grunt. His antenna crinkles, frustrated and worked up beyond belief. As much fun as Spamton is having, there’s no way he can get Tenna to be nice in this state. He’s going to cum in less than a minute no matter what.
And he’s right. Spamton squeezes his cock, presses hard against it, and with no warning Tenna throws his head back and shudders. A spurt of liquid soaks through the front of his pants, dripping down his length, long and intense. His mouth hangs open, but whatever noise that might have escaped is strangled into a thin gasp instead, hips stuttering erratically.
“Quick shot,” Spamton mumbles to himself, as if that’s a new revelation and not the most obvious fact about Tenna in the world.
Tenna’s screen flashes red with indignation, but otherwise remains faceless as he tries to catch his breath. “Guhh,” he whines. “There’s no way it’s always like that.”
He shakes himself, trying to rush the aftershocks away, even as his legs continue to tremble. Spamton, curiously observing the flashing pattern of his face, carefully spreads his hand through the mess and smears a tight circle above the ruined fabric.
Tenna's back curves upward and he jolts, one leg kicking pathetically.
“Wh—whaaat are you doing,” he sputters, and Spamton gets to hear the lovely sound of the actuators in his leg click-click-clicking as he tries to slam his knees closed. He has the advantageous angle, situated between Tenna’s big legs, and applies just enough pressure with his knee against the inside of his thigh to keep him pinned open. His body jerks and Spamton just goes with it, hand still on him, persistent and dogged. It’s like he can’t shake him.
“I-I already,” he hisses, steam starting to escape from between his teeth. “I already came!”
“I know,” Spamton says conversationally, and keeps touching him. Clearly one time wasn’t enough to drain the obstinate attitude out of him, anyway. “Come on. You're still hard. You can do another one.”
Tenna’s hips buck, pulling upward in a vain attempt to shake him off. The claws come out. From behind his back, they tear into the fabric of his shirt, digging into the pillow tucked at the small of his back.
“I know,” he strains out, shivering like he’s running a high fever; he’s so sensitive it looks painful. “I know, it — it’s just — "
“A lot,” Spamton finishes for him, full of false sympathy. “I know, but you can take it.”
He rolls his closed fist against the shape in Tenna’s pants, delighted at the way he shivers, some component in his chest whirring so hard he can feel the heated air its starting to puff out from between his teeth, through the gaps in his neck plates. His screen flickers from the contact, all too much in his over-sensitized state.
“Spamton,” Tenna snarls, his whole body trembling. His shoe squeals across the floor as Spamton puts his hand on him again, barely even grazing him.
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out!” A bit of his showmanship leaks into his voice at the end — Spamton flashes a cocky grin to match, winking at Tenna’s beet-red face. He can match that boob tube’s outlandish theatrics when he wants to.
The aforementioned boob tube opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, so Spamton beats him to the punch, squeezing the shape of his cock through the damp cover of his dress pants. Tenna’s complaint stutters, a sudden shock of pleasure that forces his back ramrod straight. Well, that’s one way to shut him up!
Not waiting for him to recover, Spamton attacks his stupid novelty belt buckle, unbuttons his stupid tight slacks, just enough to free his cock but not removing them entirely (what can he say, he looks good). He hooks nimble fingers around the band of his silk briefs, silently mourning the visual of the soaked fabric clinging to the shape beneath it.
Tenna squirms when he peels the silk away, briefly undone by the maddening feeling of fabric dragging over the tip of his cock. He can’t hide like this, can’t get away from his own body, can’t modulate how his one viewer watches him — and Spamton is determined to watch him.
Experimentally, Spamton taps his finger against him, watching Tenna’s whole massive body spasm in response, his antennas straightening. He closes his fist to give one quick, curious stroke, and Tenna’s thighs stutter, reflexively trying to throw him off, to get away from the inescapable sensation of too much.
“Does that feel good?” Spamton asks, because he wants to know, and not because he enjoys watching Tenna struggle to do the thing that comes the most naturally to him in the entire world. “Come on, superstar, you gotta give me some input.”
Tenna moans, shallow and punched out of his stomach, although it wavers as he tries to make it sound like a more dignified grunt. It’s spectacular how his mouth hangs open, his arms twisting, the mechanisms of his abdomen tightening erratically. “Ha — uhhnn…"
“Tenna.” He’s such a live wire — Spamton jerks his wrist, once, twice, and watches Tenna practically fall apart, hot air pouring from the cracks in his body, thighs trembling. Without waiting for an answer, he tightens his grip, relishing in the way Tenna bites his own tongue and drops his head to hide whatever reaction that elicited. “Asked you a question.”
His face glitches out of view, bright red, the sound of his internal mechanisms whirring growing louder as Spamton leans to put his head against his heaving chest. He can hear the ticking of his joints working as he flexes his arms, too overworked to cool down naturally, the unused fans within the metal of his body kicking into drive.
“Yes,” Tenna grits, shame and humiliation burning in his tone. Spamton should win all their arguments like this, with one of the few upper hands he still has.
And he has all the cards, so he presses on, “Yes, what?”
Tenna fumes. Literally, as wisps of steam and dust smoke escape from the slats of his abdomen. Spamton works his palm over the abused tip of his cock to watch his screen malfunction, hastily-censored expletives flashing as subtitles on his screen as he sputters for a response.
“Yes!” He spits, his chest heaving out puffs of steam. “Yes, it feels g-good — haaaa — "
It must be humiliating like this — his arms crossed behind his back, legs forcibly separated. He has nowhere to hide, he just has to take it.
That thought is almost dreamy to him, as he toys with the tip of his cock, trying to create the biggest reaction with the least amount of movement, one hand on his hip to stop them from squirming so much. Annoying, belligerent, showoffish, larger-than-life Tenna just has to take it.
“Too much,” Tenna spits, chokes, teeth gritting to stop more incriminating noises from escaping. Aww, but Spamton’s hardly even touching him. “It’s sensitive, S-Spamton, too much — "
“I heard you the first time, big guy.” Spamton pats his thigh demeaningly, as if he’s a big lug vehicle in his shop that’s acting up. “Come on, you’re a top model, aren’t you? You can give me another one?”
Tenna’s massive head twists back and forth restlessly, trying to fight off the sensation but finding nowhere to go. He bares his teeth, fangs flashing, even as his hips jag weakly into Spamton’s hand. “You slimy little — "
“Woah-oh! Not very family friendly!” Spamton laughs out loud, hand stroking down his length in a tight, tight ring. Seems like he hasn’t learned any lesson, after all.
Tenna clenches his jaw so hard sparks fly from his teeth, but even that can’t hide the tension that lines every part of his body, the way his legs tremble and try to close on reflex. His head drops, casting a harsh light over Spamton, highlighting the mess over his twitching stomach, the slight tremor that runs through his entire body. His hands open and close behind his back, digging into the cushions, his own arm, anything he can reach to try and ground himself.
He’s so wet, dripping precum down his length, which is frankly only making everything worse for him as Spamton drags his hand up, down, an obscenely slick sound coming from it. Tenna’s lips move stupidly, trying to find something to say, something to pull a semblance of control out of the situation, but nothing comes out. Nothing that could help him, anyway.
“M’close,” he gets out, like an admission of defeat, tight and furious so, so humiliated. His whole screen burns red. "I'm gonna..."
“Aww, are you?” Spamton presses, just to rub salt into the wound. “You gonna cum again? Gonna let me watch?”
Accompanying his words, he twists his wrist with a loud wet noise, sharp from base to tip, and it pulls the highest noise he’s heard from Tenna yet, pitchy and full of static. “Who knew you could reach that pitch?”
Tenna turns his head to the side, his jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. He’s got no hands to hide behind, no way to cover his expression. “Shut… up…!”
“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” Spamton tells him condescendingly. “I’ve got all the proof I need right here.” He drags his thumb through the mess of precum on his cock, humming with appreciation.
Tenna's legs tense tellingly. It’s taking all the effort in the world for Spamton to leverage his weight enough to keep one thigh pinned to the couch cushions. He tightens the ring of his hand, listening to the high-pitched squeak that escapes.
“Oh yeah,” Spamton mutters, privately delighted. “I knew you could do it.”
That’s it. Tenna’s screen flashes, antennas twitching, and his body rolls and convulses, hips staggering helplessly.
“Nnnn — !!”
The servos in his fingers spark behind his back and a measly streak of liquid darts to land on his chest, catching on and soaking a corner of his unbuttoned dress shirt. Tenna slumps hard onto his crossed elbows, legs askew, his whole body shivering.
“Anyone ever tell you that you moan like a girl?” Spamton asks. A statement that would normally get him reprimanded, but Tenna barely even mumbles in response, still trying to recover. Their new positions make it easier for him to crawl up to Tenna’s stomach, looping one leg to straddle his chest.
Spamton’s quick, mechanic fingers find the latch just below his collarbone and the panel pops open with little fanfare. The metal of his abdomen is warm and heaving with overexertion, ever so slightly more pliant under his palms. Tenna’s head jerks up at the sound, flashing an SMPTE test card before his face jitters back onscreen. A shaky smile twists across the dark screen. “Ha,” he stammers hoarsely. “W–wait, hold on. Are you — are you really gonna — "
Spamton sits back, and an aftershock runs up his wires, squeezing a tight sound from his chest. The plastic cover, he leans over to toss onto the ground. “What does it look like I’m doing?” He asks, fingers ghosting over the mess of internal circuitry that’s been exposed. He’s hovering a solid inch above him and Tenna’s chest still surges upward, just from the idea of being touched. “Fixin’ up the machinery, easy as that.”
“…but I just,” he pants, screen crunching as if it takes gargantuan effort to put the words together properly. The threat of Spamton’s hands on his overworked circuits seems to shock the bite out of his tone, and he looks at him almost frantically, tugging his bound arms. “I, I just,” and even then his screen heats up, the high pitched noise surrounding him increasing in frequency.
“Consider it endurance practice,” Spamton suggests. “A sensitivity study, even. How about this title: How many times can Mr. Ant Tenna go for before he breaks?”
A low, shaky whine emanates from the back of Tenna’s head. His expression blinks back into place, his lip trembling slightly as he shifts his legs and spreads them a touch wider to accommodate for Spamton's body.
Oh, he likes this Tenna. All of his big peacocking bravado stripped away from him. He can talk back to Spamton all he wants, lord his power over everyone else, but when he's got him like this...
Spamton chuckles to himself quietly, leaning into the cavity of his chest to fan hot breath over a zip-tied bunch of wires. Above him, Tenna stutters on some nonsense, abdomen twisting left and right like it can dodge the sensation being put directly upon it from the inside.
There’s a tangle of loose cables all the way near the back left of his chest, tucked upon his transformer, bearing a thin sheen of dust that tells Spamton they’ve been neglected for far too long. Compared to all the well organized, bunched up sets, each carefully arranged into their ports with zip ties, the clump in the back looks like it's been left completely untouched.
Bracing himself on one pectoral (wow, he needs to get back and properly appreciate them later, but he’s got a job right now), he leans in to thread his fingers through one dusty loop, rubbing a thin black wire tight between his fingers to feel the copper inside of it fray slightly.
Tenna jolts under him, cries out properly, one shattered, stuttering moan that stretches until Spamton lets up on him. “H-holy fffuuaaahhh — "
Sensory input cables. Right on the money.
“You’ve been hiding these all the way back there, huh,” Spamton comments, mapping Tenna’s internal wiring in his mind as he works. "Left them all untouched. What, was it too much to take?"
“Don’t — ” Tenna gasps, his shoulders rolling back. “W-wait, don’t, you'll make me..."
Does he even know how he sounds when he says that, barely choked out of the back of his throat?? Well. If he promises…
He barely even touches the wire.
His hand makes contact with the end of the cable, where it disappears into the circuitry of the back of his chest, and he's immediately thrown off by the sharp jolt that passes through Tenna’s body, legs flying up to box him in. One hand flies out to catch himself on the open lip of Tenna’s chest, the other scrabbles across his stomach and finds purchase digging his nails into his VHS slot.
“Ghhha — ah!”
…which doesn’t help the situation, all things considered.
Tenna’s head slams back (leaving a sizable dent in the drywall, Spamton will later note wryly, but he’s a little caught up in the moment), an audible crackle of static leaping from his teeth, legs twisting together and rocking Spamton forward. He fumbles, trying not to accidentally dig his fingers into any more places they shouldn’t be. Tenna’s whole shiny body may as well be one huge erogenous zone, he’s so sensitive.
As an example: Spamton paws blindly, tries to grab onto his dress shirt, and accidentally flails his hand through Tenna’s open chest, catching and tugging some mystery wire out of its socket. Tenna makes a kicked noise, his hips jagging up again.
“You gotta stop moving so much, Tens,” Spamton huffs, stabilizing himself on Tenna’s broad chest. “‘Else I’ll tug something important.”
“I’m — " Tenna gasps, sounding like he’s almost in tears, “I’m trying!”
His back arches harshly, struts shuddering under the tension of too much, way too much. Beneath Spamton’s thighs, his stomach quivers, hips rolling in stuttering movements, like he’s trying to get away, or maybe…
Spamton stills. “Oh.” And for confirmation, glances behind him, with a sense of vague, growing delight. “Oh, no way.”
Tenna’s cock drools a puddle onto the plane of his stomach, fat pearls of liquid still pulsing out. In hindsight, of course that’s what would do it for the big hunk of junk. Getting smacked and tossed around and talked over.
Tenna freezes, mortified. Spamton digs his fingers into the vents at his sides to root himself, leers over him. “You weren’t kidding. That’s all it took?”
“You stuck your whole hand in me!" Hot air puffs between Spamton’s fingers as Tenna heaves, twisting his ankles together like he’s trying to preserve his dignity, fighting for a foothold in the conversation while at the mercy of Spamton's tiny hands. Spamton immediately sticks his hand into the VHS slot again, fingers jamming their way into the roller tracks, the other still carding through his wires.
“Fffffffuck!”
Oh, wow. He didn’t know he had it in him.
“I figured the censors would have cut that,” Spamton says conversationally, twisting hand to rake through the delicate metal internals, catching his nails on the tension lever — Tenna’s full of metal pinch points, but hey, he’s got calloused fingers for a reason. "One more. C'mon. One more?"
It feels cruel, the way his legs kick and back arches, physically not equipped to handle the influx of sensation. Spamton leans with him until he’s on top of him again, reaching one hand deeper into the ball of entangled wires to sink his nails into them, as if he’s doing real maintenance and not just trying to get Tenna to cry.
“Tell me how it feels,” Spamton demands, genuinely curious. Tenna doesn’t have his hands available to cover his mouth, cover his face, hide anything from him. He double-taps the side of his head, and when even that doesn’t get his attention, slips his hand away from his cock to grasp the base of his antennas. Tenna shudders at the new point of contact, shifting reflexively to face him. “Come on. Don’t you just love to talk?”
His jaw shakes, working over syllables, before hanging open with a broken noise as Spamton leans over to wiggle the connection of a coaxial cable in the mess of wires, just slightly. “It — it’s really,” he babbles, suddenly frantic. “It’sssshhhuuh please it’s sensitive!!”
Spamton laughs to himself. He's gone. “Gotta gimme a liiittle more detail than that, Tens…”
Tenna’s screen flickers, briefly converting to static, tears pooling at the corners of where his eyes would be. “I don’t know,” he wails. “It’s too much, it’s too much, bbbut, I don’t know, it’s — "
One hand still resting loosely in his slot, Spamton leans back to cover his flushed cock with his palm and lavishes over it, spreading the slick fluid, listening to the way he can’t stop himself from making the most pathetic, wounded little noises each time his fingers pass over his sensitive tip. The dual sensation shocks him senseless, makes his legs kick out and his head twist up toward the ceiling, teeth piercing his lower lip in an effort to distract himself.
“Good?” Spamton presses, parroting his previous question. "It's good?"
Tenna’s neck twists his screen toward the couch backing, like hiding how good it feels will save him the agony of being seen. “Yeah,” he whines — actually whines, high and wanton, his voice cracking and pitching, sounding like he’s trying not to cry. “Yes…!”
He’s cute, Spamton realizes, aghast. Every part of him is made with an adoring audience in mind, all the silicone padding at his hips, his pectorals, the way his antennas twitch and lay flat on his head as he struggles through each moment of unbearable overstimulation. No wonder every stagehand in TV World wants a piece of him.
Tenna curves up to put his head against Spamton's shoulder, trying to find something to hide behind. It's a cop-out, but Spamton will let it slide. He's putting him through a lot right now, anyway. His screen crunches, the corners wet as he arches and twists his hips back and forth and still can’t throw Spamton off, his whole body shaking like he's in heat exhaustion. His teeth clench together, mouth struggling to close periodically, struggling to do anything against the overwhelming sensation of just Spamton’s hand against his flushed cock. It looks like it hurts.
“Gh — ha, ungh...” He can't stop making noise, open-mouthed against his neck, small and high and forced out of him. He really is being good. Being sweet about it. Spamton strokes the back of his head benevolently, his other hand still working a brutal pace.
He’s hiding his face in Spamton’s shoulder, hot glass against his cheek, legs shuddering and squirming around him to accommodate the way he’s standing between them. Close enough that Spamton can hear every caught breath, every barely-suppressed swear, the panicky sob he lets out when he teases his thumb across the tip of his cock, the weak fucked-out moans when he’s touched anywhere at all. It’s overwhelming.
“I’m,” he gasps, urgent and agonized and a touch genuinely distressed. “Gonnacumagain…!"
“Hm.” Spamton pretends to look uninterested, and not like he’s so fucking turned on he feels sick. Hearing that, come out of his mouth… “Oh, are you?”
Tenna nods frantically against him, not trusting his own voice to carry. It’s frustratingly adorable.
Spamton sighs, all put-upon. “And what number is that?”
Tenna’s screen glitches around the edges.
“I don’t know!”
He’s panting, steam pouring out from the vents where his ribs would be, trying so hard to cool down, tolerate the onslaught that his sensory receptors are processing. Spamton cocks his head at him mockingly. “You don’t know?”
There’s an audible increase in the pitch of Tenna’s whirring as he visibly attempts to collect his thoughts with monumental effort, shoulders shuddering. “I dunno, I don’t… th… ree?”
Great, he can still count, Spamton hasn’t permanently fried something in his brain after all. One hand against his heaving chest, he guides Tenna to lay back down on the couch, sliding his weight into pressing his shoulder down to force him flat and open. Immediately Tenna arches, straining against the cable ties, pushing his hips into or maybe away from Spamton; he’s too out of it to figure out which one he wants. Spamton’s hand reaches in, deep, its mere presence amongst the sensitive sensory input a threat that is almost too much to bear.
“Make it four?” He asks sweetly, and rakes his fingers through.
Like a trained command, Tenna’s hips jolt, a weak, half-aborted motion, and barely manages to whimper out a, “Mm’gonna — " before his cock pulses and spurts. Spamton milks it out of him, squeezing hard — Tenna buries his face into the couch cushions and cries through it, his legs shivering uncontrollably the entire time. Barely a few drops of clearish liquid bead up, nothing left in him.
“Wow,” Spamton breathes, walking his fingers down Tenna’s quivering stomach. It’s barely anything, but he’s fresh off four orgasms, so he flinches and slurs out a whine anyway. “This is so much more effective than electroshock therapy.”
Tenna makes a small, incoherent noise, steam rising steadily from the vents in his chest. Spamton grabs the side of his dress shirt and fans it, halfheartedly helping him cool down. “You still with me, Ant?”
Another whine. His hips jolt, uncomfortable from the tacky fluid drying on his chest (is that coolant?)
…he’s still hard.
Spamton rolls his thumb over his drooling tip, mystified at the way Tenna’s thighs jolt with a wounded noise.
He’s still hard.
“You weren’t kidding about being pent up,” he mumbles, although this feels less like being pent up and more like a benefit of his robot physiology. And, because he’s immeasurably cruel, he drags his hand all the way down, stopping at the base, just to see what would happen.
It’s too much. It’s way too much. Tenna’s screen glitches hard, flashing a millisecond of a test card over him before going to black again. He moves his hand again and Tenna writhes, fighting against it.
“Spamton,” he hiccups. One of his knees comes up on reflex, jittering, trying to shake away the excess of sensation. Spamton pats the side of his head, nails catching on the vents there.
“One more?” He asks, already going for it, because he is the worst person in the world. “Come on, just one more.”
Tenna’s spine locks up the moment he’s touched, body flexing backward in a harsh curve. “Th-thhhaat’s what you said last time!” His voice pitches up hysterically, screen warping, static fuzzing the edges, head listing to the side as he struggles to keep it upright. Struggles to do anything at all.
Having a little sympathy on him (he’s being good now, so sweet, so out of it that he can barely think), Spamton fishes his cover plate up from the floor and snaps it back into place, admiring the little yelp that escapes from Tenna just from the simple sensation. A snap fit will have to do for now — he’ll put the screws back in later. After this one.
His hips quake uncontrollably as he’s touched. Tenna sobs with every slight movement of his hand, leaning over to hide his face in Spamton’s shoulder, or maybe just to get more touch, more anything, something to distract him from the blinding overstimulating feeling of his palm dragging rough over his spent cock. His claws have yet to disappear, hooked into the fabric of his sleeves. Trying desperately to push through, so overwhelmed that he can’t do anything except let out open-mouthed, delirious noises.
He’s so different like this. Pliant, knocked down a peg. Unable to form coherent thoughts, reduced to pressing his face against Spamton’s shoulder, crying through the white-hot sensation of just being touched. It's unbearable, overwhelming, coasting far into the territory of too much, which also happens to be just the right amount to get him to finally back down.
That’s exactly what Spamton’s been looking for: no room left except to feel and take what he’s given. All he needs is to overwhelm his big head with signals and it finally quiets down about his show, his ratings, his everything.
“We should really do this more often,” Spamton says, amazed, reaching up so he can rest his forehead against the bottom of Tenna’s brilliant red screen. The poor guy is bent over at the waist, shuddering through each movement of Spamton’s hand like he’s in pain. Spamton reaches up, just barely presses his fingers to lift the flap of his VHS slot, and he actually fucking tears up, so sensitive that his entire body shakes.
“Easiest way to get you down, ever. Should snag one of those nasty purring Cyber-World toys, keep it right here — " He taps his finger against the slit of Tenna’s cock, admiring in the way he flinches, hips scissoring up to get away. “ — that would get you all sorted, wouldn’t it?”
Tenna’s mouth opens, closes again, his tongue lathing over his teeth as he tries to get a word out, as he writhes and fails to squirm away from the overwhelming drag of heat. It’s so intense. It’s too intense. “Spuh — Spamt-on — "
“‘Course, that would get kinda difficult to keep on…” He pumps his hand over thoughtfully, lackadasically, with the same absent focus he dedicates to a sweet new ride. “With all your friggin’ bucking bronco behavior.” With his free hand, he traces a shape onto his inner thigh. “Maybe right here. Keep it where it matters.”
As if brainstorming, he suddenly tightens his grip and won’t let up.
Tenna's voice hits a new octave. He jerks his hips hard, fat tears dripping down his screen, and Spamton just chases him, stubbornly attached, determined to see it through.
“Please,” he sobs, his voice high and broken and wet. “Pl—ease, I can’t — "
“Sure you can. Come on, you’re a big thing. You gotta have at least one more in you.” He grinds the heel of his palm into him, one hand breaching the opening of his VHS slot, pressing his fingers in to bully against his internal capstan until Tenna’s voice breaks on a stuttered wail. His legs try one more brave attempt at closing, but he’s shaking so hard that all Spamton needs to do is shove his knee against the couch backing and keep it there. Keep him pinned open, unable to get away, unable to do anything except take it.
His cock drools valiantly, a steady drip of transparent fluid that serves to keep friction to a minimum. “Ugh, I should’ve known this is what would get you to be nice,” Spamton grumbles, putting on the most irritated expression he can. “What a cliché. Big, scary guy just wants someone else to take control? Wants someone to take it away from him?”
Tenna blinks his screen at him, picking up on his unhappiness but too out of it to catch anything else. “I’m sorry,” he whimpers out, teary and not sure of what he’s even apologizing for but desperate for Spamton’s approval again. “M’sorryyy — "
A hand comes up to scratch the side of his plastic casing, too affectionate for what he had promised. No strings attached. “Don’t worry, Tens. I'll take it. I'll keep you."
He’s so far gone. Tenna shudders, presses into his hand, sobs “Thank you,” even though he doesn’t know what he’s thanking him for. His arms tense and untense, trying hard to relax into the sensation even though it borders on agony, trying hard to be good. A far cry from the big personality he puts up.
Spamton knows it’s going to happen before he does. His whole body starts trembling, the plane of his belly canting up and down, tears still welling at the corners of his screen to drip onto the mess of his stomach.
Tenna’s breath stutters, struggling pathetically for a few moments before he gets out, “IthinkI’mgonna — "
“Yeah? You gonna cum?” No, the power isn’t getting to his head. Most certainly not, and especially not with the quiet, whiny uh huh he gets. “Five times, Tenna? You’ve gotta be shooting blanks by this one.”
Tenna moans, panicky and high and almost hurt-sounding. Even like this, he puts on a fantastic show for his audience of one, sinking his canines into his bottom lip even though it doesn’t do anything to silence his speakers. A stray spark of electricity leaps from his open mouth to Spamton’s neck, forcing the muscles in his jaw to jump suddenly. Flickers of static blast his vision, the hairs on the back of his neck raising like the moments before a lightning strike.
“Come on. Gimme one more.” Spamton has to shake fuzz out of his vision, escaping the sparkling-water sensation of Tenna mindlessly drooling onto his shoulder. “Lemme see it.”
His orgasm is dragged out of him, each second of it looking like it borders on agony, the joints in his knees and arms sparking out, static discharging from between his antennas in a spectacular miniature light show. Barely anything comes from it — Spamton’s wrung him dry, a thought that does something absurd to his guts when he thinks about it for too long. Tenna leans his face against Spamton’s shoulder and shudders through the comedown, hiccuping through tears.
Spamton might be the luckiest guy in the world.
“Ha,” Spamton manages, blinking away static. Wow. “Talk about electric.”
A jolt from an improperly-cased wire forces his hand to spasm. His pinky catches on a taut wire and yanks it hard.
Tenna’s screen cuts to black. Once, twice. Spamton has just about enough time to think that was definitely it before he’s flattened by the fully unconscious weight of Tenna’s million-pound metal body.
_______________________________________________________________
“Don’t,” Tenna warns him as soon as he’s conscious enough to, before Spamton can say anything.
"I wasn’t going to — "
“DON’T. Even start.” His newly-freed hand goes up to rub at his face, already clawed. It works at the top of his screen for a few moments, aggressively trying to smooth the frustration crinkle there, before he gives up and puts both palms over where his eyes would be. “I don’t know what that was…”
Spamton leans against the bottom cabinet of Tenna’s vanity, mindlessly working a cigarette back and forth with his jaw instead of smoking it. Tenna gets fussy about smoking indoors, especially in his dressing room. “Seems to me like you enjoyed it. Quite a bit.”
A long, aggressive, humiliated groan escapes from him. “Maybe! Yes! Maybe! I did!!” His hands fly up, prepared to argue with an invisible enemy that is hypothetically shaming him.
Before he has a chance to wallow in his repression shame hole again, Spamton clicks the heel of his dress shoe against the vanity, catching his attention. “Did it help?”
Tenna looks at him, already frazzled and on the verge of another freak-out. It's a shame getting him overstimulated and crying only works to turn his overactive thought process off for about twenty minutes at a time. “Help? With what???”
He takes the cigarette that he’s chewing on out of his mouth to use it to point at Tenna’s chest. “Your pent-up problem. You know.”
“…uh. Oh.” Tenna self-consciously pats his own chest in response, screen blinking like he’s never considered that. “Yeah.” He goes up to scratch the back of his neck, his screen turning rosy. “…thanks. For that. I guess you’re a good mechanic after all.”
Spamton wants to hit him for being cute after getting fucked to the point of fainting. He settles for fishing his lighter out of his pocket, ignoring the dismayed noise Tenna lets out. “No problem, cathode. Anytime.”
Tenna's briefly distracted from his wind-up on smoking indoors. "Anytime??"
Fuck. He didn't mean to say that out loud. Spamton cups his hand over the flame of his lighter despite the fact there's no wind indoors, just to have an excuse to hide his face. "Yeah," he mumbles to his cigarette. "Anytime... you know. You need any more touch-ups. Maintenance stuff."
"Right." Tenna's face glows annoyingly pink, threatening to bloom a flower at him at any moment. "Maintenance stuff. I got it."
"Don't look at me like that."
"I'm not!" He is. Quite obviously, too. Just because he has no eyes doesn't mean Spamton can't tell when he's staring, forgetting about his cigarette in favor of whatever daydream fantasies that had suddenly crossed his mind. "Just... um. Next time I need. Help?"
"Of course," Spamton says easily. "What do you think a good mechanic is for?"