Chapter Text
The purr of the Cungadero's engine rumbled throughout Tenna's entire body, vibrating within his very being in a way that only worked to set his nerves further alight. It hadn't taken him long at all to wind up in his current situation: crammed into the back seat of Spamton's little car with the mailman himself sitting firmly (in more ways than one, folks) in his lap. Their little evening out on the town—or city, he should say—started as a joint-effort in running errands for the studio. Spamton had roped him into the endeavor with a little bit of smooth talk, claiming that all he had to do was tie up a business deal here, secure a sponsor there, and then he'd make tagging along well worth Tenna's while.
When it was put that way, could anyone really blame him for folding so easily?
When the car had rolled to a stop in some barely lit Cyber City alley after the pair finished up their errands, Spamton hadn't even bothered to take the keys out of the ignition before ordering Tenna into the backseat and then promptly crawling back there himself. Any reservations the Dark Lord had about the privacy of their location were wiped from his mind the second he heard that order.
It was a tight fit, to say the least. It didn't help that the car was Spamton-sized, and it certainly didn't help that they didn't even have Darkners as large as him in Cyber City, so it wasn't as though the vehicle was made with a Darkner of Tenna's stature in mind. Controlling his size was hard enough on most days, what with his (very normal) mood swings, but with Spamton kissing him and huffing into his mouth the way he was… well, that made it just impossible. He even had to put one of his shoes up on the center console just so his legs weren't folded so awkwardly, and the way Spamton scolded him for getting shoe prints in his car did absolutely nothing to help his size problem. It really wasn't Tenna's fault—that tone Spamton took whenever he reprimanded him, especially in their current situation, made keeping control of anything that much more difficult.
Spamton panted hotly into Tenna's mouth from his spot in his lap, his little hands deftly unbuttoning his blazer with practiced ease. Tenna could only pant around Spamton's tongue when he felt him tug his dress shirt out of his pants and slip those warm palms up his sides. His fingers curled against the leather of the seat below him on instinct, itching for something to hold onto in the onslaught of sensation.
Spamton's eyes darted to the motion. He pulled back just enough to mutter lowly against Tenna's lips. "If you scratch my upholstery, Ant, I swear…" he warned. It was that sharp, scolding tone again—one that someone might take with a poorly behaved dog.
Tenna jerked his hand up from the leather immediately. He wanted to protest, to huff and pout and say that he wouldn't lose control like that, but he knew that his claws would be poking through his gloves any minute now, so all he could do was nod quickly. "I won't, I won't," he breathed on a ragged exhale. He flexed his fingers in an attempt to get his claws back under control.
Spamton shifted against him with each ragged breath Tenna let out, his chest heaving with every exhale. "Good," he mumbled. Tenna felt the smile against his lips, but he hardly registered it over the sound of that singular word. Good. Tenna replayed the word over and over again in his mind. He was good. The car creaked when he grew a few inches.
His hands fell on Spamton's waist, his fingers overlapping with his current size. The image of wrapping just one hand around Spamton's middle, squeezing just slightly so his thumb and middle finger touched, flashed in Tenna's mind with such a bright intensity that he had to take a moment to suck in a shuddering breath. His grip tightened just slightly on Spamton's waist. He felt Spamton shudder against him; he felt the resulting moan vibrate against his lips when he used his hold to rock Spamton's hips down into his, dragging him along the tented fabric of his slacks.
Tenna watched, slack-jawed, trembling, as their cocks rubbed together, separated only by the fabric between them. Angel, it was a sight. The way Spamton jerked and shuddered at a particularly hard drag had Tenna biting back a filthy whine. Much more of this, and Tenna would end up rolling the credits far too early.
He made to warn Spamton, huffing a soft "Spammy, I…" that came out far whinier than he intended.
"I know, big guy, I know," Spamton mumbled on a shaky gasp, his nose brushing Tenna's as he patted at his hands. "Lemme get offa you and we can get the real party started, yeah?"
Tenna's fingers twitched on Spamton's hips. The offer sounded enticing, but at the same time the idea of Spamton putting any distance between them made Tenna frown. That word from moments ago flickered in his mind. He wanted to be good. Slowly, shakily, he released Spamton, earning a smile—that devastating, heart-stopping smile—and a quick pat on the chest.
The air was getting thicker, hotter—he noticed the windows fogging in his peripheral, likely due to the hot steam practically pouring from the vents on Tenna's head and body. Condensation rolled down the glass in thick drops, turning the view beyond the car into a mosaic of distant twinkling lights. It couldn't compare to the sight in front of him, though—Spamton slipped off of Tenna's lap and knelt between Tenna's parted legs, bathed in the rosy glow of Tenna's screen and the far-off neon lights of the city. There, looking up at Tenna with those half-lidded eyes, Spamton was the most beautiful thing Cyber City had to offer.
Tenna's hands hovered awkwardly, his claws sheathing and unsheathing on instinct as he watched Spamton's hands slide up and up Tenna's thighs. The clinking of Tenna's belt buckle was practically deafening over the sound of their panted breaths as Spamton slid his belt open. Tenna had to bite down on his knuckle to stop the pathetic noise that crawled up his throat when Spamton's hands grazed him in his effort to open Tenna's pants.
Spamton grumbled half-heartedly under his breath about Tenna's stupidly tight pants (which were in style and very fashionable, Tenna wanted to retort) as he popped the button and pulled the zipper down. The words stalled and stumbled in his mouth when Tenna saw the small damp spot on the front of his TV Time branded boxers and Spamton's resulting laugh. Tenna had to look away.
"Angel above, Tens. Look at you," Spamton hummed lowly as he grazed his knuckles up over Tenna's arousal just to hook his fingers in the waistband of his boxers. Tenna yelped as Spamton snapped the elastic against his hip, a startled reprimand on the tip of his tongue—until, of course, Spamton finally pulled his boxers down enough to free him.
"Son of a–" Tenna shivered, biting down harder on his knuckle as the cool air washed over him. Hot air puffed from his vents in a shaking exhale. Everything inside Tenna was tensed, drawn up tight in the anticipation of touch, waiting (patiently, he'd like to add) for Spamton's hands, or mouth, or anything at all. When no such thing came, Tenna turned his head back to Spamton, the upper edge of his casing pinched together as pried his hand free of his bite. "What are you…"
He trailed off when he looked down and only saw Spamton looking up at him, a reverent smile quirking his lips. He let out a soft, teasing chuckle when he registered Tenna's questioning look. "Sorry, just can't get over how good you look," he mumbled with another breathless laugh. His little hand curled around Tenna's base, holding him steady as he leaned in. "Things I'd give for a camera right now. Wanna get a picture a' you like this, make it last longer…"
Oh.
All of Tenna's higher functions ceased at the sound of those words and the feeling of Spamton's breath ghosting over his cock. The idea of Spamton having a picture of him like this, clothes a mess, screen bright red, his cock hard and weeping against his navel—it sent a rush of heat through him so violent that he couldn't stop the way his hand flew to his thigh, his claws tearing through his gloves and poking through his slacks. His hips jerked up of their own accord, and he came with a shuddering cry.
When Tenna's good sense returned to him, he pried his claws from his thigh and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth to wipe the spit no-doubt dripping down his screen. The static slowly cleared from behind his eyes just enough for him to see–
"Nice goin', hotshot."
"Spamton! I am so sorry, oh my– Wow, wow, I just–" Tenna sputtered, reality clocking him in the head when he saw Spamton sitting between his legs with an unimpressed look and Tenna's cum dripping down his face. He fumbled for the handkerchief tucked inside his suit blazer, quickly leaning down to dab at the mess he made. Red-hot shame curled in his gut as he cupped Spamton's face in one hand cleaned him with the other. "I didn't– I, I mean, gosh, I really am sorry," he practically babbled.
"Relax," Spamton sighed, a wry smile playing at his lips despite the situation, "that was just a little quick, even for you."
Tenna's screen turned an even brighter shade of red. He ducked his head further. The hot air pouring from his vents came from the embarrassment burning in his gut rather than the arousal from earlier. He frowned when he heard Spamton laughing at him.
Tenna finished cleaning up Spamton and pulled back slightly. He had shrunk a bit from embarrassment, now fitting comfortably in the back of the car. "Quit pouting!" Spamton laughed.
"Wh– I'm not!" Tenna yelped in return. When he noticed his lips naturally turning downward he turned his screen off.
Spamton rose and shook his head, that wide grin still on his face. So he wasn't disappointed, then…? Tenna grew a few inches. He was still good.
He went easily when Spamton eased him to lay back along the seats. "So what did it, huh?" Spamton asked. He crawled over Tenna, straddling his thigh just to press his still-present hard-on into Tenna's hip. "Was it the teasing?" Spamton kissed up Tenna's pecs, his lips brushing over the vents on his chest lightly enough to make Tenna squirm. Spamton shifted, pressing his hips against where Tenna's cock lay against his tummy. Tenna swallowed around the words in his throat. Spamton spoke first. "Was it me sayin' I wanted a picture of you? You like being on camera that much?" Spamton's voice dropped to a deadly whisper against the wires of Tenna's throat.
Tenna slapped both of his hands over his darkened screen, squirming away from Spamton's deadly lips. He felt his internals heating up beyond what was safe, and he had far too many clothes on for the vents along his body to do their jobs, but he couldn't bring himself to care about anything beyond the Darkner grinding against him.
This—everything about the situation—was absolutely mortifying. He was a television Darkner, for crying out loud! He was made to be on screen, to be captured on camera. Deriving anything but an entirely innocent sense of euphoria from entertaining—no, serving—others would be absolutely deviant! Downright perverse! Beyond that, he was a Dark Lord. He was a shining star of authority; he had a reputation to uphold, an appearance to maintain. If his employees knew about the twisted pleasure he got from the idea of being filmed in such a manner, he'd… well, he'd…
He was hard again. Achingly so.
Spamton noticed, because of course he did, and grinned smugly down at Tenna. He opened his mouth to say something, no doubt to belittle him.
"I do not want to talk about it!" Tenna announced quickly, interjecting before Spamton could speak. Flipping his screen back on, he grabbed Spamton around the waist and flipped them in a quick motion. Spamton let out a startled "oof" when his back hit the leather seat. "In fact, I think we should move on! Right! Now! You know how it is, stay on one scene too long and the viewers get bored!" The words unfortunately brought to mind the idea of viewers, of having an audience during something like this, and Tenna throbbed. Damn it.
Spamton smirked up at Tenna despite his position like he had another witty retort. To remedy this, Tenna yanked Spamton's slacks down and licked firmly over the front of his briefs. "Whatever you sa-ah, fuck!" Spamton moaned, cutting himself off halfway through his sentence when he felt Tenna's tongue.
The rest of the evening, Spamton didn't bring up the camera thing again. On the drive back to TV World, Tenna sent a prayer to the Angel that Spamton would forget about it, or at least have the decency to drop it. For Tenna's sake.
It had been days since the pair's rendezvous in the back of Spamton's Cungadero, and Tenna was starting to feel optimistic about his little "camera thing" never being mentioned again. In fact, Tenna was so optimistic that he didn't even think twice when Spamton invited him back to Cyber City after hours for an encore. He was terribly weak for his little mailman, to say the absolute least.
The bed frame beneath Tenna creaked with each of Spamton's hard thrusts, the wood whining in harmony with the slap of Spamton's hips against Tenna's ass and Tenna's own breathy moans. Every now and then, the headboard knocked loudly against the wall, only adding to the cacophony of noise coming from the pair. Tenna always warned Spamton that one of the Swatchlings would file a noise complaint one day, but Spamton only seemed to take that as a personal challenge to see how many noises he could wring from Tenna until someone said something.
Tenna certainly didn't have the wherewithal to keep his volume under control, that was for sure. Every thrust had him keening and rocking his hips back into the feeling of Spamton's cock filling him up again and again. His thighs were shaking, his mechanics whirring and clicking with the strain of the position: Tenna on his front, his knees keeping his ass raised as his chest pressed into the mattress.
His screen was damp with drool—not tears, yet—and the vents on his shoulders puffed hot steam. If he had eyes, he knew for a fact that they'd be rolling back in his head.
Tenna tightened his fingers in the sheets, making sure to keep his claws sheathed—Spamton had told him earlier not to rip or tear his sheets, and Tenna desperately wanted to be good (even if he did think Spamton's sheets were cheap faux silk and could do with some replacing). He slid his right hand beneath him, pressing against the softer silicone of his belly. He wanted Spamton to ruin his internals, to distend the material until Tenna could feel the head of his cock pressing against his palm through his navel.
With a great deal of focus, Tenna slowly shrank around Spamton's cock. Spamton trembled and gasped behind him, his hands clapping down on Tenna's hips. "Motherfucker– shit, warn a guy!" Spamton groaned, pressing himself deep as he felt Tenna squeeze tighter around him.
"'m sorry, s-sorry, I just wanted–" Tenna let out a low whine, shoulders tensing as he arched his back. He moaned when he pressed his hand down and felt the swell of Spamton's cockhead through his silicone tummy. He trembled, moaning a soft "yesss," at the feeling.
"Ohhhh, Angel, is that it?" Spamton's voice shook when Tenna palmed at the bulge. He pulled out slightly and slammed his hips back in. Hard. Tenna choked on a moan. "You like being filled that badly?" Spamton didn't even let him answer, laughing shakily. Tenna was being laughed at, ridiculed, and he couldn't get enough of it. "Yeah, I know you fuckin' do."
Tenna writhed under Spamton's hard thrusts. They weren't very fast, but the way he pulled back before punching back inside back Tenna's voice shake with every cry. His voice pitched higher every time Spamton's hips met his, his wailing growing louder in tandem. He had half a mind to be embarrassed of the sounds he was making, the high and girlish moans Spamton drew from him, but he couldn't feel anything but mind-numbing pleasure in that moment.
"Please!" he sobbed. It was the only word in his mind, and his tumbled from his lips unbidden. "Plee-ease– please– d-don't stop, please don't stop, Spamton," he babbled. He wished, honestly, that he had something more intelligent to say, that he were able to voice any of the praise he had or the declarations of undying affection building in his chest, but none came. He was awfully close to sinking into that fuzzy headspace where words evaded him entirely.
Spamton groaned beautifully behind Tenna, raking his nails up Tenna's thighs. "Well—fuck—when you ask like that," Spamton panted. Tenna bit his lip and whined his gratitude.
He hoped desperately that Spamton was close, that he'd fill Tenna with his spend until it dripped out of him. He wanted to watch it run down his thighs. That train of thought summoned the image of himself, back arched in a whorish display, as footage from a handheld camera showed Spamton's cum dribbling from his abused hole.
Tenna tensed all over as the fantasy hit him square in the face. Horrible warmth raged within him, shooting down to his leaking dick. Oh, Angel, save him; to think those sort of things when Spamton suggested it was bad enough, but for him to think of it on his own? He couldn't do anything but grab fistfuls of the sheets in both hands, desperately trying not to cum from the thought of being recorded, of being ruined and then put on camera.
He lost all ability to contain his noises—if he even had it in the first place—as his focused turned instead to making sure he didn't prematurely embarrass himself for the second time that week. He gasped and moaned, his voice cracking as Spamton kept driving deeper and deeper into him, the heat building low in his circuits. The harder he tried not to think about the depraved fantasy, the brighter it burned in his mind.
Just as he thought he had himself under control, Spamton spoke.
"Angel, you sound so fuckin' good, Tens. Wonder if you'd sound the same if I gotcha on film."
Tenna's screen flickered as electricity surged inside him. His entire body shook and tensed as he came, a broken moan escaping him as his circuits blazed hotter and hotter. He heard Spamton curse loudly, he felt him press his hips flush against Tenna's ass once more, and then he felt the rush of sticky warmth flood his internals.
The time between feeling Spamton fill him and feeling little hands on Tenna's casing could've been as long as a couple seconds or a few hours, as far as Tenna was aware. He had to manually turn his screen back on as he felt Spamton pet at his head and shoulders, which were no doubt scorching. He noticed that he was laying on his side. He blinked away the snow in his vision to find Spamton's face smiling softly down at him.
"Hey there, superstar," he cooed. Tenna wanted to push his face against Spamton's touch, but moving felt akin to genuine torture in that moment. He simply made a small hum of acknowledgement. "There you are. Hard landing, eh?" Spamton tilted his head, brushing his knuckles against the warm glass of Tenna's face.
"Mmm," Tenna said, eloquently.
Spamton huffed a small laugh. "I'll wager my bets that you still don't wanna talk about it, huh?" Spamton teased.
Right. Because of course Spamton noticed.
Hot embarrassment rolled over Tenna. "Ugh," he whined, putting his arm up over his face. He flipped his screen off for good measure. "Don't look at me…" he mumbled, his voice soft and pouty. He wondered how much effort it would take to snap his fingers and Scene Shift back to TV World. Too much effort, he decided immediately afterwards.
"Y'see, 's a little hard when you're looking at me," Spamton hummed. His fingers grazed Tenna's cock, which—because it was apparently Cyber City's Comedy Special and Tenna was the star—was still mortifyingly hard. Thankfully, Spamton's touch was short-lived.
"Ant, Tens, baby–" and oh, Tenna was a sucker for pet names, "–I think you're getting your wires crossed over a buncha nothin'," Spamton started, his voice soft. "So what if you like being on camera? I mean, it's practically what you were built for!"
That was the issue, wasn't it? Tenna was built to entertain in a wholesome, good-natured manner. He was for others to watch and enjoy; he wasn't supposed to get off on it!
Tenna whined and tried to cover more of his face with his arms. Spamton sighed. He paused a moment, then asked slowly, "…do you like it?"
Tenna froze. He could say no. He could say he hated it, that it crossed the line for him and the topic would never get brought up again. Spamton would back off. He could lie.
Slowly, Tenna nodded his head.
He was thankful for his foresight in turning his screen off; had it been on, he knew it would've been bright red. Tenna heard Spamton sigh and shift next to him. He resisted the urge to shrink. "Then what's the problem? You like it. Hell, you know how I feel about it–"
"I don't want to talk about it," Tenna mumbled into his arms, turning his head into the sheets. Shame burnt red-hot in his chest.
He heard Spamton sigh beside him. "Alright, have it your way, big guy. Won't say another word." Tenna tilted his head up from his hands just in time to see Spamton miming zipping his mouth shut. Spamton leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to the side of Tenna's casing. "You still want me to take care of you?" he hummed, low and soft.
Tenna's heart swelled with enough love to overpower the shame in his gut. He was still hard…
He nodded his head. Spamton smiled, and Tenna flipped his screen on for Spamton to press a quick kiss to his lips.
"Also, you owe me a new set of sheets." Spamton shifted, revealing where Tenna had ripped Spamton's sheets to ribbons in the heat of the moment.
Tenna offered a sheepish smile. "They were cheap anyway," he joked, and pulled Spamton back down into another kiss. Spamton only put up a little bit of a fight for his own dignity, before melting into Tenna completely.