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Tenna’s been eye-fucking his co-host from the moment that Mike yelled cut.
Spamton and Tenna are kind of an open secret around TV World—they’ve never really told anyone they’re together, but all of their employees know what the co-hosts get up to in their spare time. After a good show, if the whole crew is celebrating, the two of them usually find a way to slip out of there pretty quickly, and nobody asks where they’re at. The answer’s kind of obvious—the bosses are making good use of their hard-earned free time.
Tenna is certain that tonight won’t be an exception. So pretty quickly after the drinks start flowing in the Green Room, he’s looking for an opening to sneak off with Spamton. Sue him—he’s excited. The show had been a smash hit, tonight, and he’s feeling energized, the delirium of an overworked week transformed into a dizzy, pent-up, giddy haze. He’s only half-listening to the Pippins that’s talking his ear off about some game or another he’s setting up, eyes roving the room for his smaller counterpart, trying to give him some kind of subtle signal.
Fuck, Spamton had looked good tonight. Smooth and broad-shouldered, stark black hair slicked down against his neck, top buttons of his shirt undone. The light seems to reflect off of him, lighting up his dazzling, half-mouth smile, his shiny black eyes. He holds himself in this loose, confident kind of way, and Tenna’s sort of hypnotized by the way his body moves. Of course, Spamton likes it like that.
His co-host can be, for lack of a better word, controlling. He presents himself as laid-back, but he’s specific about what he wants, when he wants it—and he never stops until he gets it. He’d come on strong to Tenna, demanding him in that possessive, authoritative tone that leaves no room for argument or dismissal. He’s the first person who’s ever told Tenna what to do. If Tenna has his way, he’ll be the only person, too. Spamton doesn’t really feel the need to claim his power in front of their employees, either—he knows he has Tenna wrapped around his finger, and chooses to revel in it when it’s just the two of them. The CRT shivers, distracted. Where is he, anyway?
The room is fairly crowded, and Tenna’s scanning it for his mailman, eyes roving over the throng, trying to pick him out. He sips his drink as he does, feeling the pleasant buzz that’s starting to creep in.
He’s looking for a few minutes, letting the Pippins ramble on, when—
“[Cathode].” Spamton appears at his side, corner of his mouth quirked up, and rests a hand on his hip. “CAN I [Steel] YA FOR A SEC? SORRY, PAL,” he says vaguely to the dice-man, not sounding particularly apologetic at all.
“Uh, I was–” The Pippins replies, but Tenna’s already being tugged away.
“GREAT.” The salesman’s hand wraps around his as they walk through the door to the dressing rooms, heading back to their private, shared one.
“I was looking for you,” Tenna says softly as they walk.
“YOU [Found] ME,” Spamton replies, swinging their dressing room door open, then locking it behind them with a soft click that makes Tenna fully aware that the Addison wants exactly what he does right now.
Spamton drops his hand, turning to face him. He beckons for Tenna to come closer, and the television shrinks a couple of feet so their size difference is somewhat more manageable. Then, his face is pulled in for a rough kiss, Spamton grasping the back of his head, pulling his body in close.
“GOOD SHOW,” his co-host murmurs, voice hot. “YOU LOOKED [Delicious] OUT THERE.”
Tenna blushes furiously, feeling his tail begin to wag at the praise. “S-so did you,” he replies eagerly.
“MMM.” Spamton releases him, stepping back, then moving over to sit on the large, red couch. He spreads his legs, then cocks an eyebrow at Tenna, expression cool.
“SIT.” He gestures to the floor in front of him.
Face growing more flushed, somehow, Tenna scrambles over to the couch and kneels in front of Spamton, his tail thumping against the floor wildly as he positions himself between his knees. Lazily, Spamton leans forward, and grabs his tie loosely in his hand.
“[Good puppy],” he replies, giving it a little tug. Tenna feels his dick twitch in his pants, starting to stiffen. He gazes up at his partner. “YOU PUT ON A [Good Show], DON’T YOU? [ACT]ING LIKE YOU DIDN’T JUST WANT ME TO DRAG YOU IN HERE AND FUCK YOU RIGHT WHEN WE WENT OFF THE AIR.” He leans forward a bit. “I KNOW YOU’VE BEEN WAITING FOR IT. I KNOW YOU’VE BEEN DESPERATE TO BE A GOOD LITTLE PUP FOR ME, HAVEN’T YOU?”
Tenna nods furiously, lips parting as his fangs begin to extend. He has. He really, really has. He’s been wanting this all day—fuck, all week—and all he has to do to get it is be good. He can be good. He wants to be good. “I—”
Spamton tuts, cutting him off. “DOGS DON’T [Speak!] UNLESS THEY’RE ORDERED TO, DO THEY?”
Tenna shakes his head, rocking back on his heels, feeling his dick get harder, starting to ache for some friction. His mouth is still slightly open, and he feels himself beginning to pant, tongue slipping past his fangs.
“[No]. NO, THEY DON’T.” Spamton leans forward, pulling the tie close to him, tugging Tenna in, then reaches down for the collar of his button-up shirt.
“STRIP,” he commands. “LEAVE THE [Tie-On].”
Immediately, Tenna’s wiggling out of his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt, and tossing them both on the floor a ways away. Then, he unbuckles his belt and takes off his pants and shoes, leaving him in his socks and boxers when Spamton holds up a finger, requesting that he stop. The other man has simply undone two more buttons on his own collared shirt, evidently hot underneath it. But, as he pulls Tenna in by the tie once more, he’s removing his own belt.
“SO EAGER,” Spamton mutters, “HOW ABOUT WE PUT THAT MOUTH TO [Work]?”
Tenna’s tail thrashes against the carpet as he nods, salivating. Spamton grabs the back of Tenna’s neck, bringing his mouth down to his crotch. Immediately the CRT is nuzzling at the noticeable bulge in the salesman’s pants, mouthing it as if requesting entry, feeling it strain more against the fabric.
“SUCH A FUCKING [Cock-Whore],” his partner mutters, letting out a pleased little sigh. “ALWAYS [Begging] TO SUCK DICK, AREN’T YOU?” He unbuttons and unzips his pants, pulling his lengthy dick out of his boxers. Tenna’s mouth floods with saliva, his brain going fuzzy as a hand strokes between his antennae. “DIRTY MUTT. MAY AS [Well] PUT YOU TO [Use].” He tugs the television down once more, and Tenna sees this as permission, opening his mouth and taking in the head of Spamton’s dick.
He swirls his tongue around it, his mouth wet, then moves down on the cock a bit further, sucking in his cheeks, licking along the bottom and up the tip. He’s drooling around it already.
Spamton groans, leaning back, resting a hand loosely on Tenna’s head. “THAT’S A GOOD BOY,” he grunts as Tenna begins to bob up and down on it. The CRT feels a whine slip out in response, his dick throbbing between his legs, desperate for some stimulation. He clenches his thighs together, but keeps his hands in place on Spamton’s legs, not daring to attempt to touch himself.
He leans down, taking in the dick up to its base, slobbering on it as he wraps his long, thick tongue around as much of it as he can take in, feeling the tip hit the back of his throat, his nose pressing against Spamton’s balls, taking in the musky, salty scent and shuddering. His partner had been right, earlier. Tenna fucking loves cock. Especially Spamton’s.
His co-host starts to thrust slowly into Tenna’s mouth, and the CRT relaxes his throat to take it as deep as possible, a low, satisfied noise escaping him. As Spamton bucks into him, he reaches a hand up to tug on the television’s antennae, sending a painful tingle of pleasure down his spine, then working him up as he jerks on them gently. Tenna’s grinding against the floor, a little, feeling filthy. He needs it—needs the stimulation, the pressure, needs Spamton’s dick down his throat and up his ass and oh, fuck, he’s practically leaking—
“SUCH A LITTLE SLUT [4 Me], Spamton growls, forcing Tenna’s head down further as he begins to thrust up into his mouth, “SUCH A DIRTY FUCKING [Puppy].” He groans, and Tenna starts to whine again, still not daring to thrust into a hand. “I SHOULD BRING YOU OUT, MAKE YOU [Suck Anonymous Dick] IN [Men’s Restroom Stall,] NEXT TIME I NEED A REAL SHOW, HUH? I BET YOU’D LOVE THAT. PUTTING ON A PERFORMANCE FOR ME TO WATCH, LIKE SOME GODDAMN [Cheap Trick]? FUCKING WHORE.” The salesman’s bucking into his mouth with abandon now, his voice low and throaty.
Tenna nods rapidly, the image of him on his knees, Spamton bending him over as he sucks some random man’s cock on some dirty bar bathroom floor making him moan around his partner’s dick—the idea of Spamton whispering praises in his ear, urging him on, cock pressed up against Tenna’s asshole, is making him grind his hips up against one of Spamton’s legs, desperate to get some stimulation, brain mushy with a mindless need.
“YOU’RE PATHETIC, PUPPY,” Spamton huffs, “HUMPING MY FUCKING [Leg] LIKE A FILTHY ANIMAL TO [Get Off Quick]?” He pushes Tenna back with a foot, voice commanding, “STAY. BE A GOOD BOY AND [Wait Your Turn].”
Tenna whines, overcome with lust, unable to speak around Spamton’s cock. The salesman is practically pistoning into the CRT’s mouth now, and Tenna’s staring to taste precum, lapping hungrily at the tip, wanting more when, suddenly, he’s pulled off of his partner by the antennae with a pop. He makes a disappointed little sound.
“NOT YET,” the salesman huffs, grinning down at him. “TAKE OFF THOSE [Boxers or Breifs], BITCH.” Tenna discards them easily, dick fully out in the air now, leaking precum as well. Soon, Spamton’s clothes are discarded too, and Tenna’s unabashedly staring at his pale, stocky body, salivating.
“GOOD BOY, SO [Hard] FOR ME,” Spamton purrs, inspecting him, and Tenna rolls his hips into the air. “GET ON HERE, ASS UP,” he orders, patting a cushion, and Tenna crawls up onto the couch beside him on all fours, arching his back, resting on his elbows, and pressing his face down into the fabric.
“SO [Obedient,]” the salesman observes. “YOU’RE DOING SO WELL, [Angel]. SUCH A GOOD LITTLE PUPPY. YOU’LL KEEP BEING [Good], WON’T YOU?”
Tenna nods into the fabric, his whine muffled.
Spamton clicks his tongue, dissatisfied, a hand coming up to rest on Tenna’s ass, a cold, lubed finger pressing at the edge of his hole. “I WANT TO [Hear you] SAY IT.”
“I-I’ll be good,” Tenna pants obediently, “I’ll be a good boy, I p-promise—nnh!” He moans as a smooth, slick digit is pressed, all at once, into his hole.
“THAT’S WHAT I [Thot].” The finger curls upwards for a moment, and Tenna tries to buck back against it, but a mannequin-hand grabs his hip, stilling him. “DON’T FUCKING [Move It].” Achingly slowly, a second finger joins the first, filling him up a little more—but still not enough. More, he wants to beg, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, please—
He cries out as the two fingers begin to open him up, scissoring inside of him, curling up towards his prostate. His legs have begun to shake, a little, his dick nearly painfully hard, untouched, weeping precum. A third finger joins the first two, thrusting in quickly, pushing in and out, prepping him—then, just as fast as it entered, all three are gone. He feels empty.
“F-fuck,” he moans, the words coming involuntarily as he wiggles his hips, “please, please—”
A hand comes down, smacking his ass hard. Tenna’s breath hitches on a moan. He shudders from the pain.
“DID I FUCKING [Tell You] TO SPEAK?” Another smack. “BAD DOG.”
The CRT whines by way of apology, his mind fuzzy, desperate for both stimulation and to be a good boy, a good dog, to please his partner by being as obedient as possible.
A hand comes down quickly to stroke at his dick, pumping up and down in quick jerks that make him cry out in sudden pleasure. Then, the hand retreats, and his breath goes ragged as feels Spamton’s hips line up against his, rolling forward as his tip presses up against Tenna’s hot, tight hole. The CRT tries to stay very still, despite his desperation to be fucked brainless by Spamton’s dick. Please, please please, pleaseplease put it in—
Slowly, the tip pushes into him, stretching him around it, teasing in and out for a moment, before the length of Spamton’s cock slams inside with a rough, desperate thrust. Tenna gasps, then a whimper of pleasure escapes him. He’s full, and it feels so good.
“THAT’S IT,” the Addison growls, “FUCKING TAKE IT.” Tenna moans whorishly, desperate and high-pitched. “LEMME HEAR YOU, PUPPY,” his partner urges, and Tenna moans again.
“Y-yes,” he pants, “oh, fuck, yes—”
The salesman begins to move inside of him, pumping in and out slowly, rhythmically, as Tenna’s claws dig into the couch cushions, as long, loud noises begin to escape him, volume uncontrollable.
“I BET YOU’D LIKE FOR EVERYONE [In the Studio Today] TO HEAR, HUH?” Spamton hisses, “I BET YOU WANT THEM ALL TO KNOW WHO YOU BELONG TO, YOU [Dirty Slut]!” He starts to move faster, hips snapping. “TELL ME,” he barks, “TELL ME WHO YOU [Belong] TO!”
“You,” Tenna cries feverishly, immediately feeling the thrusts pick up in pace, Spamton’s dick hitting his prostate as he’s bent over further, back arched, face pushed hard into the couch. “You, you, Spamton, f-fuck—oh, fuck, I-I’m yours, all yours!”
Two hands grab at his hips, fingers pressing in hard enough to bruise, and pull his hips back, flush with Spamton’s. “THAT’S [Rite]. TH-THAT’S MY GOOD FUCKING PUPPY—OH, SHIT—[Shit], TENS—SO TIGHT—”
He starts to lose control, thrusting wildly inside of Tenna, bending over him, chest pressed to Tenna’s back, to grab at his antennae, pull his head back, and bite down at his shoulder, deep enough to leave marks. Tenna’s legs are shaking, hard, and he’s squealing and whining like an animal, feeling Spamton bottom out inside of him—it’s so good, so unimaginably good, he feels so fucking full—
Tenna would let Spamton make him his bitch forever, if he wanted to. He would let Spamton use him like a goddamn toy, getting off inside of him and then leaving him crumpled on the couch, he would leave everything, do anything to be fucked like this, do anything to make his mailman feel good—and just knowing that, feeling so completely owned, brings Tenna to the edge.
“F-fuck,” he whimpers, “fuck, cum in me, please, breed me—” He clenches around Spamton’s dick, wanting to feel that hot, slick come inside of him, hips rocking back against his thrusts, pulling the cock in deeper.
“Y-YEAH?” Spamton’s fingernails dig in, and his voice is right in Tenna’s ear as he huffs, “YOU WANT IT? YOU WANT ME TO FUCKING [Cum] IN YOU? E-EARN IT. [Show Me] YOU WANT IT, MUTT.”
Tenna’s thrusting back against him, throwing his head back when Spamton’s teeth sink in again, letting filthy, unholy, loud moans slip out of his throat, eyes watering, dick weeping, begging, throbbing as he approaches the edge.
“Please,” he begs, “Fuck, Spamt-on, nngh, fuck, just like that, harder, fuck, please, I wanna be good, tell me I’m good, I-ll do anything, I-I’ll be your fucking dog, just t-tell me—mgh, more, fuck, fuck!” Tenna’s so close, he’s seeing stars, as his partner’s hand wraps around his cock once more—
“THAT’S IT, PUPPY, S-SO GOOD,” Spamton says, breath ragged, “YOU GONNA FUCKING [Come for me]? YOU GONNA LET ME BREED YOU, BABY?” He thrusts harder, jolting Tenna’s hips forward, sliding Spamton’s hand up and down his dick, pumping it up and down—
That puts Tenna over the limit. He comes all over Spamton’s hand and his own stomach, splattering it onto the couch cushions as he screams out his climax. He feels himself twitching, the aftershocks passing through him, hole weak.
But, as it passes, Spamton doesn’t stop moving.
He’s still rock-hard and throbbing inside him, slamming in and out so fast, thrusting up against him, hand still jerking at Tenna’s dick—
The overstimulation makes him whine, loudly, and his cock twitches at the sensation, his eyes pricking with tears as the thrusts keep coming, as his partner grips his dick, jerking at it until the one inside him starts to spasm in turn—
Tenna finds himself shooting weak spurts of jizz, cumming again as Spamton fills him, shooting his seed up into Tenna, painting his insides with it, breeding him, pressing their hips together to keep it inside—
Then, all of a sudden, Spamton pulls out, and they both collapse, limbs shaking, into a pile of sweaty limbs.
Tenna groans, legs flopping out from under him and extending slightly off the edge of the couch, Spamton laying on top of his back, sweating and shivering a bit.
Groaning, he turns onto his side, sending the Addison sliding off of his back and into the space between him and the back of the couch, then reaching out his long arms, drawing the smaller man in close to his chest.
Spamton sighs, smooth body slick with sweat, lube, and fluids, and leans into the hold. “HOLY [Shit],” he murmurs, exhausted.
“Yeah,” Tenna murmurs, pressing his face into the crook of Spamton’s neck, placing a kiss there and reveling in the tiny shudder he receives for his efforts. “Fuck.”
Arms wind around his waist. “YOU’RE [Unbeatable], GORGEOUS. NOBODY EVEN [Comes Close].” A peck on his screen. “YOU’RE THE [Best in the Biz].”
Tenna finds himself letting out a delirious, fucked-out little giggle. “You’re sweet to me,” he mumbles, feeling drowsy.
“ONLY WHEN I’VE JUST [Fucked Your Brains Out],” Spamton shoots back, equally sleepy.
“You wish,” Tenna murmurs. “Can’t fool me with y’r little act. You’ve got a soft spot for me.” It’s true. There are transparent moments of care, with them—flashes of something realer than either of them have ever known. Something like love. The CRT smiles against his partner’s shoulder, and the salesman just lets out a little huff.
“‘M [Two Tired] TO ARGUE ON THAT,” he mumbles, snuggling up closer, “THINK THEY’LL [Come and Find Us] IF WE JUST FALL ASLEEP?”
“Door’s locked,” Tenna manages, “‘N besides, they know to stay away. We’ll be up for the show in the morning.”
A sleepy, wordless nod. Tenna feels himself slipping past the point of words as well.
If anyone were to find them—which his employees have the good sense not to—he’s not sure he would even care.
So, together, exhausted by their tryst and their week, the partners fall asleep together, and do not rouse until morning.