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"Camera Two, sir."
Battat watches from his spot at the floor with the crew, standing next to said camera, as Tenna's antennae spring up ramrod straight, and to any other darkner, that would be the extent of his change in demeanor, as he continues his act on the stage, babbling away at the audience and addressing his contestants with that loud and incredibly animated energy he always has.
But Battat has analyzed this man long and hard enough—seen him beyond the layers of showmanship and professionalism—to notice the way his shoulders tense under the red fabric, how his smile pinches and how he talks with a little more teeth. That CRT head tilts to the smallest degree in Battat's direction, and he responds in turn with his own mouth twitch; almost smirking, but holds it back, lest he break the subtlety of this exchange.
Feeling bold, he casually puts one hand in his pocket, and brings the other one up to the mic on his headset. He holds the foamy tip closer to his mouth so he can murmur, "good, like that," and bask in the way Tenna drags a syllable out mid-sentence in a barely concealed whine. The hand resting on the podium grips onto the corner it rests on, more teeth are bared, and he even gets a funny collar tug after humming approvingly into the mic.
He might be on a bit of a power trip.
What had started out as experimental after their hasty little fling (if it can even be called that when they made no contact), with Battat testing the waters on the extent of Tenna's little infatuation with his voice, very soon became a game of sorts. After quickly having to get over the fact that his boss had been thinking about another man during their escapade—so that he can dress up and pretend to be said man for the night, all in its tense and awkward glory—he paid close attention to how Tenna acted towards him as Mike. It didn't take much to connect the dots, and it made Battat all the more determined to make sure Mike no longer got all the credit for using his voice to get Tenna off.
After all, it was Battat—unmasked—that got to witness Tenna in a much more intimate and vulnerable manner than even Mike had ever been graced with before.
And that had to mean something, right?
So of course he didn't "lose the channel" as commanded to, not when he literally needs it when he's on his Mike shift. No, he proceeded to use his exclusive access to it to his full advantage. Beginning small, a simple praise or two spoken into the mic after a show, under the guise of "accidentally" switching feeds. It would make Tenna stop on his tracks, give Battat a sideways glance, but he didn't scold the pippins, so he got more daring. He would hit the show host in the middle of his segments while giving orders to the floor crew—and when that proved to have no consequence other than making Tenna rush off the set as soon as the lightners stopped watching, his actions became even more brazen; finding every excuse he can to purr straight to the CRT's antennae throughout his shift.
Now Battat is just seeing how long it takes for him to crack.
The mundane instructions aren't even necessary, considering the setup, yet Tenna follows every little order he gives, to the point where he has blatantly stopped paying attention to the camera's cue lights and awaits Battat's signals instead. Thankfully the pippins has a keen eye for it, and Tenna's lapse in reaction time can be written off as exhaustion from this weekend-long marathon session.
"Back to One now." Battat says, but takes his stroll to the opposite end of the stage, away from Tenna's peripheral, and giving him a better view of his long legs behind the podium. He can see it in Tenna's posture that the show host is wondering where he went and promptly adds, "I'm to your left. Got a nice view from here."
Tenna's weight shifts foot-to-foot in contemplation before he makes his stance more relaxed, leaning to prop his elbows on the podium and crossing one ankle behind the other, so his back curves down deliciously so; just out of view from the camera angle for the pippins's eyes to feast upon. Antennae twist around one another at the amused chuckle Battat breaths out, but Tenna manages to make it look all so purposeful with the way he slyly leans towards one of the contestants on the stage and gives them a witty remark that triggers the laugh track. Oh, this is fun.
And the next half-hour segment is filled with that. Little remarks here and there, comments letting Tenna know what's coming up, or what angles look best and how he should pose for it, and it's like he's become Battat's obedient dog, doing just about everything he tells the man to do. He can tell Tenna has been positively marveling at the secret attention he's receiving, no matter how hard he's trying to make it seem like it's more of an annoyance, with the way he pointedly glares Battat's way in warning during commercial breaks. No amount of brisk head shakes and exaggerated loud throat clearing puts a stop to his crusade in riling the CRT up, though.
By the time Tenna has become red in the face, he has to start tossing in mentions of how he's been airing for quite a while now, and it's a school night, and a certain mom should really get her kiddos in bed already, lest a super cool, incredibly handsome, CRT overheat and fry his wires.
As if his not-at-all-subtle begging had actually been heard by the lightners themselves, Tenna is finally given sweet relief. Battat can hear Toriel declaring bedtime and the kids' disappointed whines—muffled through his spot between the cushions, but undeniable nonetheless—and the spotlights shut down. Immediately, Tenna collapses, knees buckling and planting his face onto the the podium's surface with a dramatic groan.
"You haven't pulled marathons like that in a fat minute." Battat chimes through the busy bustling of wrap-up, eyeballing the show host's quaking legs, and maybe feeling a touch smug over how he very much had a part in that. "Nice work, you were beautiful up there."
"You."
Crackled directly through his headphones, that breathy growl rumbles into his skull and down his spine. His surroundings become illuminated in red, brighter with each blink from his fluttering eyelids until suddenly his poncho is yanked and bunched in the front from the large fist gripping it, and he's being whisked away like he weighs nothing... and might as well considering the size of the man carrying him.
The world is a blur, his headset falls off and clatters onto the floor in their travel, but Tenna doesn't seem to care about that, or the concerned workers glancing their way. Before long, they enter a very small, dimly lit room, and Battat barely has time to register its familiarity when he's slammed against the wall, feet dangling a good ways off the floor, and there's a very angry—and totally-not-horny—CRT in his face.
"You!" He repeats through his teeth, hissed like it was supposed to be a whisper. "Just what do you think you're doing?! I thought I made it clear that you stop calling me."
Battat cocks a brow. "Huh? It's a problem now? You seemed to be fine with it all this time."
"A little 'slip up' here and there, I can handle." Tenna jerks his thumb towards the door (closet door, bleach smell... oh god he's been in here... recently) "That back there, was downright malicious."
"Malicious?!" A surprised laugh bursts out of the pippins. "Please, you played along!" He grins, knowingly, at the CRT. "You were into it. You could've muted me at any point, y'know. But you couldn't help but chase after all that praise, I think you like me bossing you around... and I think you like just hearing me in general."
Closer that screen gets to Battat, static threatening to zap his face, and his poncho becomes tighter around him. "It's not you I like hearing, it's Mi—"
Battat doesn't know if it was his involuntary pained expression that stopped Tenna, or if his boss gained an awareness of the wrongness of what just spilled out on his own. Maybe both. Regardless, the damage is done, and Battat is pierced with the realization that it's likely Tenna had been thinking about Mike this entire fucking time he's been radioing the man. He can't hold back the offended huff blowing out onto the shrinking hand under his chin. Tenna at least has the decency to look ashamed, antennae drooping and avoiding eye contact.
"Sorry. I'm so sorry. This is awful. What happened back then shouldn't have happened. I used you, I'm sorry. It's just—..." His grip slackens, making Battat have to cling to him for leverage. "I-I just want—"
"Mike won't ever give you what you want." Battat cuts him off with a promise, eyes boring into that bright screen in seriousness. He reaches over to grasp the yellow tie, giving it a small tug. "I can, though..."
Glass lips part, sucking in a breath, only for the bottom lip to be bitten back shut. Hesitation overtakes the CRT's body, one of his hands planting onto the wall next to Battat to put his pulling on pause as he whispers, "I shouldn't—" an audible swallow— "...We should really stop this. All of it."
All half-assed, is what it is. Telling, from how easily he relents to Battat's insistent tugging; up until nothing more than a thin static barrier is all that's keeping them apart.
"It's fun, though, isn't it?"
He knows this man too well. Knows exactly what to say to win him over.
"Yeah..."
Too easy.
It tickles, mostly, but there's a couple stronger pops scattered about that have some bite to them, too. Battat doesn't flinch away, though, and only encourages Tenna further. Letting the tie slip away to hold the bottom corners of his frame—with both hands, when he's sure the larger man has a better hold on him again—so he can press further to that strangely malleable glass mouth. Tenna melts bodily against him. His poncho is a wrinkled mess after Tenna lets it go to support Battat's body better; still against the wall a few feet off the ground, despite a bit of shrinking.
A big tongue brushes against his lip, wet and buzzing, and Battat lets it in, but it immediately shies away. Tenna having jerked back with a shaky gasp, his expression riddled with guilt and uncertainty.
"I-I don't..." He starts, gravitating closer again, and overall looking like he's putting all his strength in restraining himself. "I don't... want this."
Battat scoffs, he knows this little ploy. Trying to make him bear the burden of calling the whole thing off, put the blame on him and try to rid himself of the guilt, like he did in the call. Well he didn't buy it then, and he's not buying it now. He growls out, "Then put me down."
The hands around his waist give him a brief, light squeeze before that screen is nearly touching him again, only holding back to give one hotly puffed, "No."
Their kiss is fiercer than before. Tenna makes a noise akin to relief, like he'd been starved from their short pause in contact. God, this guy is a mess, Battat really knows how to pick them...
He makes sure there's no more "hesitance" to be had, dropping his hands down to the CRT's shoulder's and then doing his best to try to wrap his arms around his neck while also sucking on a mouthful of static, but the combination of his small arms and growing numbness in his feet from dangling so long is proving to make this position far more difficult than it should be.
"You need to shrink more." He says after managing to pry his mouth away from the guy who can't decide on if he's suppose to keep up the tentative charade or commit to their little scandal.
"What? No. Why??" Tenna's tone fluctuates between each word, his face mirroring along until he settles on a sneer. "I've shrunk enough in here as it is."
"If you wanna continue in here, you need to be smaller for this to work." As much as he'd love to be all over Tenna in his default size—he doesn't add. They're going to have to do this standing, unfortunately. "Also this is a utility closet, it doesn't lock from the inside so—uh... might wanna lean against the door or something." Something he had to do once he realized too far in, coming in here to talk dirty to his boss and jack off during cleanup hours, and here they are doing the same shit again together now. God.
Tenna smirks. "I thought you'd thought of everything. If our little chat is anything to go by, you seems to think about this quite often." The smirk drops from his face when Battat gives him nothing but an unamused look in return, and he lets out a dramatic, exasperated sigh. "Fine. Fine."
But he doesn't put the pippins down to shrink. Instead he adjusts his hold as he gets smaller until his hands are under Battat's ass, and at the sly little squeeze, he staunchly puts man in his place by wrapping his legs around his waist and devouring that coy smile.
A moan vibrates into Battat's mouth, overtaking the ambient thrum of electricity that keeps the CRT up and running. Their tongues are almost an equal size now, making kissing less overwhelming, and allowing Battat reap that benefit with vigor. His weight dips a little from losing its anchorage against the wall as Tenna moves them both away from it to back up into the door as advised; their connection never breaking—Tenna makes sure of it by cradling the back of his cubic head and god if the context and location of their activity wasn't the way it is, Battat would call the whole thing tender.
He wiggles out of Tenna's grasp to stand—it's weird not having to crane his neck so far up to see his boss's face—and he starts fumbling with the buttons of his red blazer, but after only popping the first button, large-but-not-too-large-now hands grab his wrists. Eye twitching, it takes all of Battat's willpower to not snap up at the man and demand he make up his damn mind already and instead meets the rapidly pinkening screen with a wry smile.
"You were so shameless last time. What's with all the shyness?" He asks while toying with the middle button.
"It's... it's just different when it's in-person, alright?!" His hands are freed, Tenna having released them to sheepishly fiddle around with his gloves; an awkward smile forming. "A-and I haven't done anything this sneaky in—haha—a while..."
"Who—?!" Battat's mouth clicks shut immediately. Not his business. Not his business. No matter how much that tidbit of information feels like a bombshell of a lore drop about his boss. That's why his hackles had raised and he bunched the pristine red jacket in his fists to yank the CRT further to his level...
...And that charged look that flashed across Tenna's face as a result was, of course, intrigue for Battat's passionately insatiable curiosity. Obviously.
Nevermind their frantic undressing after that exchange; Battat's poncho hitting the floor first, only because Tenna insisted so his suit jacket can land on top of it to not touch the "dirty broom closet floor," the damn princess. Battat sinks his teeth into a corded neck the moment he gets the tie loosened and first few buttons of Tenna's shirt opened, and an almost relieved thought of finally washes over him as the neutral flavor coats his tongue. All those torturous times of only looking and never touching as Mike is actually paying off. He unbuttons the rest while he finds a particularly nice, thick, cable running along the side and disappearing under a plated shoulder to latch onto and gnaw on the thing like some sort of feral creature. It makes Tenna throw his head back with a loud yelp.
"Don't—don't pierce the rubber, you'll get—mnh!" Yet another wish-washy moment from the ever-confident show host, as he contradicts his protests by putting a hand to the back of Battat's head and encouraging him further. His blunt teeth can't break through the material anyway, so he's happy to oblige while feeling along each little button, port and wire organized so neatly on the CRT's chest and abdomen; dragging out sounds that he'd revel in if they weren't basically signalling to all of TV World that Tenna is getting fucked in a utility closet right now.
(Okay, so maybe a part of him is feeling bit of pride over that. Sue him.)
"Shh," he drags the sound out long and slow, "if you really care that much about your public image, you gotta quiet it down." He starts planting small kisses around Tenna's collar and down to his chest until he reaches an interesting trio of round sockets protruding out just below the VHS player there. Tenna sucks in hitched gasps to his lips brushing along each hole, to the deliberate hot breath blown onto them, and Battat turns his gaze back up to watch the CRT bite his own palm, channeling all his damn energy into making sure he keeps his trap shut.
It takes a few huffs through the fabric of his glove for him to calm down (Battat's continued teasing probably wasn't helping in that regard), before he pries it out of his mouth; a string of spit following its soaked patch as he drops it onto Battat's shoulder to force him to pause. "H-how are we—doing this, exactly?"
"How we discussed it before, yeah?" Battat replies without missing a beat, trailing his hands down until his fingers snag between the antennae of the show host's belt buckle. He unfastens it with ease, having witnessed Tenna do it countless times now to know how it's done without having to look, and taking satisfaction in how Tenna's jaw drops and antennae spring in interest. "With some liberties taken, I guess." Half-expecting Tenna to stop him in another bout of hesitance, he swiftly yanks the black pants down to his knees, pleasantly surprised to get nothing more out of the man than a squeak. Though Tenna does look tentative, scrunching himself up and closing his legs modestly, but Battat grabs his thighs, giving them a hearty squeeze and sinking his thumbs between where the plush silicone meet—and god they are soft. His cock is suffocating in his pants, he's so hard it hurts. Swallowing thickly, he kneads into the faux flesh, noting how his own plastic skin catches onto the material from the friction. "Just need to... slick up a little bit."
"Oh," Tenna's boxy frame tilts down, and Battat can practically feel the heat of that red glow on the tent of his pants, "do you want me to..."
Oh god yes please, is what he wants to say, and his dick is already starting to soak through his pants with precum at the mere thought, but Battat uses his godly self-restraint to remind himself that he's got to have Tenna wanting more after this. So he gives his boss nothing more than a sharp grin as he drops to his knees, lolls his tongue out and licks a big, fat stripe up the plating covering the CRT's crotch.
"What are you—oh-oh-ohhh my goodness!" Tenna's knees buckle, he catches himself using the doorknob (and Battat can only be glad that the door doesn't open outward because oh boy that would be a problem), and slaps his free hand over his mouth, staring down at the pippins in shock.
Red has completely enveloped Battat's vision, so bright and deep that he wonders if Tenna can give himself burn-in that way. The thighs caging his head tremble, then flex and jerk away from the slightest contact Battat tries to make with his mouth, only relenting when he hooks his arm around one of them to properly sinks his teeth in, and the CRT makes the most pathetic sound he's ever heard; muffled through his hand, it almost sounds like a sob.
Battat laps at the dark silicone like a man on a mission—and technically he is, just how long has he wanted to fuck his boss now? A desire he could no longer deny after too many times spent working off the frustrations that come from churning through those shifts as Mike, laying witness to Tenna at his most bare (figuratively and literally), and the amount of physical restraint it takes to not act on his urges while masked, knowing full well that the CRT would jump on the opportunity to be with Mike the moment he cracked.
...God, he can only imagine what weird, wacky, and pretty fucked up of a situation he would spiral into if he'd ended up crumbling and starting a relationship with Tenna as Mike.
"Um," Tenna's timid tone cuts into the strange series of happenings that flew through Battat's brain at that moment, a shadow enveloping his vision as Tenna's hand hovers over his head, hesitating at first before resting on top of it and guiding him away from a thigh that really can't get any wetter, "can—can you—uh—" Battat blinks, but allows Tenna to move him until he's back where he started. Curious, he plants his mouth over that smooth, blank plating— "...like that. Oh, golly," Tenna snatches his hand back with a sharp gasp, an... odd look contorting his face. Like a mixture of awe, happiness, but positively scandalized; his grin(?) all teeth, lopsided and hungry, yet almost looking like a cringe at the same time. Battat mouths at the spot experimentally—it tastes like he's sucking on a spoon—and he can't hold back any more from palming himself through his pants at Tenna's strangled whine, "y-you look—... It—it looks like I have... and you're—oh goodness."
Battat doesn't know how many more goshes and gollies and gee-whizes he can handle from this guy before he goes flaccid and throws in the towel (that's a lie and he hates that it's a lie, Battat has never been so damn hard in his life), and he doesn't know what Tenna's deal is here exactly, but Battat is at his limit at how long he can wait before he gets what he wants. He doesn't bother giving the CRT a show of pulling away, having become far too impatient, and instead rushes back to his feet, undoing his pants while he does. Cock free and pressing flush against hot, wet metal, the pippins pulls Tenna into another kiss, who eagerly obliges; humming into his mouth and pawing around every part of Battat he can reach before settling on his ass once more. It's Battat's turn to go weak as Tenna kneads into his plastic flesh, the motion making him grind onto his boss and leave the pippins scrabbling for purchase so he can have more, more, more.
It doesn't last, though. Tenna stops their movement and breaks away to pant out, "Shouldn't I turn around for this?"
"Why? So you can think about another guy again?" He can't help but snap back. A cruel wave of satisfaction washes over him when he feels just a little taller, and more pathetic apologies spill from the CRT's mouth. Turning the screen to face him again, he continues with a snarl, "How 'bout you say my name for a change, huh?"
"I don't—"
He doesn't let Tenna finish that thought, not wanting to hear it at all, cutting him off by spinning him around roughly (also weird being able to just do that, but the guy gave in pretty easily too) and pushing him further against the door. Tenna hardly gets a breathy "oh my gosh" rushed out before Battat is sliding his hands down the clothed back, thumbs bumping along the plated spine, fingertips rising and dipping along the intricate shapes hidden underneath, until they rest upon hips.
"Keep your legs together." Is the only signal he gives for what's about to happen, and it's all Tenna needs. The CRT's legs shift, anticipation radiates off the man, and gloved hands tense against the door as Battat finally, finally, takes the plunge.
And it's like a fucking angelic choir chiming down at him from the heavens the moment his dick slides between wet silicone, the shitty little light bulb in the closet shines crepuscular rays upon him through its layer of dust and burn spots—like ☝︎□︎♎︎ himself was congratulating Battat (hey what the fuck was that)—and he and Tenna are surrounded by shoujo bubbles—or whatever the hell those things are that Que will go on about when referencing the school teacher's media consumption habits while she grades papers. Whatever. His cock feels good. Tenna is hot. That's the point here.
Plush thighs flex and squeeze around Battat the moment he's flush against the man, and he has to bury his nose into the crook of Tenna's neck to muffle a groan. His hands roam, arms wrapped around the robotic torso to reach the front and trace along all the interesting shapes his eyes can no longer see, but doesn't need to. His mind has it all mapped out, helping him find sensitive nooks and crannies with a precision that could probably make the CRT suspicious, if he wasn't so busy pawing at one of Battat's hips from behind, trying to encourage him to move already; mouth echoing that sentiment with muttered pleas puffing out.
...Battat would love to indulge the man, but first he has a grudge to placate.
"I was serious, by the way." He starts, teeth catching onto rubber through his words. His fingers trail over the angular rim of the VHS slot, other hand splaying flat on the silicone stomach. "I wanna hear you say my name. I'm not giving you anything more until I hear it."
"Whaaat?" Tenna drags the the disbelieving whine out, throwing his head back before huffing out an exasperated scoff, "How do you expect me to just know that?"
That makes Battat gawk. The nerve. "Because you're my boss?! Because we talk every. Single. Day—?!" The end of his exclamation gets accentuated by him grabbing a trio of wires bordering his abdomen, yanking them out of their fastens to each word, drawing whimpers out of the man until his breath is shaky and legs are desperately pressing together. "C'mon now, you can't expect me to believe you aren't thinking about Mike right now—"
"I'm not—"
"Prove it, then." He releases the wires, letting them dangle in their loosened state, so he can shove Tenna's hand away and still his movements by the hip. "I've told you it before, and you had to have heard it a million times during crunch. Use your damn brain. I'm not moving again until I hear it."
A shiver wracks up Battat's spine. Whew, quite the power trip, indeed. He'll be riding this for a while.
"Th-there's so many of you, you can't expect me to keep up!" When it becomes obvious that Battat isn't going to relent, his shoulders sag and he sighs, "Ohh, fine. Okie-dokie—" Battat cringes, yet his cock twitches, the fucker— "just... it's... ahah, give me a minute."
Battat wants to tell him that, a minute might be all they have if this keeps up. Much as the idea of teasing his boss all night tempts him, someone is going to come knocking sooner or later. Through Tenna's pathetic attempts at guessing—from the generics, to "Greenie," to the fucking Weather Duo's names for some reason—Battat decides this is just too sad, he can guilt the man about it more another time. He repositions, tightening his grip on Tenna's hip while placing the other palm between his shoulders, and Tenna seems to misinterpret this as the pippins beginning to call it quits, because a string of "waitwaitwait"s pours out, followed by more incorrect names, and the CRT rapidly slapping his hands against the door in a panicked frenzy, until—
"B-Battat! It's Battat, isn't it? Haha!"
—he... gets it right. Surprisingly.
But even hearing his name burst out of Tenna's mouth in such a way, paired with that triumphant laugh and self-satisfied smile as he cranes his neck to look at Battat, like it's something he should be proud of, he doesn't get that bizarre rush he had been anticipating. Like the one he got during the call, when Tenna begged and cried for Mike, and Battat felt a bombardment of ugly and incredible waves of something hit him and made him cum on the spot. He had hoped, maybe his mind had tricked itself at that moment, and hearing his real name would bring even stronger results. Instead he feels... nothing. Nothing at all.
It's enough to piss him off.
Tenna falters through the seconds ticking by, his mouth curving down and concern beginning to radiate off him. "...Was I wron—AHH!"
A pull, then a snap back, then another, then even more, is his answer. Not a yes, not a no, but an I'm done talking. He's not about to let whatever weird hangups he has ruin this for himself, so he'll give those feelings a rain check while he works on being the real reason why this man is such a mess. Tenna gasps out, short and sharp, and Battat shudders; it's better than his wildest fantasies ever tried filling for him. Metal and silicone arch down, push against him for more, gloved hands ball into fists and the CRT head hangs down while he pants and keens his gratitude openly—loudly—and Battat wants to soak it all in, wants to let the man have his pleasure be known with wild abandon, but there's a little problem jumbled between those moans punching out of each thrust.
"Nnh—ohh—Battat! Ahhnn—please Battat—I'm almost—I'm almost—Battat I'm so—I'm—"
There's only so much of that he can take. For every bit of nothing it gives him, he dives back twofold—if to at least try to knock it out of the man—but all it does is make Tenna shout it out louder, needy and pitched. So he again wraps his arms around his torso, forcing Tenna to move his own arms down to his sides, as he pulls the man flush against him by the wires before smothering the noise away, a sweaty palm on malleable glass that he has to dig his fingers into for a proper hold.
"Shut up." He hisses into hot vents; the smell of burning dust wafts out, he can't get enough of it. His hips move automatically, allowing him to huff those fumes with vehemence, a high clouding his brain and unfiltering his mouth. Heavy air blows over his hand in huge, quick bursts, a low rumbled whimper vibrating underneath, and Battat knows what's going through the man's head—chanting it like a prayer—and he has no one but himself to blame for it. Wires taut, glass skin dipping under a bruising grip, he hears his growl ricochet into that boxy frame, "Shut up, shut the hell up. I get it. The whole studio gets it by now. So just shut the fuck up and cum already like a good boy and we can—"
Tenna thrashes in his arms, a wail coming out from deep within his throat before it cuts and his body locks up almost completely; tense shaking being the only movement emitting from him, with trembling fists at his sides and thighs clamping in a vise on Battat's cock. The pippins gasps, eyes fluttering, and he abandons his hold in favor of latching onto Tenna's waist and using him for all he's worth. Something thrums, intensely strong, just under the protective layer of faux skin in his hands... there's a dangerous edge to Tenna's orgasm that has Battat's interest piqued, he tucks that bit of knowledge for later.
He spills with one final thrust as soon as Tenna slouches, buried deep and likely getting it all on the door. Through his aftershocks of nuzzling between shoulder blades and planting grateful kisses on the clothed back, Battat could swear he heard his boss marveling in awe at something, but he doesn't have it in him to analyze what that's all about, too busy struggling to stay on his feet. Tenna's legs shake, and he finally drops to his knees, allowing Battat to see that—yes indeed, the door is speckled with white. He manages to keep his footing somehow (he'll credit his mountainous workloads giving him abundant stamina there) while getting his pants situated, still mindful of their location.
Tenna doesn't rush or scramble to do much of anything. Breath still heavy, pants bunched at his ankles, he flips his positioning, so he's sitting bare-assed on the floor. He scoots until his back is to the wall next to the door, and stares down at his legs. Battat unabashedly ogles them as well through his shirt tucking, and upon coming in close so he can grab his poncho off the floor, he can see some of his spend shining on the gray silicone. The CRT looks up at him, and he briefly considers kissing him, until the man clears his throat and starts sheepishly reaching for his pants. An air of regret is starting to permeate around him, Battat can't help but scoff at the audacity.
"I have my headphones on me most of the time." He says while smoothing his poncho out and adjusting his tie, not at all about to pander to the man's guilt... or his own weird little problem that probably means nothing. Nothing at all. "Feel free to call."
Tenna's screen pinkens, and he frowns. "I'm not doing that."
"Sure you won't." Leering at his boss with a well-deserved smug smirk on the way out, Battat leaves him to face the mess they've made.