Work Text:
Do you like to peek at magazines filled with doggies and leather queens?
"Thanks for dinner Spamton."
"Only because I didn't [DIYs for your homes]."
Tenna giggles, "I still appreciate the thought. Ordering takeout from my favorite place? You sure know how to woo me."
"[Woo] you? Please. My [Good Old Fashioned Loverboy] skills aren't that bad."
"I'm just messing with you. Thank you with the late-night script edits." Tenna gets into his car. "See you tomorrow, Spamton!" Waving out the window as he backs out of Spamton's driveway.
Once out of sight, Tenna floors it back to his place, screen reddening. He knows the... thing he... borrowed from Spamton doesn't heat up, but it feels like it's burning a hole through his pants. Hands grip the steering wheel slightly tighter the more he thinks about it. Traffic slows as Tenna hits the middle of Cyber City. Just another block and he'd be on the highway back to TV World.
Dear Angel, he's such a pervert. No touching, no hushed words, not even a kiss, and he's wet enough to worry about the seat. Tenna bites his lower lip, as if people could see into his pocket and know what he's done. Like someone is going to see into his circuitry and chastise him. Punish him.
Tenna turns onto the entrance ramp. Pushing his large banana foot down on the pedal, he tries to leave those thoughts behind. Even if it is, objectively speaking, a bit creepy to take something from his younger, junior business partner. Specifically to jerk off to later.
It's not like he's going to notice, Tenna reasons. He's got plenty! No way he's going to notice one pair gone. Steam blows out of his vents.
Tenna describes himself as a safe driver, given normal circumstances. In fact, Spamton often gives him shit for how slow he drives. Spamton falls on the opposite side of the spectrum to Tenna. 'Reckless driving' doesn't even begin to cover it. Currently, Tenna finds himself closer to Spamton's style of driving. In all fairness, he does have a reason to be doing so. Possessing a reason to get home as soon as possible.
The radio station starts cutting out. Tenna is getting closer to the border. Back home, back to safety, back to privacy. Signs for the last exit in Cyber City fly by. Digital billboards advertise FINAL CHANCES to stock up on GENUINE CYBER CITY GOODS! One's even for Big Shot Autos, trying to convince people a Cungadero was the perfect family car. The radio cuts out completely. Tenna turns it off, if only to avoid listening to the static. Something about the frequency gives him a headache.
Tenna can feel when he crosses over into TV World. As with all the signs, they're slightly offset from the border proper. It's not like there's much separating the two worlds. No wall, no dome, nothing. The way Tenna can tell he's crossed over is by feeling. He can feel his SOUL being tugged, pulled in like a fish on a rod. Like a spa day, it's refreshing and rejuvenating. Relief floods Tenna's electronics, finally leaving the oppressive gaze of Cyber City.
Snow falls lazily as Tenna drives into TV World. Barely noticeable on the outskirts, but it falls heavier the closer he gets to the center. His wipers turn on. They must need replacing, given the amount of snow that smears on his windshield.
TV World is very small compared to Cyber City. A majority of Tenna's time driving between the two is in the former. As such, Tenna blinks and he's already home. Pulling into his two-car garage, locking the car door, putting the garage door down, all normal parts of Tenna's routine. Pointedly not addressing the thing in his pocket.
Walking in, Tenna takes a deep breath. The warm smell of cinnamon greets him, dissolving some of the tension in his shoulders. He bends down to properly untie his shoes before putting them away in the shoe cubby. Slipping out of his jacket and tie before both are properly hung up in the closet. He'll have to remember to grab them before leaving for the studio tomorrow. Costuming doesn't like when things go missing.
Moving out of the entryway, Tenna makes his way to his bedroom. His hand runs over the pocket where he keeps it, if only to ensure it's still there. Looking towards the windows, night has fallen on the boss darkner's world. No one with half a mind should be awake at this time. Not unless they were up to some nefarious actions.
'Suppose that includes me, huh? Tenna half smiles to himself. He's a family-friendly TV. And yet, he feels somewhat like a man possessed. Ever since he hired that mailman, dormant sensations and feelings have reawakened within him. To name them would be a breach of the parental controls. To act on them would surely get him blacklisted from the lighter's entertainment.
So when Spamton invited him for a little late-night editing session, how could he refuse? Tenna didn't expect anything... X-rated to happen between them tonight, only some drinks and literal script editing. But then Tenna had to use the restroom. The only one big enough for him was the en suite to Spamton's room.
Stepping into that bathroom is where Tenna insists it all went downhill. In the corner was Spamton's dirty laundry. Hamper overflowing with clothes from who knows how long ago. Right on top, as if chosen by the Angel themselves, sat a pair of black boxers. Tenna paused. He looked around. No cameras, and the door was locked. Theoretically, he could just...
Back in the present, Tenna sits on the edge of his bed, replaying that scene over and over. No hesitation, no consideration. He finally pulls the boxers out of his pocket, careful to keep his fingers over the waistband.
Before Tenna can stop himself, he brings the boxers up to his nose and takes a deep whiff. The first note to hit Tenna is sweat. Makes sense; the stage lights are quite warm, and the both of them are in suits all day. Not to mention Spamton's feather-fur situation. Behind the sweat sits Spamton's cologne. A generally woodsy scent. Gets it from somewhere in Cyber City, if Tenna recalls correctly. He takes another smell. There's something else there. Tenna can't quite place it, outside of the fact that it's unmistakably Spamton.
Tenna's pants feel too constricting. His dick throbs, pushing against the zipper of his pants. Deep in his wires, Tenna knew it would eventually come to this.
If I'm going to do it, I should do it right.
Tenna gently folds the boxers onto his night stand. He unbuttons his shirt, taking it off before throwing it with his own laundry. He undoes his belt, featuring his own face, before placing it in its proper place. Then come the pants. Being leather, they don't get washed super often. Mostly due to the hassle it creates. Plus, Tenna doesn't sweat. Most of the stains on his clothes are from fluid leaks, food, and drinks.
All that leaves is his boxers. TV Time branded, as most things are in Tenna's life. The draft from the windows hits the wet spot on his boxers, sending a shiver through Tenna's body. Without much preamble, Tenna shucks off his boxers, exposing his wet vulva to the world. Hesitantly, he runs his finger from his entrance to his dick.
Fuck. Tenna bites his lip. A plan forms in his tubes. A devious, perverted plan, 100% guaranteed to anger the censors.
But the logistics... no no it'll work. Tenna pulls his hand away from himself, a trail of wetness following before breaking off. He reaches into the drawer of his nightstand, producing a magazine, a stroker, and a bottle of lube.
Being a larger darkner, it can be hard to find anything that fits him. During one of his and Spamton's outings into Cyber City, Tenna saw a sex shop out of the corner of his eye. The city is generally loud and bright, but this sex shop stood out for precisely not doing that. A humble brick building with what looked like a simple hand-painted sign. Tenna mentally bookmarked the shop to visit at a later date.
Turns out, the shop does custom toys for darkners big and small. The blue-green addison was delighted to take Tenna's order, ensuring everything would be discreet. When the box arrived, he had hidden the one toy he ordered in his night stand, too ashamed to use it.
Until now. The degeneracy dam long broken in his mind. Tenna grabs the lube bottle and squirts a dollop on his fingertips. Once satisfied with the amount, he rubs it over his dick.
Pants and heavy breaths crackle over Tenna's speakers. He circles the head, lightly grazing over it. Pushing his mons pubis and labia out of the away, he continues lubing up his shaft.
His other hand grabs the stroker. It suctions to him with more ease than expected. The inside of the stroker is covered in bumps, delightfully grinding against his dick. With slight trepidation, Tenna gives the toy a test squeeze.
A soft moan escapes his mouth. Oh it feels good. Not just good; really good. Combined with the size offering a solid thing to grab, a wave of euphoria washes over Tenna. He wants to keep the sensation going, to give himself over to pleasure.
But Tenna stops himself. He has a plan, and he wants to execute the plan. Preferably without cumming first. The hand on his stroker stills, just holding the toy close to his body.
Glancing over to the night stand, his otorhinolaryn sensors feel on the magazine. The name was cheesy, something along the lines of Birds Gone Wild! What still draws Tenna towards it is the centerfold: A three-fold page featuring the white addison from the cover. Eyes half lidded, coated in a sparkly purple eye shadow and winged eyeliner. The addison has small, but perky tits; entire body covered in some fur feather nonsense. Between the model's lean legs lies the money shot. A spread cloaca for the camera. Inviting. Alluring.
To say it reminds Tenna of his junior business partner would be an understatement. If Spamton didn't have black hair and a flat chest, he could be the model. Tenna manages to open the magazine one-handed, putting the spread on display. His eyes don't leave the cloaca of the model.
Before pulling his hand away from the night stand, Tenna grabs the boxers. He brings them back up to his nose, inhaling deeply. Tenna's hand on his dick starts moving. Slowly, at first.
"Mmphf! Aah!" His noises are muffled by the boxers. The more Tenna sniffs, the faster his hand moves. It varies; some long and deep, savoring Spamton's musk. Others short and dog-like, if only because Tenna has to breathe through his mouth.
He needs more. More smell. More sensation. More Spamton. Tenna turns the boxers in his hands.
Oh my!
A dried wet spot sits in the middle of the gusset. Tenna's hand squeezes tighter. Without much thought, Tenna pokes out his tongue to lick at the spot. It tastes like Spamton. Or at least how Tenna thinks Spamton would taste. He continues licking into the spot, hand speeding up.
"Aah! Mmpf! I- I-" Tenna is close. Very, very close. He would be embarrassed, but there are too many thoughts and feelings buzzing through his circuits.
"Aa! S-Spam!!" He cums quickly. Working himself through the aftershocks before popping the stroker off his dick. Tenna holds the boxers against his screen, filling his burning lungs with his lil mailman's scent.
Once he comes down, Tenna places both items on his night stand. Intentional or not, the boxers cover the centerfold's cloaca.
Tenna falls asleep shortly after orgasming, leaving consequences the consequences of his actions for a better lit morning.