Archive of Our Own ^beta

Seven minutes. Tenna had finally deigned to time it today - not because he had wanted to. No, timing it was beyond mortifying; a level he’d never stoop to, but that little mailman had left him no choice.

And seriously, Tenna huffed internally, flopping over onto his back. How is he always there? And why are we always alone? He, of course, knew the answer to this. Nobody else at the studio dared ride an elevator with Tenna - whether it was because he was huge and they didn’t want to inconvenience him or they were simply just afraid of their boss, Tenna didn’t care to know. In fact, before Spamton arrived, he had ridden the elevator alone (And been completely fine with it! He added mentally.) Unfortunately, Spamton did not share these reservations.

And his company was great! At first. Tenna actually quite liked his co-host (a bit more than he’d like to admit), but over the past three weeks or so, Spamton didn’t just ride an elevator with him - he was there for every single one. And after some time, Tenna couldn’t convince himself that it was a coincidence anymore. He clearly wanted to be in there. With him. Alone. It was starting to drive Tenna up a wall - and Spamton, well, Spamton was certainly not helping. In fact, he was seemingly making it actively worse for Tenna. On purpose. He shifted uncomfortably, squirming as he reflected on the breakdown of his daily seven minute dose of torture.

About two minutes every morning to take the elevator all the way up to his office and dressing room from the bottom floor of the building. Hot steam poured out of his vents as his inner workings desperately tried to cool the inside of his body while Tenna’s thoughts drifted back to mornings past. Spamton always started rather innocently - fleeting glances here, lingering touches there.

Thirty seconds down to the studio for the morning show from his dressing room. Tenna failed miserably at stopping his claws from slipping out, gripping and subsequently tearing his oversized bedsheets, unable to banish the thought of Spamton bending over to pick up a business card (or pen or script or whatever else he had “accidentally”decided to drop that day) right in front of the showman. The sleek, tight pants he wore left not a single curve to the imagination. Tenna’d squeeze his eyes shut if he had eyes to speak of, and uttered a silent prayer to any god that would listen that he would fall asleep before he began to explore other options.

A minute from the studio to the Green Room for his lunch break. Fingers began to ghost over the exposed wires of his lower torso, forcing Tenna to confront whether or not he was actually going to cross this line. Sure, he’d, well, taken care of himself before, but never to the idea of his co-host. Especially not to the idea of in his co-host in his office in an elevator. The absurdity of it all almost snapped him out of it, but thoughts of the the Addison arching his back, hands laced together above his head (stretching after a long broadcast, he had said - but seriously? Every day?) flooded his senses, lulling him back into his trance.

A minute back from the Green Room to set. For this particular ride, Spamton had taken to “helping” Tenna fix his clothes before the afternoon show. He huffed, somewhat annoyed. His clothes wouldn’t need fixing if his co-star wasn’t constantly making him feel so hot under the collar! A few weeks ago, the mailman had begun doing this with some semblance of decency, smoothing out wrinkles in the CRT’s suit jacket here and there. More recently however, he’d grown much more bold and started adjusting his slacks as well; small, skilled hands often resting on Tenna’s thighs for far longer than necessary. Almost as if the man they belonged to was mapping out what he looked like underneath that thin layer of fabric. Tenna all but whimpered at the thought.

Thirty more seconds back to his dressing room. Perhaps the most unfortunate (or fortunate, depending on how he looked at it) circumstance about this whole seven minute ordeal was that Spamton’s dressing room was right next to Tenna’s. And for some reason, even though it was beyond unprofessional, Spamton frequently decided to get started early. That is to say, the little devil would start undressing in the elevator, right in front of him. He had started by simply loosening and removing his tie (which, if he was honest, already drove Tenna insane), but just today he had fully unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the soft, glowing, and apparently fluffy skin underneath. Tenna began to salivate as he pictured the small expanse of Spamton’s body that he’d been permitted to see. He flexed his fingers, positive that he could encircle his waist with just one of his hands. What would it be like, he allowed himself to wonder, to touch, squeeze, or even bite…

The last two minutes were the worst. Even if he hadn’t already been pent up after a whole day of teasing, they would still be the worst, because this was when Spamton decided to talk about the show. And, usually, Tenna loved to hear (positive) feedback about their show - there could be no better end to his day. But there was something so…illicit about the way Spamton would say it. He’d tell Tenna how good he was, how pretty and perfect he was on stage. His voice low, he’d compliment his “award-winning smile” and through lidded eyes tell him that he knew their audience just loved TV - “I know I do”, he’d whispered after leaning in close, his smoky breath fogging up Tenna’s screen. He couldn’t hold back the moan he’d barely kept in back then while giving a particularly sharp yank to a thin yellow wire in his abdomen. So it was decided then. He was doing this.

The line now crossed, Tenna allowed his mind to wander to thoughts previously sequestered. His somewhat gaudy TV Time-branded pajama shirt was already exposing some of the wiring within his lower abdomen and with one ungloved finger, the TV host slowly drug the hem up to his already parted lips. He bit down gingerly on the bottom of the shirt, screen flushing pink at what he imagined was a particularly lewd display of his upper body. What would Spamton think of him, if he saw him like this? Would he like it? He’d have to, surely, with how unabashedly he stared every morning.

Tenna willed static to blur his vision, making it easier to imagine the mailman perched on top of him, straddling his sides. What was it Spamton had said? “So pretty, so perfect.” Tenna played the line over and over again in his head as he toyed with the neatly organized wired, careful to only use his forefingers and thumbs in a pathetic attempt to mimic what Spamton’s smaller hands would feel like. “You were so good, Tenna.” He can’t resist palming at the growing need in his pants, and can’t help the whine that escapes him as he imagines his mailman grinding his hips down into him instead.

Spamton would do all of this to him, he had to. He’d do this and more, Tenna knew it, and still had done nothing to close that gap. Sure, there was a time not long ago when his feelings for his co-host were believed to be unrequited - and they still could be, Tenna thought with a sad pang that almost overcame the hunger - but he’d be a fool to deny that Spamton clearly wanted him. There was no other explanation for what was happening. Even Tenna knew that.

And a lot could happen in seven minutes. As slow as he was trying to go, Tenna was proving that right now, much closer to his peak than he’d like to admit. The Spamton atop him was now removing his shirt as he had before, and his soft, pale body was glowing in his mind’s eye. He looks down at him with a mix of lust and amusement.

“What’s got you so [hot and bothered], Tens?” Another replayed line from before. This time though, Tenna couldn’t help but respond. “A-asking like you don’t even know. You h-have to know.” His voice trembled, the desperation leaking through more than he had intended. This was beyond embarrassing, it was mortifying, who was he even talking to? Himself? It was bad enough that he was, well, doing this to the thought of Spamton, but talking to himself while he did it? His screen grew impossibly hotter, deeply ashamed of the new low he had reached. But it was as if a damn had burst. All the things he couldn’t say before came pouring out.

“Stars above, S-Spammy, you have no idea what you do to me.” His fake Spamton smirked down at him. He knew, of course he knew. He bucked his hips into his palm-mailman over and over, needy whines spilling from his lips through all the static. “Need this, need y-you, need you so bad.”

Which begs the question, then, why doesn’t Tenna just take him? All the boxes were checked: he was sure Spamton wanted him, seven minutes was plenty of time, and if tonight’s activities were anything to go by, Tenna was certainly not opposed. If asked during at any other time, Tenna’s positive he could come up with a better excuse about this being entirely unprofessional, or how he didn’t want their first time to be in an elevator, but none of that was actually true. In fact, the lack of professionalism, the desperation implied, and the risk of being caught, of being seen; it all only made him that much harder.

No, no - the sole problem was that the seven minutes were split up. And while seven was certainly enough (though he wouldn’t say no to more), there was more he needed to do to Spamton (and even more he needed Spamton to do to him) than he could accomplish even in the longest two minute ride.

“Honestly, [Cathode], you’re such a mess right now. At least [You’ve got mail!] me to fix you up.” The real Spamton had said this before pulling Tenna down by his tie so he could “fix” it a few days prior, but his Spamton said it with one of his hands elbow deep in Tenna, reaching, pulling and pinching at wires he didn’t even know he had. He ran his hand up and down bundles of them, almost as if he was jerking off the casing, and, heaven above, it was working. Desperate, whiny moans poured from his parted lips, fangs on full display. He knew he was close. “Well, guess I’ll see [a brand new you!] tomorrow, Tens, don’t miss me too much. Looking [Forward Thinking] to another perfect performance.” But his seven minutes weren’t up.

“Not so fast,” Tenna growled, spinning quickly from his back onto his knees. He searched briefly for a Spamton-sized pillow, his flushed screen painting the room a red hue. The hand preciously abusing his wires manhandles the Spamton-pillow by its waist and places him between the thighs the Addison loved to touch so much. His other hand deftly removed his pajama pants and underwear, nestling his aching cock onto the pillow below. He nearly came from seeing the size difference alone.

“Oh Spammy, you’d look so good like this. You’d take me right? Big shot like you? You would, right?” Tenna had no more lines he could replay for this particular scenario. It didn’t matter.

“And I would make you feel so good to. I would! You know I would!” He gripped his Spamton’s waist tighter, delighted that his hand did, in fact, fit around his entire waist, and braced the other against his headboard.

“I-I’m gonna start now. Is that okay? Please let me start, I want it, I need to. You’ll let me right?” He willed his Spamton to nod. Elated, he begins to slowly rut into the pillow. “Stars, Spammy, you feel so good. And I know you would feel good too. I’d make sure of it, y-you said I was a great host after all,” Tenna said somewhat expectantly, knowing full well he had a response for that particular line.

“You’re such a good TV host, Tens. [Best of the best].”

Tenna whined loudly, drool dripping off his fangs and onto his Spamton below. He continued to babble through short breaths as he picked up the pace. “You feel good right? O-oh my, I feel so good Spams. I know it’s a lot, but you can take it right? Y-you’ve got me so pent up, I just, I can’t - can’t stop.” He’s hunched over now, casing digging into the bed just above the top of the pillow’s head. The headboard’s been cracked.

“Tell me you like it Spammy. You would tell me how much you like it. Right? You would, you’d have to!” Tenna begged, with nobody to listen. One of his wires, loosened from his earlier ministrations, was caught between the pillow and one of his thighs. The pillow’s small hands played with it as he chased his peak. “I need you to tell me you love it. Do it now please, Spam, I’m so close I’ll-”

“Tenna, [I love TV].”

Tenna came with a sob, body convulsing as he watched himself dirty the pillow beneath him, large discharges of static from his antennas frying the surrounding air. The aftershocks last for nearly a minute, which, Tenna noted somehow in his barely functioning brain, meant he did blow past his seven minute timeline. He did not take the time to survey the damage to his headboard or to the Spamton pillow before rolling over to a cleaner part of his bed, letting sleep claim him before the embarrassment what he had done set in.

He had but one thought before switching off.

I should just fuck him in the dressing room.