Work Text:
There it was again: that nagging spark.
A barely-there sensation crawling up the back of the screen, almost forgettable until a lick of electricity bordered on delicious for the senses – or, occasionally, a dull ache growing larger and more nebulous until it threatened a migraine. Tenna kept waiting for some kind of climax: for the strange feeling to burst and bloom and briefly consume him, whether it be with pleasure or pain. But it never came. It stayed inside his head, haunting him, too mild to mention – but present. Always present.
The experience continued for a few days. Sometimes consistently, for hours, never ceasing; other times, it seemed to rear its head in odd twenty minute segments before suddenly disappearing, freeing his screen (and his mind) from the chokehold it had on him.
It was easy – for the most part – to pretend it wasn’t there. He’d wake in the morning and stretch to life and pretend the fuzz polluting the back of his head was just another early ache, shrugging it off the same way he’d unfortunately-yet-dutifully re-align his annetenae or flatten the creases in his coattails; he’d hop along the stage and dazzle in front of the crowds and pretend that this sensation was no different than the fluorescents shocking his eyes or the mic static ringing in his ears. After all, he was a busy man. No time to worry about the small things! Like how he was feeling following his estrangement from the Dreemurrs or how he had nobody to express his concerns to with the recent recoupling of his coworkers and how, sometimes, if his mind truly leaned into the mysterious feeling, and maybe, just maybe, if he really closed his eyes and followed the tickles bouncing through his head, he could pretend they were hands, caressing a part of him long abandoned, and how this made his heart lunge for company, and worst of all, how it was sometimes all he could think about during the deadly quiet behind the scenes–
There were moments Tenna thought he was going crazy. Oh, nononono! This is only a migraine, an allergy! This is simply a psychosomatic string of STAGE FRIGHT!, he’d promise himself.
And then you clicked into vision and it all made sense.
★★★
He nearly keeled over during the live broadcast. There was no grand spark igniting him; no flash of neon lights calling his attention to the recesses of his mind, where his view of the Light World lay dormant; no threat of pain or excitement or fear or anticipation. Just a gentle click! in the back of his mind to reawaken the muscles, and there you were: a cinch in your eyebrows as you focused on him, your knees on the hardwood as you leaned closer to his now-humming screen.
The audience in front of him awaited the next quip, the next cue for sound effects, the next cut-to-commercial transition. Tenna froze – he was suddenly juggling two worlds, one he feared he would never return to. The Light World: where Lightner viewers gathered around him, flicked through his channels, kept him company while they dozed off on couches or floated through a cozy gathering. Where… you seemed to be staring at him, waiting for something marvelous to unfold, or, maybe, something long-expected to finally shimmy into place.
He blustered through the final challenges and rushed through the end credits, shooing away the concerned faces of upper management and camera men and fans and – everyone.
When he returned to you, he realized: he was on the floor. You were hunched close, inspecting him only inches away. A quick scan revealed – little else? You had an old couch with cushions bordering between blue and grey; you had a small kitchen tucked right behind your living room, with a rather tall window posted above the sink; you had a pair of shoes, beaten and mud-shocked, slumped over by the door. And the rest of your world was hidden. Inside cardboard boxes churned by rain, vintage chests with clicky locks, and huge bags choking on clothes and collectibles.
You were new in town. And, suddenly, you belonged to him.
Or, of course, he belonged to you. Really the same, Tenna believed! You’d watch him, and he’d watch you: a double act! Unless, of course, it was a family act; something Tenna knew well, the balancing of monster movies with Saturday cartoons, the careful selection of reruns and the ever-adorable annual showing of home movies.
But for the time being, all Tenna had to go off of his new life in the Light World was you – until you pulled out your phone, that stupid device. Tenna’s heart clenched. There’d be no double act if you were the type to devote your attention to the smaller screen, forget all about him and chase the dopamine he somehow couldn’t provide.
Still. He watched. Might as well. You’d be here anyway: captured in the dreamlike space resting in the back of his mind. He might as well commit your features to memory, try and determine who you might be (and what you might like to watch.)
“You better hope this part works,” you mumbled to yourself as you clicked through your phone, your face never releasing its stressed expression. “The internet says it’s supposed to help you. But I’ve fixed a few TV’s and none of them have ever… done this.”
You gave a mild shrug, pressed a final button on your phone, then leaned back onto your palms to look across your threshold. Finally, you looked at him. Right at him, almost – like he was a treasured viewer in the audience, the one deserving of the spotlight and the applause and the special guest treatment.
“Oh, well,” you said, and you unplugged him with no preamble, and left his focus to haunt an abandoned corner of his mind, a place that finally purred to life after so many years of loneliness.
That’s okay, Tenna decided. Additionally, he decided thepartwillworkthepartwillworkthepartwillwork –
★★★
It took three days for that strange little part to arrive. He still wasn’t sure if it was some kind of fried wire or missing piece – his understanding of his other anatomy was limited, just as the rest of his knowledge of that other world, about you and how you came to possess him and how you’ll treat him in the coming days – but it seemed to do the trick.
He felt your hands. Truly, really this time. That tickle of static that once plagued his mind suddenly felt small. Worthless. Now, he felt your hands, and they were nothing like the ghostly imitation, the threat of contact, the almost-there grasp as if reaching through a dream; they were real, and maybe a little cold, so calculated and precious against the wide expanse they handled. Your fingers traced one of his panels as they reached for the right compartment, the home for the brand new part.
Tenna shivered. He couldn’t tell if it was the anticipation – the years since somebody paid attention to him – or if it was something entirely new, if you had rebuilt him with supercharged nerves and a programmed penance for your touch.
Both! A two-for-one special, folks!
“There you go,” you practically cooed, voice so gentle, as if you were reluctant to talk to yourself. That made the words even sweeter, it seemed – willing to break your reluctance just to offer him your voice. He wished he could reward you: switch on your favorite program, signal his gratitude, give you a sign that he was listening to those shy words you spilled.
Instead, you continued without noticing him and his pulsing static and his growing warmth. Not that he minded.
“Shiny and brand new, huh?” You seemed proud of yourself.
Distantly, Tenna wondered if he was a tough fix. If the Dreemurrs years of usage left him dated, worn down, dusty; if his recent destruction left him mangled, broken, worthless. Regardless, you found him and repaired him and brought him home. Hopefully, a home he’d come to know well.
You reached for the TV remote and gave him a chance to introduce himself.
★★★
It took weeks for you to find a TV stand; something to rest him on. Tenna wondered if you struggled to afford the new piece (as you were working so, so frequently, leaving him savoring your late-night-binges and morning tune-ins all the more feverishly) or if your taste in tables and stands mirrored your taste in televisions: colorful, glamorous, perfect!, and – violently vintage, always threatening to break beneath your touch.
That’s what we in the business call a double-entendre, folks!
But you found one, eventually, and you struggled to push it through your front door, apparently, given how many times you stopped for a break on the couch in front of the still floor-bound CRT, trying to ease your stress with a quick episode. Tenna caught sight of the table lodged halfway through your front door. It was nice. Clean. A simple wooden collection of shelves.
A quaint place to live, certainly.
★★★
In the following weeks, the rest of your home-sweet-home soon came to life as well. Tenna tuned in every day for the little changes to the set, the easter eggs foreshadowing towards a finale review: he noticed the set of rollerskates sat beside your old shoes. The swear jar stacked with quarters atop a shelf. The hoodie you always wore (and slept in and pranced around in and donned in all the old pictures lining the walls–) cast across the couch cushions.
He noticed things about you, too, of course. Always. During his scheduled breaks away from the stage, during soundchecks and commercial breaks; during the lulls in his day when the audience turned their heads, retreated to their inner lives; during his nights in bed, trying to fall asleep alongside your presence and finding himself too giddy and intrigued, like you when you’d sit up and abandon your sleepy state when a character atop his screen suddenly brandished a hidden gun or broke a sacred promise.
Whenever you watched him, he’d watch you. And just as you’d learn about the spotted whale sharks in the nature documentaries or the shocking crime stats in cop shows or the fragility of human hearts in the long-winded dramas, Tenna’d find himself learning plenty, too.
Like how you turned him on while still half-asleep in the mornings, letting your eyes widen in tune with the volume bounding up. How you’d disappear, briefly, to make yourself a drink in the kitchen and return to the couch with a mug cradled in your hands. How you’d give the news an obligatory watch for a minute before finding the channel that played niche cartoons at odd hours, then bask in the numbing comfort until another alarm on your phone dragged you from your daydream.
Like how you’d trudge through the house at night, after a long shift at wherever you went for hoursandhoursandhours – and you’d turn on a marathon while freeing your hair from its neat style and kicking your shoes off your aching feet and huffing, vaguely, about some this-and-that that rocked the audacity to do that-and-this. Tenna tried to lean in close to catch those little whispers. Unfortunately, he’d only meet the back of his own mind, time and time again, forming a barrier between you and him, him and the world he knew so well and yet so little about.
You had a habit of falling asleep to shows, which Tenna didn’t mind; even after all the other lights in the house fell dark, when you tossed your book or phone aside, when the only thing stirring alive in the late hours of the night was him. That made him feel special. Gave him something to do: watch over you. Keep you lulled. Carry you off towards a dream – a service that none of the other appliances, electronics, or worldly possessions could offer.
Obviously, he’d keep you watching if he could. He’d keep you close, like in those early days where you kneeled in front of him to catch a better look at his delicate inner circuitry. He’d keep you captivated, like the long sessions of retro movies always back-to-back on channels meant for dads. He’d keep you adoring, like how you were on the nights you’d melt into delirium, laughing childishly at something you’d already seen or giving into sleep with half-reluctant mewls. Like how the Dreemurrs were on the nights the neighboring family visited, an abandoned board game and a pitcher of punch on the table, a boisterous pair of siblings tangled together on the couch.
Strangely, he found himself thinking of the Dreemurrs less and less, as if the memory was a bruise relieved to go untouched.
★★★
Tenna discovered the source of your delirium one night, only a month or two into your tenancy as the idol inside his mind.
Admittedly, your stress had been mounting; Tenna couldn’t do much more than offer his condolences in the form of twenty-four-hour broadcasts boasting your favorite episodes and directors’ cuts. He noticed it in the way you slung your backpack off your shoulder and into the ground with a careless clank of whatever was inside. The way you buzzed through his channels impatiently. The way you fell asleep early, and hard, sleeping so heavily that even a few devious bumps of his volume couldn’t shake you awake – not that he’d ever disturb your rest, no! Simply technical difficulties, a curious impulse he couldn’t help but sate.
But looking at you now, you were calm. Sleepy. Leaned as far back into the couch cushions as you could go before sliding wormishly onto the hardwood floor, eyes hooded and heavy yet lit up by delight. Tenna noticed an odd, tumescent cigarette clutched in your hand, a poorly constructed thing – and yet, the source of your joy.
Tenna reached back into his memories. Memories of those hushed nights where Asriel and Dess masked their whispers underneath his volume, insisting the other to shush! because they’ll hear more than just the TV!; where they’d use his light as a guide, carefully paneling a wrap with tiny leaves.
On those nights, they’d play a few rounds of a fighting game, talk in slow tones, and then disappear into the night for ice cream or trouble or whatever it was that Lightner kids fascinated themselves with.
Back then, Tenna didn’t have to pay much attention to those nights; better days would come in the morning when Toriel checked the weather and Kris busied themselves with cartoons and the common recurring characters would drop in for a word from their sponsors. Days with more – exciting audiences.
But with you, it was different. Tenna had watched you for dozens of days now, and he’d never seen you so… blissed out, half-there.
Eventually, you seemed to remember his presence in the room, and your hand slowly found the remote. You clicked through every channel, savoring the scene and noting the premise. You mumbled to yourself here and there, voice marred by a slight rasp, both sleepy and sick (and cute): skip. Skip. Oh, I love that guy. Have I seen this one before…?
And then, you found it. Some movie from your childhood. Something wacky and nostalgic. Something stupid, something criticized in the TV guide, something with a poor box office debut but record-breaking home video sales!
And you started to laugh. Really, really laugh. Not the quiet chuckle you rewarded yourself with when a clever thought struck you in the middle of tying your shoes, not the polite chuckle you gave salesmen at the door as you shooed them away, not the half-laugh you reluctantly delivered to the other end of a recurring caller on the other line.
It was a real, true laugh track, straight from the audience’s mouth! A laugh like you’d give another Lightner; a laugh like you’d give a perfect, ten-out-of-ten television.
Tenna realized just how little he truly knew you – how he only saw a mostly quiet version of you, a version of you either recently waking up or descending soon into sleep, a version of you left unaccompanied by roommates or family members. So many nights, it was just the two of you. Nothing to say or do but sit in the cozy darkness and let the broadcast play.
Tenna realized there was a whole other side of you: expressions your face surely wore, habits you indulged in when away from the screen, hobbies you chased when free time found you waiting.
It made his heart skip a beat. He couldn’t determine why. Because there’s a version of you you’re not sharing, that you don’t think he deserves? Or because he’s met such a precious part of you, the part that no one else sees –
It wouldn’t matter in the end, anyway. He’d have you eventually, he figured. All of you. All of your attention. All of your laughter. All of the many sides and facets that made you you, that glowing, special thing, that lovely little listener tuning in every night.
And – well. He really shouldn’t be thinking this out loud. But seeing you like this: couch-struck, hardly moving, slow and dazed – your attention seemed to flow right from you, pouring directly into his screen. You savored every stimulus he delivered: the switch of lights from neon to pale, the pound of a sound effect ringing free, the buzz emanating from the CRT.
You were so, so easy like this. Your attention right where he wants it. Your smile, too. It’d be so easy to reach right through the screen and pull you into his world. You might be so sleepy and silly and strange, you’d bask in the brand new world blasting your senses, the glow of the lights, the chaos of the studio. You might hold on a little tighter as he whisked you into a wondrous world, hyper-bright and magical through the filter clouding your mind.
You might say sweet things like Oh, Mr. Tenna! I wasn’t expecting you!
And Tenna could laugh and think of something funny to say, just like he always did, a million times a day atop his stage – something he found harder and harder to do with the thought of you stampeding through his mind.
And, while he was thinking, daydreaming, picturing your doting attention lavished towards your screen, he began to consider his options: he couldn’t breach the Light World and introduce himself properly. He couldn’t tug you into the depths of the Dark World and see you dazzle on his very own stage. There was nothing he could do but twitch his dials a little to the left, send his static on the fritz in subliminal cues.
Or maybe – there was something else he could do. And your reality was already so permeable, so wobbly; it had been thoroughly tilted by the weed you smoked, maybe heightened by the sleep deprivation worming through your brain. And you were already so susceptible to his messages, the little romcoms he advertised to sweeten you up and the not-so-coincidental product placement of your favorite brands and items.
Maybe, if there would ever be a time to say hello and send you short circuiting with the news of his existence, drop a hint to incite your wondering – it’d be while you’re like this, giggling at nothing, shivering at your own touch.
Tenna searched his channels. He pretended to lose power, briefly plunging into darkness; instantly, you whipped out of your distracted stupor and questioned the silence with a loud hum of distress. Tenna pretended not to squirm at the sound – what it meant for your concern for him, what it meant for the daydreams he insisted he not have (Not before courting you properly!)
He quickly returned the color to his screen and landed on a character blurting out HELL before jumping to a woman with an open mouth, mid-shout: O! Then, syllable by syllable, glitches stitched together: the syllables of your name.
The one that took him weeks to piece together, since you never said it out loud. How carefully he had to listen. How hard he had to squint to see it etched on the mail cluttering your coffee table, written on the tag pinned to the breast of your work uniform.
You froze. Your face: frozen. Fear or enchantment. Tenna couldn’t tell. All he knew was that your eyes were huge, your chapstick-swiped lips tightened to a near-tremble, your hands suddenly tight around the hoodie strings you toyed with seconds ago.
You rose. Nearly stumbled. Tenna panicked, in that moment – worried you’d shut him off, accuse him of haunting you, abandon your usual place passed out on the couch.
But then you fell to your knees, kneeling, looking at him with rapt attention. Like those early days when you were still learning his dials, still repairing his weakened body. He couldn’t forget those moments: just how close you were. Close enough to feel his static flicker across your scrunched-up, utterly devoted face.
“No way,” you whispered as you placed your hands on either side of his screen. Oh – those hands. It had been a while since you reached out and touched him. I don’t blame you, sweetheart! You always looked so comfortable, tucked across from him. Sometimes he imagined himself on the cushion beside you, offering his commentary and behind-the-scenes knowledge.
Tenna didn’t dare reply, and instead, you broke into little giggles, barely there breaths of twisted air. You found yourself charmed, he realized. Either by the craziness of it all (if you believed in your TV’s sentience) or the coincidence of it (if you didn’t interpret his static-laced greeting correctly and, instead, opted for a different kind of cosmic magic as your explanation); Tenna didn’t care.
He had finally found the courage to speak to you, and you responded with starlit eyes and your perfect smile.
★★★
So days turned to weeks turned to months. Pilots made way for finales. Your stress eased up; you found more time to drag your rollerskates free from their place beside the door and take them out into the mysterious world Tenna yearned to visit alongside you. You found a new favorite show – something Tenna was glad to play and play and playandplayandplay – and, every now and then, invited a friend to join you on the couch. Sometimes they’d smoke alongside you, careful to share, and you’d both dizzy yourself on laughter and cuddle up on the couch. Sometimes you’d invite a little gaggle over and into your kitchen and you’d split a pizza and share stories while Tenna droned on quietly in the background. Sometimes – and this was always too often, in Tenna’s mind – a friend would stay late and linger in your doorway, huge and useless like the table Tenna sat upon, capturing your attention and stealing it away from him and forcing out those tiny stifled laughs you reversed for – someone on the phone.
Tenna wanted to be happy for you. Oh, so badly. In his optimistic moods, he’d picture you falling into a regular routine with these newly made friends, and how you might all gather around him as the Dreemurrs once did; he tried to imagine all those many sets of adoring eyes, the hands fighting for his remote, the insistence to up his volume more and more. He tried – and really, truly tried – to envision you happy and thriving in that huge, grand world outside your home, where televisions didn’t watch your every move and anxiously counted the silent hours where you worked and slept. He tried to imagine the stories you and these friends must’ve invented (but insisted they certainly weren’t better than the buddy cop films and power-of-friendship features he boasted in his collection!), tried to imagine the accomplishments you scored whilst out in the real world (still nothing more impressive than when you sat in for entire sagas, only leaving on occasion to collect a snack or use the bathroom!).
None of them worked to soothe the itch suddenly corrupting him. It would be so much simpler with a solitary audience, only one meaningful face in the crowd.
This is nothing Tenna has ever thought before. The next thought that follows, however, is one Tenna has carried his whole life, through the good times and bad, the lonely nights and the ones packed with your presence alike:
It would be so much simpler if your eyes were on me and only me and only me, me, me.
He especially hated the Lightner responsible for that pitiful laugh, nothing like the one you gifted him during your first conversation. He wasn’t anything special; not a face Tenna would cast on daytime television, at least. He had the pretty reflective scales found in a million other reptilian monsters, but they didn’t catch any uniquely opalescent shades, weren’t even in your favorite color (which he deduced, piece by piece, by the socks you frequently wore and the shade you sometimes let the Lightner children paint your pretty nails.)
The only truly notable feature of this monster suddenly guest starring on your couch was his interest in you. Something you seemingly didn’t notice, despite the poor writing and obvious hints cheaply delivered by the lizard-monster-thing.
“I never thought we’d have so much in common,” he mused over a round of video games, taking every chance to swing his controller around and potentially meet your elbow with his. “I don’t know anybody else who loves this game like I do.”
(He didn’t know you loved this game?! Tenna knew, of course he did! He remembered that day, around the same time you bought the TV stand beneath him: you were scouring yard sales for trinkets and furniture when you discovered that old console. Tenna recognized it – it was a generation after Kris and Asriel’s console, one he’d never thought he’d see again. The memory that really twinkled in his mind, though, was the way your hands wrapped around him as you searched for a place to plug in the console’s wire. Your searching, prowling hands, following his edges, tracing his buttons – it was almost too much. From then on, Tenna knew how much you loved that damn game: partially because he watched your fingers guide the joystick, wishing desperately it was him instead.)
“I didn’t know you’d be so cool,” you shot back, pummeling his character with a digital beat-down. Tenna could tell from the instant droop of the monster’s face just how hard you were winning. Show him who the reigning champ – woo! I’ve got first row tickets to the fight of a century, folks. “You act so different at work. Like – more reserved. It was hard to get to know you when you were like that. All, you know, quiet and weird.”
“Maybe I just needed the courage to talk to you,” he shrugged. “I’m happy to get to know you now, though.”
ONE STAR! DISGRACEFUL! CORNY, EVEN! CAN WE FAST FORWARD TO SOME COMPELLING DIALOGUE, PLEASE?
“Well, thank you. That makes me happy. That you think I’m cool. Or worth getting to know. When I moved here, I thought I’d never make friends.”
That’s why you spent all those nights curled up beside him, hm? Desperate for a friend? Someone to – see you? Really, really see you? Tenna seethed inside his screen. He could’ve been there. Should’ve been there. Should’ve scooped you up and charmed you and showed you the life you deserved: a life of entertainment, attention, and care. Something this man could not offer you. Only Tenna.
It wasn’t long before flirting elbows turned to touching knees – and when you stood up, a little too quickly, legs half-asleep and weak beneath you, he followed you upward and grasped your arm with a helping hand.
Tenna booed internally. When your so-called friend leaned in to kiss you, your elbow still captured in his clawed hands, Tenna nearly blew a fuse.
“Oh – jeez. I mean, I’m really flattered. I just–”
“I’m sorry. I just thought– I mean, we’ve been hanging out so often–”
“Yeah, as like, friends?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t really think we were just friends…”
“Um. I think we are. I don’t– think– I don’t think we’re anything else.”
“We could be…?”
“No, um. No, thank you. I don’t think we should be anything else.”
“You don’t like me?”
“Uh! Kinda! I mean, I have a lot going on, in my, you know, personal life? I think it’d be best if I didn’t see anyone. But– but not you, no.”
“So you don’t like me.”
“Um…”
His hand loosened around your arm, but he didn’t knock off the shock and frustration staining his scale-hardy face – Tenna did not like this, did not like the growing possession in his eyes, the urge to argue, to get to the bottom of some broad conspiracy prohibiting your relationship, to do something about the little emotional mishap between you two.
So Tenna tapped into your world as best he could, reached for the correct muscles and nerves to interact with the machine his second perspective lived inside, lunged for the circuitry that lit up your darkened living room with the mindless conversations of a 90s sitcom.
And summoned enough power to mask his screen in violent, noisy static – a change so drastic, it sent the pair flinching. The electricity spilled over and infected the lamp gently glowing on the side table, the air conditioner settled in the window, the powerlines threaded through the walls and floors.
Seconds later, Tenna whipped back towards the once mundane, now eerie happy-go-lucky comedy painting his screen. The electricity in your home clicked back into its regularity pace with a tired hum. Everything went back to normal.
Tenna defines normal as just the two of you: monster friend scattering with a big huff, complaining about your perceived advances, shutting the door with a disrespectful slam on the way out. Now, you’re looking at him. As you should be! Your pretty eyes, your loving attention, even the very patch of skin once covered by another hand – all kept in better company with him, all protected under his watchful light and serving nature.
Tenna watched you take a deep breath and settle deeper into the couch. An odd look made your face go sour. It was something like boredom, something like disappointment. Tenna worried you might cry. Nothing cinematic, nothing sob-like; still, he couldn’t bear to imagine you crying, not even one silent, poetic tear creeping down your cheek.
He understood when you slowly reached for his remote and powered him off. Maybe it was best you both took the night off, clear your mind from that disturbing sight.
★★★
Ever since then, Tenna found more and more reasons to believe you finally had seen him. Was it all the films perfectly synched to your work schedule, or maybe the hand-selected showing of favorite episodes? Was it the night you were high on the couch, giggling first at his shows, and then at the sight of him? Was it when he rescued you from your co-worker and his disgusting invasion of your privacy, of your home, of your relationship –
Regardless, you found yourself drawn to him again. Nearly like those early days when you applied each upgrade and mend day-by-day, readjusting his pieces and repairing his parts whenever you could (the honeymoon phase, one might say). When your eyes were fixed on him with a glowing intensity Tenna couldn’t ignore.
Now, you were showering him with appreciation in other little ways: you had finally broken free of the shy streak that prevented you from talking to yourself (and, indirectly, to him), and even better, you were directing your one-sided conversations to him! Offering him a chance to share his opinion: you think it’ll be hot today? Ah, man. I should’ve checked before I got dressed. Laughing with him while you sipped your morning tea: who writes this stuff?! Sharing your worries with him and leaning on him for comfort, albeit from the comfort of the couch: I wonder if I hurt his feelings that night. But I really, really don’t wanna call him.
That wasn’t the only way you delighted Tenna, though. He still wasn’t sure if you were deliberately trying to send sparks through his spine, or if it was that dreaded hot weather weighing heavy on you; regardless, when Tenna clicked into consciousness and returned to you after a long day of hosting and charming and parading himself around to his less-important-audiences, he found you barefoot, found you in skimpy pajama shorts barely meeting the tops of your thighs, found you in sheer tank tops that exposed the long, graceful stripes of your collarbones and the column of your throat and the delicious sight we will unfortunately have to censor, folks! Cut to commercial! God, is that top thin! See-through shirts: get ‘em now, folks! The HOTTEST item of the summer!
Surely, you had to know. You wouldn’t dress like that – wouldn’t drag a refreshing popsicle slowly down the center of your tongue, leaving a purple wake against the pulsing muscle – wouldn’t moan in relief when the air conditioner breathed to life – wouldn’t put on such a show without an audience watching.
The most delicious sight of all (or, maybe, tied with the rest; he could make a fine argument for each individual moment, each one memorized and cataloged in the personal recordings of his memory) was when you napped without a blanket, as it was much too hot for all that fuzz! Then, he could see as you kicked a leg up to streeeetch and find comfortable footing, see your pajama shorts ride the wave and inch higher, see the curves and lines and muscles and Lightner features he should not find himself so riveted by.
Tenna felt hot just looking at you. He took a page out of your book; started loosening his tie, abandoning his luxurious suit, slipping into something more comfortable. It really is just – so uncomfortable, this weather. The sweat threatening his screen, the discomfort beneath his collar, the urge to abandon it all and chase something refreshing, something cooling, something soothing.
(There were times when your shorts would ride so high, Tenna thought he would explode. He found little evidence correlating exploding CRTs with heat waves, however.)
★★★
Tenna had known you for six months the first time you dipped your hands between your legs. Tenna didn’t register it at first – ah, an itch. A cramp? Maybe it was simply a comfort to have a hand in such a warm, precious spot. You could be adjusting the waistband of your little shorts, even!
He was trying very hard not to succumb to perverted thoughts. If you knew – oh, if you even knew an ounce of it – you would be very, very proud of him.
We’re still– Tenna tried to find a convincing thought floating through his head. We’re still figuring it out. A Lightner and a Darkner, everybody – never-before-seen! Coming this summer!
This was the thought process he used whenever he daydreamed of courting you with flowers, spoiling you with the candies he’d recognized in your kitchen, and whisking you through shrowbiz while you looked on with wide eyes. It was simply too early to let lust take the reins – that’s a midseason event, at the very least! He still had so much to learn about you, so much more of your personality to reveal; he still needed to find a way to make his grand entrance, or convince you to make yours.
But there were times where these thoughts were faraway, buried in a riot of daydreams and possibilities. When all he could think about was your legs spread directly in front of him as you lounged on the couch, how the hardwood might feel beneath his suit-clad knees as he crawled slowly to your seat, kissing up from the curve of your calf to the place he didn’t dare think about, let alone touch or kiss or taste –
It was not often that Tenna had these thoughts. Because he was a well-behaved CRT. Because he was a loyal companion to his loyal watcher. Because he knew, deep down, there would be a day where you did meet, and he didn’t want that day ruined with the reminder of his own perversion, with clammy hands and a guilty smile, with the desperate urge to see you like that again, again, again.
Still: he did not turn himself off when he finally realized just what your hand was doing beneath the thin layer of plaid shorts. He did not pull his attention back to the Dark World, where a task or endorsement or meet-and-greet could surely benefit from his presence. He stayed. He watched. Carefully, he turned himself down – as if his volume might spook you into stopping.
Or, maybe, he wanted to hear you better. You were already making such soft, content noises. You had barely even started.
Tenna was nearly tempted to close his eyes and listen (really listen!) to the quickening of your breath, the way they’d sometimes break into choked whimpers when a burst of sensation caught you off guard. You were practically toying with yourself, teasing, slow and barely touching – and you were already weak, throwing your head to hide in your hoodie-clad shoulders, twitching and squirming and giving in to something irresistible.
Tenna wondered how long it had been since you did this. You’d certainly never done it on the couch – and there were more nights spent here than tucked away in your bedroom, as of late. You complained it was too hot in there. Something about air circulation. Whatever you say, toots! Tenna wanted to reply, but really: he was honored. He wished your bed doubled as a Darkner so he could brag endlessly about his triumph over your attention.
(Immediately: he clarified his wish. He did not want your bed to feel you, see you, like you. Not the way he did.)
Had you been holding back for a reason? Were you simply too busy? Was something – stopping you?
You had been stressed for a while. Then came that disaster with the monster who no longer comes around, even during the house parties. Between that, there were responsibilities and chores and… well, movie marathons, series finales. Time spent on the couch. Time spent with Tenna.
Maybe you grew tired of waiting for him. He couldn’t blame you.
He sighed. Raised a hand. Let it anxiously pluck at his antennae. It had been a while for him, too. He was trying to be a gentleman – trying to keep the program PG-13 – trying to save his first moan in so, so long for your ears only.
You were a very tricky character, he decided. Tempting him with this performance. Acting like a minx in front of his very screen. And melting down so quickly, so adorably, just as he’s finally worked through the shame-slash-courage holding him back from pushing his sparkling pants to the side and freeing his cock and strokestrokestroke until he came at the sight of you – ah. What an ending.
Tenna’s hand rested above the bulge in his pants. It would be so easy. You were still laying there, breathless, spent – your chest rose and fell at a dizzying pace. Your hand still cupped your sex, cradling the point of desire now throbbing relentlessly. Even your face turned Tenna on: hot with blush, eyes shut tight, lips caught in a gasp. The best part? You were drenched in his colors, in the beam of light he projected across the room. All for him.
And then you moved again, brought your fingers back to their favorite position, rocked your hips back and forth, whimpered noisily and simply let the sound ring out instead of hiding it in your shoulder or shaking hand.
Tenna blushed. You’re waiting on me to start the show? Me? Me? Me? Darling, I think you’re the real star here, but if you insist –
He wasn’t sure where to start. Wasn’t sure where to look: your squirming body draped across the cushions, lost in pleasure, or at his own cock, which stood impressively tall at the thought of you doing all this for little old him, beaded with precum as shiny as the rest of him. Slowly, as if touching himself for the first time, he wrapped a hand around himself and – he could’ve died right there, moaning alongside you, your voices mixing together perfectly, your backs arched in desperation, your hips moving on their own.
I’m just– following your lead! He promised himself again and again and again. His strokes quickened. Restless – searching for something – something to grip, hold, feel, tease, touch – his gloved fingers found his face, where he realized just how hot his screen was burning, the relentless buzz radiating off of him. He shoved his fingers in his mouth to quiet the embarrassing, cracked words flying from him; he found fangs where his teeth should be, sharpened in his crazed desperation. He moaned around himself. Imagined you above him. Your hands on his face. Your hands on his cock. Your voice in his ears.
Say it, he’d demand, and he’d feel terrible, treating his number-one-fan so callously, like the cigar-smoking hot shots of old hollywood with their pearl-studded dames; he’d feel terrible, forcing you into such a humiliating pose, your mouth open wide to reveal the spit meant for his cock, your eyes glossy from overstimulation, your entire body shivering and open for him; he’d feel terrible, knowing he wouldn’t relent until you said it. Say you love TV.
And you’d say it, and you’d say it, and oh, god, in that broken, glitching voice of yours, you’d say it, so eager and happy, having waited so long for this, having craved him as long as he’d craved you, maybe even longer, maybe since the first day you discovered him – wherever you discovered him.
I love TV! while he bends you over the arm of the couch and dwarves your wrists in one of his strong hands, dragging you back to meet his driving hips every time you’d struggle to exhale a syllable. I love TV! while he watches you crumble from exertion on top of him, something he welcomes with a great big wrap of his huge arms around your trembling torso, holding you close to his chest and breathing in your hair while he suddenly fucks up and up and up. I love TV! while a hand presses on your stomach and feels the muscles roll from pleasure as he tongue-fucks your weeping hole, his nose a firm presence against your hot skin. I love TV! until it’s all you can think, say, remember – until he’s in your head the way you’re in his. Unforgettable. Absolutely necessary. The key to joy, love, safety.
When you cum a second time, Tenna’s racing to catch up with you, rocketing up into his fist with an animalistic desperation he is normally much too composed to succumb to – it’s so juvenile, the way he chases the pleasure like he’s never known it before and may very well never know it again. The way he savors the long glances towards you and whips his head away to trick himself into believing it was only an accident, something he didn’t mean. The way he matches his pace to yours – and now, you’re both twitching, both stumbling through an orgasm that’s blindingly bright, that’s familiar and satisfying and very much deserved and, somehow, entirely unique.
Maybe you’ve never cum in front of an audience, Tenna wondered. Well – that’s alright! Tenna’s never seen you cum before. You’re both building new beginnings tonight.
A beginning to a long, exciting partnership, Tenna hoped, as he slicked his aching dick with the cum still streaming from it. He’s intrigued about this back-to-back orgasm gig.
He toyed with himself lightly – too worked-up to cum again, too frazzled to let go of the sensation even as it grows unsteady and too much – until you finally caught your breath and freed your now-glistening hand from your shorts.
Tenna watched as you held your hand up to the light – his light – and spread your fingers, revealing the way your cum caught the glow and glistened.
You wiped your hand on your still-panting stomach, rolled over, and fell asleep. Tenna never tuned out.
★★★
How long had it been? Enough to fall in love with you. When that knock arrived at your door, Tenna rolled his eyes as he watched you begrudgingly rise from the couch and answer.
“Oh. You do live here! I told you so!” A gruff voice – but young, sweet, maybe familiar, or just archetypically charming? – came from your front stoop. “Remember us?”
You seemed to think for a moment. Then, you snapped your fingers. “Oh, man! I haven’t seen you guys around since… well, since the only other time we’ve met. How are you kids? Is everything… okay?”
“You still good at fixing broken stuff?”
“Ah… I think so! I mean, the last project you recruited me for turned out great.”
“Well – my friends and I have got a problem. We need somebody cool who won’t ask questions and get weird about stuff.”
“Geez, kids, that sounds…”
Another voice interjected. So soft and even, Tenna couldn’t rely on its blips of emotion to reveal its nature.
“Oh, um, yeah, I could fix that, I guess. Just… wait a second, okay?”
Your gaze leaped around the room, semi-panicked, obviously in the mental midst of a checklist of all the things you’d need to tend to before embarking on a brand new quest of bullshit.
“How about you guys come inside for a second while I grab my things?”
“Hey – do you still have the TV we gave you?”
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